Earlier text: THE SIN OF INDIFFERENCEIn seasons of trial and danger, the worst of men often call upon God for aid and protection; but when the danger is past, they manifest no disposition to pray to him. This fact is of itself an evidence of the necessity for prayer. It is well to call upon God in times of peculiar trial; but we should not forget him when in apparent peace and prosperity; and when no clouds overcast the sky, and no thunders mutter in the distance; for if, while all around is calm and peaceful, we cast our burdens upon the Lord, if we then seek for his blessing, we shall be free from dread when the storm bursts upon us. The great difficulty is to convince ourselves of the propriety and duty of prayer. When one is fully convinced that earnest prayer is called for, when he sees that life and all that is dear to him is at stake, he then betakes himself to earnest supplication. When a ship is tossing upon the sea at the mercy of the winds and waves, its masts and rudder gone, and the ship gradually sinking, then the hardened crew can join in fervent prayer to God. As yet, for us the season of probation still lingers; and could we all appreciate the blessing of this precious probationary time, could we realize to even a limited degree the mental agony which those who are unprepared will experience when that time closes, we should make haste to call upon God in earnest; we should seek a preparation for that fearful time when men shall wander from sea to sea "to seek the word of the Lord, and shall not find it." (Amos 8:12; Rev. 22:11.) The word of God teaches us that the day of decision, of final Judgment, is close upon us; that the investigative Judgment is now in session, and will soon close; and that before it closes, our characters must be perfected, if we would obtain eternal life. How necessary, then, for us to be taught of God, and to be accepted of him. To do this, we must partake of the Divine nature; and it is by close and habitual communion with God that we attain to this most privileged condition. By prayer, our Lord obtained strength for his great conflict here; and his example should kindle in us a warmer love, a purer zeal, a more ardent courage, and should invite us to more earnest prayer. Some may say that what God wants of us is obedience and good works, and that so much prayer is not necessary; but it is only by prayer that we can attain to obedience and good works. If we would have our life and service acceptable to God, we need often to commune with him; and our motives, and the desires of our hearts, must be clean and pure in his sight. HELPING BY PRAYER.
By P. Alderman
When we are weak, then we may be strong in the strength of God. Prayer is the precious privilege of the Christian; and in our weakest moments let us remember that “a bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench.” He will hear us when we pray, and has promised to give us whatsoever we ask in the name of Jesus. No doubt many feel that they would like to do more to advance the cause of truth in the earth; prayer is the lever by which we all can lift, and our labor will not be in vain. Our own souls will live and glow at the altar of prayer. We can pray for the lonely ones, who are trying to obey the Lord without any of like faith to comfort and cheer them; we can pray for the weak ones, that they may be established in the truth; we can pray for the dear children, the lambs of the fold. Then there are the erring ones, and the tempted and the tried. If we feel that there is nothing that we can do, then let us remember at the throne of grace these many subjects of prayer. And above all, let us remember in our prayers the cause of God, which we love. We rejoice to see it go forward, and we know that the hand of the Lord is moving it on. The ark of the covenant, containing the law of God, was carried carefully by holy men of old; and were not the humble in that time awed to silent prayer and reverence at the sight? Shall we not pray that the same holy law may be carried through the earth? Shall we not ask that those who carry it may be holy men? Truly we ought to pray for these laborers, both those in our own country and those in distant lands. They have consecrated their lives to the work, and shall we not ask most earnestly that God will bless their labors? And for ourselves, how much have we to ask of grace, and strength, and wisdom, before we shall stand complete and entire, wanting nothing, perfect overcomers of self and sin! Do we not need to cry as did the psalmist, “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me”? The following article, taken from one of the papers of the day, declares the same fact that Adventists have been preaching since 1844; namely, that there has been a great declension in morality and integrity in the religious world, in accordance with Rev. 14:8. The case of Ananias and Sapphira was remarkable for the rapidity of the judgment which followed their sin. If