£t)f jFantily EmU.
NOCTIiRN.
filter into thy closet* amUbuttby door. —Matt. vi. 6.
I sit in my silent chamber,
And my Bpirit mounts in thought;
Dear hour of Divine communion,
That oft a deep joy hath wrought!
And lot as in holy vision,
The heavens unfold above,
And there fall bright beams of glory,
There is.breathed the breath of love,
I see, through the amber portal,
The angels of God descend ;
“ God’s Host” —they are swift of pinion,
And ever his saints attend ;
I hear the celestial chorus,
Harps touched with divinest skill,
Tones sweeter than breathing zephyrs,
That on my hushed soul distil.
The praise of the Holiest hymning,
The skies with the song resound ;
The stars seem to join their voices,
As they float in the dark profound;
* And the loving Father of spirits,
Though ruling all worlds the while,
To the ” Sons of God” doth hearken,
And sheddeth on them his smile!
Ay, Lord, thou bendest yet lower ;
The voices of earth dost hear;
Dost catch each sigh of contrition,
Dost note each glistening tear;
My praise is to thee as incense,
. For prayer thou returnest grace ;
Not now may these eyes behold thee.
But £ feel thy blest embrace.
Why—why should I envy seraphs,
That they stand so near the throne,
If here thou dost deign to meet me.
If here doßt thyself make known?
If now in these evening shadows,
This stillness of dying day,
My soul may drink of thy fullness
Till won from her griefs away ?
My God, thy secret is with me,
A secret I ne’er can tell; J
’Tia life, ’tis peace, ’tis rapture,
When with me thou com’st to dwell;
While the twilight shades grow, deeper,
As spreadeth her wings the night,
On me there falleth Thy splendor,
And all is serenely bright.
My finite and feeble spirit
With thine the Infinite blends,
Till with heaven’s own bliss o’erflowing,
Her weary, vain quest she ends;
As if on thy bosom lying,
She findeth her wished-for rest,
By Eternal Arms enfolded :
Have ye more than this, ye blest?
Ah, yes, ye spirits immortal,
Ye are not to sense confined ;
No law in your faultless being,
When ye long to soar, doth bind;
And I-too, at length ascending,
From sense forever set free,
Shall God-ward cleave the bright azure,
A»glad and as pure as ye !
M feet shall tread the fair city
Adorned as a beautiful bride;
Shall come to the living fountains,
And walk by the crystal tide;
To the loved again uuited,
Once lost amidst tears and pain,
I shall know the full affectioh
For which I have yearned in vain.
I shall then, with undimmed vision,
See what had been hid before ;
From wonder onward to wonder,
Forever mount up and adore;
If on earth thy works have charmed me,
What raptures shall fill me there,
When l gaze on spotless beauty,
Than all I had dreamed more fair!
Oh, on the throne whose brightness
Ontshineth yon blazing sun.
The Head of the whole creation,
I shall see the Cvucified One ;
Where night spreads no more her shadow,
I, amidst the ineffable glow,
Shall live on his smile forever,
And ALL THAT He IS SHALI, KKOW !
Dr. Palmer, in Hours at Home.
THE PURITAN OF 18G3.
was in the early part .of October,
, that the Rev. Mr. Allan started
to walk to Farmer Owen’s over the
hills. He had to cross two low spurs
of the Green Mountains'. As he climbed
to the top of the second, the rich valley
of the Otter Creek lay spread out be
fore him. At any other time he would
have stopped to admire its gentle un
dulations ; its great flower garden ot
forest trees, rich in every color and
hue; its silver threads winding their
way to the waters of tie Champlain,
and the glorious autumn light which
lay like a golden mantle over them all.
