Earlier text: ELIHU ON THE SABBATHDo you Pay for a Religious Newspaper?
By Nevins
I was going to ask the question in another form. “Do you read a religious newspaper?” but then I reflected that many read a religious newspaper who do not themselves subscribe for one, they being in the habit of borrowing from their neighbors, and after sending and respectfully soliciting the loan of the paper before the family have read it, they not unfrequently keep it a length of time greater than the golden rule will exactly justify. Then I had like to have thrown the question into this shape: “Do you subscribe for a religious newspaper?” but it struck me all at once, that some subscribe for a paper, but do not pay for it. I have heard this complaint made, and I have no doubt there is foundation enough for it. I, for my part, would advise such persons to take a moral newspaper, if they can find such a thing. That is the sort of paper they require. A religious newspaper is quite too far advanced for them. I don’t know, and cannot conceive why these non-payers want to read a religious newspaper. I should suppose they would be satisfied with secular newspapers. I can imagine that they may desire, notwithstanding their delinquency, to know what is going on in the world, but why they should care to know how things go in the church, I cannot conjecture. What do those who do not give anything for value received, want to know about revivals, missions, &c.? Here are persons who would starve editors, publishers, printers, and paper-makers—the whole concern—into a premature grave!—who say, “Send me your paper,” implying of course that they will send the money in return, yet never send it; and yet they want to know all about the progress that is making in converting souls to God, and what is doing among the heathen. Is not this strange, that having never learned as yet to practice the first and easiest lesson of honesty, they should wish to read everything about godliness and vital piety? So I concluded to head the article “Do you pay for a religious newspaper?” Do you, reader? If you do, continue to take and read, and pay for it; and be slow to withdraw your subscription. Give up many things before you give up your religious newspaper. If any one that ought to take such a paper, does not, I hope that some one to whom the circumstance is known, will volunteer the loan of this to him, directing his attention particularly to this article. Who is he? A professor of religion? It cannot be. A professor of religion and not taking a religious newspaper! A member of the visible church, and voluntarily without the means of information as to what is going on in that church! A follower of Christ, praying daily, as taught by his Master, “Thy kingdom come,” and yet not knowing, nor caring to know, what progress that kingdom is making! Here is one of those to whom Christ said, “Go, teach all nations;” he bears a part of the responsibility of their conversion, and yet, so far from doing any thing himself, he does not even know what others are doing in promoting this great enterprise; Ask him about missionary stations and operations, and he can tell you nothing. He does not read about them. I am afraid this professor of religion does not love “the gates of Zion more than all the dwellings of Jacob.” Ah, he forgets thee, O Jerusalem! But I must not fail to ask if this person takes a secular newspaper. Oh, certainly he does. He must know what is going on in the world; and how else is he to know it? It is pretty clear then that he takes a deeper interest in the world than he does in the church; and this being the case, it is not difficult to say where his heart is. He pays perhaps eight or ten dollars for a secular paper—a paper that tells him about the world, but for one that records Zion’s conflicts and victories, he is unwilling to pay two or three! How can a professor of religion answer for this discrimination in favor of the world? how defend himself against the charge it involves? He cannot do it; and he had better not try, but go or write immediately, and subscribe for some good religious paper; and to be certain of paying for it, let him pay “in advance.” There is a satisfaction when one is reading an interesting paper, to reflect that it is paid for. But perhaps you take a paper, and are in arrears for it. Now suppose you was the publisher, and the publisher was one of your subscribers, and he was in arrears to you, what would you think he ought to do in that case? I just ask the question. I don’t care about an answer.—Nevins. (Condensed from the Review and Herald.) WITHIN the last two weeks Elders Fargo and Burrill have visited the churches in Alma, Estella, Ithica and Masterton, and report good courage in the work. Of the business part of the meetings they say: “When we began our work this district was in debt some $200. We have visited all the churches but Carson City. Already a sum sufficient to pay the debt has been pledged, and nearly one hundred dollars besides, with which to carry forward this noble work for the coming year.” HILLSDALE CO.—Elder H. M. Kenyon, in company with Bro. I. A. Olmstead, visited the church in Jefferson, Nov. 24, and held several meetings with the brethren there. On the evening of Nov. 27, they commenced meetings in Ransom Center. The elder of this church having resigned and moved away, Bro. A. J. Wilbur was chosen and ordained to fill that place. Nov. 30, the brethren of Jefferson met with those at Ransom, and in the afternoon the ordinances of the Lord’s house were celebrated. All felt it was good to be there. The Lord by his blessing set his seal to the work that had been wrought for these two churches. “Since the meeting in Rochester before reported,” says Elder S. N. Haskell, “Elder Smith and myself have held meetings in Armada, Memphis, Dryden, Almont, Flint, Lapeer, and Fairview. A degree of interest has been manifested in the missionary work in the churches we have been able to visit. Some seem to think that scattering a few tracts is about all there is to the missionary work. But the distribution of reading matter is only one means to accomplish an object, and that object is to save souls.” WATERLOO.—Eld. A. C. Bourdeau is still laboring in this field. He has commenced meetings in Dillton, twelve miles from Waterloo. Bro. Owen has also commenced a course of lectures in the village of Warden, three miles from Waterloo. PLEASANT VALLEY.—At the quarterly meeting held in this place ten were added to the church, six of them by baptism. Several others are almost ready to unite with the church. OSAWKEE.—The quarterly meeting at this place which was held Nov. 28, and continued eight days, was reported by Elders Lamont and Kennedy to have been a good meeting. They say: “The attendance was not very large, yet the interest was good. Nine were added to the church. Six were baptized. The Sabbath-school is in a prosperous condition. The Dunkers have a large church in this vicinity, and had pretty firmly fastened their trine-immersion doctrine on the community at large. But with the help of the Lord we were able to present the truth in such a manner that the ‘spell’ is entirely broken.” FRANCE.—The following is from Elder D. T. Bourdeau’s report of labor in southern France: “Since my last report I have continued my course of lectures and held a few meetings in another commune, where three ministers heard me and heartily endorsed my testimony on the evidences of Christ’s second coming. At this point I was offered the use of a temple which will accommodate one thousand persons, in which to give a course of lectures. I accepted the invitation. But as the seventh-day Sabbath was presented in the order of my subjects, some who had acknowledged the truth, and who were turning against it because of the cross, reported unfavorably to the pastor of the temple, making the impression that I had brought disturbance into my meeting in speaking on the Sabbath question. As the result of this the church was closed against me. But we still have a few friends who are continuing their investigations. We speak to them at their homes, and twice a week in our kitchen which was the hall for prayer-meetings before we occupied it. The law permits us to speak to twenty persons besides the members of our family. If we go beyond these limits we are liable to pay a fine and to be imprisoned during a period of from one month to two years. “We are under the laws of the empire, which will be modified at the close of this presidential term (in four years), when we hope to have full liberty of speech. I cannot sell or circulate books, pamphlets, or tracts without being subject to a heavy fine and imprisonment, unless I first get a permission from the government. I have, through the authorities of this department, sent fourteen kinds of tracts to the capital to have them stamped.” AROOSTOOK CO.—Elder J. B. Goodrich reports his labors in this county as follows:— “At Oakfield an elder and a deacon were chosen and ordained, and seven united with the church. At Linneus also an elder and a deacon were ordained, and we attended to the ordinances. At Bridgewater we found the interest low; but one who had become discouraged and given up the Sabbath confessed his error, and took a decided stand to live out the truth again. ‘United we stand, divided we fall.’ “At New Sweden I found a body of Sabbath-keepers who have been led to embrace the truth by reading tracts and papers. I was made welcome at their homes, and although we could not understand each other’s language, yet there was a union of spirit, and we could easily understand by the shake of the hand that we all belonged to one family. Eph. 2:19. The Baptist minister kindly gave me an invitation to attend their prayer-meeting, and requested me to preach, which I gladly did, and he acted as an interpreter. The services closed with a good, free prayer-meeting. I enjoyed freedom in speaking to the people, and many of the youth could readily understand me. Some became deeply interested in the subjects presented, and acknowledged that we have the truth on the law question. Bro. C. J. Gellott and the Baptist minister kindly assisted me in all our meetings by acting as interpreters, for which I felt very thankful. Sixteen signed the covenant and chose a leader and a deacon. May the Lord bless this dear people, and add to their numbers daily such as shall be saved.” The Christian, of Quincy, Illinois, relates how effectually a fine “effort” of a smart young preacher was spoiled by an unappreciating father in the ministry who endured the discourse with much long-suffering. The incident fairly illustrates the modern practice of spiritualizing texts of Scripture, and giving them a meaning foreign to that intended by the inspired writer. Any judicious hearer is able to apply privately the same method of cure, and no opportunity of doing it should be neglected. A young preacher—a graduate of one of the theological schools of the country—preached a very nice discourse from the following words: “Then, fearing lest they should fall upon rocks, they cast four anchors out of the stern, and wished for the day.” Acts 27: 29. Said the young preacher, “The ship represents the church. The four anchors are faith, hope, love, and prayer. Christians are the crew. The sea represents the great ocean of life. The storm that prevailed is the trials to which we are incident here, and the island of Malta, where “they all escaped safe to land,” means Heaven.” The preacher dwelt with becoming fervency on the importance of casting out the anchors—faith, hope, love, and prayer, the necessity of abiding in the ship in order to be saved, and the consolation to be found in the fact that not a hair of their heads should be hurt, but that they (the members of the church) should all reach the shore in safety. The preacher concluded by asking one of our aged preachers, whom he had invited into the pulpit out of respect to his gray hairs, to close the meeting with a few remarks. The old brother arose, and, placing his hand on the young theologian's head, as if giving him a phrenological examination, proceeded in his plain, uneducated style, substantially as follows:— “My young brother, you've preached us a mighty pretty discourse to-day, but I'm afeard you've made some awful mistakes. You said that the ship meant the church. If that's so, we havn't got any church now, for the ship was all smashed to pieces and destroyed. You also said that the four anchors were faith, hope, love, and prayer. If that's so, we havn't got any faith, hope, love, and prayer, in the church, as they have been cast out. And you said that Christians are the crew. If that's so, they are a mighty blood-thirsty set, for they wanted to kill Paul. You told us that the island of Malta meant Heaven. Well, if that's true, Heaven must be a mighty snaky place, as one bit Paul as soon as he landed.” It is stated as a historical fact that the young preacher was never known to preach that “pretty” discourse again in all that region of country. JOHN LYMAN was what his neighbors and towns-people called a “hard-fisted” man; and he had earned the name by dint of persevering stinginess from boyhood up. He and his good wife Phoebe had accumulated a snug little property, besides the many-acred farm which was to be his when “grandmother” should relinquish her claim to all earthly possessions. So he was really able to live in comfort; but, instead of that, the old red farmhouse, which was his father’s before him, was a model of angularity, unadorned and unattractive, both inside and out, only preserving a decent aspect through Phoebe’s thrift and neatness. Six little ones made music in the old house, save when their father was there. His presence always seemed to send a chill to their little warm hearts; for he made them feel that they were “bills of expense,” and whenever they clamored for pretty things he told them that they “cost money,” and sent them away with a reproof for their desires. And yet John Lyman claimed that he was just. “Don’t I pay the minister two dollars every single year?” he would say when the puzzled collectors came to him, blank-book in hand. Of course he did; and, if the reverend gentleman was a smart preacher, he added a peck of beans to his annual subscription, although this came a little hard when the harvest was poor. Not being a church member he didn’t feel called to give to the “heathen,” as he was wont to style all benevolent objects of whatever character; and it was generally understood that the two dollars were given on grandmother’s account. Dear grandmother Lyman! Known and loved by everybody in Peltonville, she was peace-maker, adviser, and, in fact, condensed sunshine in John’s household from January to December. She was a Christian, too; and John was glad of that, for he believed that she and the Bible were good in case of sickness or death; and, to tell the truth, he had a vague idea that she would see that he had a place in