those were the only individuals who lied to the Lord by keeping back a part of the price, that was a model church. If a similar judgment were visited upon some churches to-day, there would not be enough of the living to bury the dead. This is startling language, but it is true. Let us examine a few of many similar cases. First, a church hired a minister at a certain salary, which, if he had had all of it, would have been only sufficient to have supported his family and paid his debts. At the close of the year a large amount was due. A donation was made. Oats, which could be bought for 30 cents, cash, were contributed and charged 45 cents. A can of dried fruit, about a pound, worth at the grocer's 10 cents, was charged 60 cents. Some old towels, almost worn out, worth when new, perhaps 15 cents, were charged 25 cents, and all other things accordingly. Did they lie when thus they paid an honestly contracted debt? Another church hired a minister at a given salary. At the close of the year they were behind. He generously gave them one-half the amount. They promised to raise the remainder at once, and forward. He went to another field of labor. He waited for the money honestly his due. It never came. Did they lie to the Lord? In another case a minister was secured at a certain salary. Each member pledged a given amount. The minister was plain, and preached the truth. Many were offended, and one after another refused to pay their dues. Did they lie? Still another church engaged a minister at a given salary. The membership were all pledged to pay. At the close of the year they were behind. Seeing that the minister was in need, and thinking the amount paid was a very small salary to be reported in conference, they pledged themselves to raise the balance and send to the minister, and requested the minister to report the same to conference. After this was done the minister moved to another field of labor, and waited, but in vain, for his dues. He has turned the claim over to be settled in the Judgment. Did they lie? Such churches have great “revivals” and large additions, and boast of the number of conversions, but yet have never settled those debts. To what are they converted? Does the religion of Jesus Christ make men honest? Reader, pause: these are solemn truths. Are you one of the guilty ones? God knows, and the Judgment day will reveal. It is far too common a sin to be overlooked. It is a serious matter when we come to consider that the account will stand charged against us at the last. Our obligations to pay church debts are just as sacred as any other, and it would be just as honorable for a man to refuse to pay a bank note because of some slight grievance on the part of the holder, as to refuse to meet all his just obligations to the church of Christ. THE MORAL EFFECT OF WAR AND PESTILENCE.
The Independent of March 11 publishes the following interesting article from the pen of Rufus B. Richardson, of Chicopee, Mass. “Second Adventists” do not look upon wars or terrible epidemics as moral agencies which will insure the success of the gospel; on the contrary, they believe that these public calamities have a demoralizing effect. They do not desire to see the judgments of the Almighty fall on their fellow-men. But they look upon the coming storm of which Mr. Richardson seems to have forebodings as something inevitable, because inspired men have foretold its approach. They look for troublous times in the near future, because the prophetic word and the signs of the times unite in showing that we are living in the last days of this world's history, when “there shall be a time of trouble, such as never was since there was a nation even to that same time.” Mr. R. says:— Doubtless there are other persons besides Second Adventists who are inclined to look from a distance on a terrible epidemic, like the yellow-fever scourge of the past two years, with a sort of complacency, feeling that when the judgments of the Lord are in the earth the inhabitants of the world will learn righteousness. The same persons look forward to the possibility of a civil war and the general breaking up of our institutions as our extremity that may prove to be God's opportunity. This tendency to expect progress through catastrophes, to despise our ordinary helpers, Moses and the prophets, and refuse to move till one rise from the dead, may deserve rebuke; but the times are perhaps such as to make it not entirely an unpractical question, What is likely to be the moral effect of great public calamities, like war and pestilence? That it is not an idle question is proved by the fact that men are constantly coming upon it from one or the other of two directions. On the one hand, we hear that the evils of our public life, being so great that we make little headway against them by ordinary efforts, demand heroic treatment, and, therefore, we may expect public calamities to humble and teach us. On the other hand, there is the actual danger