Earlier text: SAINT WORSHIPHOW THE TENTH SAVED A MAN.
Mrs. N. M. Claflin relates in the Chicago Interior this telling incident illustrative of the influence of a good habit early formed:— "Returning from one of our large missionary gatherings, several years ago, I found myself seated with a woman whose very expressive face I had several times noticed during the sessions of the meeting. We naturally spoke of subjects of especial interest presented, and I said it hardly seemed consistent for us now to have no higher standard of giving than that of the Mosaic law—when a Christian and all that he has belongs to Christ for his service, to say a tenth should be the standard seems like levying a tax, instead of giving a freewill offering. "Oh," she replied, 'if we know anything of the blessedness of giving, we will not stop at the tenth. Why, when last fall I had forty dollars to help pay the debt of the American Board, I am sure no one got more real pleasure out of forty dollars than I did out of that; but my experience has made me love the old law, and I will tell you why. My father was a New England pastor, and we children were brought up to regard a tenth of the little we had as belonging to the Lord—given to us that we might have the privilege of giving it back to him, and we would have considered it stealing from the Lord to have used a penny of that tenth for ourselves. When I was old enough to teach, a tenth of my wages belonged to the Lord; I never questioned it. I married and came West with my husband, and in a few years the war came. My husband enlisted, and just five weeks from the time he left us the message came that he was shot in the battle of Antietam, killed instantly, and I could not even know where he was buried. But I could not sit down with my sorrow. I had two boys, the elder four years and the baby three months old, and I must take care of them. I had our home, and that was about all. I must do some work that could be done at home, and I finally decided on taking in washing and ironing. The Lord helped me, and I brought up my children as I was brought up. They each had their little to divide, and we put the Lord's tenth by itself as sacred to this service, and under no circumstances to be used for ourselves. "When Charlie was about eighteen years old, I began to realize what real trouble was. He seemed to change all at once—was dissatisfied with everything, and wanted to go West and make his fortune. Nothing that anyone could say or do seemed to have any influence with him, and I had to let him go. Sometimes I would not hear from him for weeks, and I knew he was not doing well. I lived through the five years he was gone. Then he came home without the fortune he went for, but he was a Christian man. In telling me of his life while away, he said: 'Mother, it was the habit of giving the tenth that saved me. It was so natural to put it aside whenever I received money that at first I did it almost without thinking; then afterward I was angry with myself for being bound by a habit, though I could not make up my mind to break away from it. One night, being unusually reckless, I said to myself: Now I am going to get rid of that superstitious notion once for all; the money is mine; I'll take this tenth and pay it for a drink of brandy, and that will end it. I went into a saloon, called for the liquor, and was in such a hurry to carry out my resolution that before the waiter could get the brandy I threw the money on the counter. That instant I was seized by such a horror—a something I never could describe—I don't know what it was. I caught up the money and rushed out and did not stop till I was away from everybody and everything but the earth and sky, and then I sat down and did some serious thinking. I felt sure that another step in the direction I had been going was destruction, and that my only chance of escape was to turn back, and I did it.' You may be sure Charlie's experience set me to thinking, and I wondered that I had never before realized the value of the habit of tithing.'"—World-wide Missions. THE BOOK OF REMEMBRANCES.
