®j)E |amilg ®mlt. WHEN CHRISTIANS ARE UNITED. The time doth hasten on apace, And every day is nearer. When Christian hearts, all bound in love, Shall each to each be dearer; The sound of strife shall fade away, And every heart be plighted— It shall be known, upon that day, That Christians are united. The bells shall take the tidings glad, And each to each deliver, Till round and round the earth they sbund, And through the sky forever. The very sun shall brighter be — The hills and vales delighted; The foaming seas shall clap their hands When Christians are united. The sons of men shall know a joy Which in the earth was never ; And sweets, beyond their highest hopes, Forever, and forever. The heart shall answer back to heart, In truest friendship plighted — And sorrows never more be known When Christians are united. The folds of Christ, so scattered now, Shall join—no more to sever — And tongues, that erst were used in strife, Shall strive no more forever; — All prejudice and angry pride, As birds of prey affrighted, Shall take their everlasting flight, When Christians are united. Our Zion, too, shall lift her head O'er every distant region, And far and wide her bands shall spread In many a peaceful legion — And loud, her choirs, in rapture sweet, As souls of heaven ignited, Shall send the grand Te Deum up, When Christians are united. The flocks of Christ shall wander forth Beside the limpid river— One fold there’ll be, and Shepherd one Forever, and forever. Then everlasting peace shall reign, No tender hope be blighted, And God Himself shall dwell with men When Christians are united. —Banner of the Cross. THE BROTHER’S TRUST. BY JEAX INGEI.OW. There was once, says an old legend, a young Italian noble, whose elder brother loved him much; he had, more over, saved his life, and had reconciled him to his father when greatly offend ed with him. As might have been expected, the youth returned this affection, and after the death of the father, these brothers lived .together, the younger obeying the' elder, and behaving to him in all respects like a sQnl Once, on a certain day, however, a long separation came between them, for the elder went out, as if upon his ordinary affairs, and never returned again to his house. His young brother was first surprised, then alarmed. He sought for him, pro claimed his loss; he scoured the coun try, caused, the waters to be searched, and sought in all the recesses of that old Italian city; but it was of no avail; his brother was gone, and none could tell him’whither. No tidings were heard of him for more than six months, till one night, as his young brother was knocking for admittance at' his own # door, a figure in a domino came up, and put a note into his hand, at the same time whispering his brother’s name. It was during the time of the carnival, when it is so mjjch the custom for people to wear disguises, that such things excite no surprise. Anselmo, for this was his name, would have seized the domino by the hand, but he quickley disappeared in the crowd; and full of wonder and anxiety, tne the young man read the letter which he had left behind him : “Anselmo, I live, I am well; and I beseech thee, as thou lovest me, fail not to do for me what I shall require, which is, that thou wilt go every night down that lane which leads along the south wall of the P Palace; ten paces from the last window but one thou shalt find a narrow slit in the wall; bring with thee a dark lan tep, and into that slit do thou place it,'turning the light side inward, that thou be not discovered. Thou shall be at the place every night at twelve, and thou shaft stay until the clock of St. Januarius striketh one. So do, and one night I will meet thee there. Thy loving brother prays thee not to fail.” That very night the young noble man went out unattended, in the hopes of meeting with his brother. He car ried a lantern, and proceeded to the unfrequented lane pointed out in the letter.* It was a desolate place, in a thinly-populated quarter of the city. By the faint light of the moon he counted the windows, and found the slit in the wall, which was deep, and fenced on the riverside with an iron grating, backed by a sheet of horn; into this slit he hastened to place his lantern, and then began to look about him, and consider why his brother should have chosen such a place fjpr their meeting. Not far off ran the rivei*, and he did not doubt that by water his brother would come, for it was evident that he feared to show himslf m the streets of the city. Anselmo started once or twice during his solitary watch, for he thought he distinguished the splash of an oar, ancj then an advancing footstep ; but he was mistaken, his brother did not come to meet him that night, nor the next, nor the one after; and when he had come to await him every night for a fortnight, he began to get sick at heart. And yet there was no way but this; he was to watch till his brother came. It was his only chance of seeing him; THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN. THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1866. and he went on, without once failing, for eleven months and twenty days. In order that he might do thig more secretly, he frequently changed .his lodging; for as the time wore, on he began to fear that his brother might have involved himself in one of the political intrigues common in those days, and he felt that the utmost cau tion was required, lest his constant visits to that quarter of the city should be watched, and lead to suspicion. A strange piece of blind obedience this seemed, even to himself, and of trust in his brother; what appeared to him the strangest part of the letter, was the entreaty that he would always bring a lantern; "as if there could be any fear,” he thought, “of my not re cognizing his step, or as if it could be likely that more men than one could, by any probability, be standing by that solitary corner.” But in those days of tyrannical government and lawless faction, flight and mysterious disappearance were not uncommon. Thus Anselmo watched on, though hope began to wax faint, even in his strong and patient heart. The clock struck one. "Eleven months,” said he, "and one and twenty days!—l will watch for thee the year out.” He put his hand to the slit in the wall, and withdrew his lantern; it was dying in the socket. “What,” said he, “is the light also weary of watching!” He turned, and a heavy stone hard by his feet was raised from beneath, and up from under the earth came his brother. “ Thy cloak—quick! cover me with it,” he whispered. " Hide my prison garments.” "Thy prison garments!” repeated Anselmo, faintly, for he was distraught and amazed. His brother took the cloak and wrapped himself in it. It was not so dark but that Anselmo could see that his feet were bare and his face haggard. He took the lantern and threw it down, beckoning towards the river. "Let it lie,” he said to his young brother. " I am sorry the light has gone out just when it is wanted,” said Anselmo, for he was still amazed, and scarcely knew what he was talking about. " Eleven months and twenty-one days hath it served me well,” his bro ther replied; “ nothing else, whether alive or dead, saving thyself only, will serve me so well again.” What a strange thing this was to hear; but the walls of the old Italian city echoed the sound-so softly that none awoke to listen, and the two figures, gliding under the deep shadow of the houses, passed away, and were seen there no more. By morning dawn a vessel left the harbor, and two brothers stood upon the deck, bidding farewell to their na tive country; the one was young, the other had a wan cheek, and hands hardened by labor; but the prison dress was gone, and both were clad in the usual costume of their rank and order. “ And now we are safe and together,” said Anselmo, "I pray thee tell me thy story. Why didst thou keep me waiting so long, and where didst thou rise from, at last ?” “ That I can tell thee at all, is thy doing,” answered his brother; “be cause thou didst never fail to bring me the lantern.” And then, while the gray Italian shores waxed faint in the sunny dis tance, and all hearts began to turn towards the new world, whither the vessel was bound, Anselmo’s brother descended with him into the cabin, and there told him, with many expres sions of affection, the remarkable -tale which follows: He had, unknown to his brother, made himself obnoxious to the gov ernment ; and the night of his disap pearance he was surrounded, and after making a desperate defence, he was overpowered and thrown into prison. In a dreadful dungeon he lay till his wounds were healed, and then, for some cause unknown to himself, he was given over to the keeping of his deadly enemy : one whose house had long been of the opposite faction to his own. By this enemy he was con veyed to the P Palace,. and he laid in a dungeon, that, »s he said, “ Nothing it seemed could have bro ken through, unless his teeth had been strong enough to eat through that wall.” Almost every hour in the day his enemy came and looked at him through a hole iu the door ; his food was given him by means of this aper ture ; and when he complained of the want of bedding, they gave him, also by means of the hole, a thin mattress and two coarse rugs to cover him. This dungeon contained nothing but one large chest placed against the wall, and half-filled with stones: one of these, he was given to understand, would be tied round his neck, should he attempt to escape, and his body would be thrown into the river. His light in the daytime came through the little slit so often men tioned ; but in daylight he* could do nothing, for his enemy’s eyes were fre quently upon him; from twelve o’clock to three in the night were the only hours when all his jailers slept, and then it was dark, and he could do nothing but just feel the strength and thickness of the wall: 'a hopeless task indeed, to break it down witb one poor pair of hands! But, after