in the shape of civil war, now a little cloud, dimly seen afar off and now making all the horizon dark. Sober-minded men are asking, Suppose it comes, what will be the chances of the church in it? In a general breaking up of our institutions, would not men turn to religion? No doubt the larger part of the people think it is nonsense to talk about the breaking up of our institutions. They think that every time we escape a danger, like the labor riots of 1877, or the recent approach to bloodshed in Maine, we give fresh proof that we have strength enough to escape everything of the kind. Each escape makes them more confident for the future. But there are many, who would not like to forfeit the title of sober-minded men, who feel that some of our escapes have been by a hair's breadth, whose thoughts are all taken up with the something more that might have proved fatal. “A little liquor,” says Neal Dow, “a warmer climate,” says a Richmond paper, and we should have had plenty of bloodshed in Maine. “An escape narrower than will perhaps ever be known,” is the verdict of so sober a man as General Chamberlain. We have, perhaps, tided over some dangers, like a ship driving in upon a shallow shore, and have no right to rejoice, but should gather fresh alarm at every escape. Unless we put the helm about, and accomplish, not what Bishop Haven used to call a Christianization of the Constitution, but a Christianization of the nation, from the highest servants of the State to the lowest strata of the cities; when the passions aroused in Maine shall be aroused on a larger theater and in more inflammable communities, we shall have occasion to look upon the question, What is likely to be the effect of public calamities on our religious life? as no longer a question lying somewhat too far off to be discussed, but so near that words are useless while fierce facts are deciding it. But before we join hands with war and pestilence, as auxiliaries in the cause of religion, we must submit them to a little questioning of their tendencies. We have had some experience of both within the past few years. Our war developed many manly qualities in our whole people, and brought men who were individually great to the front; but those most closely connected with it did not regard it as a school of religion. The prayers that it called forth in the North and in the South were more than drowned by the curses of bitter hatred. Then, too, it is the South to whom the lesson of the war is supposed to have been given mainly. In order to make out that war is a religious educator, the South ought to be evidently chastened by it. Who thinks that she is so? In our talk about striking the shackles from the bondman, we must not forget to set down the years of the war as a retrograde step in the religious history of America. But if there is anything in the fears alluded to (and the experience in Maine makes fears rational which a little while ago seemed silly), the war that is coming would be far worse than anything in our past. A civil war that is strictly sectional, even if pushed to the bitter end of crushing one party, must be far less bitter than a war of political parties, complicated perhaps by an attendant communistic war. In such a general disintegration, the Roman Catholic Church, with its magnificent organization, might stand up as a tower of strength. It might even become the principal aggressive power. But what room would there be in such a tempest for the gentle kingdom of God? The cases are few where nations fight for a noble principle and come forth ennobled, almost fit to be canonized. Nations for the most part drift into wars which are not moral helps to anybody. Religion and morality flourish, if at all, in spite of the savagery which they call forth. Religious teachers should not despise the “weak, piping time of peace,” for in it are their victories to be won. Those who have a half-confessed hope in pestilence, as the heavy hand of the Almighty leading us to repentance, ought to remember that Memphis was so far from turning to God under its awful calamity that the ordinary police were insufficient to stem the tide of wickedness, throwing down its usual restraints. Even those who looked for no directly religious results, but hoped that at least the charities called forth in the North might soften the hatred of the South toward us, now confess disappointment. This moral hardening is not something new in the history of pestilence. One of the soberest writers of antiquity, Thucydides, has given us this picture of the moral effects of the great plague that fell upon Athens during the first years of the Peloponnesian war. “The temples were full of the dead who died in them, for, when the disease overpowered them, men, not knowing what to have recourse to, turned to contempt of things sacred and profane alike. All the customs of burial which they formerly used were broken up.” (That alone would tell the story of utter