By Ellen Howe
"O MOTHER, isn't it hard for me to have to lie here abed while the other boys are playing baseball?" said Walter Warren to his mother, as she sat by his side with an aching heart, watching the boy who but a year ago had carried off the honors of his class in the high school, but who was now prostrated with a lingering, and perhaps fatal, disease. "Yes, my dear; it is very hard, but still it might be worse," she added cheeringly. "How could it be worse?" asked the sufferer gloomily. "Don't I have pain all the time?" "Yes, my boy, you suffer steady pain of body, I know; but you don't suffer from lack of care or kindness." "Seems to me I'd change places with anybody in the world," continued the poor boy wearily. Presently Mrs. Warren rose, and, bringing a new notebook and pencil, said: "Now, let us write down in this book all the kind things people have done for you since you have been ill. We'll begin with Cousin Jennie. Here's the plate of grapes she sent you this very day." "That's so, and some days she comes in and reads me nice stories," said Walter with some interest. "Yes, and once she brought in her new game of tiddlywinks to show you how it was played," added his mother as she wrote. "And wasn't it funny to watch her play it!" said the boy, now actually smiling. "Then George Barnes brought in his new battery and showed me how he was going to rig up a little electrical machine. Don't forget to write that." "I'll write all you can think of, only you must give me time enough," said Mrs. Warren. "Then you remember how Joe Harris brought in his model yacht and let it stay here for a week, so that I could learn it all by heart. Didn't the little brass binnacle shine on it!" Walter had already forgotten his pain and confinement, and, with a happy face, went on recalling little acts of kindness done toward him by one and another friend, while his mother wrote, till he finally fell asleep, and then she prayed that he might not forget to include the goodness that had followed him all the days of his life, bestowed by the Friend above all others. Day after day at intervals this little notebook was taken up, and more entries were made in it, till finally Walter asked to keep it under his pillow so that he could write in it himself, and very often he would ask to have it all read to him. "But don't look at the last page," he would add, "though sometime you may." "Why, mother," he said often, "it seems as if everybody I ever knew had his name written down in my book of remembrance for doing some kind thing for me since I've been out of school!" And, though he grew weaker, the complaining all ceased. One day there was much harder pain than usual, and Walter never woke from the sleep that followed it. When his mother took away the precious notebook, it opened to the last page, and she read these feebly written lines, and was comforted: "No book of remembrances could be big enough to have written in it all the kind things my father and mother and all of our family have done for me, but God has done more, because he gave me this home. If I never get well, I know that my heavenly Father has got a home for me that is even better than this—though I don't see how it can be—and that Jesus loves me even more than my mother does, so I'm not afraid to die. I only wish I had done more in return to him and to all those I love, but now I can only say from my heart that I thank you all." Would not many unhappy and complaining boys and girls forget all the trials that seem so hard to bear, if they, too, should try to remember all the bright and happy and kind events of life, and keep their attention fixed on these alone?—Selected. THE SECRET OF FASCINATING.
DOUBTLESS thousands of young people, and not a small number of old ones, wish every day of their lives that they could learn the secret of fascinating others by means of their graceful, exquisite manners. The secret is an open one. It is so easy to learn that it lies all neglected by the wayside, while they who would give their dearest treasure to find it, pass unknowing. It is only this: Fill your heart with good will to everybody, and then practice at all times the best manners you know, particularly at home. If you begin at home, this charming manner will, so to speak, get settled on you and never leave you. Be just as polite to your sister as you would to your570 best girl. Strive to gain the good will of mother, father, and brothers and sisters, and children, exactly as you strive to gain good will abroad. There is no place for practicing manners like the home circle, no place, permit me to say, where it will be so appreciated. It will be a cultivation of heart, mind, and body, this endeavor to feel nothing but affection for the people at home, and treat them as though they were worthy of as much consideration at your hands as if they were the president and his family. So they are worthy. Then from the home will float out around you those sweet, magnetic influences which will draw the hearts of mankind toward you.—Jenness Miller Monthly. ONCE in an Eastern palace wide
A little child sat weaving;
So patiently her task she plied
The men and women at her side
Flocked round her almost grieving. "How is it, little one," they said,
"You always work so cheerily?
You never seem to break your thread,
Or snarl or tangle it, instead
Of working smooth and clearly. "Our weaving gets so worn and soiled,
Our silk so frayed and broken;
For all we've fretted, wept, and toiled,
We know the lovely pattern's spoiled
Before the king has spoken." The little child looked in their eyes,
So full of care and trouble,
And pity chased the sweet surprise
That filled her own, as sometimes flies
The rainbow in a bubble. "I only go and tell the king,"
She said, abashed and meekly;
"You know he said in everything—"
"Why, so do we," they cried; "we bring
Him all our troubles weekly." She turned her little head aside,
A moment let them wrangle;
"Ah, but," she softly then replied,
"I go and get the knot untied
At the first little tangle!" O little children, weavers all,
Our broidery we spangle
With many a tear that would not fall
If on our King we would but call
At the first little tangle.
