£ t iß family ©irtU. THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE, A SEKMOJf. BY JEAN INOELOW, “ Behold! I stand at the door and knock.” See here! it is the night! it is the nightl And snow lies thickly—white, untrodden snow $ And the wan moon upon a casement shines A casement crusted o’er with frosty leaves, That make her rays less bright along the floor. A woman sits, with handfupon her knees: Poor, tired soul! And she has nought to do; For there is neither fire" nor candle-light. The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth; The rushlight flicker’d down an hour ago.. Her children wail a little in their sleep For cold and hunger: and, as if that sound W as not enough, another comes to her Over God’s undefiled snow —a song Nay, never hang your heads —I say, a song. And doth she curse the ale-house, and the sols That drink the night out, and tbeir earnings And drink their manly strength ami courage And drink* away the little children's bread, And starve her: starving by the self-same act Her tender suckling, that with piteous eyes Looks in her face till scarce she has heart To work and earn the scanty bit and drop That feed the others? Does she curse the song? I think not, countrymen; 1 have not heard Such women curse. God’s curse is curse enough To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show — A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse — “My master is not worse than many men.” But now, aye, now she sitteth dumb and still 5 No food, no comfort; cold and poverty Bearing her down My heart is sore for her; How long, how long? When troubles come of God, When men are frozen out of work, when wives Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, . When boats go down at sea —then nought behooves Like patience; but for troubles wroughtof men Patience is hard—-I tell you, it is hard. “Now woe is me! I think there is no sun; My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark; None care for me, The children cry for bread, And I have none ; and nought can comfortme. Even if the heavens were free to such as I, It were not much, for death is long to wait, And heaven is far to go.” And speakest thou thus, Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, And of the earthly love that wanes to.thee, And of the heaven that lieth far from thee ? Peace, peace, poor soul! One draweth near thy door Whose footsteps leave imprint across the snow; Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart. And bless with saintly hand. What I is it long To wait and far to go ? Thou shalt not go; Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait? Thou shalt not wait: “This night, this night,” He saith, ‘ ‘ I stand at the door and knock. ’' 0, woman! pale for want, dost thonnot know That on thy lotmuchthougbtis spent in heaven; And, covetingthe heart a hard man broke. One Btandeth patient, watching in the night, And waiting in the daytime? What shall be If thou wilt answer ? He will; smile on thee; J One smile of His shall be enough to heal The wound of man’s neglect; and He will sigh, Pitying the trouble which that, sigh shall cure j And He will speak —speak in the desolate night, In the dark night: “ For me a thorny crown Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands And feet: there was an earthquake, and I died; I died, and am alive forevermore. I died for thee; for thee lam alive, And my humanity doth mourn for thee, For thou art.mineand all thy little ones. They, too, are mine, are mine- Behold, the house Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons Of God are singing; and behold, the hear!. Is troubled, yet the nations walk in white; They have forgotten how to weep ; and thou Shalt also come, and I will foster thee And satisfy thy soul; and thou sh» It warm Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. A little while, and I will comfort thee; I go away, but I will come again!” DILLY-DALLY. Dilly-dally bad read a good dea that is to say, she had begun a host o books. She could tell you all abou the first chapter or so of the “Hollo Booksshe had made the acquaint ance of one of “The Seven Little Sis ters;” she had looked into “The Magician’s Show-Boxshe had become entangled in “ Tanglewood Talesthe “ Memoirs of a London Doll ” came very near conquering her; she had bidden adieu to Christian at the House Beautiful, and had given Bobinson Crusoe the cut long before Friday appeared to parry it; and she bad left Cinderella at the door of the ball-room. It is true, she fully intend ed to pursue Rollo to the world's end; she had dreamed about Cinderella all one night, and had been heard to say I that the step-sisters deserved a box ] with five nails in it; she had carried ■Christian’s burden every step of the way, and had quaked with Crusoe over the mysterious footprints; but she bad always said, “I will finish this to-morrow,” or, “I mean to read the rest of that when I get time,” or, ‘ When I have romped a little with Freddie, or tried on the new hat I am making for Rosa, I will see who answered the bell at the ‘House Beau tiful.’ ” And so it came about that the things she was always going to do ; somehow never were done. Dilly-dally had the dearest litttle work-basket, that stood on straw legs of its own, and was just at her elbow whenever she wanted to use it; it was bronze and gold color, braided in a quaint and curious pattern. No one knew exactly what it contained, although it was pretty full, till one day it was upset and the contents dispersed all over the carpet. Everybody of course scrambled to find and pick them up, and thus were brought to light a host of unfortunate articles that had vainly been awaiting the finishing touch for six months or more. There was a doll’s hat, the crown hanging by just two stitches, from which a long thread still dangled, precisely as she had left it, when, losing her needle, she had gone to beg another, and, finding Freddie playing horse in the nursery with a string and a chain, allowed herself to be put into harness, and the hat to be laid upon the shelf, so to speak. There was a doll’s dress 'half sewed on the waist, another record of delay ; there lay a rag-baby losing flesh, or sawdust rather, daily, from a ghastly hole in one foot, the result of 'a defect in its constitution that had never been properly remedied; a needle-book, which needed sadly to turn over a new leaf, like its mistress ; a spool hag that had never fulfilled its destiny; a Zouave with one arm and no legs; a soldier’s sock down at the heel in every sense, the yam having been broken off and entangled wofully with a skein of blue sewing-silk and a mass of pink crochet-cotton, backed by the germ of a Crocheted mat. There was a cotton-flannel rabbit with one eye; a book-mark that would probably never mark anything hut Dilly-dally’s sad habit; a velvet butterfly impaled on the passive needle, looking as if it had just burst from the crysalis, and had lost a wing in the struggle; a pin cushion that seemed likely to turn itself inside out; the skeleton of a cardboard cradle; and a pen-wiper merely cut out. You may imagine what she had to endure on the event of that catas- trophe—how they all laughed and joked about these unfinished articles, and how she tried to defend herself by saying that Fanny Gray came in just as she was getting on nicely with the butterfly—that she was just going ‘ to sew up the hole in the rag-doll’s foot —that Rosa didn’t need the dress right away—that the hat had gone quite out of fashion—and as for the cradle, Rosa had grown too old to use one; all of which excuses did not mend matters, for her, mother, said, “I bought you this pretty basket, my dear, in hopes it would make you industrious; hut now that you have used it so ill, I shall take it away until every article begun here is well finished.” ■ And Dilly-dally cried herself into a head ache, a favorite custom of hers whenever she meant to have her own way,* and one which she had too often found successful not to be overcome with dismay when it proved no longer available. Nevertheless, she needed a few more lessons in the tactics of ad- versity to effect a reform in her habits. Dilly-dally was invited one day to a grand picnic; they were to get into the cars for a few minutes, when they would suddenly find themselves trans ported, as if by Witchcraft, out of the gray city, into the most delightful country-side, where the blue sky was endless, as well as the green pasture lands, and where groves of oak-trees offered as cool and beautiful a retreat as any Gothic palace. She was to go, and what would she not enjoy! She would hear the birds sing, free and bold, not at all like the poor old blind canary, who always sang a little as ifi he expected some one to clap him; she would see the brooks that were always running away from home, and seemed in such a hurry to get down hill and; to take short cuts across the fields, — the merry brooks, that al ways laughed,! no matter what fell out, and that the loudest when the day was darkest and the way stoniest, —-the brooks that were J like “traps to catch sunbeams.” 0 yes! and the air would be fragrant ( with clover and wild-rose; and the ' reapers would be out iq* the meadows J !. cutting the long grasses and setting free the hived-up odors; and, O' ecstasy ! she would wear her new pink lawn 1 I don’t dare to tell how long she lay awake thinking about it all, nor how late she awoke in the‘morning, having gone to the picnic in her dreams, but without her shoes and stockings. It is due to her to say, however, that she neither engaged in shopping nor mantua-making while dressing; but, overhearing a whisper to the effect that her kitten had caught its first mouse, she could not forbear j to throw on her wrapper and steal j down the back stairs to pat the kitten for her wonderful exploit j and once there, puss must have some milk as due desert, and cook declared she must wait till it was skimmed; and then, as the cook was picking over berries for preserves, she inust assist sufficently to stain her hands and spill a dishful over her spick-and-span skirts. .And when she was all dressed anew, there was her luncheon-basket to pack, which her mother had directed her to ask Bridget to do the night before, but which Dilly-dally had put off doing till to-morrow; then, at the last moment