demoralization.) “And the plague was the origin of greater lawlessness in the city in other points; for any one boldly indulged in pleasures which were before kept secret, since he saw the sudden changes that took place when the wealthy died in a moment, and those who just now had nothing immediately got their property. Accordingly, they thought proper to make their pleasures quick and delightful, since they regarded their bodies and their possessions alike as things of a day. And no one had any earnestness to toil for duty, because he thought it uncertain whether he should live long enough to accomplish it; but momentary pleasure, and what was in every respect conducive to this, usurped the place of duty, and neither fear of the gods nor the law of men acted as a check, since they judged reverence and irreverence to be all one, seeing, as they did, all perishing alike, and no one had any expectation of paying the penalty of his crimes by remaining alive long enough to come to trial, but thought a much greater judgment already passed against him, and thought it reasonable to enjoy life before this was executed.” Strip off the coloring of time and place, and this description would pass for that of the great London plague. London, to be sure, was Christian; Athens, pagan. But it is hardly doubtful that London was far the less moral and religious of the two. If it suffered less deterioration, it was because it was so low at the start. Did anybody ever claim that London was much changed for the better during the latter part of the reign of Charles the Second? Athens and London pass as fragments of our common humanity. Humanity is frail. There are blows which stun it and drive it wild. A victim of the Inquisition, with his body racked by torture, was not in a fit state to be reasoned with on religion. A nation racked by war and pestilence is in a similar case. I can hardly believe that there is any missionary who would not labor with greater hope in Bulgaria before the late war, blooming as a garden, than in Bulgaria after the war, trampled under foot. Our land, being still in peace and health, has the best conditions for religious progress. More and better laborers are the one thing needful. May the catastrophes stand aside, and give us room to work with the ordinary appliances. If the dead, lying under the grasses,
Unseen linger near the bereft,
Having knowledge and sense of what passes
In the hearts and the homes they have left,
What tear-drops, than sea-waters salter,
Must fall as they watch all the strife—
When they see how we fall, how we falter,
How we miss in the duties of life. If the great, who go out with their faces
Bedewed by a weeping world's tears,
Stand near and can see how their places
Are filled, while the multitude cheers;
If the parent, whose back is bent double
With delving for riches and gold,
Lends an ear to the wrangle and trouble
About him before he is cold; If the wife, who left weeping and sorrow
Behind her, bends down from above,
And beholds the tears dried on the morrow,
And the eyes newly burning with love;
If the gracious and royal-souled mother,
From the silence and hush of her tomb,
Can hear the harsh voice of another,
Slow-blighting the fruit of her womb; If the old hear their dearly-begotten
Rejoicing that burdens are gone;
If the young know how soon they're forgotten,
While the mirth and the revel go on—
What sighing of sorrow and anguish
Must sound through the chambers of Space!—
What desolate spirits must languish
In that mystic and undescribed place!
Then life were a farce with its burden,
And death but a terrible jest;
But they cannot. The grave gives its guerdon
Of silence and beautiful rest. “A little balm, and a little honey, spices and myrrh, nuts and almonds.” Gen. 43:11. —Light cares speak; great ones are dumb. —Sorrow is a summons to come up higher in Christian character. —The greatest of faults is to be conscious of none. —Thomas Carlyle. —My reply to all critics is the Bible itself.—Dr. H. G. Sebbens. —The hot words that jump to tongue or pen on impulse are rarely the best. —Be courteous. It will cost you nothing but self-control, and that will do you good. —No indulgence of passion destroys the spiritual nature so much as respectable selfishness. —Every truth stands sentinel for all other truths. Falsehoods are all so crooked that no two will fit. W. H. E. —Infidelity borrows all the light it has from that Bible which it seeks to discredit.—Western Christian Advocate. —A sin without its punishment is as impossible, as complete a contradiction in terms, as a cause without an effect.—Greg. —A Christian profession without principle, without heart, without self-denial, is the deadest thing in the world.—Interior. —Counterfeit coin can never succeed in spoiling the character of gold; it only compels one to ring every piece on the counter. So pretense can never harm religion; it only makes men more watchful. UP TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS.
