Earlier text: RESURRECTIONWith almost the entire balance of Eld. W.'s article we fully agree, and hence do not need to notice much of it. In his last paragraph he says, after having referred at length to the fifteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians, "These passages show that man's physical organization does not constitute his essential existence, but that it consists in that life principle which takes on the new body." Here, again, we can agree verbally with our reviewer. Our only difference is in our understanding of the meaning of terms, after all. He supposes that there is a life principle, or force, which may exist independent of matter, and which he calls the soul. We accept the declaration of science, that there is no such separately existing force, that matter and force are inseparable. The life principle, so-called, is essentially what we mean by organization; for life is the result of organization, and not organization the result of life. Thus, Eld. W. and our readers must clearly see that after all this whole matter is summed up in the single question, Which is primary, life or organization? which is a purely scientific problem. Finally Eld. W. says: "Now, if spirit and character are the products of material bodies, how can bodies so suddenly changed and radically different still produce the same spirits and characters?" "How can a pure, spiritual body produce the same character as a gross, diseased body?" Does our reviewer wish us to infer that he believes that there will be gross characters in Heaven? Will he not allow that characters which are more or less perverted by gross, diseased bodies shall be "changed," when mortal puts on immortality, so as to agree with pure, spiritual bodies? If not, then according to his theory, there must be in Heaven, gross and diseased bodies! But Eld. W. says, in his last period, that "men will be recognized" by their characters "after the resurrection." Thus he admits that the character is the means of identification, which is essentially our position. If this is true, and Eld. W. admits its truth, then if the character is preserved by means of the life-record in Heaven, will not the identity be preserved also, and what need have we of an immaterial entity—the very existence of which is hypothetical and contrary to all accepted principles of science—to accomplish the same thing? Thus we have Eld. W. on our side, in the assertion that the soul or spirit for which he argues, if it exists at all, is an unnecessary appendage to the body. Slow Gains Outlast Speculative Fortunes
This was a sage remark of an old Boston merchant: “I've stood here on State street for forty years, and I have seen men accumulate fortunes by speculations, and I've seen these fortunes disappear. I have seen men grow up in worldly wealth, and go down, and I've always noticed that those persons who were content with slow gains and six per cent interest came out ahead in the long run, The execution of justice upon the sinner is to the Almighty “his strange work,” “his strange act,” but he delights to reward the righteous according to their works. At the commencement of their righteous course, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God. It is not said that the angels rejoice, though doubtless they do; but in this instance there is joy on the part of higher and more exalted beings. Christ says, “I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance;” i. e., over the holy angels and all the unfallen worlds. Not that there is no joy over the latter, for doubtless there is; but the exceeding joy is over the former, as there is now an opportunity for mercy and justice to meet together in the execution of the latter. When the poor half-starved, half-naked prodigal returned, his father met him a great way off, and fell on his neck and kissed him. The wanderer made his confession, but before he had time to propose to become as one of his father’s hired servants, the father prevented him by commanding: “Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry.” Why the best robe? Did he deserve it? Oh, no; and why it was used on this occasion we cannot tell, unless it was to manifest the exceeding joy of the father, arising from the deep affection he had for the one who had so recklessly gone astray. Though this parable is unexplained, we suppose that the father represents the Divine Being; the prodigal, fallen man; and whatever class of persons the eldest son may represent, we see the same winning, loving disposition exhibited toward them that God ever manifests toward his creatures. “Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.” It has been stated that God’s love extends to all created beings. Many may consider this an erroneous assertion, supposing that there is no divine commiseration or pity exercised toward the fallen angels. They have sinned against such light, have fallen from such a high elevation, and have wrought such ruin to man, and such high-handed rebellion and opposition to God in his benevolent designs, that he can manifest no disposition toward them but that of the most fearful indignation and wrath. But let us see if we cannot find something in the Bible quite different from this. The prophet says (Eze. 28:12), “Son of man, take up a lamentation upon the king of Tyrus.” He then describes the king of Tyrus, the extent of his wisdom, the beauty of his person, the elevation of his position, and the perfection of his character from the day that he was created till iniquity was found in him. Now the description given of him, and also his residence, which was “in Eden the garden of God,” where every precious stone was his covering, and he was the anointed cherub, could not possibly apply to any human being. We are therefore forced to the conclusion that reference is here made to Satan, the prince of devils. But why called the king of Tyrus, rather than the king of any other place? Because Tyrus means strength. Dr. Clarke says, “Every proper name in the Bible has a signification.” Hence king of strength would signify that he was the strongest created being. Mark the language. It is not, Son of man, take up a railing, a reproach, or even the mildest censure, upon the