months of misery and de spair, one of the jailers took pity on him, and asked him whether there was anything he could do to help him to endure his captivity better. “Yes,” said the poor prisoner; " I have been a studious man, and if I could now read, it would help me to endure my misery. I dare not read in the daytime, for my enemy would not suffer me to have such a solace; but in the night, if I could, have a light in the slit.” ; The jailer was frightened, and told him not to think of it. Yet, as his prisoner kept urging it, he looked at the height of the slit and its small size, and then, when he had heard the words that were to convey this request for a light, and that they told nothing as to where Anselmo’s brother was, he consented to convey them; first getting a solemn promise that he would never attempt to speak to his brother, even if he should find it possible, and, secondly, thAt he would never betray him. Whether this jailer felt certain that he never could escape, whether he was not loth to aid in it, or whether he pitied him, and thought that no harm could- come of the light, is not known; certain it is, that he searched this dun geon diligently every night, and ex amined the iron protection to the slit: it was far above the poor prisoner’s head, and ’when the jailer found it always safe, he appeared satisfied. Yet the work of breaking through the wall began the first night of the lan tern, and never ceased till it came to a triumphant conclusion. The great chest, as has been said, was half-full of heavy stones; as soon as the light enabled him to act with certainty and perfect quiet, he laid his mattress and rugs beside it, opened the lid, took every stone out in turn, and placed it on one of them; he then, exerting all his strength, lifted the chest away, and began to undermine the stones behind it, and under it. With wonderful skill and caution, he went graduaUy on; but it took twenty minutes of labor to empty the chest, and twenty minutes to fill it with equal quiet: there remained, therefore, only twenty minutes dfi. which to perform the rest of this her culean labor. But for the light, he must have handled the stones with less certainty, and, of course, the least noise would have caused all to be discovered. How little could be done each night, becomes evident when it is remember ed that the stones and rubbish which he displaced had to be put back again, and the chest returned to the same po sition before the light was withdrawn. For nine months he made but little progress, and for the next two months the difficulty of disposing of the rub bish daunted him; but the last night, when still far from the surface, though already through the wall, such a quan tity of earth heaved in, that he swept it down fearlessly upon the floor of his dungeon, and resolved to make a daring effort to escape, and risk all on that one venture. He crept through the hole once more, and shielding his head with one arm, pushed upwards with the other; more and more earth fell, and at last, nearly suffocated, he applied all his strength to the flat stone that it had left bare, heaved it up, and escaped to life and freedom. Which is most remarkable here ? the trust of the elder brother, who could venture so much on a protracted attention to his letter, or the obedience of the younger to a command which he could not understand ? • We can scarcely tell. Yet this story, though widely different in soriie re spects, has one point of resemblance to another narrative, far more worthy of credit, but which passes among many for an idle tale, if one may judge by the thoughts which they bestow upon it. It is the true story of a .King’s Son, One who saved the lives of many, and reconciled them to his Father, whom they had offended. In His wonderful condescension, He called Himself their Elder Brother; but after He had long dwelt among them, He one day disap peared from their sight, promising them that, after many days, He would come again. He sent them a message afterwards, entreating them to watch, and saying, “ Behold, I come quickly!” For a while they did watch; but afterwards it was said in His kingdom which He had left, “ Our Lord delay eth His coming, and we are weary of watching, the time is so long. If He had told us the exact day or the exact hour when He would return, we would have been ready, and would have gone out to meet him with great joy; but we cannot always watch, though He has promised us and done for us so much.” It is a long time now since that message was sent; some dispute its meaning, sofne say it shall he on this manner, and some on that manner; some have even said, “Those many days must now be drawing near their close.” But, 0 prisoner, working by night in the light of your brother’s candle! 0 elder brother, who had won such true fraternal love! O friend so trust ed in, though not understood, so longed for, though scarcely expected! —how differently was your earthly claim admitted—your earthly com mand obeyed! There was One who said, “Watch, for ye know not the day, neither the hour, when the Son o Man cometh;” and “ What I say unto you, I say unto all—Watch!” But do they watch? —Sunday Magazine. WITHOUT THE CHILDREN. 