she must run up stairs for her sunshade, and, on her way, tuck Rosa into bed for fear she would come to grief if left at large, and rush over to Fanny Gray’s to see if Fanny’s mother was really going to be so cruel as to keep her at home. And when at length she arrived at the station, it was plain that the cars, as well as time and tide, waited for nobody—they had been gone just one moment! Birds and brooks and haymakers, and wide per fumed fields and bowers of oak-leaves aJff lost in that one moment! “ J am very sorry for you,” said her mother, when she returned; “that one little squandered minute was all you needed to reach the station in time Can you tell whereabouts you lost it ( Was it at Fanny Gray’B, or tucking Rosa into bed?” “Perhaps so," murmured the contrite Dilly-dally; “but I think it. was lost last* night, where I played at catch a minute in the hall,'when you had sent me for Bridget to pack my luncheon, instead j” THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN. THURSDAY, MARCH 29, 1866. Some time after this, a gentleman who had been travelling in South America brought her a present of two beautiful cardinal-birds, whose bright, eager eyes seemed mightily inquisitive concerning the new state of things, and who sat all day bunched up on their perch, while one wpuld n<*w moodily pipe a' homesick strain', as though he asked his companion in metre if it were possible that they were not birds bewitched. Dilly-dally took great pleasure in watching them, they had such pretty ways of pluming them selves, such brilliant scarlet crowns, with half-handkerchiefs of the same color coming down in a peak on their breasts; and she wished a hundred times that they would sing “just as if they were at home, and nothing had happened.” “ They miss their freedom among the magnolia and oleander trees of the South,” said her mother. “0, but mayn’t I let one of them out, and see if he will sing in your rose geranium tree?” So she carried the cage to the flower stand, and opened the tiny wire door, and invited one of the cardinals to a propaenade, or, in bird language, 10 a wing. The poor birct lookecFaskance at the open door, put out his head, took a bird’s-eye view of the location, after the manner of one .who has “ seen the world,” and flew into the nearest plant with one wild trill of melody, like a fountain in the air. A ray of sunlight burnished the green''leaves and his scarlet vest, while his nervous motion shook down the perfume that nestles no one knows where. Put him back into the cage now,” said her mother, after he had picnicked on the geranium some time. Puss may happen in.” \ “In a minute,” replied Dillydally. “You had better not delay.” • “ A minute can’t make much differ ence, mamma.” , But as she spoke, the bird—having by short flights from plant to platt got up a belief in liberty, no wYpreadlts wings, whirred across the room, alight ed one instant on the old time-piece, as if to signify, “We are both of a piece, Time and I: that is to say, we fly, we elude you ” —gave one farewell chirrup, and sailed boldly 1 out at a window that had been left open—the very window Dilly-dally had been told to ejose some time before, and in delaying had for gotten about. Dilly-dally saw him glance along in the sun, take breath on a neighborhood spire, heard him drop her a merry rondeau, and from that day to this their acquaintance has ceased; hjs deserted mate grew jaekm choly, refused-to * eat, -and \so dropped off her perch. , When the gentleman who had Brought them'came to hear about it all, he said to Dilly-dally, “ Would you like a parrot?” “ 0, so much, sir!” “A parrot of splendid plumage, a parrot that can learn to talk ?” "O, how nice 1” cried she, clapping her hands. “ A parrot that will sing, if you don’t take care,” he continued, 11 ‘ Cruel, cruel Dilly-dally, To treat me so, to treat me so!' ” Dilly-dally was silent. “ Yery well,” said he, “ \ am going back to South America to-morrow. I shall be gone twelve months; when I come home, if you have lost the name of Dilly-dally, then you shall have just such a parrot; otherwise, you know, I should be afraid you would neglect to feed him.” “ I will try,” she promised, hanging her head. “ You see,” on to say, “ I am in a way responsible for its’well-being. I bring it hundreds of miles away from its country and kind; for the gay forest of the South, I give it solitary confinement. Let me then be sure that, in intrusting it to your care, it shall enjoy all the little privileges to which a prisoner is entitled; that it shall have a careful jailer, who will never dilly-dally about providing it with figs and apples.” * The twelve months 'not yet I pa-gsp.fl, and I have to record the com pletion by Dilly-dally of several of the | articles contained in her forfeited w6rk- ! basket, among which is tile Butterfly, developed into a Purplfe Emperor, while the invalid doll has been at the needle-cure, and is now * buxom as doll need be. So she is keeping her promise, and the name "Ipilly-dally ” is becoming so odious to j her that I expect daily to see it drop <?ff from her like an ugly garment, and that she I will emerge the Pink of Propriety.