—Selected. THE SALOON CURSE.
By R. F. Coyle
I MARVEL sometimes that we are so silent in the presence of its deadly work. Day by day, night by night, year after year, it goes on grinding out its grists of woe, drawing into its hopper our sons, our brothers, our husbands, our fathers, yea, even our daughters, and we never raise a hand to stop the awful mill. One hundred thousand a year are crushed between its upper and nether millstones, and sent into the drunkard's eternity, and yet even our churches in protest. I marvel at it. Evils that are remote, that are hidden away behind political economy and hard to understand, we strike at and denounce and portray with stirring and affecting eloquence, but this most tangible and conspicuous and destructive evil of all, we ignore. I especially wonder that our workingmen, who are pleading so earnestly for a removal of social wrongs, and saying so many cutting and truthful things about man's inhumanity to man, should be so blind to the unspeakable curse of the saloon. It has been estimated that in Great Britain the liquor traffic gets about one-fourth of their wages. How much goes into its coffers from this source in America I am not prepared to say, but its receipts are certainly enormous. The workingmen do not realize it, and one is in danger of stirring up their antagonism if he ventures to speak along this line. It is an indictment, a home thrust, which they do not relish. It lays much of the blame for their condition at their own door, and that is never pleasant. To attack the other man is always a vast deal easier than to see It is the easiest thing in the world to inveigh against capital, but to condemn our own lack of thrift is hard. I have often noticed that in locating responsibility we nearly always look abroad. It never occurs to us that the difficulty may be at home. No class of men has any monopoly of this peculiarity of human nature. We find it in all directions. It belongs to workingmen as well as to others. I am not here to take sides, or to run up the flag of any party, or to flatter my fellow-men of any grade or condition with honeyed phrases, or to curry favor with high or low, with rich or poor, but, in God's name, to speak the truth as I see it. I have been among workingmen a great deal; I have carefully noted their habits, and in no circle of society have I seen so much reckless and wicked waste. Thousands of them spend their earnings in the most thoughtless and extravagant fashion. I have seen them in the iron and copper mines of Michigan, making from five to eight dollars a day when times were good, but when the reaction came, and many of the mines and mills closed up, these very men were on the verge of starvation. Instead of putting by something for a rainy day, they spent their money in the saloon and in beer gardens and in places of that sort. There they passed their evenings and their Sundays, THROWING AWAY THEIR WAGES
with utmost unconcern. Had they lived economically, and opened up a savings account, they might have been independent when the mines began to suspend here and there, but as it was, a week's idleness was enough to bring them to want and beggary. The saloon got their cash and society their complaints. They gave their money to the rumseller and their maledictions to capital. And that is a good deal more common than many are willing to admit. Nobody knows better than myself how multitudes of our workingmen, even when times are best, have to pinch and scrimp at every point to keep soul and body together. Many of them are driven to an economy that is most beggarly. I know that, and so do you. But that does not at all invalidate what I have just said about how thoughtlessly thousands upon thousands of them waste their earnings in the saloon and kindred places. Go into Pittsburg, or Chicago, or Minneapolis, or any of our great manufacturing cities, and you invariably find the saloons most numerous in those sections where the workingmen live and labor. This is a fact which cannot be controverted, and the significance of it ought not to escape our attention. Does it not show that the rum power knows very well where its best customers are? Build a factory or open up a mine anywhere out in the country to-morrow, and there will be a saloon there before sunset. I wonder that the workingmen and their champions of press and platform do not give the matter some serious consideration.