OUR LONDON LETTER.
hOVDOS, August 4, 1865.
My Dear Sib :—London is empty. I
don’t remember ever to have seen it so
thoroughly cleaned out. Yesterday I
had occasion to be in many parts of the
monster city, and I was greatly struck
with the deserted appearance of many of
what used to be the very busiest streets
at certain hours of the day. Houses are
shut up—empty cabs plying in vain for
passengers—no carriages hardly, except
the professional man’s quiet brougham,
to be seen; everybody who can get
away is off to the country, to the sea
side, to Scotland, Ireland, or to the Con
tinent. Your own correspondent means
to be off in a few days, too; and as he
has a longer holiday this year than usual,
it is in his thoughts to come over and
see his country cousins in America and
the Canadas.
. The topic of the day, since my last
letter to you, has been the elections.
They are now all completed; and men
begin to write about the constitution of
the new Parliament, to count their gains
or losses, as the case may be. There is
a considerable change in the state of
parties. The party of Lord Palmerston
has gained, they say, twenty-four or
twenty-five votes, while that of Lord
Derby has, of course, lost that number. I
ase the names of the party leaders: for
the old names, Whig and Tory, or Libe
ral and Conservative, are no longer ap
plicable. Politics in this country have
come up, or down, to a thing of “ place”
—office-—it is now only or chiefly the
question, whether shall you or I hold
the reins of power ? And yet, in many
parts of England, and of Ireland, the
elections have called forth terrible ex
•oitements; there have been election rows
and riots as hot and bloody nearly as in
the days of the keenest struggle about
■“ Reform,” when the country was on the
very verge of civil war. But I think
these have been largely caused either by
local prejudices, or by memories of a
nearly forgotten past. Of this I am
very sure, the working classes in, this
country do not now take a very deep in
terest in politics. The whole thing re
duces itself into a question of taxation:
under whom have we the chance of the
biggest loaf and the highest wages, with
the least taxation.
Your own correspondent had a small
share in one of the elections ; and per
haps a brief note of the things he saw
and heard might not be unacceptable to
your readers. I happened to be taking •
a'few days’ holiday with a friend in
Hertfordshire, with whom I often stay i
a few days, by way of rest, in my busiest '
times. One of the days of my stay
turned out to be the nomination-of mem--
hers of Parliament for the county—it re
turns three —and has hitherto returned
three Conservatives, one of whom is the
celebrated novelist Sir Edward Bdlwer
Lytton. My host informed me he was
going to the nomination, and offered to
take me with him. I declined, prefer
ing the quiet of an elegant country-seat
to the row and rowdyism of an election
eering mob. But on second thought, as
I had never seen the novelist, I agreed
to go, that I might see and hear one with
whose writings I was so familiar. We
•started at seven o’clock one fine clear
morning, in a sort of wooden “ drag;”
drawn by four magnificent horses, all be
dizened with party colored ribbons, the
colors of the Liberal candid tgp, the Hon.
Mr. Cowper, a younger son of Earl Cow
per. Our host was driver—coachman
—himself; his whip beribboned like the
rest—l with ribbons streaming from my
buttonhole—our party consisting of his
wife, her sister, a lady guest and
self; behind, two grooms in livery. Off
we set in a fine, clear, breezy morning;
and after a drive of rather more than
two hours, more than a mile of which
was through the grounds of a fine old
• mansion, we arrived at the residence of
Cowper-Panshanger. On arrival we
were ushered into a fine, large hall, half
picture-gallery, half dining-room, where
we met Lady Cowper, her son, the
would-be member, and the Other ladies
and gentlemen of the family. Here we
had breakfast, and after lounging about,
looking at the fine old family pictures,
we got to ten O’clock, when the caval
cade was appointed to start for the nomi-.