But this afternoon he seemed oppress l
ed by the beauty which surrounded
him. He looked upon it with eyes
misty from tears. . There was a dull,
heavy weight upon his heart —a weight
which even the long, fervent prayers
that he bad uttered so unceasingly
since noon had failed to move. Be
tween him and that : landscape, we
might almost say between him and the
mercy-seat, there moved a slight, tall
boy, with a laughing blue eye, cluster
ing brown hair, and lips always ready
with a merry, pleasant word. To-day,
there was Benny, nutting under the
bare, brawny arms of the butternut
tree; throwing his line into the little
brooks, that came babbling down from
the steep mountain side; driving his
cows down the narrow foot-path; stand
ing with Blossom under the bright
maple, and shouting with pride and
joy as she wreathed her pretty face in
the gay leaves. , , r
'<o, Bennie! Bennie!’ Mr. Allan
hardily knew he was calling the name
until it came hack to him with snch
an empty, mocking sound, from the
heartless echo ; “almost”—Mr. Allan
thought, startling himself by the seem
ing impiety of the words—" almost as
if there were no great, kind Father
over us all.”
As he came near Farmer Owens
house, he saw his oxen yoked to the
plough. He knew they had been there
since the telegram came. Mr. Owen
had read it in the field, gone to the
house and forgotten them, and no one
had dared to put them up He was-a
man fully capable of taking care of his
own affairs under any circumstances,
never having been known before to
forget. . ,
Mr Allan beckoned to an Irishman
who-was passing, and asked him to
take care of Jhem. The man came
with an awed look upon his face, as if
even there he stood in the presence of
a great sorrow, and without the least
noise obeyed.
Mr. Allan walked on slowly toward
the house. He had known Mr. Owen
for many years, and he knew him well.
Indeed, there was a peculiar bond of
symyathy between the two men. In
all his large parish there was not one
npon whom the minister relied as he
did upon this strong and sturdy farmer.
Many and many an hour he had walk
ed by his side when he was upturning
the brown earth, and had discoursed
with him bn topics which would have
sounded harsh arid repulsive to com
mon ears, but which were fraught
with deep and vital interest to them.
Mr. Owen was a direct descendant of
the Puritans, and every drop of blood
in his veins was tinged with as strong
and true a “ blue,” as if he himself had
lauded in the " Mayflower.” He took
naturally to the sterner doctrines of re
ligion, while Mr. Allan, versed in all
the modern lore, questioned and doubt
ed. The keystone of Mr. Owen’s
theology was the sovereignty of God;
—“ Shall not the Judge of all the earth
do right?” This was the man upon
.whom God had now laid his hand so
heavily ; and Mr. Allan felt that if the
trial brought no murmur, no rebellion
against that mighty Sovereign, the stern
old faith were indeed a rich one in
which to live, and die. He knew that
one element in this war was Puritan.
Sons of the Roundheads filled up the
ranks of the Northern army. They
marched to battle to strains of the old
tunes that had lingered in the nursery
and the sanctuary from the day that
Cromwell aud his soldiers chanted
them on Marston Moor. All down the
aisles of time came, tramping to the
music, mailed men, bearing on their
shields the two words, Liberty and
Equality. They trembled on Mr.
Owen’s lips with his parting blessing
to his boy. Would he remember them
and would they comfort and give Him
strength now ?
Where there is affliction in a house,
the minister is at home. Mr. Allan
entered without knocking, and made
his way to the large, old-fashioned
kitchen, in which he was sure of find
ing the family.
There, by a table, with his arms fold
ed and laid heavily upon it, sat Mr.
Owen. His wife was in a small rock
ing-chair by the fire, and Blossom a
young!girl, sat between them.
Mr* Owen rose to welcome him; so
did Blossom ; but the wife did not no
tice him, —she sat still, rocking herself
to and fro, looking at the blazing
wood.
Mr. Allan put a hand in the brawny
one that was held out toward him, and
laid the other on Mr. Owen’s heaving
breast. “My friend,” he said, “ how is
it with the decrees of God ?”
"Just and true are all thy ways,’
thou King of saints,” faltered out the
man.
There was something strange in his
voice.—a thin, womanly sound, so un
like the deep, stentorian tones in which
he had always spoken before. Mr.
Allan, when he heard it, almost felt as
if it had dealt him a blow.
“ Thank God! He has not, then,
forsaken yon, and from the depths of
this deep trouble yon can still say, The
Maker of all doeth well.”