one who is the instigator of sin, who led angels and men to ruin, and who is the cause of all the misery and death that ever has existed or ever will exist. Should we not suppose that such a being deserved the most bitter execrations? And yet the God of Heaven calls upon his prophet to lament over the remediless condition of this prince of sinners. Take up a lamentation, and mourn that one so high should fall so low; that one so noble should become so infamous; that one so wise should become supremely foolish; that one so perfect in character should become inexpressibly vile. Take up a mournful wail over the strongest of creation’s sons, who is able, by one single act, to bring upon countless millions untold suffering,—all that could wring the heart with anguish for a lifetime,—and finally entail upon them the horrors of the second death. Say to him, “How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! [Margin, O day star.]” Then Lucifer was one of the morning stars that sang together when all the sons of God shouted for joy over the creation of a universe designed to be filled with happy beings, who, during ceaseless ages, should rejoice in the goodness of their Creator. Now this son of the morning has become the prince of the power of the air, producing storms, tornadoes, and tidal waves, and a multitude of diseases for the destruction of mankind, and he is also working in the hearts of the children of disobedience to their final doom. Son of man, take up a sorrowful moan upon the one who has reached such depths of evil, degradation, and ultimate woe from such heights of honor and distinguished blessedness. Weep over him with emotions of commiseration and grief, instead of indulging in harsh, censorious epithet, which, it would seem to us, he so richly deserves. Here is a manifestation of such loving pity as we had supposed was never exercised by any being toward that foe of everything good. Here is such perfection of character as human imagination has never been able to reach, and which even the angels might desire to comprehend. We here come back to the great fountain from which flow streams of exhaustless blessings to everything that has life. What shall we withhold from a God, who, though terrible in judgment, is infinite in love and compassion? How shall we make suitable returns for all his beneficence to us? Let us ardently aspire after the highest attainment in the heavenly characteristic—love. “Hail heavenly love, that first began
The scheme to rescue fallen man.” A PERSON who is able to help but little is sometimes able to hinder a good deal. It requires but very little talent to stand in the way of one another’s usefulness. It would require but small ability for a roguish boy, standing by a machine, to sprinkle a little sand upon the oiled and polished axles on which the wheels revolved. It might be done easily and quickly, and remain unobserved; but that sand, mingling with the lubricating oil, and being carried around on the axles, would decrease the speed, consume the power, cut the axles, injure the box, hinder the work, and derange and ruin the machine. If the boy was trying to introduce pebbles or rocks into the machine, he would do less damage, for they would be observed and could be removed; but the mischief would come from introducing the sand, so fine that it makes its way everywhere, so small that no one would notice it. There are men in the church of Christ who never have shown great ability to plan or execute anything of importance. Their main forte seems to be sanding axles. They can get in the way of others; they can hinder, find fault, pervert, and sow jealousy, dissension and suspicion, as invisibly and as effectually as a boy can sand the journals of a machine. No one suspects what they are doing; nor can any one fasten their misdeeds upon them; but the air grows thick with distrust, and work is hindered by secret contrivances and combinations; good men are burdened, disheartened, and worn out; noble enterprises falter, fall, and are abandoned. Every one notices that things go hard, and that something hinders their progress; but no one seems to know what the trouble is, until the day comes for a general clearing up, and then, lo and behold, the axles are found covered with sand. It requires very little ability in a man to fill the position of sand-thrower. Neither intelligence, talent, grace, nor godliness are absolutely necessary for this work. Conceit, envy, jealousy, sourness, and meddlesomeness are sufficient qualifications, under ordinary circumstances. It does not take much religion for a man to find fault; some men have been known to find fault who did not have any. It requires no skill or long apprenticeship to throw sand on axles; a man who does not know enough to oil a machine properly, could sand it effectually. Here, for instance, is a church, where there are a few people who try to do something, and a number who succeed in doing nothing except grumble because what is done is not done in a different way. Here is a person who, from love to the cause of God, desires to labor earnestly, energetically, and effectually in the Master’s work; but by the time he is under way, others, who have not succeeded in accomplishing anything of importance, are ready to throw sand on his axles, and neutralize his efforts, until the workers are discouraged, and the work abandoned; after which the sand-throwers relapse into a condition of quietude. They have done what they could, which was simply to hinder others from doing anything, and now their song is, “I told you so; I knew that nothing would be done.” Most churches have a surplus of these sand-throwers, who could be spared; and if in their place could be substituted a few of these men who oil the machinery, who lubricate instead of irritate, feed the fires instead of throwing water upon them, and who are as ready to work as those sand-throwers are to grumble, nobody would be damaged by the change. Better still would it be, if some of these very men would cease throwing sand, and begin pouring on oil. They might be a power for good, and men might thus be spared one of the grievous vexations of their lives.—Safeguard. “I CANNOT SEE THE BOTTOM STEP.”