nation at Hertfordshire. All the friends
of Mr. Cowper had mustered strong;
there were the tenantry of their own es
tates and those of their friends and those
who were to vote for him, on horseback,
a cavalcade hundreds strong; and there
was every carriage that could be pre
sented, filled with gay occupants, all
dressed out in party colors, orange and
purple. Off we set, carriages first, the
honorable member in posse heading the
cavalcade, carriages of all sorts, shapes,
and sizeß following, our own turn-out
and four being the theme of universal
admiration, and the horsemen bringing
up the rear. For miles we drove through
the park, and then on through a pine
country, the property of the Cowper
family; past village, farm, and - home
stead, each pouring forth its addition to
the crowd, either pedestrian or horse
man, till we had, in the bright sunshine,
really a gallant show. Every man, wo
man, and child on the road, had his col
ors shown. Some who could buy no
ribbon, through poverty, had the want of
it elegantly made up for by a yellow
flower stuck in the button hole, or in the
hair; while flags of yellow and purple
floated from all windows, housetops,
hay ricks, or any other point of vantage
to which a flag might be tied. Yet with
the exception of an occasional cheer, as
our cavalcade passed, all was sober, se
date, and most orderly.
We drove slowly through the town of
Hertford, where our colors were not so
perfectly in the ascendant, but the pale
blue, the tory color, began to show in
formidable breadth. A small field of six
or seven acres (just outside the town)
had been chosen, and there a wooden
hustings had been erected—not unlike
the booth of a set of strolling players.
The one side was devoted' to Mr. Cow
per and his friends, the other to the
three other candidates, who had been all
M. P.’s for this same county before—to
them and their friends. The field itself
was similarly divided, only by an ima
ginary line, which, however, was main
tained on either side, with great fairness
and good humor. Here were drawn up
the carriages of the opposing parties, the
horses taken out and stabled, the horse
men all in battle array on their steeds,
and within, a dense mob of “ the peo
ple,” in shirt sleeves, smocks, and jack
ets, and many with neither. The car
riages formed a sort of barricade round
the mob, and these carriages, again, were
filled with ladies and gentlemen, all in
their best, and all doing their very best
to look their, very best: “our own cor
respondent,” whip in hand, is stuck high
in mid air in the dickey of the horseless
wooden drag, a butt for all waggeries and
witticisms, which he did his very best to
return with interest.
At eleven o’clock appeared the High
Sheriff of the county, the four would-be
members and their friends and support
ers, on the hustings. All that followed
was literally dumb show. Eight men
made eight speeches proposing and sec
onding the four, candidates. Some of
these eight were local celebrities, and
were greeted with cheers and hisses, al
ternated with groans and general clamor
and cackling—all, however, in good hu
mor. I caught a word here and there;
but no gleam or glimmer of sense. Then
up stands Sir E. B. Lytton, with whom
I was greatly disappointed. The cries
that greeted him were odd. “ Where’s
your wife—go home to your wife ; does
Lady Lytton know you’re out; did you
see your wife this morning before you
came away ;,get a divorce,!’ and so on.
He and his wife have parted company,
it appears. She is in Rome, he at
Hertford. I was disappointed in the
look of the man. He was evidently
“got up” for the occasion with some
care. His “ upholstery” was of the
best, but the man himself looked thin,
watery, small. There was no bulk, no
weight anywhere visible, saving in the
hair, through which he kept dragging
his thin, bony fingers, after the manner of
a tragic actor. Even his voice, what !
words from it I could hear, was of the
like treble, thin, and watery sort also:
And then his manner was so evidently
studied, that the mob noticed it rapidly,
and shouted “ all fiction”—“just another
three-Volume novel.’l After him came
Mr. Abel Smith: a gentleman of large
property. The gamekeeper of this nota
bility had snared and killed, or suffered
"to be snared and killed, a fox; and so
fox-hunting a county is this, that so soon
as Mr. Smith appeared he was greeted
with shouts and groans of indignation.
“ Who stole the fox—who killed the fox,
tally ho”—and then came all manner of
strange whoops andsojinds, in imitation
of the diverse cries of the fox, till Mr.
Smith came to a close, having been heard
only by the. reporters—if by them.
After all the candidates had speechi
fied, the Sheriff called for a show of
hands for each of the four candidates in
turn, and to make sure they knew what
they were about, he held up a board with
the name printed on it in large charac
ters, that the electors might see if they
could not hear whom they were voting for.
Mr. Smith had the fewest hands held up,
chiefly on account of having killed the
fox, I was told, and finally he lost the
election. Here the matter ended; a
poll being demanded. We drove off to
the residence of the father of mine host,
seven miles further on, where we had
lunch, and a pleasant stroll through the
noble grounds and gardens, and then
drove home to dinner—a distance in all,
out and home, of nearly sixty miles, with
one set of horses, and at the close they
looked nearly*as fresh as at the begin
ning.
The new Parliament has many new
members, such as J. S. Mill, who pro
fess nothing in the way of religion,
saving the very broadest Churchism;
the Popish party have gained, and to
their eternal disgrace, two English con
stituencies, which contain very few Pop
ish electors, have chosen, freely and de
liberately, Roman Catholics to represent
them. Mr. Gladstone, rejected by the
ministry of Oxford, was chosen by a tri
umphant majority in his native county,
Lancashire, and his son is for the first
time a- member, for Chester. Samuel
Morley, the wealthy independent mer
chant, is also for the first time an M. P.
He is returned for Coventry. Adam
Black, the Edinburgh publisher and M.
P., is turned out, and Mr. Duncan Mc-
Larau, a United Presbyterian, a Volun
tary, and a Radical, is returned. On
the whole, the ministerial party claim a
clear gain—as I said-—of twenty-five
new seats, giving them, they say, a
working majority of over eighty votes.
But there are many disputed returns,
the elections have been carried on in the
“ good old way”—bribery has been abun
dant, and report says when Parliament
meets there will be many returns pro
nounced null and void.
Loud above tbe din of electioneering
was heard the thud of the fatal drop
with which fell on the gallows Dr. Pritch
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY. AUGUST 31. 1865
ard, the Glasgow poisoner. Never crim
inal died whose fate met so universal
approval. Not a solitary voice was
raised to avert his doom. The reports
of his execution were read with intense
interest and satisfaction everywhere,
and by all classes. He appears to have
been a shallow, weak, vain man, thirst
ing for notoriety—which he got at last,
in greater measure than he coveted. He
met his doom on the scaffold with calm
mess and fortitude, in the presence of the
largest crowd ever gathered in Glasgow
—reports vary from 80,000 to 100,000.
Pritchard was an Englishman, and had
only been settled a few years in Glas
gow. Now that he is dead, the most
horrible atrocities are attributed to him,
extending over many past years. The
mystery of “ the Hoad murder ” is over
too. Constance E. Kent persisted in
her confession of “ Guilty,” and was
sentenced.to death by the presiding judge
with much feeling and tender emotion.
The sentence has been commuted to
penal servitude for life; and already the
poor wretch, so early hardened in guilt,
is on her way to the" colonies under .this
ban.
The criminal records of the past month
have been unusually prolific in ,the horri
ble. A woman at Torquay, in Devon
shire, was charged, along with the mother
of the child, for its murder, at the last
assizes. The evidence was not very clear,
and the iury were discharged without
coming to a verdict. At the present
assizes the guilty pair were again charged;
the mother was admitted as witness, ap
prover, and told a dreadful tale. By her
account, which bore all the marks of
perfect truthfulness, the wretched hag
confessed to her that she had “put
away” many for the sole sake of a pal
try reward, never exceeding £5; and
offered “to do her job” at the same
price; adding, “if thee has forty, I will
do the same by them all.” The jury
believed the approver, as her evidence
was fully corroborated, and the wretched
murderess was condemned to death,
without hope of mercy, whilst showing
symptoms of the most abject terror. The
whole scene was of the most-horrible of
all horrible things.
In matters ecclesiastical there is next
to nothing astir. As a pendicle to the
elections for Parliament, the elections of
Members of Convocation, the Parliament
ecclesiastical, have also been completed.
The Times of this day characterizes the
whole thing as a pure farce and perfect,
sham, which it is beyond all doubt.
Convocation is a Parliament; a mere
talking place;'yet, out of it something
may come. The Lord Bishop of Nataly
the renowned Colenso, has published the
last part of his attack on “the word of
God wWtten,” the which being done, he
has formally announced his immediately
approaching departure for his diocese.
What may upturn theteupon Remains to
be seen. His salary hasbeen withhehHn
great part by the committee for the fund
for the Colonial Bishoprics; but the
sympathizers of “my Lord” have pulled
their purse strings and sympathized with
the distressed ecclesiastic to the extent
of upwards of £2OOO, promising more.