—- \Mdry if. Prescott, in “ Our Young Folks.” THE LITTLE BOY’S PRAYER. A dear little boy never closed his eyes at night without repeating these verses. They are, you gee, a little prayer iu poetry. He did riot say them thoughtlessly —he felt every Word; and God answered the prayer by giving him His grace and making him a little believer. Lord, look upon a little child, By nature sinful, rude, and wild; 0 put thy gracious hands on me, And make me all I oughtto he. Make me thy child, a child of God, _ - gashed in my Saviour’s precious blood; And my whole sonl, from sin set tree, A little vessel full of thee. 0 Jesus, take me to thy breast. And bless me, that I may be tiesi , Both when I wake, and when 1 sleep, Wilt thou my soul in safety keep [For the American Presbyterian.] * MY NEED MY ONLY CLAIM. BY MRS. SARAH F. HERBERT, A day of anguish, grief, and fear, — My husband far away ! They ask, “What shall we telegraph? Tell us what words to say.” “ I need thee' ’ whispered my pale lips ’ “ Say but these words alone; ' On swiftest wings of loving haste, . My need will bring him home.” A day of anguish, grief, and fear, — My Saviour far away 1 “ What prayer, what message for the throne?’ . The guardian angels say. “Dare not to pray,” the tempter cried “ God knows thy heart of sin, And Sees, nor love, nor hope, nor faith, Nor penitence, within.” I cried, (my heart with anguish fent, — My coid, hard heart of stone,) “I\need Thee, Lord!" The angels bore My message to the throne. On swiftest wings of joyful haste, My God, my Saviour came, Enfolding me with deathless love; My need my only claim. SHALL I GO TO THE OPERA? Charlie C is about sixteen years of age. His parents are con sidered ricb. He has attended the best schools, and has every opportu nity for improvement and enjoyment that the son of wealthy parents could desire'; and Charlie is a Christian. He loves to pray. He has been re ceived into the church as a member, and reads carefully the Bible, to learn how a young Christian ought to live. He is really a beautiful example in his daily life for older persons. This does not make Charlie an unpleasant companion. Everybody seems to love him. He is anxious to make all around him happy, He is full of innocent fun. He enjoys a good .round laugh as well as any little gentleman that I know. But he is as true to his conscience and the Bible as the needle of the compass is to the North Pole. In a large company of young friends, collected one evening at the residence of a gentleman of wealth, , a young lady asked him; “if he had been to hear Forrest.” She referred to Edwin Forrest, the noted actor, at that time engaged at one of the most popular theatres of the city. "0 no j” said Charlie. • “What! have not heard Forrest?” j - “No, never.” , “ Every body hears him.” " I have not.” “ Why have you not heard him?” I “I do.not attend the theatre.” L The buzz of conversation, ceased raTOtmd The" youAg lady and Charlie: They were anxious to hear how he would come out of the discussion. They were all his companions, very fashionable young people, attended the same church many of them, and it was a trying place for the young protes tant against the theatre. But he stood his ground without flinching or blush ing. He had a reason for his course which he was perfectly willing to give. “You attend the opera sometimes, do you not ?” his elegantly dressed and beautiful questioner continued. I “Never!” was the unhesitating an swer. “ What objection have you to going ? Church members go,” continued the young lady, determined not to give over her catechism until she had drawn Charlie into close quarters. Now, Charlie might have very natu rally and properly answered, “My parents do not approve of my going,” as a young person would, if he bad no other reason to offer. But Charlie did his own thinking, and worked out the . conclusion in his own mind from what he had seen with his own eyes. He might have said that he had heard that the influence of such places was j anything but good; that many young persons were ruined by them; that very vile persons, as well as those that were respectable, attended them; that the character of play-actors was said to be very bad; that many of the pop ular plays and operas were decidedly immoral ; all this he might have said, but he had not been over this in his own mind. But he did say this, and (some older persons heard him, and I were struck with his answer:— ; “ I have noticed this,” said Charlie, “that the best persona I know—the truest Christians—those that are doing the most good, and are the most active in the religious services—never attend such places. I have also noticed that those that do go are not fond of prayer- I meetings, and are not those found, laboring in the Sabbath-school, and ready for every good work. This is the reason why I have preferred not to | attend the theatre and opera.” It was simply and honestly spoken, and there was not a word to be said in opposition to it. There was not one, i even of that gay company, but knew i this to be true. And there was not one of them that did not respect the I manly stand taken by Charlie, and ap ■ J prove his decisions in their