By Paul Cobden
With both elbows on the table, and running both hands nervously up and down through his hair, sat Mr. John Claverhouse. Suddenly there was a gentle tap at his office door; but he did not hear it. How could he? He was buried in himself, trying to solve a problem, while he twitched his hair as if to straighten out the thoughts that thronged his brain. “He’s in there; I know he is,” said a little, funny-looking old woman; “and I’m going to make him answer this knock.” With this, she applied her knuckles vigorously to the door, and in an instant came the response,— “Oh! oh! Whoever you are, do come in; and don’t stand there, battering my door down!” Aunt Prilly (for it was no other than the woman known all over town as Aunt Prilly) walked in. Mr. Claverhouse asked her to be seated, and even pushed a chair toward her; but Aunt Prilly, who had the keenest pair of little brown eyes in her head that ever a woman had, perceived at once that Mr. Claverhouse was not in his best mood, which she thought was very unfortunate, for she had come on a begging errand; “and a begging errand,” she said to herself, “stands no chance at all when a man isn’t in his best mood.” Down she dropped into the offered chair—a little, weird old woman; but she had a heart large enough for two such women, and in all kinds of weather she was out on some errand for the poor. “This is what I call an easy-chair, Mr. John,” she said, as she leaned back, with a smile. But she searched his face in vain for a responsive look. “A beautiful day, Mr. John,” she added. “The sun has been shining the whole blessed time. Hasn’t gone under a cloud for a minute.” “Sun! sun been shining!” answered Mr. Claverhouse, making no effort to be pleasant, while he could not conceal that he was very much out of humor. “Who knew that the sun had been shining? A poor fellow like me can’t see the sun such days as these. Banks breaking! Stock companies going up so high you can’t see ’em! All kinds of investments coming to nothing! I tell you what it is, Aunt Prilly, if things go on much longer as they have lately, the door of the alms-house will open some day, and Mr. John Claverhouse will walk in.” “Thank you, Mr. John, for letting me know that my time for getting hold of some of that money of yours is short,” replied Aunt Prilly, shaking her funny little head, and winking her funny little brown eyes. “I’m glad I happened in this afternoon, to catch it while it’s flying. I want all I can get of it for my poor people in Water street. How much would you like to give me, Mr. John?” “My good woman!” exclaimed Mr. John, in a short, twitching voice, “don’t ask me for anything now. Never did see such times. The bottom is falling out of everything. You don’t know how much money I’ve lost lately. Why, if there isn’t a turn in my affairs pretty soon, I’m a ruined man. I’m sorry, Aunt Prilly; but I haven’t a cent for you to-day,—not a cent.” “Ah! now, Mr. John,” said Aunt Prilly, lowering her voice to a very tender tone, “I want you to lay up treasure in Heaven; and you can’t do it if you turn your back on the Lord’s poor. They are his poor, Mr. John—his poor; and I want you to help them along in this world, so that when the Lord of the poor comes in the clouds of Heaven, he will say to you, ‘My beloved John, inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me.’ And it will be a happy day for you, Mr. John, when the Lord blesses you for blessing his poor. You used to be a generous little fellow,” continued Aunt Prilly. “I remember exactly how you looked, running round the streets, giving away everything you had to any poor body that needed it. But when you grew up you made money. Ah! Mr. John, you made money; and money don’t always open the heart wide, the Lord knows.” Mr. John Claverhouse was a money-grinder; and the world said truly when it said that he was “a hard-fisted man.” But the tender voice of a tender woman was always a little disturbing to him, and Aunt Prilly’s voice was specially tender that bright, sunny spring afternoon. “What a bother these women are, sometimes,” he thought to himself. “They do so stir up a man.” But, determined to shake off Aunt Prilly for that time if never again, he came down severely upon what he called her “pets.” “You make too much of these people, Aunt Prilly,” he said. “You pet and coddle them, and teach them to live on charity, when they ought