—Rev. R. F. Coyle, of Oakland. "WILL," said Uncle Jack, as he handed the boys a basket of fruit that he had brought for them, "what fruit do you like best?" "I thought so. Now, the question is, What do you children know about bananas?" "I know they grow in hot countries," said Joe, "and I think they grow in the woods." "Some kinds do grow in the woods," replied Uncle Jack, "but the fruit of wild banana plants is almost always too bitter to eat. That which is good to eat is the fruit of trees planted in gardens or in fields." "And, uncle, from what do they grow?" asked Joe. "A great many shoots come up from the roots of the old trees. These are cut off and set in the ground, just as we start geraniums and rose trees. Pretty soon the young shoots send up two long leaves. But you would not think they were leaves. They are curled so tightly together that they look just like a round stick. After a while the leaves unfold and hang down like branches. Other leaves grow out, curled just as tight as the first. These soon uncurl and bend down, and others grow in their place. Then the plant really begins to look like a tree, but the trunk is not hard wood like the oak or the pine; it is nothing but leaf stems packed closely together." "At the end of nine months a deep purple bud appears in the center of the leaves. Pretty soon it grows out and hangs down. It looks like a great purple heart. At last it opens, and there are seen rings and rings of bright little buds arranged around the stem. Soon each little bud bursts into a yellow blossom. Then comes the fruit. At first each banana is only a tiny green pod, but it grows and grows till the cluster is very heavy." "Oh, as heavy as you are, Will!" "Yes. Each banana weighs very little by itself, but sometimes there are several hundred bananas on one stem. A great many are picked while they are still green. If they were not, we should never have them here. They would not keep long enough. When gathered they are put in a cool place, or are buried in the earth, until they are taken on the steamer to be brought to New York or Halifax." "What becomes of the tree, sir?" "Oh, when it has borne its cluster of fruit, the poor thing withers away; the big stem and the great leaves die, but the root still lives, and all around the dead stem come up the young shoots, or baby plants, which, as I told you, are saved to plant again." "Do people in the hot countries eat many bananas, Uncle Jack?" asked Will. "Thousands of people live almost entirely on them, Will, just as people in some countries live on potatoes and others on rice. They have bananas for breakfast, dinner, and tea. Sometimes the people of South America cut the fruit into strips, then dry it in the sun, grind it, and make a flour from it." "Fancy having banana biscuit for breakfast!" whispered Will. "The young shoots," concluded Uncle Jack, "that come up from the roots of the dead trees, are eaten as greens, like dandelions. The leaves have a watery juice which is used to dye white cloth. It makes it brown or black. The long, tough threads of the leaves are woven into a beautiful kind of cloth called grass cloth."—Our Sunday Afternoon. A young lady of sixteen, who had been piously brought up, was invited to a party at which certain persons of undisguised infidel sentiments were expected to be present. Her father objected to her going. "I know, papa," she said, "that they speak against the Bible and against Jesus; but you can be quite sure they can do me no harm. I can't help that; but I shall not allow them to affect me in the least." "My child," said her father, inventing an excuse for the sudden request, "my work can't be interrupted; I have need of a coal; will you be kind enough to fetch me one?" "Do you want a live coal, papa?" "No—one that is dead—burned out." The coal was brought. The young lady had brought it in her hand. "Didn't it burn you, my child?" asked her father. "Why, no, papa—how could it? It's dead." "Of course it couldn't; but look at your hand, Florence." "O papa, how black my fingers are! I must go and wash them." "Wait a moment, Flossie; here is a little lesson for you while you are washing them. It is this; companionship with the wicked and worldly may not necessarily burn you and destroy you, but it will certainly soil you. Remember all your lifetime what the apostle says, Evil communications corrupt good manners."—Selected. Cleanliness and Crime Prevention
By Union Signal
CLEANLINESS and healthful surroundings will remove half the incentives to crime. Men and women who keep themselves clean have a certain virtue and sanctity as the natural result. If we put more money into public baths, we would put less into penitentiaries.—Union Signal. The Good Act of the Moment
By Johann Kaspar Lavater
Act well at the moment, and you have performed a good act to all eternity.—Lavater. SIAM AND ITS PEOPLE.