“Yes, yes,” —and for an instant there
glimmered from his dull eye a spark
of the old controversial fire—“yon
don’t suppose I have held on to that
anchor when the skies were cloudless
and the little wave just rocked my
bark, to let alone of it now—now,
when the great waves and billows are
going over me, do you ? I’ve planted
it firm, and it don’t yield; no, it don’t
yield, but the strain is terrible. Gbd
send it may carry me into port; 0,
Mr. Allan, say it will. It has seemed
to me to-day so dark, so wonderful, so
inscrutable, that he—my Bennie! Mr.
Allan, there is a good wise purpose
behind it all. Can you see it ?”
“To bring you nearer the king
dom," said the minister.
“ 0, don’t tell me that; I can’t bear
it. God is too wise; He knows a
hundred snch souls as mine are not
worth one of my Bennie’s. I can
suffer if I am too great a sinner for
God’s, grace to save, but Bennie! Ben
nie ! I have sat here all day, since the
news came, wondering, wondering ! he
was so good a son,”—and Mr. Owen’s
voice grew almost inarticulate in its
emotion, —“ such a dear, precious, no
ble boy! I thought, when I gave him
to his country, that not a father in all
this broad land made so precious a
gift, —do not one. God forgive me if
my grief is a sin. Mr. Allan, the dear
t)oy only slept a minute, just one little
minute, at his post. I know that was
all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty.
How prompt and reliable be was!” and
Mr. Owen’s eye wandered out over the
brown fields, with such a perplexed,
wondering look. “I know he only
fell off one little second; he was so
young, and not strong, that-boy of
mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and
only eighteen l and now they shoot him
because he was found asleep when do
ing sentinel duty.” Mr Owen re
peated these words very slowly, as it
endeavoring to find out their true
meaning; “ Twenty four hours the tele
graph said,—only twenty-four hours.
Where is Bennie now ?”
“ We will hope, with his Heavenly
Father;” said his Mr. Allan, soothingr
ly.
‘‘yes, yea let us hope; God is very
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, MARCH 15, 1866.
merciful, and Bennie was so good—l
do not mean holy,” he said, correcting
himself sharply ; -there is none holy
no, not one, —but Jesus died for sin
ners. Mr. Allan, tell me that. 0, Ben
nie, Bennie!”
The ip other raised herself, as she
heard his name called, and, turning
said, with a smile; “ Don’t call so loud,
father. Bennie, is not far off; he will
come soon.”
“ God laid his hand on them both,
you see,” said Mr. Owen, pointing to
her, without making any direct reply.
" She has not been justly herself since.
It is a merciful thing she is sort of
stunned, it seems to me; she makes no
wail. Poor mother! if my heart was
not broken it would almost kill me to
see her so. Bennie was her idol. I told
her often, God had said, ‘ Thou shalt
have no gods before me.’ ”
Mr. Allan looked in astonishment at
the bowed man as he came now and
stood before him. These few hours
had done the work of years. The
sinewy frame was tottering, the eves
were dimmed, and the sudden sorrow
had written itself in the deep wrinkles
all over his manly face. He recog
nized the power of the great, kind
heart, simple and almost childlike in
its innocent, clinging affection; how
could this be reconciled with the stern,
strong head—the head that to common
observers outlined the character of the
man ? “ God have mercy on you; He
is trying you in the furnace seven
times heated,” he exclaimed, almost
involuntarily.
"‘I should be ashamed, father!’ he
said, ' when I am a man, to think I
never used this great right arm’—and he
held it out so proudly before me—‘for
my country, when it needed it. Palsy
it, rather than keep it at the plough.’
“ 1 Go, Bennie, then; go, my boy,’ I
said, ‘and God keep yon.’ God has
kept him, I Jfchink, Mr. Allan!” and
the farmer repeated these last words
slowly, as if, in spite of his head, his
heart doubted them.
"Like the apple of his eye, Mr.
Owen, doubt it not!”