0 the weary, solemn silence Of a house without the children ; 0 the strange, oppressive stillness Where the children come no more! Ah! the longing of the sleepless For the soft arms of the children, Ah! the longing for the faces Peeping through the opening door— Faces gone for evermore I Strange it is to wake at midnight And not hear the children breathing, Nothing but the old clock ticking, Ticking, ticking by the door. Strange to see the little dresses Hanging up there all the morning; And the gaiters—ah! their patter, We will hear it nevermore On our mirth-forsaken floor 1 What is home without the children? ’Tis the earth without the verdure, And the sky without the sunshine; Life is withered to the core 1 So we’ll leave this dreary desert, AndVe’ll follow the Good Shepherd To the greener pastures vernal, Where the lambs have "gone before” With the Shepherd evermore 1 0 the weary, solemn silence Of a house without the children. 0 the strange oppressive stillness Where the children come no more 1 Ah 1 the longing of the sleepless For the soft arms of the children; Ah! the longing for the faces Peeping through the opening door— Faces gone for evermore! — J. S. NcNaugMon. SATURDAYS AND SABBATHS. Saturday. —Snow, rain, wind, and mud! " John, it is a very unpleasant morn ing ; you must wrap up well, and take care of yourself.” “0, never fear for me; I shall put on a water-proof and thick boots, and trudge through it; if Saturdays will be wet, there is nothing for it but to put up with them.” Sahbath. —Snow, rain, wind, and mud! " John, it is a very unpleasant morn ing again; I suppose you will not ven ture out this morning.” “Ho; I don’t think it would be right. It is such catch-cold weather, really one needs to take care of one’s self, and it would.be wrong to brave such a morning as this.” Saturday. —“ You look very tired this morning, John.” “0, no, nothing to speak of. Be sides, we must not give way to it; I have a busy day. There will be a good market, and I must make the most of it.” Sabbath. —" You look very tiredjthis morning, John.” "Yes, lam tired. I shall rest to day, I think, instead of going to church. A nap on the sofa will do me good. It’s a special sermon, I remember, but that can’t be helped.” Saturday. —"O, Mr. Smith, I’m sorry to come so late! But here’s a gentle man who wants to give you an order. You’re tired to-night, I dare say, but”— “0, not at all, not at all. I’ll be with you in a minute. 0, no, never felt less tired. Certainly, most happy to come.” Sabbath. —"o, Mr. Smith, sorry to disturb you; but we are very much iu want of a teacher this afternoon. Could you oblige us? You are, tired, no doubt, but it is in a good cause.” “Well, really, no, I cannot; I am thoroughly tired out. You must try and fincPsome one who is not so much engaged during the week.” Saturday. —“ Mr. Smith, there is a meeting of the townsmen, to-night, to talk over some improvements; the mayor hopes you will be there.” “ Thank you; yes. I shall be happy to attend, though it is my busiest even ing.” Sabbath. —“ Mr. Smith, there is a prayer-meeting to-night. We are told to meet the Master at the mercy-seat; shall we have the pleasure of seeing you ?” “Thank you; no. I shall be unable to attend.” —Christian World. TEACH THE CHILDREN NATURAL HISTORY. Those who have learned the names and uses of what they see on every hand are never out of a pleasant school. Thomas Carlyle says:— For many years it has been one of my constant regrets that no school master of mine had a knowledge of natural history, so far, at least, as to have taught me the grasses that grow by the wayside, and the little winged and wingless neighbors that are. con tinually meeting me with a salutation which I cannot answer, as things are. Why didn’t somebody teach me the constellations, too, and make me at home in the starry heavens, which are always overhead, and which I don’t half know to this day ? I love to pro phesy that there will come a time when the schoolmaster will be strictly re tired to possess these two capabilities (neither Creek nor Latin more strict!) and that no ingenious little denizen of this universe be thenceforward debar red from this right of liberty in those two departments, and doomed to look on them as if across grated fences all his life'! The self-denial and liberality of faith are the best means of excluding the fear of future want of providing for our families and of placing out our substance at the highest interest and upon the most unexceptionable security.