A meeting was called and great speechi
fying made thereupon; a strange medly
of infidels and broad churchmen being
present to hear and hold up the hands of
this right reverend arithmetician, and suc
cessor of the Apostles; of whom Punch
says that “ he is well up in Numbers, but
mightily deficient in Deuteronomy .”
Your readers will gladly hear that I
preached shortly ago in a new Presbyte
rian church erected in Liverpool, built at
an expense of £5OOO, and. nearly free of
debt—the congregation willing and able
to give a pastor, to begin with, £350 a
year, and likely soon to have an able
man settled over them. And on my
way home I assisted at the laying of the
foundation stone of a Presbyterian church,
erecting in the city of Worcester at an
expense alßo of £5OOO ; already a good
congregation is gathefed, and presided
over by an excellent and able minister.
The stone was' laid by the late Mayor
and present M. P. for the city—a man.
who has raised , himself by merit and in
dustry from the very humblest rank..
Let me record in the last corner, of the
paper that remains to me, the death of
Isaac Taylor ; many of yojir readers
will know him and mourn. I send you
two cuttings from the same number of
the Record newspaper—evangelical or
gan of the Churcn of England; to show
how fast matters progress- there ! Let
me remind your readers that both “ Fa
ther Ignatius” and Dr. Neale are or
dained clergyman of the Church of Eng
land. T. A.
SOWING AND REAPING.
“ I hope the seed sown will some day
spring up,” is an expression not unfre
quently heard in regard to a period more
or less extended, of unfruitfulness in the
ministrations of the pulpit. Is there
■not in this statement, that there is an in
terval sometimes disheartening, between
labor and its full reward, a hidden false
hood—an apology for the want of
adaptation of' .means to the end f We
should smile at the husbandman who
was satisfied with covering, by repeated
sowing, the unproductive soil with, seed,
hoping that, at a future time, some of it
would come to harvest. Is it otherwise
in God’s economy of grace ? If there be
along with a fearless and wise applica
j tion of truth to the condition of the peo
■ pie, an expectation of immediate results
of the germination, growth, and harvest
| —if there is» “ a passion for souls”—
will the workmen of God be disappoint
ed ? “He that goeth forth and weepeth,
bearing the precious seed, shall doubtless
come again with rejoicing, bringing their
sheaves with them.”
It is not enough, in the general way,
to “ preach Christ,” to instruct the peo
ple in theology and ethics. There must
be a compliance with the Divine com
mand, however painful to the sensibili
ties of a pastor’s heart, " Show my peo
ple their sins;” and a tender, but faith
ful urgency of motive and appeal, which
gives to the pulpit, and carries to the
home, the-immpression that salvation is
the vast and immediate concern.
It reminds us of a remark of the
lamented Dr. Beecher, who was so richly
blessed with revivals—“ I never had a
revival without expecting and laboring
for it;” and of a reply made by another
successful minister to the question,
“ What is the secret of your success ?”
“ I think, as a general rule, a man suc
ceeds in what he proposes to do. If a
.minister starts with the aim to preach
fine sermons, if he have talent and cul
ture, he will attain his object. If it is
his ambition to be a metaphysician, or a
polemic, he may be either; and if no
thing will satisfy him, but saving souls,
he will succeed in that glorious work.”
Churches may defeat the most un
wearied and faithful efforts of preachers,
by refusing to remove “ stumbling blocks”
out of the way; but they will be the ex
ceptions to the law of Christian life—
labor and its reward. The Spirit of God
will not go aside from the ordained means
of grace, nor supply the power, which is
thrown away by a want of moral courage
and a living faith in God. H.
REV. A. M. STEWART IN THE OIL
REGIONS.
PIT HOLE
Is now the feverish centre and wonder
ful attraction in Oildom. Said locality
is about ten miles northward of Oil City.
Through the kindness of a friend, a visit
on horseback was made thither from
Petroleum Centre, and a day spent look
ing at its attractions, learning its history,
and prospecting about its future.
Oildom seems famous for the selection
of names to mark its celebrated localities
r—Oil City, Petroleum Centre, Funks
ville, Shaffer, Tideoute, Pit Hole. The
latter one, haring in it so much euphony,
was not derived from any new hole
sunk in the earth by oil seekers. A
small creek flows into the Allegheny
from the west side, which has borne
from times of yore the name of Pit Bole.