Blossom had sat near them, listen
ing with blanched cheek. She had
not shed a tear„ to-day, and the terror
in her face had been so very still, no
one had noticed it. She had occupied
herself mechanically in the household
cares, which her mother’s condition
devolved entirely upon her. Now she
answered a gentle tap at the kitchen
door, opening it to receive , from a
neighbor’s hand a letter. “It is from
him," was all she said.
’Twas a message from the dead.
Mr. Owen could not break the seal for
his trembling fingers, and held it
toward Mr. Allan, with the helpless
ness of a child.
The minister opened it, and, obedi
ent to a motion from the father, read
as follows:
“Dear Father: —When this reaches
you I shall be in eternity. Ad first, it
seemed awful to me; but I have
thought about it so much now that it
has no terror. They say they will
not bind me, nor blind me, but that I
may meet my death like a man. I
thought, father, it might have been on
the battle-field, for my country, and
that, when I fell, it would be fighting
gloriously; but to be shot down like
a dog for nearly betraying it, to die
for neglect of duty I—o, father, I won
der the very .thought does not kill me.
But I shall not disgrace you. lam
going to write yon all about it, and,
when’ I am gone, you may tell my
comrades.* 1 can’t now.
“Yon know, I promised Jemmy
Carr’s mother I would- look after her
boy, and when he fell sick I did all I
could for him. He was not strong
when' he was ordered back into the
ranks, and the day before that night I
carried all his luggage, beside my
own, on our march. Toward night we
went in on double quick, and though
the luggage began to feel very heavy,
else was tired too; and for
Jemmy, if I had not lent him an arm,
now and then, he would have dropped
by the way. I was all tired out when
we-came into camp, and then it was
Jemmy’s turn to be sentry, and I
would take bis place, but I was too
tired, father. I could not have kept
awake, if I had a gun at my head; but
I did not know it until —well, until it
was too late.”
“God be thanked!” interrupted Mr.
Owen, reverently. “I knew Bennie
was not the boy to sleep carelessly at
his post.”
“ They tell me to-day that I have a
short reprieve, given to me by circum
stances —‘time to write to you,’ our
good Colonel says. Forgive him, fa
ther, fie only does his duty; he would
gladly save me, if he could—and don t
lay my death up against Jemmy. The
poor boy is broken-hearted, and does
nothing but beg and entreat them to
let him die in my stead.
“I can’t bear to think of mother
and Blossom. Comfort -them, father!
Tell them I die as a brave boy should,
and that .when the war is over, they
will not be ashamed of me,, as they
must be now. God help me, it is very
hard to bear. Good-bye, father; God
seems near and dear to me, not at all
as if He' wishes me to perish forever,
but as if He felt sorry for His poor,
sinful, broken-hearted child, and would
take him to be with Him and my b> a *
viour, in a better —better life.” ,
A great sob burst from Mr. Owens
heart. “ Amen I”. he said solemnly
“Araeni”, * ... ~ T
“To-night in the early twilight a
shall see the cows all coming home
from pasture—Daisy and Brindle, and
Bet; old Billy, too, will neigh from
his stall, and precious little Blossom
stand on the back stoop, waiting for
me; but I shall never come —never
come. God bless you all! Forgive
your poor Bennie.”
Late that night the door of the
"back stoop” opened, and a little
figure glided out, down the footpath
that led to the road by the mill. She
seemed rather flying than walking,
turning her head neither to the right
nor the left, starting not, as the full
moon stretched queer, fantastic shapes
all around her, looking only now and
then to heaven, and/folding Her hands
as if in prayer.
Two hours later, the same young
girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching
the coming of the night train; and the
conductor, as he reached down to lift
her in, wondered at the sweet, tear
stained face that was upturned toward
the dim lantern that he held in his
hand.
A few questions and ready answers
told him all, and no father could have
cared more tenderly for his only child
than he for our little Blossom.
She was on her waj to Washington,
to ask President Lincoln for her bro
ther’s life. She had stolen away, leav
ing only a note to tell her father
where and why she had gone. She
had brought Bennie’s letter with her;
no good, kind heart like the Presi
dent’s, could refuse to be melted by it.