By A. Bartholomew
THE country of Siam, which has been brought before the public notice lately in connection with the French, lies to the southwest of China and the southeast of Burmah. Little has been known about this country or its people up to the present time, so perhaps a short description would interest your readers. The country of Siam as a whole is very rich, both as regards agricultural and mineral wealth. Its principal exports are rice, timber, cattle, tin, and rubies. The country is worked by traders, most of whom are in the employ of the English or British subjects, three parts of the trade being in the hands of the English. Bangkok, the capital of Siam, lies on the right bank of the Menam River, a small stream rising in the northern part of the country. The native city of Bangkok is surrounded by a stone wall about fourteen feet in thickness, entrance being provided for through five large gates. The population is estimated at about 400,000, of whom about one-half are Chinese. The king's palace, a large group of buildings about half a mile square, is situated on a small island in the river close to the city. It is surrounded by a high wall, which prevents the public from gazing into the palace grounds. Around the palace are well-kept roads. On one side is the river, and on the other the parade ground of the Siamese army, for they boast of both an army and a navy. The mouth of the River Menam is well protected by forts. The banks are very low, trees growing down to the water's edge. Almost all the houses in Bangkok are built on piles and floating rafts, as the river is very liable to overflow its banks and wash away the houses if they were built on the level ground. The Siamese as a race are very indolent, and, though they have the opportunity of adopting Western ideas and civilization, they are too indolent to do so. The king, who is favorable to the Western civilization, has tried to make the people exert themselves, but all to no purpose. A few of the noblemen have been to England, and have received an English education; but with the advancement of civilization they are afraid they will lose their power over the people. The Siamese are a small race of people, being much like the Japanese in feature and stature. Formerly the whole of the lower classes were slaves owned by the noblemen. When slavery was abolished by the king, the majority would not leave their former masters. So used were they to being looked after and fed by others that many starved, being, in fact, like children deprived of their natural guardians. They have not yet recovered themselves and taken their place as men of action, and will not exert themselves to improve their understanding. All the improvement in the country has been made by Europeans. The king is a despotic ruler; he has the improvement of his people and country at heart, but is prevented by the indolence of the people from doing much for them. The king has over seventy wives, and two queens, who are called first and second queen. These are really his own sisters, the first queen being heir to the throne. The first queen is greatly taken up with Western ideas, and has a large orphanage. She has also organized an ambulance corp among the ladies of the palace. And now a word about the religion of the Siamese. Siam is one of the strongholds of Buddhism, and one of the most noticeable features in the scenery of the country is the vast number of temples—new temples, old temples, and temples in complete ruins; for they do not repair their temples, but when one falls to pieces they build a new one close to it. One-tenth of the people are priests, and whichever way you turn you are sure to meet them. It is the custom for everyone to go through the priesthood. If one has a troublesome wife, he enters the priesthood for three years, at the end of which time he is allowed to take another wife. The priests are supported by voluntary contributions from the people, and every priest has to rise with the sun if he wishes to have any food. It is a common sight to see a line of priests, each with a large bowl, collecting food, the people coming to the doors of their houses, and giving each, as they pass, a large spoonful of cooked rice or other food, as the case may be. They give as they can afford, but all give something. I have often thought, as I contemplated such scenes, what a lesson we, as Christians, could have from this, for these poor heathen give willingly of their substance, and they come to their doors to give it. The temple grounds are considered by the poorer class very holy, and beggars who feel the approach of death try if possible to crawl to one of the temples to die. In one large temple in Bangkok are a number of vultures, which are fed with the bodies of the dead, after which the bones are burned. I myself witnessed two bodies eaten by these horrid-looking birds. I also saw a beggar dying, who had crawled to this place to die, believing that, if eaten by vultures after death, he would go to paradise. Missionary work has not advanced far in this country yet. In Bangkok there are a few American missionaries, but these I think are the only workers in Siam. They have a large mission house, also a small orphanage, kept by two of the lady workers. They have not seen much result of their labors, for there are many difficulties to contend with,—first, the language; then the dense superstition in which the masses are enveloped, and the indolence of the people. Here is a field for men wholly given to God, men who have been tested by God and found true, for only men full of the Holy Spirit of God, separate from all things worldly, can be used by him to disperse this dense darkness and superstition. The Siamese, though rejecting the Western ideas of improvement, have, nevertheless, accepted the ways of Western merchants and traders, and are fast falling lower in the scale of humanity. Much could be said on the subject of missionaries for Siam, but I will conclude my letter with an appeal to the people of God to awaken to a sense of their responsibility in regard to this dark land. England, though enjoying almost all the trade of the country, has not a single missionary in the land. May God raise up many to preach the glad tidings of salvation to this people. H. M. S. Linnet, China Station, May 29, 1894. PRAYER A CONFLICT.
By Charles Bridges
HE who knows not prayer to be a conflict, a warfare, beset with hindrances, has never known what prayer is. He who meets these hindrances without grief, without resistance, knows nothing of the privilege of prayer, nothing of a life of faith. The child of God both feels and resists these hindrances, as depriving him of the happiness of communion with God. Hence that cry, "Be not silent unto me; lest, if thou be silent to me, I become like them that go down into the pit." Ps. 28:1. —Rev. Charles Bridges, D.D. ICELAND is an island about 300 miles long and 200 miles wide at its greatest width, and at the last census it had a population of 72,445. It is 500 miles north of Scotland, 850 miles west from Norway, and 130 miles east from Greenland. Since 1380 it has belonged to Denmark. In the year A.D. 874 several families from Norway went to Iceland. For seventy or eighty years previously the island had been visited, and had some few settlers, but the first colony settled there in 874. Beginning with a patriarchal form of government, Iceland remained a flourishing republic for three centuries. Then it passed to the Norwegian crown, and in 1380 was transferred to Denmark. Iceland has a constitution and administration of its own, the legislative power being vested in the Althing, which consists of thirty-six members, thirty elected by household suffrage and six nominated by the king. The Althing meets at Reikiavik, the capital, every second year, sitting in two divisions. The upper consists of six members nominated by the king of Denmark, and six elected by the representatives of the people. The lower division is composed of the twenty-four remaining members of the Althing. Reikiavik has about two thousand inhabitants. The houses are generally of wood and but one story high. At certain seasons of the year the air is heavy with the smell of codfish, which is the principal article of export and one of the few articles of wealth. The coat of arms of Iceland is a codfish spread open upon a shield and surmounted by a crown. The ordinary Icelander is a person who is phenomenally serious, seldom smiles, and neither can take a joke nor make one. In stature and physique he is slighter than the Norwegian. His height is not so great, his shoulders are less broad, and his limbs less brawny. In his costume, except for his shoes of ill-tanned sealskin, there is but little unconventionality. His suit is of black homespun, for the Icelandic sheep produce wool of excellent quality and length, which the housewives spin and weave during the long nights of winter. The feminine costume is more characteristic. On ordinary everyday occasions the garb is all of black, relieved only at the bosom by a coquettish glimpse of white chemisette stiffly starched. The abundant hair is carefully braided, usually in four strands, which are then caught up at the ends. Matron and maid, the women wear upon the head, both at home and abroad, a jaunty, disc-like cap, black in color, and so firmly knitted that it seems to be of cloth; from its center depends to the shoulder a tassel of silk, held at the top by a silver slide. Where it can be afforded, a black silk apron completes the attire. The holiday costume is still more effective. A dress waist elaborately embroidered with silver thread, and often a precious heirloom for generations, replaces the one usually worn. A silver belt of antique workmanship clasps the waist, and upon the head is set the graceful faldur, a Phrygian helmet of stiff white linen, over which is thrown a white gauze veil. A gala costume, now scarcely ever seen, is still more elaborate. In addition to the silver ornaments of belt and waist, a flat silver embroidered ruff stands stiffly from the neck. Upon the head is wound, like a turban, a handkerchief of figured silk, while over it572 curves a stiff white linen headdress, shaped like a miniature pulpit sounding-board. During the long, dark winter months the Icelanders are confined to their cheerless huts. The walls of these huts are usually about four feet high, and are constructed of alternate layers of stone and turf. Some sort of a wooden roof is placed on the walls, and this is covered thickly with sod. The dwellings are really clusters of separate huts, as the apartments are entirely separated from each other by thick walls of turf, and each has a separate roof. A long, dark, narrow passage leads to different apartments, among which are the cow shed, a sheep house, and often a blacksmith's shop. What light there is usually is admitted through holes in the roof covered with pieces of skin or glass, though occasionally a hut has small windows in the front. The floor is of hardened lava. Headless casks or barrels are often used for chimneys, but sometimes a hole in the roof forms the only outlet for smoke. In Iceland everybody has something of an education. The children are all taught to read and write by their mothers. No means of obtaining knowledge is neglected. During the long winter months, while all the rest are engaged in spinning, knitting, mending tools, or chiseling ornaments from wood, one member of the family reads aloud from some book or paper. As books are not very plentiful, when the Icelander goes to church he carries along some of his books to lend to his neighbor, and brings some of his neighbor's books home to read, and often one of these books is copied entire before it is returned. The Icelanders show plainly enough their Scandinavian origin, and but little new blood has come in since the settlement, over a thousand years ago. One sees, however, fewer pleasing faces, both among men and women, than in Norway. It is a harsh life at the best, in this unpropitious climate. It is far too serious a matter to be lived lightly, and there are few pleasures. In their social conditions the Icelanders are neither the best nor the worst of the world's people. Although, as a whole, the nation is to be characterized neither as immoral nor irreligious, its morals are by no means unimpeachable nor its religion zealous. The little cathedral at Reikiavik and the parish churches throughout the land are well filled on Sundays and festivals with congregations of worshipers. The Bible, thanks to the English Bible Society, is everywhere diffused, and books of homilies and hymns are common in nearly all households; but the religion is, after all, of that lukewarm quality that characterizes Protestant Germany. As a unit the nation is staunchly Lutheran, and schismatic "isms" have never appealed to Icelandic ears nor found root in Icelandic hearts. Viewed comprehensively, the morals of the country are excellent, but judged in detail, the ethical code is, nevertheless, not wholly free from anomalies. Crime of any sort is infrequent. The Icelanders are and always have been a litigious folk, and their law courts are crowded with neighbor feuds and cases of grievance real or imagined, but their jails are empty and their house doors without locks. In all the land there are no criminal classes, and even petty crime is almost absolutely unknown.—Gospel in All Lands. TELL IT TO OTHERS.