hearts, ;j although few of them might have the the courage or piety to follow his ex ample. , It has never been written that one person has been made more generous, more truthful, more beloved of God and man, by attending these places of amusement; but it has been recorded that hundreds have fallen into habits of dishonesty, prodigality, and intem perance by yielding to the seductive influence of the theatre. One may he equally as cheerful, as eloquent of speech, as fond of music, certainly as lovely and pious, without ever enter ing these places of amusement, which good men, from the beginning of them, have looked upon as only hurtful. Zion's Herald. PLEASANT HOMES. The homes of America will not be come what they should be untiha true idea of life shall become more widely implanted. The worship of the dollar does more to degrade American homes than anything'—than all things else. The chief end of life is to gather gold, and that gold is counted lost which hangs a picture upon the wall, which purchases flowers for the yard, which buys a toy or a book for the eager hand of childhood. Is this the whole of human life? Then it is a mean, meagre, and most undesirable thing. A child will go forth from a stall, glad to find free - air and a wider pas ture. The influence of such a home upon him in after life, will be just none at all, or nothing good. Thou sands are rushing from homes like these every year. They crowd into cities. They crowd into villages. They swarm into all places where life is clothed with a higher significance; and the old shell of home is deserted by every bird as soon as it can fly. Ancestral homesteads and patrimonial acres have no sacredness; and when the father and mother die, the stran ger’s money and the stranger’s pres ence obliterate associations that should be among the most sacred of all things.' I would have, you build up for yourselves, and for your - children, a home that will never be parted with — a home which will be to all whose lives have been associated with it, the most interesting, precious spot on earth. I would have that home the abode of dignity, beauty, grace, love, genial fellowship and happy associa tions. Out from such a heme I would have good influences flow into neigh borhoods. In such a home I would see ambition taking root, and receiving all generous culture. And then I would see you young husbands, and young wives, happy. Do not deprive yourselves of such influences as will come through an institution like this. No money can pay you for such a de privation. No circumstances but those of utter poverty can justify you in denying these influences to your chil dren.—Timothy Titcomh. THE WHITE WATER-LILY. At the- bottom of a mild, dark, muddy lake there lay a very small Toot. The mud covered it, the Ash swam over it, the frogs hid under it, and once a great moose actually trod on it. , . " O dear!” said the little root, talk ing to itself; “ how dark and lonesome it is down here! Hardly a ray of light comes to me. They tell me it is light and beautiful up above me, and there is a lovely sky there; but the heavy waters lie on me and press me down. Nobody ever thinks of me, or ever knows that I live. lam a poor, useless thing. I can’t communicate with any one —can’t do good to any one. I might as well not be.” The snow covered the earth and filled the forest, afid the ice covered the lake, and there lay the little root, coiled up in its loneliness. But when the spring had returned, and the snows *were gone, and the ice had melted, and the birds had come, and the forest had put on its mantle of green, the little root felt that the water was warmer, and she peeped up with one eye, and then she nestled and felt a strong desire to see the light. So she shot up a long, smooth, beautiful stem, till it reached the top of the lake. But when she attempted to draw it in again, she found it would not come. But instead of that, a little bud grew on the end of the stem. She called, but the bud gave no answer; it only swelled, and grew larger and larger; and the rains fell on it, and the sun and the moon seemed to smile on it and cheer it, till at last it burst open, full of joy, and found itself the white, sweet, pure water-lily. Its leaves were of the purest white; while in its centre was a golden spot, cov ered with down. It lay upon the top of the water and basked in the sun— a most beautiful object. The root fed it, and felt that it was really herself, though in a new form. The humming bird paused over it, and thrust in its little bill to suck its sweetness. The air all around was made sweet by its fragrance. Still it felt that it was of no /use in the world, and wished it could do something to make others happy. At length the splashing ot oars was heard, and the little lily turned round to see what it meant. Just then she heard the voice of a little boy in the boat, saying— “o, father, what a beautiful lily Do let me get it!” Then the boat turned slowly towarc it, and the little, boy put out his hanc and seized it. The long stem broke off near the root, and the child held it in his hand. It seemed the fairest, sweetest thing he ever saw. “Now, what will you