The next morning they reached
New York, and the conductor found
suitable company for Blossom, and
hurried her on to Washington. Every
minute now might be a year in her
brother’s life.
And so, in an incredibly short time,
Blossom reached the Capital, and was
hurried at once to the White House.
The President had but just seated
himself to his morning task, of over
looking and signing important papers,
when, without one word of announce
ment, the door softly opened, and
Blossom, with eyes downcast and fold
ed- hands, stood before him.
"Well, my child,” he said, in his
pleasant, cheery tones, “ what do you
want so bright and early in the mor
ning ?”
- “ Bennie’s life, please, sir,” faltered
out Blossom.
" Bennie ? Who is Bennie
“My brother, sir. They are going
to shoot him for sleeping at his post.”
"0, yes,” and Mr. Lincoln ran his
eye over the papers before him, “I
remember. It was a fatal sleep. You
see, child, it was at a time of special
danger. Thousands of lives might
have been lost for his culpable negli
gence.”
“So my father said,” said Blossom,
gravely; “but poor Bennie was so
tired, sir, and Jemmy so weak. He
did the work of two, sir, and it was
Jemmy’a night, not his, hot Jemmy
was too tired, and Bennie never
thought about himself, that he was
too tired.”
“What is this you say, child ? Come
here, I don’t understand,” and the
kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at
what seemed to be a justification of an
offence.
Blossom went to him; he put his
hand tenderly on her shoulder, and
turned up the pale, anxious face
towards his. How tall he seemed, and
he was President *of the United States,
.too! A dim thought of this kind
passed for a moment through Blos
som’s mind, but she told her story
now simply and straightforward, and
handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie’s letter to
read.
He read it then taking up
his pen wrote a few hasty lines, and
rang his bell.
Blossom . heapd this order given:
“Send this despatch at once. 1 ’
The President then turned to the
girl and said: “ Go home, my child,
and tell that father of yours, who
could approve his country’s sentence,
even when it took the life of a child
like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks
the life far too precious to be lost. Go
back, or—wait until to-morrow; Ben
nie will need change atter he has so
bravely faced death; he shall go with
yon.”
J'God bless you, sir,” said Blossom;
anti who shall doubt that God heard
ana registered the request ?
(Two days after this'interview the
y|ung soldier- came to the White
Hbuse with his little sister. He was
called into the President’s private
robm, and a strap fastened " upon the
shoulder,” Mr. Lincoln said, "that
cduld carry a sick comrade’s baggage
and die for the good act so uncomplain
ingly.” Then Bennie and Blossom
took their way to their Green Moun
tain home, and a crowd gathered at
the' Mill Depfct to welcome them back,
and Farmer Owen’s tall head towered
afove them - , all, and as his hand grasp
ed that of his boy, Mr. Allan heard
hfoi say fervently, as the holiest bless
ing he could pronounce upon his
child: "Just and true are all thy
ways, thou King of Saints!’
That night Daisy and Brindle and
B ;t came lowing home for they heard
a well-known voice calling them at
the gate ; and Bennie, as he pats his
oik pets and looks lovingly in their
gipat brown eyes, catches through the
l |l evening air his Puritan father’s
voice, as he repeats to his happy mo
ther these jubilant words: Fear not,
foil am wi& thee; I will bring thy
sell from the East, and gather
thee from the West; I will say to the
North, give up, and to the South,
keep not back; bring my sons from
far, and my daughters from the ends
of the earth, every one that is called
by my name, for I have created him
for my glory; I have formed him,
yea, I have made him.”— Mrs. R. D.
0. Robbins.
A SONG OF HOME.
0 city, golden-bright!
Transparent as the day!
How softly shines thy distant light,
For pilgrims faraway!
Thy joy, serene and pnre,
E'en now pervades my breast;
On God’s foundations bnilt secure,
Thy jasper bulwarks rest.
There dwell the ransomed host,
So safe, so satisfied!
And thither shall the Holy Ghost'
Lead home the chosen bride.
No more a care or fear!
No more earth’s wailing.cry!