By Ellet Joseph Waggoner
‘SACREDNESS does not mean secrecy. Many persons suppose that sacred things are profaned by the violation of their secrecy. There is truth in this sometimes. But there are souls to whom the utterance of some of our most sacred thoughts or experiences would be a life blessing. The question is, Sacred to what, or to whom? Every high and holy experience ought to be sacred to a high and holy purpose, and that purpose is not always to be attained by burying an experience utterly out of the sight of men.’ The Scripture admonishes us to tell others what we have seen and heard from the Lord. ‘Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will declare what he hath done for my soul.’ Ps. 66:16. ‘Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another; and the Lord hearkened, and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the Lord, and that thought upon his name.’ Mal. 3:16. God blesses men, not for their own sake, simply, but that they may be a blessing to others. Let the language of every lover of the Lord be, ‘O Lord, open thou my lips; and my mouth shall show forth thy praise.’ What shall we tell? Jesus said to the disciples of John, ‘Go your way, and tell John what things ye have seen and heard.’ Luke 7:22. That is all that any gospel worker has to do. He has not to strain himself to make a learned discourse; he has not to theorize and speculate; he has only to tell what he has seen and heard, not what he has heard men say, but what he has heard from the Lord. The command is, ‘Hear him.’ Tell only what you know from personal acquaintance with Jesus. This was the source of the apostles’ power. They had been with Jesus, and they said, when forbidden to teach, ‘We cannot but speak the things which we have seen and heard.’ Acts 4:20. You may not have heard and seen very much, but that little will be as effective as the greater amount that another has seen and heard. But do not think to add to its effectiveness by adding something that you do not know from personal knowledge. That will weaken the whole. The testimony of the man in court, who knows only one thing about the case, and who sticks to that one thing, is as useful as any man’s testimony could be. But he throws discredit on what he does know, as soon as he begins to tell something that he does not know. This wonderfully simplifies Christian work, and provides a place for everyone. ‘Go your way, tell those things which ye have seen and heard.’ ‘Continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of, knowing of whom thou hast learned them.’ ITEMS FROM THE FOREIGN MISSION OFFICE.
By Editor
ELDER A. E. FLOWERS, now laboring in the island of Trinidad, West Indies, reports of his work:— We are now holding meetings in a hall in the village of Coura. Our meetings have been very well attended, the audience ranging from seventy-five to one hundred. One good feature of it is that the same ones are out nearly every night. Thus far ten573 have signed the covenant, and I have heard of three more that kept last Sabbath, and I am sure others will take their stand soon. Of the ten that signed the covenant, seven are men—one the dispenser at the hospital and one a policeman. The people treat us kindly. It is the same here as elsewhere; when one accepts the truth, he wants others to know it. The Lord has greatly blessed in the presentation of his truth, and, while we feel our weakness, we often realize the power of God resting upon us. Brother Flowers reports himself and wife in excellent health. A tent will soon be shipped to him for use in the island. At the last meeting of the Foreign Mission Board it was voted to recommend that Charles D. Adamson, one of our native brethren in the island, assist Brother Flowers in tent work. Brother Grant, who has just gone to that island to canvass, is working among the native brethren, with good success in selling books. Brethren Sanford and Rudolph, who are now on the Gold Coast of West Africa, selecting a site for a mission and mission farm, write:— It is almost impossible to tell where the best place is to start a mission. The harvest is overripe. People have been waiting for years for a missionary of the gospel of the kingdom. Negotiations are now going on with the head men and native king of Appam for some land near here for a mission farm. There are from twenty to thirty acres that they expect to give us, but have not yet settled upon the boundaries to the same. The land is fertile, and will be given to us in writing, so that we can hold it by the laws of the British colony. We have been free from African fever thus far, and have taken no quinine as a preventative. It is expected that a minister will be sent to this coast this present summer. There are about ten native Sabbath keepers at Appam. A mission on this coast would form a base for operations in the interior. The Wesleyan Methodists have several missions along the coast, but there is much unoccupied territory. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
By Marion Harland
I MIGHT have said a word of cheer
Before I let him go.
His weary visage haunts me yet;
But how could I foreknow
The slightest chance would be the last
To me in mercy given?
My utmost yearnings cannot send
That word from earth to heaven. I might have looked the love I felt;
My brother had sore need
Of that which—too shy and proud—
He lacked the speech to plead.
But self is near, and self is strong,
And I was blind that day;
He sought within my careless eyes,
And went, athirst, away. O word, and look, and clasp withheld!
O brother heart, now stilled!
Dear life, forever out of reach,
I might have warmed and filled!
Talents misused and seasons lost,
O'er which I mourn in vain—
A waste as barren to my tears
As desert sands to rain! Ah, friend, whose eyes to-day may look
Love into living eyes,
Whose tone and touch perchance may thrill
Sad hearts with sweet surprise,
Be instant, like your Lord, in love,
And lavish as his grace
With light and dew and manna fall,
For night comes on apace.
—Marion Harland.