— Scott. THE JUDGMENTS OF WOMEN. In a conversation I once held with an eminent minister of the Church, he made this fine observation: “We will say nothing of the way in which that sex usually conduct an argument; but the intuitive judgments of women are often more to be relied upon than the conclusions which we reach by an elaborate proeess of reasoning. No man that has an intelligent wife, or is accustomed to the society of educated women, will dispute this. Times without number you must have known them to decide questions on the in stant, and with unerring accuracy, which you had been poring over for hours, perhaps with no other result than to find yourself getting .deqper and deeper into the tangled maze of difficulties. It were hardly generous to allege that they achieve these facts less by reasoning than a sort of sagacity that approximates to the sure instincts of the animal races; and yet there seems to be some ground for the remark of a witty French writer, that when a man has toiled, step by step, up a flight of stairs, he will be sure to find a woman at the top; but she will not be able to tell how she got there. How she got there, however, is of little moment. If the conclusions a woman has reached are sound, that is all that concerns us. And that they are very apt to be sound on the prac tical matters of domestic and secular life, nothing but prejudice or self-con ceit can prevent us from acknow ledging. The inference, therefore, is unavoidable, that the man who thinks it beneath his dignity to take counsel with an intelligent wife, stands in his own Hght, and betrays that lack ot judgment which he tacitly attributes to her. PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S STRENGTH. Every one has read how this good President visited the Government hos pitals at City Point, on his return from Richmond, and spoke to and shook hands with every one of between five and six thousand soldiers lying there. The following incident connected with that visit is not so well known: The surgeon expressed the fear that Mr. Lincoln’s arm would be lamed with so much hand-shaking, saying that it certainly must ache. Mr. Lin coln smiled, and, saying something about his "strong muscles,” stepped out in the open door, took up a large, heavy axe, which lay there by a log of wood, and chopped vigorously for a few moments, sending'the chips fly ing in all directions; and then, pausing, he extended his right arm to its full length, holding the axe horizontally, without its even quivering as he held it. Strong men who looked on—men accustomed to manual labor—could not hold the same axe in that position for a moment. Returning to the,office, he took a glass of lemonade, for he would take no stronger beverage; and while he was within, the chips he had chopped were gathered up and safely cared for by a hospital steward, because they were the "chips that Father Abra ham chopped.” In a few hours more the beloved President was at home in Washington; in a few days more he had passed away, and a bereaved na tion was in mourning. Jfm to fifth fnto. FAMILIAR TALKS—2D SERIES. X. BY REV. EDWARD PAYSON HAMMOND.* “IT WAS WITH SHAME I SAID HO.” What do you think it was made this Rochester Sabbath-scholar ashamed? Read on, and you will see, my ydung friend. Suppose you had one of the best mothers in the world; that she had done everything for you, had watched over you tenderly when a little, help less infant, and often, in sickness, had spent sleepless ‘nights anxiously by your bedside; yes, suppose that, when a great-rock was falling down a moun tain-side, and just as it was near you and ready to crush you, she, to save your life, had sprung forward to catch you, and in doing so had been nearly killed by the rock falling upon her, and all her life had been made a poor, weak, helpless cripple; I say, suppose this dear mother had done all this and much more for you, my little friend, and that, after all, you had such an ungrateful heart that you did not love her a bit, —if a friend should ask you if you loved your mother, would not you be a little ashamed if your con science made you answer “No?” If you were mat ashamed, I should not think half so well of you. But I can almost hear you say, “I wonder who this talk was written for ? Not (or any children around here, for all the little folks that I know love their mothers, who are so kind as that to them.” And so do all the children, that I know, love such kind mothers. Rut I could tell you of a great many children, who don’t love some One, who has done a thousand times more for them, than I have supposed this good mother to have done for you. I think you know well enough who I mean, without my telling you— “ °f a h our friends, to save us, could or would have shed his blood?” 0, yes; Jesus has loved us more than any mother ever did. * Copyright secured. “ While we were yet sinners," the Bible says, “Christ died for us.” If you will look at the eighth verse of that same fifth chapter of Romans, you will see that by “sinners” are meant “enemies.” 