to do more to help themselves. You know as well as I do that they are a miserable crew. Water street is the worst street in town. You can’t find any worthy poor there; but you spend on them all the money you can get.” “If you won’t give me any money,” answered Aunt Prilly, quietly, “will you do something else for me, Mr. John?” “Yes, yes; anything to please you,—anything but money. What is it?” “Will you go out to-night, in the moonlight (you have no wife nor children to keep you at home), and go through Water street, and up two flights of stairs, where the poorest of the poor live, and—” “Yes, yes; I will,” interrupted Mr. John. “I like to air my brain at night, after working it all day over my money troubles. And I’ll take a run up the two flights of stairs. And I’ll do something more for you, Aunt Prilly,” added Mr. Claverhouse, now actually smiling, and trying to make himself agreeable. “If I find a saint,—one genuine saint, such as you talk about, up those two flights of stairs, I’ll pull your bell before I go to sleep, and empty my wallet into your lap. As sure as my name is John Claverhouse, I will.” “Give me your hand on that,” exclaimed Aunt Prilly, rising from her chair, and stepping up to Mr. John. Mr. Claverhouse extended his hand, but with a knowing smile, as he said,— “You needn’t talk to me about your worthy poor on Water street. Not a saint will I find there.” “Well, good-bye for to-day, Mr. John. I’ll leave it for you to decide whether there’s a saint in Water street or not.” Aunt Prilly was gone; and Mr. John Claverhouse was left alone, to meditate on the uncertainty of riches and to deplore the fact that they take wings, and fly away. His riches had not yet flown; but their wings seemed spread, just ready for flight, and Mr. John Claverhouse was a very anxious man. But evening found him hurrying along in the direction of Water street; and as he turned into the street, the dim lights shone out here and there into the gutters, and all the air seemed foul, not only with bad odors, but with oaths and curses. “There’s nothing that looks as if there were a saint anywhere around here,” thought Mr. Claverhouse; “but I’ll keep my word, and take a run up two flights of stairs. There’s no knowing, though, what I’ll get into. Bad place this! bad place! What! what! Music in here, as sure as I’m alive.” As he said this, John Claverhouse was standing by the first door, at the top of the second flight of stairs, with his hand bent, ready to knock; but he did not knock. He stopped, and held his breath to listen to the music inside:— “There is no name so sweet on earth,
No name so sweet as Jesus.” “A saint up here, I’m afraid! A saint at the top of this shaky, wretched staircase!” said John Claverhouse to himself. Again there came to his ears,— “There is no name so sweet on earth,
No name so sweet as Jesus.” “I must go in! I must go in!” he said nervously. He tapped; and, hearing a faint, soft answer, “Come,” he walked in. A face bearing the marks of severe suffering, and yet serene, looked smilingly up at him from a poor old bedstead,—as poor and old as the rest of the scanty furniture. “How do you do, ma’am?” he asked, rather abruptly; for he was not used to visiting the poor. “More comfortable than usual, sir. Thank you, kind stranger, for coming to see me. I am alone nearly all of the time. Poverty, you know, attracts few friends. Please take a chair near the fire. A very poor fire it is for so raw and chilly an evening; but it is a fire.” For the first time in his life, John Claverhouse felt embarrassed in the presence of poverty. “Why, she’s a lady; and I’m afraid she’s a saint!” he said to himself, as he drew a chair to her bedside, and sat down. “Do tell me, ma’am, how you came here,” he said. “Well, sir, I suppose I must say that poverty brought me here,” replied the woman; “but, as I am a King’s child, I dislike very much to talk about poverty.” “What! what! You a King’s child, and yet living in Water street, up two flights of stairs, and with such people around you?” “Yes, sir,” answered the invalid, with a smile. “I am a King’s child. The King of Heaven is my Father, and, you know, he giveth his angels charge concerning us; and, with angels ever around me, I am always in pleasant company. I know I am what the world calls very poor; but, really, I cannot make myself feel that I am very poor; for every day my Father, the King, says to me, ‘All things are yours,’ and I tell him every day that he sees just how it is with me. And oh! sir, I get such sweet answers. He says that he will never leave nor forsake me, and he tells me to ‘consider the lilies, how they grow.’ He takes all the care of me, sir, and I don’t borrow any trouble. Even in this world he is going to do more abundantly than I can ask or think, and up yonder there’s a mansion waiting for me. I often look out of my window and up into the sky, on a beautiful night like this, and say to myself, ‘It’s up there! It’s up there!’” “How can you knit stockings, ma’am, with those poor fingers of yours, so bent with the rheumatism?” asked Mr. Claverhouse, as he noticed a little stocking on needles lying by her pillow. “Oh! I am knitting a pair of stockings for a sick child on the next floor—a crying baby, whose little feet are always bare. I saved the money from two dollars that were given me, and bought a little yarn. I ought to do something for the poor, you know, when so much is done for me.” John Claverhouse moved restlessly in his chair, and left suddenly, after promising to call again. Not many minutes later, Aunt Prilly’s bell was pulled violently. “It’s John Claverhouse,” she said to herself; and just then he came in, with his wallet in his hand. “Take it! take it!” he said, as he opened his wallet and dropped fifty dollars into Aunt Prilly’s lap. “I found a saint,” he added; “and if she lives a week longer at the head of that rickety staircase, my name isn’t John Claverhouse.” One day, before the week was gone, the “King’s child,” as she lay on her bed, considering the lilies, heard footsteps on the rickety staircase,—Aunt Prilly and a strong man, sent by Mr. Claverhouse, had come to take her to a new, bright home he had prepared for her. And, as they laid her on the bed in her fresh little house, her eyes were at once attracted to the walls; and there in beautifully illuminated letters, set in a frame and hung up as a picture, she read, “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” On the other side of the room, in as brightly illuminated letters and in a match frame, were the words, “Consider the lilies.” The next day Aunt Prilly met Mr. Claverhouse; and, laying her hands on his head, as if she would bless him in the name of the Lord, she said, in her tenderest tones, “Ah! John Claverhouse, you found your ‘saint,’ and now listen to the words of the Master: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’” —Paul Cobden, in Independent. A CHILD’s small arms around my neck were twining, And words whose earnestness seemed like a prayer At morning service in my ear were whispered, “I am so lonesome with you ’way up there.” I may not bow the form of thirty summers To be like that of four brief sunny years, But I will try to keep afresh and tender A heart to share with childhood’s smiles and tears. Oh! if some day the dark, mysterious angel, Should come with noiseless steps into the fold, And pass his hand across the brown eyes, sparkling, And leave the ruby lips so white and cold, How often should I sit amid the gloaming, And list in vain for little footsteps down, Grieving in silence o’er the days departed, “So lonesome” with no boy to call my own. If in his pity God should deem it wiser That other heart, and hand more skilled than mine, Should take the gem to fashion and to polish, I still could say, “Not my will, Lord, but thine.” The days, no doubt, would sometimes seem so dreary, Because the light had faded from my way, But what is best my Father knoweth ever; Still I should be “so lonesome” many a day. But should the gem but slip from careless fingers, Mingle and hide amid the street’s dark clay, And purity no more within it linger, What words may tell the woe of such a day! How gladly would I, if I could, but banish Such strange wild contrast to a dream of bliss; A gloom so deep comes from the dark thought-shadow, “So lonesome” tamely sounds for grief like this. O mother! let us ponder well the chasm Care thrusts between the children’s hearts and ours; If all the raindrops slept above in cloudland, Where were our golden fruit and summer flowers? The heart of Him who was the purest, highest, Yearned o’er the children as he blessed and smiled. We seek thy footsteps; keep us, Saviour, near thee, Trusting and pure as any little child. Battle Creek, Mich. DAVID AND JONATHAN.