By Carolyn Smythe
WE were gathered in the parlor one winter evening after supper. The glow and warmth of a grate-fire and the light of the gas gave a cozy aspect of comfort to the room, and we had settled each to our books or work. In our midst, upon the floor, was a visitor, our grandson and nephew, a happy little fellow just past his fourth birthday. He was building a block-house, singing softly to himself, as walls and steeples grew under his hand. By-and-by the house-mother wanted to send a message to the kitchen, and I said,— “Lewie, can’t you go down stairs and tell Matilda something for grandma?” A cheerful “Yes, ma’am,” came as an interlude to the song, and placing one more block he rose and, with a lingering and admiring look at his house, came and stood by my side, still humming his little song, looking with frank, fearless eyes into my face, waiting for his message, then turned and went, with no intermission of the melody in heart and voice. The door opened, and he passed out. But hark! the song has ceased. The listening ear can catch no further sound of singing. Presently the door re-opened and he came in quietly and directly to my side, and lifting the same frank eyes to mine said,— “Aunt Carrie, I am not afraid, but—I cannot see the bottom step.” Poor little fellow! He went from the brightness of the parlor to the dimmer light of the hall. The doors below were closed, and the basement stairs were only dimly-lighted, while the hall below seemed dark as night to eyes accustomed to the parlor light. “I cannot see the bottom step.” “But you can see the first and second and third.” “Ye-e-s, but I cannot see the bottom one.” “Well, if you step down the first you will see another, and so on to the bottom, and then you can easily see the door, and Matilda is right there.” “I know. I am not afraid, but I cannot see the bottom step.” I could not be so selfish as to compel the little fellow to try the top step and trust for the bottom one, so I said,— As I started, a warm little hand slipped into mine, the song again broke from the lips, and safe, content, and happy the child went by my side from the top step to the bottom, and the door opened into the light. How often do we children of a larger growth, in our religious life, protest, “I am not afraid, but I cannot see the bottom step.” God makes us his children, and brings us into the House Beautiful. All is brightness, love, joy, and we sit down in cheery content to sing over the building of block-houses of our own scheming and planning. By-and-by God speaks, “Go, work for me.” “Yea, Lord; speak, for thy servant heareth. What wilt thou have me to do?” The errand seems easy, and we set about it. Directly our way leads into darkness and difficulties. What looks safe and easy enough in the warm light seems uncertain and beset with difficulties and terrors in the unknown, untried darkness, and we go back to our Lord. “Lord, I am willing to work, and I am not afraid to trust in thee; but it is dark, and I cannot see how it is coming out.” “The way of the righteous is made plain.” “Yea, Lord; thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path, but the light does not shine to the end of the way, and, Lord, I cannot see the bottom step.” “Walk in the light. The path of the just is as the shining light which shineth more and more unto the perfect day.” But with sigh instead of song, we say,— “It is dark. I am not afraid, but I cannot see the bottom step.” Well for us if, when the Lord himself arises to do his own work, we have childlike simplicity enough to slip our hand in his and go with him on his errand. Shame to us that we find how easy and safe the road; how true and steady the light shining on every step; how unnecessary our doubts, alarms, and misgivings.—Carolyn Smythe, in Christian Weekly. I stood, with a beautiful child, trying to look out into the night. There was no moon; the stars were hidden behind a dense canopy of clouds, and as we pressed our faces against the pane, only blackness of darkness met us from outside. “Ah, this is dreary enough,” I said to my own heart. “This is like some people’s lives—dark to hopelessness, no ray of cheer before them, let them strain their eyes as they may.” But I kept my thoughts to myself; for young people should not know how closely life and nature correspond in some gloomy times. Suddenly a light rippling laugh broke from my companion. “How very dark!” she said. “This is a night of all others such as I love!” “This night!” I exclaimed,—“this black, gloomy night, when no one can see a step that he must take?” “But I do not want to see a step that I take,” she said. “I do not walk; I drive home always with my father. That is the reason why I take so much pleasure in the dark.” “But even then,” I said, “I do not understand. It must be pleasanter, even if you do not walk, to go under bright skies, with the stars shining above you and a clear light upon the road.” She shook her head, and looked at me with earnest, thoughtful eyes. “I do not know,” she said. “I cannot tell you how it is. When the road is so light that the pony hardly seems to need any driving, my father lets me take the reins, and we laugh and chat together as we drive along; but on a night like this it is very different. He takes the reins in his own hands then, and is so busy watching the road that he hardly speaks to me all the way. Then I creep in among the cushions and lie still, and have such a happy time by myself thinking how dark it is, and how I cannot see whether we are in the track, or just on the brink of a precipice, or even lost, but that my father can, and though I cannot see his form, he is close to me, holding the reins in his own strong hand, and never taking his eye from the way for a single instant! Oh, it is better than all the bright nights together; and when, once in awhile, he turns his head and says, ‘All safe, my little one!’ I say, ‘All safe,’ and then I curl down closer in my corner and feel such a glow rising up in my heart, it keeps me warm on the coldest night. And then at last—it seems very long sometimes—I hear his voice again, saying, ‘Here we are!’ and I look out and see the bright light streaming from the windows, and we are at home!” I took the pure child-face gently in my hands, and looked into the upturned eyes. “I understand now,” I said; “but how would it be if some one else than your father were driving, and you did not even know who had the reins?” A look half of dismay and half of surprise, answered before her words. “Why, what a strange question!” she said. “Of course I should not like it then! I should be terrified, and crying to every one we met for a little light. But that will never happen, for my father always goes with me; he will never trust me to any one but himself!” Ah, sweet child, what a lesson you have taught us! There are dark nights in our lives, as well as in our world; but in the most rayless of them all, our rest may be most sweet, the glow in our hearts most warm and bright, if we take our refuge in remembering whose hands hold the reins; and when dark and storm are safely passed, we shall see light flaming before us and know we have reached home at last.—Selected. ONE of the most fatal things in the Christian life is discouragement. One of the most helpful is cheerfulness. A very wise man said that in overcoming temptation, cheerfulness was the first thing, cheerfulness the second, and cheerfulness the third. We must expect to conquer. When our hearts are faint, then temptation has power. Satan knows this well, and he always begins his assaults by discouraging us. I once heard an allegory that illustrated this to me wonderfully. Satan called together a council of his servants to consult how they might make a good man sin. “How will you do it?” asked Satan. “I will set before him all the pleasures of sin,” was the reply. “I will tell him of its delights and the rich rewards it brings.” “Ah,” said Satan, “that will not do; he has tried it and knows better than that.” Then another spirit started up and said,— “What will you do?” asked Satan. “I will tell him of the pains and sorrows of virtue. I will show him that virtue has no delights and brings no rewards.” “Ah, no!” exclaimed Satan, “that will not do at all; for he has tried it and knows that wisdom’s ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.” “Well,” said another imp, starting up, “I will undertake to make him sin.” “And what will you do?” asked Satan. “I will discourage his soul!” was the short reply,311 “Ah, that will do!” cried Satan. “That will do! We shall conquer him now!” And they did. An old writer says, “All discouragement is from the devil.” I wish every Christian would take this to heart, and never forget it. We must fly from discouragement as we would from sin. —H. W. S., in Words of Faith. IN THE SHADOW.
By M. S. Avery
We are waiting in the shadow,
Just before the dawn of day,
Soon the morn will break in gladness,
And the darkness flee away;
Then death's fetters shall be broken,
And the dead shall wake and sing,
“O grave, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?” We are waiting in the shadow;
In the shadow, dark and deep;
But we see the day-star rising,
And we must not idly sleep,
But gird anew the armor on,
The helmet, sword, and shield;
Be valiant soldiers of the cross,
If we would gain the field. Though we're waiting in the shadow,
And are often sore distressed,
Yet we have the sweet assurance,
Beyond the labor, rest.
After the weary heart-ache
And burden of life's woes,
Beyond the ceaseless toiling,
How welcome sweet repose. We are waiting in the shadow,
But cheering rays of light
Betoken sure a coming day,
That ne'er shall close with night.
Oh, joy to all earth's weary ones!
The night though spent in pain,
Will soon be past, and “He shall come,
Whose right it is to reign.” Then hail with joy the morning!
When our Shepherd shall appear,
And earth be clad in beauty bright,
No shadow resting here.
With pitying love the Father gave
His Son to save our race,
And sweet ’twill be, through endless years,
To rest in his embrace. We are gliding through the shadow,
Soon the darksome night will pass,
And the saints will stand immortal
On the crystal “sea of glass;”
They will gain the heights of Zion,
Pearly portals open wide
And give “abundant entrance”
Where living waters glide. Then, when we've passed the shadow,
And the gloom of night no more
Shall hide from mortal vision
That blest, eternal shore,
We'll sing with white-robed harpers
Redemption's grateful song,
Loud hallelujahs then will rise
From each immortal tongue. “I HAVE no influence,” said Elsie Lee to her friend, Miss Tomasin. “Why, I am so timid when in company with others that I hardly dare raise my eyes or open my lips.” “That may be,” replied the older lady, “and yet you are always exerting influence wherever you go. You cannot help yourself. An hour ago I bought a little bunch of violets from a German flower-girl, and I set them on yonder shelf, beside my dear mother’s picture. It is a very tiny bunch, and a person entering the room would very likely not see them, for they do not challenge attention. But every nook and corner of the apartment feels their presence, for their fragrance is pervading the atmosphere. So it is with you, my dear. You love your Saviour, and you try to serve him. You think you cannot speak for him, but if you live for him and with him, in gentleness, patience, and self-denial, that is better than talking. It does more good. The other evening Jerry Halcomb, who is thoughtless and giddy, made a jest of a verse of Scripture in your hearing. You wished to protest against his act, and tried to do so, but the words would not come. Yet your pained look, your quick blush, your instinctive indignant gesture, spoke for you, and the young man turned and said, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Elsie.’ Was not this a proof that he saw and felt your condemnation?” Silent influence is stronger than we sometimes think, for good and for evil. Let us not underestimate it.—Christian at Work. OUR TEACHERS.
By A. De Yarmond
Among our people is a larger proportion of teachers, doubtless, than is found in any other denomination. This may come largely from the fact that teaching is the most accessible of the few professions which persons of our faith can conveniently follow and observe the seventh-day Sabbath. Still, we are not willing to believe that it is merely for convenience’s sake that so many of our young people have chosen this glorious work; or, if simple force of circumstances does seem to have driven many into this profession as the only consistent means of support, still we know that God has power over the circumstances of our lives, and we believe that, through his wise and kind guidance, the rough rocks of want and necessity which pierce our feet as we tread over them, may prove to be the pathway to a high, unoccupied field, where the rich soil and pure atmosphere seem waiting to nourish whatever seed may fall. In this glorious field hundreds of us, young people of the Seventh-day Adventist church, stand to-day,—teachers. Is the seed that we scatter the seed of truth, which shall build the rich soil up into plants of symmetrical, sturdy, beautiful growth?—are the teachings of our lives such as to draw the unused powers of the young minds we cultivate, into the upgrowing of upright, firm, pure lives and characters? Our teachers should be no less a power in the work of God than our preachers. If they fall short of the same high degree of usefulness, it is either from lack of consecration, or from lack of a true understanding of their work. Our call is as sacred a one as is that of the ministers of the gospel. Paul assures us that God has called some to this work, as well as to the work of the ministry (Eph. 4:11); nor does he inform us that he would have the one class of workers consecrated and the other unconsecrated, the one children of God and the other children of the world, the one careful for the souls of men and the other careless of all but their own convenience and financial gain. Although many unconsecrated men, bearing the title of ministers, have profaned the name and work of the ministry, yet that work has not been given over to them as less sacred through their unworthiness; and no more should we lose sight of the sacredness of our work, because that work has so often been left to ungodly hands. Our influence would almost seem more vital than that of the preachers. We deal with minds the most susceptible; they, with those biased by early education and hardened by contact with many minds and a Babel of doctrines. We, with characters and habits pliable and sensitive; they, with those fixed and stubborn. We have, for six hours in each of five days of the seven, the complete care and control of our scholars; while they speak, perchance for an hour each day, only to such as will to listen. And now, with the high reverence we have for the ministry, let us take a higher view of our own work, and strive to lift ourselves up to the level of our high calling. The cause of truth calls for consecrated teachers. Who among us will answer the call of the great Teacher to come up higher in the grade of our work? TRUTHS FOR SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD MEN.