For God shall wipe each bitter tear,
And hush each heaving sigh.
Sweet home of peace and love I
By faith thy light I see,
Diffusing from the realms above
Celestial radiancy.
0 sun, that rules the day,
Stand still, and hear the tale !
To add one single glory-ray
Thy brightest beams would fail!
Fair moon, —dispelling night,
The city needs notlhee;
God and the Lamb shall there the light,
The light and temple be.
The blood-bought sons of God
Shall walk those streets of gold,
Rejoicing ever with their Lord,
In ecstacies untold.
I too, when toil is o’er,
Those blissful courts shall gain,
Where praise resoundeth evermore,
And love supreme shall reign.
O city, golden-bright!
Transparent as the. day!
How softly shines thy distant light,
For pilgrims far away!
—British Herald.
POWER OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.
THE JEWISH SURGEON.
In one of tbe large London hospi
tals a poor woman was dying. One of
tbe young surgeons, who was a Jew,
went up to her bed and said, “My
poor woman, you seem very ill; lam
afraid you will never recover. Can I
do anything for you ?”
“Thank you, sir,” said the poor
woman; “there is a New Testament
behind my pillow, and I should be
much obliged to you if you would
read a chapter to me.”
The young man seemed surprised,
but he took the Testament and did as
he was desired.
He continued to come and read to
her for several days, and was greatly
struck by the comfort and peace which
the Word of life seemed to give to the
poor invalid.
With almost her dying breath the
poor woman gave the Testament to the
Jewish surgeon, and urged him to read
it.
He took the book home with him,
and determined to keep his promise.
He read it diligently, and soon found
Him of whom Moses and the prophets
wrote—Jesus, the Messiah, and was en
abled to believe in him as the “ Lamb
of God, which taketh away the sins of
the world.”
AUTHORITY OF TELE BIBIA.
The Bev. Adolphe Monod. gives the
following illustration of the benefits
arising from the reading of the Bible:
The mother of a family was married
to an infidel, who made a jest of reli
gion in thepresenceof hisown children;
yet she succeeded in bringing them all
up in the fear of the Lord. I one day
asked her how she preserved them from
the influence of a father whose senib
ments were so openly opposed to her
own. This was her answer: ' Because
to the authority of a father' I did not op
pose the authority of a mother, but that
of God. From their earliest years my
children have always seen the Bible
upon my table. This holy book has
constituted the whole of their religious
instruction. I was silent that I might
allow it to speak. Did they propose a
question, did they commit any fault,
did they perform any good action, I
opened the Bible, and. the Bible an
swered, reproved, or encouraged them.
The constant reading of the Scriptures
has alone wrought the prodigy which
surprises you.’ ”
VAI.UE OF OWE LEAF.
There was once a caravan crossing,
I think, the north of India, and num
bering in its company a godly and
devout missionary. As it passed along,
a poor old man was overcome by the
heat and labors of the journey, and
sinking down, was left to perish on
the road. The missionary saw him,
and kneeling down at his side, when
the rest had passed along, whispered
into his ears "Brother, what is your
hope ?” The dying man raised him
self a little to reply, and with great
effort succeeded in answering, “The
blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from
all sin ;’’ and immediately expired
with the effort. The missionary was
greatly astonished at the answer; and
m the calm and peaceful appearance
of the man, he felt assured he had
died in Christ. How or where, he
thought, could this man, seemingly a
heathen, have got this hope ? And as
he thought of it, he observed a piece
of paper grasped tightly in the hand
of the corpse, which he succeeded in
getting out. What do you suppose
was his surprise and delight when he
found it was a single leaf of the Bible,
containing the first chapter of the first
epistle of John, in which these words
occur? On that page the man had
found the Gospel.
THE BIVIXE BOOK.
BT A YOUNG WORKING MAN.
Volume of Truth! thy sacred page
Alike instructs the child and sage;
A map to erring mortals given,
To guide them to the joys of heaven.
Bright Torch of Time ! thy hallowed light
Illumes affliction’s wintry night:
Thy gentle spirit-cheering blaze
Shines through this life’s perplexing ma*e.