Rugged, barren, and uncultivated is the
region through which the stream finds
its winding way. Some months since
that persevering _ derrick was erected
over a low, marshy spot, close to this
stream, about six miles from its entrance
,to the Allegheny. After due process of
boring, a vein, or lake, or river of gas
and oil was struck, which, being evident
ly crowded for room so far b’eneath the
surface, burst out with a sound like a
engine The gas, after,
forcing the oil to the surface, mingles
with the atmosphere, rendering a near
proximity to the well both offensive and
very, dangerous. Were a spark, by ac
cident, to ignite the gas, no living being
within reach could escape. The ex
plosion would be like a magazine, and
the consequent flame from ten thousand
barrels of oil terribly grand. It is
claimed that eight hundred barrels of oil
per day is thrown to the surface from
this single well, designated “ The United
States.” This large stream of oil is run
into tanks, numbering a dozen or more,
and each with a capacity of a thousand
barrels, and now all are full, there being
hardly any feasible way as yet to get
the liquid in such quantities away from
Pit Hole.
When tidings of this grand strike got
abroad, it as of old, that where
the carcass is, there the. buzzards will
be gathered together. Crowds from all
parts of the country are already here—
the curious, the. speculator, the fortune
hunter; and the gambler are all present.
Within the past three months; a large
and crowded village has been erected,
called Pit Hole City. The buildings
are all hasty structures of wood, put up'
at enormous expense; the prices of
material and labor both being almost fabu
lous. All kinds of trades and business
are represented—hardware merchants,
dry goods, grocers, drinking saloons,
livery stables, doctor shops, lawyers of
fices, photographers, showmen, together
with the whole round of city appliances
—the large portion of the .buildings
being hotels and eating-houses. Won
derful people are we. .
The crowds in and about the locality
may find something to eat by taking
turns at the various localities affording
such a necessity; but whether all could
find a place to sleep under cover, seems
doubtful, even though every floor in Pit
Hole City were covered with rows of
men.
Becoming hungry with sight-seeing,
my friend and self went skirmishing for
dinner—found at length empty seats in
an eating place, partook of what was set
before us, and paid therefor, a little' in
advance of Willard or Continental prices.
THE DERRICKS.
From the number of these already
erected, and the wells being sunk along
the creek and up the hill sides surround
ing the great flowing well, one might be
led to suppose that all the hidden trea
sures of mother earth would soon be
reached and drawn out.
PIT HOLE CREEK ON FIRE.
' Some, weeks since the gushing well
overflowed all its prepared tanks and
vessels ; yet differing from the widow’s
cruse, it still flowed on, running into the
stream and covering all the surface. It
was thus borne down for half" a mile,
when by some accident, the oil'took fire.
The entire bed of the stream was pre
sently an intense flame. The water, as
around Elijah’s altar, was licked np.
The flames ascended through the over
hanging pine trees to their very tops,
charring and scorching them, as their
blackened limbs, with the blighted banks
of the stream, still bear evidence.
ROADS.
On our return to Petroleum Centre,
from the horseback ride to Pit Hole, a
friend inquired if the roads were bad.
My reply was—“ Can’t tell—don’t as
yet understand what meaning the peo
ple in Oildom attach to the word bad,
in connection with the roads. Our
artillery men and,, drivers of wagon
trains, while on a campaign of a rainy
season in Virginia, would have called
such horrible, if not by names much
harder.” No one’s business to mend the
roads in Oildom, hence the roads are not
mended.
GOSPEL IN PIT HOLE.
Somewhat astonished, yet greatly
delighted to learn that three preaching
stations have already been opened in
Pit Hole, by the Presbyterian (0. S.),
United Presbyterians, and Methodists.
Good for the Gospel this time. Christ
almost even with Mammon. Hope for
the world yet. A. M. Stewart.
Oil City, August 9, 1865.
THE HE WARD OE EARNEST EFFORT;
08, THE WAX BEUBEir WAS lE® TO
uses.
BY RB.Y EDWARD PAYSOR HAMMOND.
Dear Mr. Editor :—ln looking over
some letters, I found the following most
interesting account of the conversion
and triumphant death of a young boy in
New York State.