Remember, my son, that the world is older than you are, by several years; that for thousands of years it has been so full of smarter and better young men than yourself that their feet stuck out of the dormer windows; that when they died the old globe went whirling on, and not one man out of ten million went to the funeral, or ever heard of the death. Be as smart as you can, of course. Know as much as you can, without blowing the packing out of your cylinder heads; shed the light of your wisdom abroad in the world, but don't dazzle people with it, and don't imagine a thing is so, simply because you say it is. Don't be too sorry for your father because he knows so much less than you do. Remember the reply of Dr. Wayland to the student of Brown University, who said it was an easy enough thing to make proverbs such as Solomon wrote. “Make a few,” tersely replied the old man. And we never heard that the young man made any—not more than two or three, anyhow. The world has great need of young men, but no greater need than young men have of it. Your clothes fit you better than your father's fit him; they cost more money; they are more stylish; your mustache is neater; the cut of your hair is better; you are prettier, oh, far prettier than “Pa.” But, young man, the old gentleman gets the biggest salary; and his homely, scrambling signature on the business end of a check will drain more money out of the bank in five minutes than you could get out with a ream of paper and a copper-plate signature in six months. Young men are useful, and they are ornamental, and we all love them, and we couldn't engineer a picnic successfully without them. But they are no novelties, my son. Oh, no, nothing of the kind. They have been here before. Do not be so modest as to shut yourself clear out; but don't be so fresh that you will have to be put away to keep from spoiling. Don't be afraid that your merit will not be discovered. People all over the world are hunting for you, and if you are worth finding, they will find you. A diamond isn't so easily found as a quartz pebble, but some people search for it all the more intently.—Burlington Hawkeye. GOOD WIVES.
By E. S. Porter
Good wives are great treasures. They are more than silver or gold. Their love is better than money. If it be pure, self-denying, and yet considerate, it will be to their husbands a constant encouragement. It will invest them with an atmosphere in which every element of manly character may grow toward the full. Notwithstanding the reports of domestic infelicities which appear almost daily, still we are sure that the good wives are vastly in the majority, and that they give honor, and dignity, and grace, to marriage as of old. In the lighter and semi-indecent literature of nearly every age, marriage has been the inexhaustible theme of ridicule. Dramatists and satirists like to take undue license with things respectable and even sacred. They have laid on woman, as such, unjust and heavy burdens of vicious humor or of defiling wit. And yet her queenly ascendancy remains in ever-unfolding splendor. So to-day, in all Christian lands, good wives have and readily hold a power the equal of which in its extent and beneficence does not belong to any sceptered potentate. For good wives and mothers rule in the empire of the affections. They shape character, give tone to manners, make virtue attractive, commend piety, and fill their homes with sunshine. They are the dispensers of gladness; their tender hands smooth the raven down of care, until it is changed into the quiescence of hope. Their prayers are as benedictions, and the good they do in their quiet ways is seen in the state and in the church. They deserve honor, and receive it. No matter what the novels or the newspapers may do to undermine respect for marriage, it remains, after all, the sole representative of paradise, and is the type of the relation between Christ and his church. Let it be held sacred.—E. S. Porter, D. D., in Christian Weekly. THE MOTHER RULES THE WORLD.
It is hard for a young mother, who has not yet overcome the wayward tendencies of youthful nature, to realize the influence she exerts over her little ones. She is constantly surrounded by critical imitators who copy her morals and manners. As the mother is, so are her sons and daughters. If a family of children are blessed with an intelligent mother, who is dainty and refined in her manner, and does not consider it necessary to be one woman in the drawing-room and an entirely different person in every-day life, but who is a true mother and always a tender, charming woman, you will invariably see her habits of speech and perfect manners repeated in her children. Great, rough men and noisy, busy boys will always tone down their voices, and step lightly, and try to be more mannerly when she stops to give a kind word or a pleasant smile; for a true mother will never fail to say or do all the pleasant things that she can that will in any way help or lift up and cheer those whose lives are shaded with care and toil. The mother of to-day rules the world of to-morrow.—Selected. Nothing bespeaks a true lady and gentleman or well-bred child more than the use of correct language; pure, clean speech. Cultivate good English in every-day conversation. Unclean speech is in keeping with a smutty face, begrimed hands, and soiled clothes. Strange how easily and almost unconsciously one slides into a careless slipshod way of talking, even when the rules of grammar are quite familiar. It is not uncommon to find people who are thoroughly acquainted with the rules of syntax, apply them in writing, yet habitually talk incorrectly. Early culture and association with people of refinement are quite essential to purity of speech; but if one has unfortunately been deprived of these, he should continually watch his words till he gets in the habit of using decent English; for nothing so unmistakably marks one with vulgarity, no matter how elegant is the outside covering, as shabby, low-born speech. Comparative Statistics of European Schools and Pupils
—Germany, with over 52,000,000 inhabitants, has 65,000 schools, attended by 6,000,000 pupils. England, with 34,000,000 inhabitants, has 58,000 schools, and 3,000,000 pupils. Austrian-Hungary, with 37,000,000 inhabitants, has 30,000 schools, with 3,000,000 pupils. France, with a population of 37,000,000, has 71,000 schools, attended by 4,700,000 pupils. Spain, with a population of 17,000,000, has 20,000 schools and 1,600,000 pupils. Italy has 28,000,000 people, 47,000 schools, and 1,900,000 pupils. Russia, with a population of 74,000,000, has 32,000 schools and 1,100,000 pupils. Missionaries Pioneer Written Grammar of African Languages
—The first reduction of any of the languages of Eastern and Central Africa to writing and grammatical order has been made by the missionaries of the Free Church of Scotland, who are about publishing a grammar of one of these languages. As usual, missionaries are the pioneers of learning. Boston to Erect Statue of Norse Explorer Leif
—Boston is to have a statue of Leif, one of the Norsemen who are supposed to have made exploring expeditions to this country about A. D. 1000. Beware Earthly Comforts Becoming Spiritual Temptations
—Beware lest earthly comforts prove spiritual temptations. Winning the World One Soul at a Time
By Spurgeon
—If we want to conquer the world for the Lord Jesus Christ, we must take men one by one.—Spurgeon. Men Seldom Improve Without Better Models
—Men seldom improve when they have no model but themselves to copy after.—Goldsmith. The Strongest Argument for Christianity
—The strongest argument for the truth of Christianity is the true Christian,—the man filled with the spirit of Christ. The Healing Power of Sympathy
By Cuyler
—Nothing cuts like neglect. There is a proverb that it “pierces the shell of a tortoise.” On the other hand, nothing heals wounds, and softens trials, and cheers the soul, like sympathy.—Cuyler. Tact and Courtesy Among Friends
—Don't flatter yourself that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become. Why Some Flowers Receive the Dew
—There is dew in one flower and not in another, because one opens its cup and takes it in, while the other closes itself and the drop runs off. So God rains goodness and mercy as wide as the dew, and if we lack them, it is because we do not open our hearts to receive them. This I Know: Lines on Faith and God's Wonder
By Wm. C. Gannett
This I know,—
That our faiths are foolish by falling below,
Not coming above, what God will show;
That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast,
To whose beauty our eyes have never passed;
That his fact in the present or in the to be
Outshines the best that we think we see.
—Wm. C. Gannett.