do with it?” asked the father. “I’ll look at it and smell of it.” “Is there nobody else that woulc like to see "it and smell of it?” “I don’t know, sir. 0! yes; now I think. Would not Jane Irving like to have it ?” “ I think she would.” That atternoon poor Jane Irving, who lived in the cottage just under the maple-trees, lay on her sick-bed alone. She was a poor, motherless child. She knew she had the con sumption, and must die. , She was thinking about the dark, cold grave, and wondering how Christ could ever open it and make her come out. A tear stood in each eye, just as the little boy came to her bedside with the white water-lily. “ See here, Jane; I got that away out in the lake, and brought it for you. I thought yon would like it.” “Thank yon, thank you! It is indeed very beautiful and very sweet. What a long stem! Where did it grow?” ' “It grew out of tie mud in the bottom of the lake; and this long stem—as long as a man—shows how far down it grew. It was all alone—• not another one to be seen. I am glad you like it; but I must go.” And away ran the little boy. Jane held the pure, white flower in her hand; and the good Spirit seemed to whisper in her heart, “Jane, Jane, don’t yon see what God can do? Don’t you see that out of dark, foul mud He can bring out a thing more beautiful than the garments of a queen, and as pure as an angel’s wing?—and can’t He also from the dark grave raise up your body pure and beautiful and glorious? Can you doubt it?” And then a voice seemed to say, “ I ; am the Resurrection and the Life;” ! and the heart of the poor child was filled with faith, and the aDgel of hope wiped away her tears, and the little lily preached of peace and mercy. When it withered, she thanked God that nothing need be useless.— Rev. John Todd, D.D. DRINK TO THE GLORY Uf GOD. A highlander, a great drunkard, was led to attend a tehnperance lecture and to take the pledge of total abstinence. It cost him great and fierce struggles to keep it, but he kept it Aanfully, and not long after the good seed of the word of God sprung up in his reformed heart, and he became a sincere Chris tian. Not having any settled occupa tion, and wishing to support himself, he managed by the help of some friends to get a little stock of trinkets and set himself up as a peddler. Happening to travel near Balmoral while the queen was staying there, he bethought him to try to get the queen’s patron age, and, by the help of his honest face and the good will of the Earl of Car lisle,' he -succeeded. The queen pur chased some ( of his wares, and gave him permission to wear the royal arms as the queen’s peddler. He left her presence with a happy heart and a heavy purse, but before being dis missed from the house the Earl offered him a glass of wine with which to drink the queen’s health. It was a great temptation, but Donald uttered silent prayer, and then bravely said: " I can not drink the queen’s health in wine, but I will drink it in water.” This called forth an explanation; the Earl commended his reasons, and Donald left, thanking-God for grace to enable him to “ drink to the glory of God.” And surely if the poor High lander could show such Christian courage, how much more should our Sunday-school boys stand firm when a New Year’s call or the banter of a rude playmate, tempts them to “ drink” not “to the glory of God.” —Sunday School Journal. A PARABLE. A certain tyrant sent for one of his subjects, and said to him, “ What is your employment ?” He said, “I am a blacksmith.” “Go home,” said he, “ and make me a chain of such a length.” ‘He went home; it occupied him several months, and he had no wages all the time he was making it. Then he brought it to the monarch, and he said, “ Go and make it twice as long." He gave him nothing to do it with, but sent him away. Again he worked on, and made it twice as long. He brought it up again, and the mon arch said, “Go and make it longer still.” Bach time he brought it, there was nothing but the command to make it longer still. And when be brought it up at last, the monarch said, “ Take it, bind him hand and foot with it, and cast him into a furnace of fire.” These were his wages for making the chain. Here is a meditation for you to night, ye servants of the devil I Your master, the devil, is telling you to make a chain. Some of you have been fifty years welding the links of the chain; and he says, “ Go and make it longer still.” Next Sabbath morn ing you will open that shop of yours, and put another, link on; next Sab bath you will be drunk and put an other link on ; next Monday you will do. a dishonest action; and so you will keep on making fresh links to this chain; and when you have lived twenty more years, the devil will say, “More links on still I” And then, at last, it will be, “Take him and bind him hand and foot, and cast him into a furnace of fire.” “ For the wages of sin is death.” There is a subject for your meditation. I do not think it will be sweet ; but if God ’makes it profitable, it will do you good. You must have strong medicine sometimes, when the disease is bad. God apply it to hearts. — Spurgeon.
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