Heaven some time, after he had grown old and tired of this world. But grandmother Lyman knew better than this; and morning, noon, and night, her prayers ascended for him, her only remaining child, and his family. One would suppose that such a mother would have every want supplied, even by a penurious son. But Oh! the love of gain had so eaten into John’s best affections that it sometimes seemed as if he had forgotten all claims upon him! So it was very trying to ask a favor of him, and his mother denied herself many a necessity before doing it. Something more than usually important troubled her mind, however, on one bright spring morning as she sat by the kitchen fire. All the funny little wrinkles in her dear old face, which were generally only telegraph lines for smiles to run over, were sobered by some weighty consideration. Her knitting-work lay idle in her lap; and she did not even notice that little Tillie had pulled two of the needles out, nor that mischievous Nick was sawing away on the back of her chair with his antiquated pocket-knife. Whatever the problem was, it troubled her all the forenoon; but after dinner she followed John to the door, and said she, “I’ve been thinking, John, couldn’t I have a little room somewhere all to myself? I’m going on seventy-eight now, you know, and the children get pretty noisy sometimes; and I thought, maybe, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble—” “Hem! Well, really, grand-ma’m,” taking off his hat and scratching his head dubiously, “the children do make a precious hubbub here, that’s a fact. But I declare! Well, I’ll see.” And John went to the field. As result of the “seeing,” on the next rainy day there was heard the noise of hammer and saw in a chamber over the kitchen. This chamber had never been finished or used save as a place in which to store old rubbish of all kinds, and was a gloomy, out-of-the-way room at best. Grandmother Lyman looked rather sober over the prospect; and Phoebe wanted to interfere, but as that was against the rules of the house, John worked on in his own way, until, at the end of two days, and after Phoebe had made several journeys up and down the back stairs, grandmother was told that her room was ready. The dear old lady dragged herself up to the little chamber, while two little tots came scrambling after, bearing her Bible, Hymn-Book, Wesley’s Sermons, and knitting-work. But it was no “palace of beauty” which she found awaiting her. The room was low, slanting on one side, unpapered, uncarpeted, and only lighted by two little dormer windows, which did their best to admit pure daylight in spite of the dark gingham curtains so trimly hung before them. A bed stood in one corner, before which was a braided rug, while a stove with two good legs occupied the center of the room. Grandmother looked out at the windows, but the view was not pleasant; two barns, the watering trough, and the fashionable summer resort of the ducks and geese, that was all. She was not one to complain; but she sadly missed the grand sweep of mountain and valley which had greeted her eyes from the “fore-door” ever since she was a brought there a happy bride. Turning to arrange her books on the little table she sang, in her wavering way: “Thus far the Lord hath led me on;” and, before the verse was finished, her heart was at peace again. “Doin’ to stay up here all ’lone, g’anma?” said wee Tillie in pitiful accents. “O no! I guess you and Nick will come up real often, won’t you?” “I dess so; but ’taint very pitty,” said the little one, as she trotted down stairs again. Meanwhile, John, as he followed the plow, was thinking of the five dollars expended in repairing the room, and trying to persuade himself that he was indeed a worthy son. “Five dollars! It ain’t every one that would do as much for his mother as I do for mine,” he soliloquized. “Too old to go up stairs! Oh well, when she once gets up she is more out of the way; and she wants quiet, you know.” Be it known that John sometimes found it necessary to reason with himself in order to assure his conscience that everything was as it should be in her domain; and sometimes, as on this occasion, she asked so many questions that he was obliged to talk the live-long afternoon. He retired that night thinking, “Five dollars for grandma’m’s room and the mare lame in both fore-feet!” But while these dismal thoughts filled his mind, his body seemed to be very suddenly transported to the kitchen below. He was not alone, however, for a woman was there before him, walking the floor with a child in her arms. Back and forth she paced, carefully holding the pale-faced boy in the same position while he slept. “Ruth,” said a voice from an adjoining room, “that little chap will wear you all out. Can’t I take him a little while?” “O no,” was the reply. “He likes to have me carry him so, poor little fellow.” “Ah,” said John to himself, “that’s the way mother carried me six nights, when I got scalded so terribly.” The scene changed, and he saw himself again. A crushed foot this time, demanding his mother’s untiring care. Again and again incidents of his life were re-enacted before him, but always with his mother there, comforting, working, watching, or praying. Whether sick in body or in mind, he saw how, all through his life, a mother’s tender love had surrounded him. And then he stood once more beside his father’s death-bed, and heard again the solemn charge: “Be kind to your mother, John, and make her old age pleasant. She is all you’ve got now.” With these words ringing in his ears John Lyman awoke to find the perspiration standing on his forehead, and a strange weird sensation resting on him like a spell, which he tried in vain to throw aside. He tried to compose his mind, and again to sleep; but though nothing peculiarly frightful had troubled his slumber, he trembled from head to foot. In fact, Conscience so long soothed and stifled, had with a terrible effort freed herself, and determined to make one more effort for John’s soul. She lashed him unmercifully. She showed him how his soul was growing smaller and meaner every day—how he was just a plague-spot on God’s fair earth. He saw himself in a mirror that reflected the inmost recesses of his heart, and he was horrified at sight of the foulness so long concealed. As the hours wore slowly on toward the day, John grew to hate himself more and more, until, almost stifled in-doors, he rose and went out. Everything wore that unreal look that the first faint twilight gives. Mysterious and still, the mists lay along the foot of the mountain, while the stars twinkled in a sky that seemed very, very far away. From force of habit John Lyman strode into the yard where the cattle were; but they only stared at him sleepily, as they lay tranquilly chewing the cud; so he wandered out and down the path that led into the little maple-grove, which had been a play-ground for three generations. As he passed slowly along under the solemn trees, his boyhood days came back to him so fresh that the two-score years of hard, grinding toil, flew away as by magic. Oh, that happy, careless boyhood! How had its golden promises been fulfilled! A blush of shame rose to the man’s cheek as he thought how hard and cold his heart had grown. Hundreds of times he had stood beside the little stream which he had now reached, without noticing a trace of beauty; but now, as the sun lighted the distant mountain-top with a glow that crept over its sides, a gladdening, awakening glow, seen only in the spring, it seemed as though he had never looked upon the scene before. So new, so beautiful! And a wonderful sense of God’s nearness stole over him, such as he had not felt before for years, and, at the same time, a new love for his mother, who had so long been the only Bible he read, filled his heart, like a fresh revelation from the Father. The lowing of the cattle recalled him to himself, and he turned homeward, passed up the lane into the barn, and was soon throwing hay into the mangers below. Suddenly he stopped, thrust his pitchfork deep into the hay, and said: “My mother shall have a better room than that if it costs five hundred dollars!” “Now that’s so!” Hurrah! Good once more had triumphed over evil, as the experience of the morning culminated in this worthy resolution. Soon the patter of childish feet was heard, and Tillie cried, “Pa, pa, mother wants to know where you be, cause she’s been worryin’ about you, fear you’s sick, and breakfast is all gettin’ cold this minute. Boiled eggs, too, ain’t it, Ruth?” “I’ll be in directly,” came the answer from the hay mow; so happy, chattering Tillie and quiet Ruth climbed down the high steps and started toward the house. Their father overtook them as they stopped to look at the ducks taking their morning bath, and catching Tillie up he put her on his shoulder, then drew down the little face and kissed the fresh, sweet lips. “How natural!” one may say. No, not natural for John Lyman, whose children feared far more than they loved him. Tillie was astonished and half frightened, and as she began to wriggle uneasily, her father set her gently down. In a trice she was beside Ruth, and pulling her head down she whispered in her ear, “Pa just kissed me all his own self, Ruth.” “Did he?” said Ruth, opening her eyes very wide. Then she hurried on and walked close by her father’s side, while at her little heart fluttered the hope that she too might receive a kiss. But she was not noticed; and very much grieved she shrank away wondering if he loved Tillie best. “I dreamed of your father last night, John,” said grandmother while they were at breakfast, “and you can’t think how good and natural he looked.” John did not say anything. During the forenoon John had a long conference with his wife which seemed to be satisfactory, for as he left her he said, “Well, then, you take the things out this afternoon, and Johnson shall come over to do the painting to-morrow.” Before night the cheerful spare room which adjoined the parlor was empty, and the old-fashioned paper, with its ever-recurring pictures of a shepherdess, a hunter, and Rebecca at the well, stripped from the walls. Silence was imposed upon the children, for “grandma’m mustn’t know,” and the little things went round the house fairly aching with the importance of their secret, and holding on to themselves for fear they might tell. Mysterious trips were taken in the old market-wagon, and a suspicious smell of new things filled the air; but when grandmother inquired what was going on down stairs, Ruth clapped both hands over her mouth and Tillie screamed, “O ’nuffin, grandma, on’y—O Ruthie, come down, quick!” One bright May afternoon, however, the work was finished, and John, jealous of the privilege, donned his Sunday coat and stumbled up to his mother’s room in the most awkward manner to break the news. “Moth-er, can you come down below a few minutes now?” said he, trying to appear unconcerned. “Why, la me!” smoothing her “front” and refolding her neckerchief, “has the minister come? I ain’t fixed up one bit.” “No, no, mother, there’s no occasion for fixin’ up. It ain’t much of anything, only me—that is,—well, perhaps you’d better come now.” “John,” said the old lady solemnly, laying her hand on his arm, “if it’s bad news, just tell me right away. The Lord will give me strength to bear it, just as he has the dispensations all along.” Poor John! how to acquaint the old lady with this “dispensation” he didn’t know; but Tillie came to the rescue. “O g’amma,” said she, seizing one of the wrinkled hands, “we can’t wait another minute. It’s all splendid; and Nick, and Ruth, and baby, and I have all got our clean aprons on, and Wesley, he’s in, so come straight down,” and timing her impatient hops to the tottering footsteps she guided, Tillie soon had grandmother in the midst of a smiling group, while the relieved father brought up the rear. “Now, g’amma,” said Ruth, seizing the free hand, “shut up your eyes tight till we say open ’em,” and then the delighted children, followed by the rest of the family, drew her into the old spare room. “Now, now, g’amma, open, open! and what do you see?” they cried, dancing and clapping their hands. Grandmother looked around her in perfect amazement. Truly a wondrous change had been wrought! Beautiful light paper covered the walls, and a bright, soft carpet the floor, while pretty shades hung before the four great windows, whose tassels swung back and forth in the sweet May air like bells, dumb for joy. “John, John, what does this mean?” “It’s your room, g’amma,” shouted a chorus of voices. “Why, this is good enough for a queen! You can’t mean it all for a poor, old creature like me,” and the darling old lady’s eyes began to run over with happy tears, while John tried in vain to find voice to answer, and dear patient Phoebe sobbed outright. “Why, g’amma,” shouted little Nick at the top of his voice, “I shouldn’t think you’d cry, cause this is the cutest room in the house; and when me and Wes comes in, we’ve got to take off our boots and talk real soft. And Oh, just look at this table-cloth and this rug! It feels like velvet! and this stool—do you see?—it’s got a cat’s foot on every one of its legs. That’s to put your foot on, you know; and, O say, can’t we play puss in the corner sometimes if we’re easy?” “G’amma, I can almost smell the roses,” said Ruth, patting the paper. So with the help of the children the room was christened, everything examined and praised, and at last the noisy little troop withdrew. Then grandmother Lyman, with a sense of exquisite comfort, sank into the nice, new arm-chair close to the window. “Like it pretty well, do you?” queried John, as he took another chair near her. “Like it! It seems too good to be real. I’ve thought sometimes that perhaps in my mansion—heavenly, you know—I should find everything soft, and bright, and cozy like; but to have a room like this here on earth, why, John, I can’t tell you how thankful I feel. I was lonesome up garret there, and yesterday I dragged in the old cradle and the little wheel to make it seem more social like; but the cradle was empty and broken, and the wheel brought back the old days when I used to sit and spin, while your father husked corn; so they didn’t cheer me up much. But I never mistrusted what you was doing down here for me. John, I believe nothing but the Spirit of God could have coaxed you into this. Don’t you think I’ll see you a Christian yet before I die?” and the anxious mother laid her trembling hand on her son’s big brown one. “Well, mother, I don’t know;” then came a long pause, for the farmer, almost as silent habitually as the fields he tilled, could find no words to express his feelings. “I’ve been feelin’ kind of queer lately, and seems as if everything has changed wonderfully. ’Twas a shabby trick, my putting you up in that old room, and it troubled me considerable one night, and then other things kept coming up, till—well—I believe I’m the worst man on earth. Speaking of being a Christian, I guess likely I might fly about as easy. I wish I was an out-and-out one; but I tell you what, mother, there ain’t a man in town but what would think I pretended it all so’s to make a dollar out of somebody;” and John drew his hand across his eyes, as though there were tears starting somewhere which must be warned to keep away from the windows. Grandmother didn’t care if the tears did come in her eyes, for they were joyful ones. “Well, the Lord would know better,” said she comfortingly, “and by-and-by-others would. It’ll be your works, as well as your words, that will tell if you’re in earnest.” “That’s so, mother, that’s so; the minister said that very thing last Sabbath. He’s been preaching right at me this two months, and it made me mad at first. I thought I wouldn’t give him a cent this year, but I guess he told the truth.” “Yes, of course he did. That’s what he’s made for. But now, John, you won’t give up seeking until you get the blessing, will7 you? Promise me this and one thing more. Don’t let the love of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, tempt you to give way to Satan for one minute.” “Well, I’ll see what I can do, but it looks like a great task before me.” And John really felt as though he was preparing for a stern conflict. He went out to his work again, while grandmother Lyman knelt down on the soft, bright carpet, the sunset light falling around her, and sent a prayer up to the Father’s throne so full of thanksgiving and love that the answer was not delayed, but came, bringing peace and joy to her trusting heart. Pretty soon Phoebe came stealing in with a look of apprehension resting upon her countenance. “Mother,” said she, sinking into the first chair she reached, “I’m afraid John’s going to die.” “My child, what do you mean?” queried the old lady, pushing her spectacles to the top of her head. “Because he’s changed so lately. Fixing up this room, you know, and being so gentle-like—what can it mean unless he’s going to die?” “Don’t worry, Phoebe, John’s just getting ready to live. I tell you, daughter, he’s experiencing religion.” A flash of joy lighted up Phoebe’s worn face as she spoke. “Do you think so, mother? Oh, if it only could be true!” A cry from the kitchen called her thither again, but her heart was light, and old hymns sprang unbidden to her lips, all tuned to the upgushing happiness within. The little ones caught the infection, and capered up and down the old kitchen, until wearied out they dropped off to sleep and to bed. That day saw the beginning of true happiness in the old red farm-house. Not but that John passed through many fierce struggles, for the world acquires a strong hold in forty-five years, but with God’s help he gained the victory; and humble and happy, one week later he called his little family together, and told them of his new hopes and purposes. We cannot describe that scene, but surely the angels saw and rejoiced over it. Then once more, before his friends and neighbors in prayer-meeting, with trembling voice he related his experience. Tears and “amens” greeted it, all testifying to the spirit of true brotherly love. Some, to be sure, there were who said, “Can the leopard change his spots?” But when, Sabbath after Sabbath, they saw that the head of the “Lyman pew” neither pretended to be asleep, nor to have forgotten his wallet when the much-abused green contribution bag swung along, but instead deposited therein the freshest scrip, they said, “Truly, this is the Lord’s doing, and is marvelous in our eyes.” Perhaps the story of the change at home is about as Tillie whispered it in the ear of a confidential friend. “You see Pa asks a blessin’ now ’fore we eats; and then we read the Bible; and he prays the Lord to keep us good all the day long; and so we grow gooder and gooder. Pa bought mother a new black silk dress the other day, and Oh, he’s so much lovinger than he ever was before!” Yes, he was “lovinger,” as Tillie called him, for truly he had passed from death unto life. The old homestead, too, soon began to change visibly. The shades of ugliness that had so long hung over it vanished away. Its very angles seemed to grow less acute, and never, in its palmiest days, had it rejoiced in such bright coats of paint. But, with all the brightening up without and within, there was one most cozy place of all where the family was wont to assemble each Sabbath evening. “Seems ’though it’s always full of rainbows,” Nick said; but that must have been owing to the blessed influence of her who sat there, for this dearest of all nooks was “grandmother’s room.” Though many foes beset your road,
And feeble is your arm,
Your life is hid with Christ in God,
Beyond the reach of harm. Weak as you are, you shall not faint;
Or fainting shall not die;
Jesus, the strength of every saint,
Will aid you from on high. As surely as he overcame,
And triumphed once for you;
So surely you, who love his name,
Shall triumph in him too. RELIGIOUS NEWS AND NOTES.
—The Roman Catholics, who had scarcely a single parochial school in this country twenty-five years ago, have now, according to Sadlier's Directory, about 1,700, with 200,000 pupils. —To the question, "What have missions done?" Africa sends back a response from 130,000 church members; Asia, 120,000; Europe with Scandinavia and Germany, 53,000; America, 22,000; Polynesia, 25,000; the West Indies 150,000. A grand total of 500,000 gathered out of the darkness of heathenism into the light of the gospel. —The Quakers are decreasing both in this country and England. We have something over 42,000 of them here, distributed about as follows: New England, 4,500; New York, 3,300; Philadelphia, 3,500; North Carolina, 4,200; Indiana, 16,000; Wisconsin, 11,000; Iowa, 8,500; Kansas, 3,420. There are perhaps 20,000 more in other parts of the world, making a total of about 70,000. —Messrs. Moody and Sankey closed their revival services in Chicago on the 17th inst., to begin in Boston, January the 1st. The influence of these meetings has extended to many other places where revival preachers are at work. At Peoria are Messrs. Whittle and Bliss; Mr. Morehouse at Racine; Needham and Stebbins are at Fort Howard, Wis.; Mr. Rockwell and associates have been at Peru. A revival is also in progress at Indianapolis, and Eld. A. P. Graves has begun a series of meetings in Muscatine, Iowa. —The German missionaries, sent to the Kols of India, after toiling five years and seeing no results, became discouraged, and asked permission to abandon such a fruitless field. The answer was sent them, that it was not their business to want to see fruits. They were sent to preach the gospel to the Kols, and they must continue to do so, whether the people would hear or not. At the end of seventeen years, only 522 had been baptized. But at the end of twenty years, there were 2,100; in 1871, 4,700; and in 1875, 7,500. —In a recent address upon the importance of missionary work in Mexico, Rev. Dr. Butler says: "On this great continent of America there are living at this day thirty-one millions of people speaking the Spanish tongue. These people live in Mexico and various Spanish provinces in South America. Mexico contains by far the larger proportion of the thirty millions of souls, and is in many respects the example for other Spanish States. And where Mexico leads they will follow; and if the seeds of a pure Christianity can be firmly rooted in this central ground, they may be expected to spring up with incalculable fruit among all this vast body of Spanish speaking people." —The Catholic Review objects to any intimation that the Church of Rome dared to excommunicate domestic servants who should engage with Protestants in Minorca, and does not dare to do the same in New York. It replies that the excommunication in Minorca is for disobedience of orders, of which the Churchman says: "That involves just the thing we complain of—that the orders of Romish ecclesiastics are allowed to determine right and wrong, and that these same orders are by no means consistent. The Romish church in America, we believe, would like to be what that church is in Spain. It has no other theory of religion than complete intolerance, amounting to extirpation, of every other belief. But in America it does not dare to avow what it practices in Spain; and its defenders are very uneasy whenever this discrepancy is suggested." “I will ransom them from the power of the grave; I will redeem them from death.” Hosea 13:14. DIED at Visalia, Cal., Nov. 30, Sister Sarah L. White, in the seventieth year of her age. Sr. White was a native of South Carolina, but had resided in California about a year. She was raised in the Methodist church of which she was an esteemed member until she embraced present truth, when the tent was in Visalia last June and July, and she has been, since that time, an earnest observer of the Sabbath. In the death of Sister White the little company in Visalia have been deprived of the society of one faithful member. DIED in Santa Rosa, Cal., Nov. 24, 1876, Mattie Skinner, daughter-in-law of Sr. Lavina Skinner, aged 24 years and 5 months. Though Mattie has left us we trust she may come forth in the first resurrection. Dearest Mattie, thou hast left us,
Here thy loss we deeply feel;
But 'tis God that hath bereft us,
He can all our sorrows heal.
Yet again we hope to meet thee,
When in the vale of tears is o'er;
Then in Heaven with joy to greet thee,
May we meet to part no more.