My own heart has been deeply moved
as I have read the dealings of God with
this dear boy, and I can but hope that
the publication of this narrative will
stimulate Christians, even in the secluded
walks of life, to allow no opportunity to
pass without seeking to win a soul to
Jesus. “ Let us consider one another to
provoke to love and good works.”
It has often seemed to me as if the
real experience of our every day life
would sometimes give, in its freshness,
more comfort and encouragement to
other workers around us, than the well
known stories and exhortations which
are so often addressed to them. For this
reason, not, I trust, from egotism, I ven
ture to send you the following facts.
While spending a few weeks in the
country, a friend said to me, “ I wish you
would go and see a poor little lame boy,
named Reuben ; he is very lonely, and
enjoys seeing any one so much.” It
was a very, hot morning, and physical
ease pleaded very strongly against the
two miles of unshaded hill side, and in
favor of; the cool, shaded summer-house,
with its glorious view of the Kaatskills,
where I was then sitting. I have, more
over a constitutional dislike to going
among strangers, and a nervous uncer
tainty as to what I shall say, which has
often kept me back from a seeming path
of usefulness. However, as I had no
excuse, except such as I was ashamed to
offer, I took a little basket of summer
fruit, and mentally asking God to direct
me, I set out.
I had some little difficulty in finding
the house; but at last I was guided to a
neat little brick cottage, with a broad
stone door-step, and quantities of bright
dahlias and china asters around it.
My knock was answered by a feeble
“ come in;” so I went in, and found the
object of my search on a bed in the main
room of the house. Everything around
him was very clean, and on the boy’s
own countenance was an expression of
thought and refinement rarely seen in
his station of life. I shall never forget
the deep, earnest look in his large gray
eyes, nor the look of intense pleasure
which absolutely illuminated his face
whenever after that I went to see him.
I soon drew from him an account of
his accident, which was, in his own
words, as follows : “You see, I didn’t
mind my mother, and that was the cause
of all my trouble ; she wanted me to go
over the creek with her, but I wanted to
go to the Bristol woods with some other
boys, so I told her I knew it would rain,
and went off with them. Well, we each
of us climbed a tree, and then we all
slid down, and when I got down, I felt
as if my feet were all tangled up in the
bushes.' The other boys lifted me, but
I could not stand, so they left me there
while they went to the village for my
father, and he brought a cart with a bed
in it and took me home.” I asked him
if he thougnt it hard to be shut up so
long and to suffer so ; “oh no,” he said, “ I
deserved it for not minding my mother, and
she has been so good to me all the time.”
Eor a year and a half he lay on that
bed, unable to turn over. At the time I
saw him, he was paralyzed from his
waist downward, and though covered
with sores, had no consciousness of
them; he had the use of his arms, which
were frightfully emaciated, and read as
long as he could hold a book. He Baid
he suffered no pain, only he was some
times so tired, and I never once heard
him say one impatient word.
After some general conversation I
said suddenly, “ Reubie, do you love
Jesus ?’’ He started, colored, and then
said, “I don’t know.” “Do you love
your mother?” “ Oh yes”_with such a
bright smile. “ Why do you love her ?”
“ Because she is so good to me ; why,
she has done everything for me since I
was hurt.” •« How do you know you
love her?” “ Why, I feel it, I can't
help knowing it.” “Well,” said I, “Jesus
has done more for you a great deal than
she; he died to save you, and he lives
to make you happy; don’t yon think you
would know it if you loved him.”
it Yes,” saidhe, “I suppose I should; I am
afraid I don’t love him.” I cannot re
member distinctly what I said on that or
any subsequent occasion; the words
seemed to be given to me, and to be
just the simple ones that the occasion
demanded, and I don’t think there is
any presumption in considering that
they were so, when we remember that
we are to be the oracles or mouth-pieces
of God.
I saw Reuben every second or third
day for the next three weeks, and though
he ,said little about his own personal
feelings, that little was to me very en
couraging. One day-we read and talked
about the Prodigal Son, and he seemed
very much touched by the wonderful
love that “ ran and fell on his neck and
kissed him.” Another time he told me
himself that he had been reading about
" how Jesus healed a cripple just like
me."