Clear Star of Hope ! thy beacon ray
Doth guide the pilgrim on his way;
His distant home he there can see,
And hopes one day he there shall be.
Sweet Mercy’s Voice! in mildest tone
Calling on man his God to own.
Proclaims rich grace and boundless love,
Sent down from glorious realms above.
FIRST LOVE.
“ Nevertheless, I have somewhat against
thee, because thou hast left thy first love.”
Christian, while Jesus may find
some things in you to commend, may
He not, and justly, too, have somewhat
against you, because you have left your
“ first love ?" Let us inquire a little
and ascertain, if possible, whether you'
have or have not “ left your first love.”
How delightful it was, once, when your
hour of prayer came, to enter your
closet, and hold sweet converse with
the “ Lover of your soul.” Never-to
be-forgotten seasons, when you did not
get tired of praying. You w<juld ra
ther lose a visit from your dearest
earthly friend, than fail to meet Jesus
at the accustomed time and kneeling
place.
What precious seasons in the family,
too, when all ... gathered around the
family Bible. Your prayers convinc
ed all that you were speaking really to
God, and that God was in that place.
• But, dear brother, is it so now ? Or
does your heart shrink hack from closet
visits ? Are your visits short, less fre
quent, formal and lifeless?
Does family worship drag? Has
the Bible lost its power to interest?
Then the sad tale is told. You have
“ left your first love.” Jesus has
something against you. He cannot
smile on you until you return,, and re
pent, and do your first works, and you
cannot do anything for Him while you
remain in this state. You can’t pray
for or talk with sinners. You are in
the way of their salvation. Dear-bro
ther, will you not get out of the way?
Will you not return to your “first
love ?” Jesus is ready to receive you.
Hear him call you: Behold, I stand
at the door and knock; If any -man
will hear my voice, and open the door,
I will come in to him, and sup with
him, and he with me.
A LESSON FOR FAST YOUNG MEN.
A few weeks ago a man named
Dr. John W. Hughes was hanged at
Cleveland, Ohio, whose fate teaches a
salutary lesson. He was a man of
good family, well educated, had an
honorable profession, and, at one time,
a good social position. But he seems
to have ruined himself by liquor and
bad company. Under these influences,
he became thoroughly demoralized,
and scoffed at morals and religion.
He was held by no conscience what
ever. Having a good young wife and
a child, he married another woman
almost in the presence of his family,
she, however, being ignorant of his
first marriage. For this crime he was
tried, convicted, and sent to our West
tern Penitentiary, at Pittsburgh. His
injured wife procured a pardon for
this; but instead of being grateful to
her, he abused her in the most false
and heartless manner, and went off to
seek the woman he had injured. Hav
ing found her, he deliberately shot her
shrough the heart because she refused
to live with him. For this he was
tried and hung. On the scaffold he
alluded to his advantages in life, his
education, the wealth and position of
his family; but all these, he said, he
had allowed to be overcome by indul
gence in drink and bad company. It
was not he that did the crime, so he
said, but the man who had been turned
into a devil by intoxication. What a
lesson !—Public Ledger.
IF ONE LESSON WON’T DO. ANOTHER
WILL.
" Mother, said Henry, " I can’t
make Mary put her figures as I tell
her.”
You must be patient, my dear
child.”
" But she won’t let me tell her how
to put the figures, and she does not
know how to do it herself,” said Henry,
very pettishly.
" Well, my dear, if Mary won’t learn
a lesson in figures, suppose you try to
teach yourself one in patience. This is
harder to teach and harder to learn
than a lesson in figures; and, perhaps
when you have learned this, the other
will be easier to both of you.”
Henry hung his head, for he felt it
was a shame to any little boy to be
fretted by such a little thing, or indeed
by anything; and he began to t.hinV
that perhaps he deserved to be blamed
as much as Mary.
Children very often complain of their
playmates, or brothers and sisters,'
when they are very much in fault them
selves. A fretful, impatient child
makes himself and all about him very
unhappy. Will you all try to learn a
lesson of patience ? Young Reaper,