By H. J. Spicer
OUR peculiar treasury of gems—the Bible—affords some of the most touching incidents of true and lasting friendship. Yes, we may say that were it not for the habitual indifference that makes the narrative commonplace, the portraits of the sacred volume would secure a finer sense of appreciation than the unreal fancies of fiction. What novelist has invented a stranger and at the same time more admirable example of self-denying devotion to a friend, than that on record of David and Jonathan? We need not repeat the story, so familiar to all, but may with profit consider its practical lessons. The prince yields all to the shepherd boy of Israel, and in his undisguised favor and devotion to the oppressed, and his entreaty for the safety of the defenseless, he endangers his own life. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Well might David commemorate in song such wonderful love. But there are other characteristics of Jonathan that are worthy of close study. How was he disposed toward his father, whom he knew to be cursed from the Lord? What is his example for those who have all the gospel light? Let us search the record for a reproachful word to his godless father. Do we find it? We see him entreating in the spirit of Christian humility with such effect as to awaken to life the remnant of tenderness in that hard heart, and to win from Saul a pledge for the safety of David. And after this apparent conversion from his evil design against David, we find him trusted by Jonathan to the last degree of charity. Saul had sworn, “As the Lord liveth, he shall not be slain.” And Jonathan said, “Why should my father hide this thing from me?” On the other side, we see his wonderful love for David calling forth the promise, “Whatsoever thy soul desireth, I will even do it for thee,” in full confidence that David would ask nothing improper. Just as the Saviour can say to those in perfect harmony, “If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it.” Then follows the covenant to bind the posterity of David and Jonathan. Not because confidence was wanting without such confirmation, but “Jonathan caused David to swear again because he loved him; for he loved him as he loved his own soul.” This is one Old Testament example of fulfilling the Saviour’s new commandment for love to a neighbor. The next meeting was in a wood by stealth, where Jonathan said that David would surely be king, but added, “And I shall be next unto thee.” To be second only to David—was it selfish, or must we grant this as the rightful request of that wonderful friendship which could in no way be satisfied without this intimate association and a place for the work his valiant heart was willing to do? We may place this also on the side of self-denial. Besides, Jonathan was so confident of the friendly esteem of David that he was sure he would receive the highest honor in David’s power to confer. This mutual tenderness probably had a powerful influence on the life of David. But Jonathan did not leave Saul, to join David’s company. Both showed strength where Abraham, Rebecca, Jacob, Moses, and others failed,—in waiting God’s own time and way of fulfilling prophecy. When grown to manhood, Jonathan honored his parents; and David’s forbearance with Saul is remarkable in its contrast with the many regicides of his successors. Should Jonathan have perished side by side with his doomed father? Did he fulfill the Saviour’s principle of leaving all for the word’s sake? Let us examine. The disciple that must hate father and mother must hate his own life also, and shall a man leave home to escape himself? May not some be too soon willing to leave home for the truth’s sake? Jesus suffered the traitor Judas to the close of his ministry. Jonathan showed a well-balanced character. He loved David as he loved his own soul, yet perished with his father, David’s deadly enemy. In his fidelity to David he was true to the God who had chosen him; and in keeping the fifth commandment he honored also his Father in Heaven. So we find David inspired with lofty admiration of this example that lifts him above the memory of Saul’s persecution, while he sings, “Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided.” A plot one-half so refining, in the phrase of modern romance, would incline one reading it to follow through the story. So let us love the word of God, and search out its treasures of beauty with renewed interest. Friend, would you be a Jonathan, or have an opportunity for so great manifestation of fidelity? There is another story for us, still deeper in interest, where we may fail, with the effort of a lifetime, to fathom the love of our Elder Brother, surpassing all the loves of earth, and therewith peace that passeth understanding.