Once I had been telling him again
that ever new story of the Cross, and I
said, “ Reuben, that was all for you;
don’t you love Jesus for it?” “I hope
I do,” said he. “Are you sure it was
for you?” “Yes, because he died for
sinners.” “ Are you a sinner ?” “ Every
body are sinners.” “Yes, but that is
not enough; do you think you are one ?”
“ Yes, don’t you remember I got hurt
disobeying my mother ? besides, I used to
do lots of wrong things when I was
well.” “ Do you believe, then, that Jesus
is your Savior, that He forgives and
accepts you?” “I’ll try to.” “Now,
Reubie,” said I, “ I tell you that I come
to see you because I love you; I want
you to believe that I love you and think
of you when I am here, and wh'en I am
at home. What should I think, if you told
me, ‘ I don’t exactly believe you, but
I’ll try ?’ ” He saw what I meant in a
moment, smiled, and said, “ Well, I
won’t try to believe God any more, I do
believe he loves me and wants to save
me.” “ Are you willing to have him
save you his own way, to do just what
he chooses with you, to keep you on this
bed, or perhaps to take you to himself ?”
“I think I am.” “Have you given
yourself to him ?” “ Why, I tried to,
but somehow I don’t seem to know what
to say.” It was a terrible struggle to'
me; the door stooll ajar, the family were
all round the rest of the house, though
not in the room. I hesitated a moment,
but God was stronger than any cowardly
heart, and I said, “ Would you like me
to say it for youand in a moment
more, I. was kneeling and asking our
Saviour to take this little one and make
him one of the lambs of the flock. It
was a very Solemn moment for both of
us when I rose; he did not speak, but the
expression of his eyes I shall never for
get. I whispered, as I kissed him good
bye, "Reubie, could you follow every
word with your heart ?” " Yes, every
word.” “ Then,” said I, “hold on just
there, and nothing can hurt you.”
I -believe from that day forward he
never omitted to pray or to read the
Bible, and he gradually laid aside the
novels, which had before been his only
amusement, and read with great avidity
such religious books as I could procure
for him.
The day before I left, he sent his little
brother with a large boquet of dahlias to
be delivered into my own hands, with
Reubie’s best love.
Last week my friend wrote me, “ Dear
little Reubie is asleep in Jesus, his poor
crippled body .rests quietly in the grave,
and we believe his ransomed spirit has
gone to sing the praises of his Redeemer.
Last Monday he was taken much worse,
and they thought he was dying. They
sent for Rev. Mr. G., and as soon as
Reubie saw him he said ‘ I’m going to
Jesus.’ ‘Are you sure of it,’ Mr. G.
said; he looked up with the brightest
look and said, ‘Of course I am; did not
Jesus love me and die for me ? I
think this simple trust . greatly marked
him. He lived until Friday, con
scious all the while of his situation,
talking, of heaven sometimes, but prin
cipally of Jesus and his love, and never
tired of hearing over and over again
that wonderful story of the Cross. On
Wednesday, he bade his father, mother
and brother farewell, and urged each of
them separately to meet him in heaven
then he left farewell messages and love
for both of us ; then he asked his grand
mother to pray. ‘You must pray for
yourself, dear Reubie,’ she said. ‘Yes, I
do ; but then I pray so crooked.’ Friday
evening he asked her to pray again, and
then began to pray himself, and so, in
the very act of ‘ coming to Jesus,’ fell
asleep.” '
Another friend writes: “Reubie died
with M.’s letters in bis hand, and left a
message to thank her for, his great com
fort. Mr. G. says it was delightful to
see him, he was so happy.”
I have made quite along story of this,
but my heart is full, full of the wonder
ful power of that simple Gospel narra
tive, which can do such mighty things;
full of awe at the visible manifestation
of that Great Spirit which can so bring
_a heart from darkness into his marvelous
light, and make that terrible "thing, a
death-bed, the glowing gate of heaven.
Surely this was worth a hot walk, and a
little struggle with selfishness, cowar
dice, or conventionality.
Ambbd Tennyson— The reports that
Alfred Tennyson iB wasting away under
mortal disease, are, we rejoice to say,
untrue. His American publishers,Messrs.
Tieknor & Fields, have received recent
letters from him to the effeet that he is
in his usual health.