0, how strange! Christ then died for His “enemies.” But who are His “enemies?” All who do not love Him, and work for Him, for Jesus says, “He that is not for me is against me.” Do you, then, love Jesus ? Are you “ for " Him ? Do you work for Him ? Do you tell others about Him?” Do you tell them how He died for them on the cross ? !Qo you ever go to them, and plead with them to come and trust this dear Jesus? Do you love to speak with Jesus, and pray to Him, and be alone with Him, with the pre cious Bible in your hand ? Do you love to sing “Now I have found a Friend, Jesus is mine; His love shall never end, Jesus is mine”? If you cannot say ’“Yes,” to these questions, then you do not love Jesus. Then, too—and do not be angry with me for telling just what the Bible says—you are an “enemy” of Jesus. Just think of it! an enemy to One who has done more for you than all the world can do —who let wicked men drive the cruel nails through his hands and feet, and press the sharp thorns down into his brow, that you and I might wear a crown of glory in heaven forever! 0, what a heart you must have not to love Him. This Sabbath-school scholar had just such a heart; she had never loved this dear, dear Saviour, who had left His shining home in glory, and come into this wicked world, and bled and died on the dreadful cross for her. And when I asked her if she loved this Jesus, I don’t wonder that she says: “It was with shame that I said 'No. 1 ” This little “talk” comes kindly to you, and asks: “Do you love Jesus?” Can you truly say “Yes?” If not, are you not ashamed to have to say “No?" If you are not, I pity you. 0! I know you must be ashamed, when you think of what He has done for you, and then to think you have never once loved him. I found a little boy in Lawrence, among a crowd of children who were weeping to think they had never loved the Saviour. “0, sir!’’ said he, “I’ve been so mean, not to love Jesus!” Afterwards he wrote me a letter, and said, “I felt it was so 'mean for me not to love Jesus, after ail He had done for me.” So it is “mean,” not to love Him. Don’t you think so, too?” Do you love Him? You wouldn’t like to have any one else call you mean. But how do you feel about it yoursell? What do you think of yourself, for not loving this wondrous Saviour ? But when I took up my pen, I only thought of writing a line or two, to make you more carefully read this very interesting letter. If you do feel ashamed to think what a great sinner you have been, then this letter will tell just what you must do to be saved. 0, then, read it, and pray over it, and do just what this dear young friend did. Fall right into Jesus’ arms. Believe in Him, and be saved. I have attended the meetings for about two weeks. At the first afternoon meeting, I I did not stay to the inquiry-meeting; hut, as I was passing out, you asked me if I loved Jesus. It was with shame that I said No. The next day I remained. Some one spoke to me, and when he told me to believe, I could not understand it. I did believe that Jesus died to save sinners, that I was one of that number, and He was willing and ready to save me, and I thought that I was at least not far from being a Christian. But I was undeceived on Monday. I made up my mind that I would ask God, for Christ’s sake, to pardon me, and leave it with Him. Ah! it was then I understood what was meant by believing. I felt that He did for give me. I had expected that I should feel some great and sudden change, that the bur den which oppressed me would be immedi ately removed; and as I experienced no such change, I almost despaired. I thought I had not asked as I should, for He has said, “Those that seek me shall find me,” and I believed it. What, then, was Ito do? But just then, as if you knew my thoughts, you gave me a little tract, “ 0, for more feeling,” and I saw I was wrong. It told me that God has not said we must feel so and so in regard to. our sin, before we may have Christ and His free grace; but,we were only to feel our need of Him. It lifted a great cloud from my mind, and I now feel that I have a hope in the dear Saviour. 1 love to sing that little hymn, “ Jesus paid it all;” but it always brings the tears to my eyes, for I see Him whom I have rejected nailed to the cross , and suffering, 0. hyw much! for me. God help me to love Him more and more every day 1 live. That you, my dear young friend, may the better remember at least one important lesson in this letter, I have just written a few lines, suggested by the sentence, “WITH SHAME I ANSWERED ‘NO.’” “Do you love Jesus?” I was asked; With shame, I answered “No.” O, what ( a sinner I have been, To treat my Saviour so! If earthly friend for me had bled, I’d love his very name ; Though Christ for me His blood has shed, Of Him I’ve been ashamed! But o’er my guilty sins I’ve mourned, ‘And pardon free obtained; And now I love my dearest Lord, Of Him I’m not ashamed. I love to sing the little hymn: How “Jesus paid it all.” To think that I rejected him! — How quick the tears will fall! A morsel of bread or a cup of water will go as far, when it is all we can give, as thousands of gold and silver when they can be spared.— Scott.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers