family; ®iwk CHRISTIAN JOT- [Written by a poor colored woman of this city, f® r eight years paralysed and prostrated with pam, but an intelligent, gifted and humble believer.] “Count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations.” I’ve often feared my Christian vow was no sincere profession, Because the Spirit’s varied fruits were not in my pos- session ; Love, joy,—Alt! there I fain must stop; I had no claim to gladness, My tried and tempted soul was wrapt in sorrow’s garb of sadness ; Because the glowing fruit of joy was not to me im- parted, I feared the Holy Ghost had gone, and left mo broken hearted. It was on ignorant, rash thought,—God’s mercy fail eth never! He sent to me a messenger, (whom may heaven bleBS forever;) Who knowing not my faithless grief, bade me account Temptation Itself for joy, and told me to rejoice in Tribulation! The Temple of the Holy Ghost was not then left for saken, But grief must he accounted joy, and woe glad praise awaken. What though I enter Heavenly rest thro' much keen tribulation, Still will my heart rejoice in Thee, Oi God of my salvation! When first I feel some piercing wound, I know quick tear-drops starting, Might seem complaining to denote; but when surprise departing, Leaveth my spirit calm and clear, the thoughtful im pulse welling From the heart’s depths, in thankfulness, to fervent praise ia swelliug. For many a sharp aud aocret wound is given me while bending Beneath the yoke, so good to bear, while youth its strength is lending. But never yet had any pang the power to pierce so keenly, r That after the first shock was past, my soul coaid not serenely Bless God with deep, warm, gratitude; for every bit ter sorrow, If recognized as sent by Him, joy's soothing light will borrow. And well it is so, else my life had little worth desir ing, For hopes of earthly happiness, for me, are all ex piring : No proßpect of delight is shown in yoars stretched out before me, But many threat’ning shadows cast a pall of sorrow o'er me. Youth’s pleasant time is fleeting by,—sweet health long since departed And left no. promiso of return to cheer the heavy hearted. Yet this with many another grief, within my heart deep hidden, , Must be accounted for all joy—so hath the Master bidden. My soul is willing to obey; but ah! the flesh thro’ weakness, Too often clogs the readiness of humble faith and meekness. The earthly nature shrinks from pain, and cometk near despising, Through ignoranoe and fcarfulness, God's sternly kind chastising. * while He aeesj hie discipline alone can fit the Spirit For that fair realm of blessedness His children shall inherit, He will not, in His tender love, withdraw the keen correotion We need to help ns to make sure our calling and elec tion ; 6 wi 2! no . t raise k* s hand to quench the furnace of amiotion ’Till we, refined and purified, have won its benedic tion ! Thou, Mighty Lord ! wilt not despise a heart by trial broken: If contrite, then the healing word already hath b"cn spoken. Sin is our only real foe, and when Thy grace hath stricken The poison souroe of all our woes, new life our souls will quicken; And with the human cry of pain in mystic concert blending, Shall sound the spirit-tone of joy, in praise to God ascending. “ JUD&E NOT." In the village where my father is pastor, lives Miss Dora, a pious old lady, who serves the Lord with every action, and praises Him with every breath of her life, and who dwells quietly and peacefully among her neighbors. Several years ago, my father gave her ten dollars, with which to pay an old debt, con tracted by her deceased brother, which weighed heavily on her faithful heart. To satisfy her scruples, he said, smiling: “When better times come, Miss Dora, you can repay the money,”—though the meaning of his words was contradicted by his quickly tearing up the written acknowl edgment with which she had come pre pared. r Tears of thankfulness stood in Dora’s eyes; yet not by them alone, but by deeds, was her gratitude displayed. It was but a Bhott time after this, that the village gossips began to comment upon the unusual stinginess of Miss Dora’s conduct; it was rumored that she was growing so mi serly as not even to allow herself a morsel of meat throughout the whole week. Sur prised at the repoit, so inconsistent with the known character of the pious woman, and knowing my father’s warm partiality for her, I at first discredited it; but the facts which came to my ears, on good authority, led me at last, however unwillingly, to believe that it must be true. Last year, a terrible conflagration oc curred in the town of B— , the conse quences of which, to many poor families, called for the assistance of all who possessed the means and the will to aid them. My father sent me to solicit charitable gifts among bis people. As I was passing Do ra’s house, it occurred to me to call on the "poor old woman, with the design, only half acknowledged- to myself, of judging perso- THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY, APRIL 9, 1868. nally of the truth or falsehood of the re ports I had heard. She welcomed me most cordially, and I already began to feel ashamed of my mean suspicions, when dear old Dora, learning the motive of my visit, joy fully opened her little closet. I thought of the widow’s mite; but just then, unfortu nately, while the old woman’s trembling hand counted out to me a shilling in pennies, my curious eye fell upon another little box, in which, among other silver coins, several hard dollars were shining. The sight pained me. “ Miserly indeed, then !” I thought, and took/leave of the . grey-haired cottager rather coolly. What shame was in store for me! One afternoon, some months-later, Dora came to my father with a very joyful face; taking from her pocket a little box, she counted out five dollars on the table before him, and, with a warm pressure of his hand, said, “Dear pastor, allow your old debtor the pleasure of repaying half your kind loan! oh, you cannot know, with what joy I have looked forward to this hour!” My father urged her to take back the money, and pressed her to tell him how she had collected a sum so large for her, —well knowing that her tedious spinning scarcely sufficed to pay her rent and supply her daily necessities. “-It was very easy,” said old Dora. “In stead of using the milk of my goat myself, I sold it. In the morning I drank water; for my dinner I had water soup, and learned to do without coffee, as well as without the piece of meat which I used to have every Sunday So now, with two years’ savings, I can pay you half the debt, without ever having had to refuse a morsel of bread to a beggar at my door. Oh, the same good and faithful Lord who never suffered the widow’s cruse of oil to fail, nor her measure of meal to become empty, has extended His merci ful hand over my poor cottage, —and though it is true I have sometimes been hungry, yet my strength has never given way—He will not leave me to starve!” My father accepted with moistened eyes and a heart full of emotion, the return which her love and gratitude urged upon him,—who could have withstood her? Nor could she he by any means persuaded to consider the remainder of the debt as re mitted. Deeply ashamed of my thoughtless anc short-sighted judgment, I felt heartily thank ful to my father for the privilege of carry ing to the pious Dora, the basket which my mother has every Saturday loaded with pro visions from our store-room. In giving or receiving, her loving spirit is ever -manifest ted. I shall not soon forget her cheerful look, when last week she showed me the first dollar she'had been able to lay aside, toward the remaining half of the debt. “It is very easy now for me to save, my dear Agatha,” she said, since through the kindness of your parents, I am never hun gry*” I could not but confess to her the story of my idle suspicions,—l wept, and begged her forgiveness. Miss Dora laid her old, wrinkled hand kindly on my head, and said, “Judge not, that ye be not judged!” —Reformed Ohureh Messenger. ABBABOKRASADEKI. This is not a common name, and some of my readers will, probably, not be able at once to pronounce it. I hope, however, they will be so much interested in what I am about to tell them, that they will try to master this hard word, and often call it to mind. Abbabokrasadeki was the son of a chief who lived on the western coast of Africa when the slave-trade was extensively carried on. Among those stolen by the wicked slave-hunters, from father and mother, home and friends, was this little boy. Whether the man-stealers had overcome his father, the chief, in battle, or whether they had surprised his native village dnringthe night, or by some other treachery’'got possession of him, Ido not know; but when eleven years of age he was torn away from nil,..that was dear to him, driven down to the sea-coast, put on hoard a slave ship along with mafiy others who shared the same unhappy lotj and carried over the wide waters, to spend the remainder of his days in cruel bondage, under the lash of the slave-driver. Happily such things are no longer done without an attempt to prevent them on the part of Eng land and other strong nations ; who have in a good measure succeeded in their benevo lent work. I must now tell you, in order that you may understand the following story, that in the country from which Abbabokrasadeki was carried away, the chiefs, and those im mediately about them, were accustomed to speak a language different .from the common people; just as, in the courts of European nations, Kings and Queens, and the nobility, until quite lately, were in the habit of speak ing the French language, whatever their own might be. This little boy, therefore, though so young, had learned a language which ordinary people did not understand ; and this was one sign of his superior rank. This language was Arabic, one of the most ancient tongues in the world and one of the most widely-spread. It is spoken, or under stood, by people in a superior condition of life, over a large part of the continent of Africa, as -well as in Arabia and the East. This is owing to Arabic-speaking traders, some of whom Dr. Livingstone, the great traveller, tells us he met with far in the in terior of Africa, in most unexpected places, in the course of his journeys. Through what sufferings Abbabokrasadeki passed, on the voyage, in the stifling hold of the ship,—what he felt when he thought of the home from which he was stolen away, —brothers, sisters, mother, and father, — and of the freedom which he had now lost, apparently for ever, —I must not stay to tell you, or the history will be too long. On reaching the West Indies, having survived the dangers and horrors of the passage, he was sold to a planter, who owned a large estate and many slaves. Here he did his work so well, and betrayed such thought fulness, that he was soon put into a position of trust, and was thus relieved of the bodily toil and drudgery which others had to un dergo. From one post to another the son of the African chief rose, until he was ap pointed book-keeper to the whole estate, in which office he became intimately acquainted with everything relating to his master’s pro perty. You will be pleased when I tell you that Abbabokrasadeki had kept up, as well as he could, in all his wanderings and suffer ings, the knowledge of Arabic, which he had learned while very young. When left, as he now was, pretty much to himself, —for the planter reposed great confidence in him, —what did he do hut keep the books in that strange language! I think, if you saw the written letters of its alphabet, you would be as much at a loss as Abbabokrasadeki’s owner was to understand a page, or a line, of his own accounts. After some time the master was in many respects, entirely in the hands of his slave, who knew all about his property better than he did himself. But though a slave, who had been so deeply wronged in his having been stolen, and sold and bought like the beasts that perish, he was faithful to his trust, and'strove to do his duty to the satisfaction of his own con science. This was a pleasant change for the poor boy from the state in which he first reached the slave-plantation; but, better still, it by and-by appeared that he had lost an earthly father to find a heavenly one, and an earthly home for the hope of a more enduring one — the “city which hath foundations, whose Maker and Builder is Grod.” You know what I mean. The Gospel of which he had never heard in Africa, he did hear proclaimed in the land of his bondage; and God’s Holy Spirit brought it with power to his heart. When Abbabokrasadeki was told of the “pearl of great price,” he went, sold all that he had, and “bought it.” He was converted, and was now happier than he had ever been before^ One day a slave-merchant called on the planter who showed him over his estate. On entering the counting-house, and casting his eyes on the books which lay open on the desk, the stranger was surprised at the ap pearance of the handwriting. He had never seen anything like it before, and, on com ing close to examine; the page, found he could not read a single entry in it. Some inquiry was made, when the master gave so high a character of his clerk, that the mer chant there and then offered to purchase him at any-price. Here wa3 a sad blow to poor Abbabokrasadeki, who feared that, if gold, he should not elsewhere be so well treated. But God did not permit his good character to be the means of throwing him into trouble and distress; for the planter re fused to part with him on any terms what ever; and not only so, but, not long after, in consideration of his faithful services, and as a proof of his high esteem, gave him his liberty, kindly keeping still in his employ, and paying him well for his services. Abbabokrasadeki was now more than re compensed,; thanks to the providence of God which was over him, for his early bereave ment and, sorrows. He had crossed the ocean in bondage, but was at length his own master, and what was far better, he had been made spiritually free by the power of the Gospel which he had embraced. After some time, circumstances were so far altered, that his friend the planter, seemed to have no further claim upon him. What do you suppose he how did ? Take another situation, or set up in business for himself, or become a merchant? None of these things. His heart, turned towards the land of his birth. Happily, he thought, his aged parents "mi glit still be alive; at all events, some of his nearest relatives would be; and, moreover, for home and its, associations, still sp attractive, as seen to the eyes of his boyhohd. he felt a strong desire to make known terhis kindred and countrymen the “ unsearchable riches of Christ.” To do this he traversed the deep once more, at the hazard of > .again being seized by the man stealer, and 'again be ing sold into an involuntary servitude. The last tidings which the who gave his history to the writer, had heSrd of him, many years ago, was, that “Ab-' babokrasadeki had gone far away into the interior of the unexplored continent of Af rica, preaching where the Gospel had never been heard, and where the white man had never trod.” Whether he ever found his friends, father and mother, brothers and sisters, we cannot tell. Most likely the family had been diminished by death, or scattered by war and the ravages of the slave-dealer. But who can tell how many, beneath the sultry sun of the tropics, far away in dense forests, or wandering over the boundless plains of the interior of that unexplored land, have listened to the herald of the cross, so strangely sent to them from the distant West, and have been made happy in the knowledge of the Saviour and the love of God ! I am sure, after you have read thishis tory, you will feel grateful to God for His goodness to the friendless slave. You will also see once more, I think, the importance of treasuring up all useful knowledge you can; since, if you are bent upon improve ment, and are industrious, it is certain to be at one time or another, of service either to yourselves or to others. It was not that Abbahokrasadki learned Arabic, but that he remembered and used it, which, under Pro vidence, was the occasion of his obtaining such influence with his master, and of his gaining, ultimately, his own freedom.—Eng lish Magazine. THE FIFTY FIEST PSALM. Since the publication of Gray’s Elegy, the fifty-first Psalm of David has been transla ted into' all the languages of the civilized world. Hew versions of it, in the English, French, and German tongues, have been multiplied beyond all former precedent. So soon as the language of a pagan tribe has been reduced'to writing, it has been made the vehicle for carrying this Psalm to the Pagan miad. When the “ Elegy ” is trans lated, it parts with many of its original beau ties; but this Psalm retains its glow and power when it is transfered to even the ru dest language of the rudest.men. It is the favorite Psalm of slaves and freemen, the poor and the rich, the ignorant and the learned. Some of the most beautiful pas sages in modern literature have been sugges ted by it; some of the choicest hymns in our devotional poetry are founded on it. Its . words have been repeated by men as they were dying on the battle-field, in prisons, on the scaffold, and also by the kings of the earth as they were breathing out their life in their palaces, and by tho ministers of re ligion as they were bidding farewell to their churches. It was the sacred poem of the Jews ; it has been the still more sacred poem of Christians ; it promises to be more and more the fresh utterance of good men in all tribes and all times. In what manner, now, had David been educated for composing—and he had no leisure for spending eight years -in compos ing—the Psalm which was to touch the sen sibilities of the race ? We first hear of him as pursuing the occcupation ordinarily as signed “to females, or to slaves, or to the despised of the family.” He is represented to us as carrying in his hand a switch or wand, and as carrying around hi§ neck a Scrip or wallet. We read of him as in a con flict with the lion and the bear, as fighting with the giant, as a busy warrior, a fugitive and outlaw, a statesman, a king. He lived in a dark and barbarous age, not only with out the aid of universities and libraries, but without the stimulus of literary companions or a refined public sentiment. Still the poem which he indicted will live, when the poem written by a master of the sciences and of the arts will have been forgotten, and the Psalm will speak to the heart of millions while the beautiful Elegy will be speaking to a select few, and the Psalm will be the more highly prized, as the sentiment of man becomes the more choice and pure. On what theory shall we explain this dif ference between the ancient and the modern poem 7 Yarious theories have been invent ed, but that one which most easily explains the disparity, is that the modern poet wrote under the impulse, of his own genius, and under the influences of his multifarious learning; but the ancient poet was elevated above his own ingenuity by communion with the divine mind, ana his powers were spiritualized by the inspiration of God, more than they could have been by the largest human erudition. —Professor Park. COME TO JESUS. Christ has waited long enough—too long—for you already. Accept him at once! When the leper came to him for healing, the Master bade him “go show himself to tho priest,” and report himself cured. The suffering creature did not stop to count his loathsome “scabs,” or to pull off a single “ scale" from his frightful face. Ho asked no questions either, but set off at once as directed; and we read that “as he went he was healed.” The path of obedi ence was the path of his salvation. When Christ found Andrew, and James, and John on the lake-shore of Galilee, he said to them, “Follow me.” They obeyed the authori tative call, and straightway followed him; He did not come twice after them, nor did he need to speak twice to them. JFhey for sook their nets, their homes, their kindred, and entered at once upon a career of self denying toil, whiclfgradaaliy grew into the mightiest-mission: for God and humanity that was ever intrusted to mortafhands and hearts. Just imagine that those men had said no, instead of yes. But they did not even sit down to weep over their sins, or stop fo chaffer with the Saviour about the profits of the trade they; were abandoning. The gripe of that com mand, “ Follow me,” was like the gripe of a hand of steel clothed in velvet; it was soft, but strong. They rose up, quit their nets, and set off immediately on a march :of toil and humiliation, which led to martyr dom on earth, and to a crown of unfading gloryin the presence of God and the holy angels. You, too, must forsake your “ net.” It is your favorite sin. Perhaps many a sin * but often a single besetting sin is ! a “ net" that entangles a soul in its meshes, and un less that net is forsaken, the soul can not follow the Master. What is your net? God knows, and so do you. Perhaps others have seen yOur hinderance in a sparkling glass which fashion or appetite keeps on your table. Break that glass, or it mky break your heart in the world of woe. Wo have seen more awakened sinners drawn back to impenitence through the stress of sensual temptation than by any other de vice of the devil. The decanter, the card table, and the play-house are damning more souls to-day than all the infidelity on the globe. Perhaps your “ net” is a complicity with dishonest dealing. You may be making money against the protest of conscience. Perhaps you are held back by fear of your associates; you seek to live on good terms with sinners, and to die on good terms with God. This canDOt be done. He who takes up no cross shall wear no crown. But sup pose that some irreligious friend does stare at you, or sneer; it may be that some other one may be startled out of his thoughtless ness by your fearless standing up for Jesus, aßd you may save a soul unawares. Do right, and leave consequences to God. We cannot specify all the “nets” of fa vorite sins, or indulged cavils and doubts, which our thousands of readers may bo clinging to; no matter what the hinderance, so that it keeps you from Christ. A man may be crushed by an avalanche, or poi soned by an atom of strychnine; each one takes life! And the sin that keeps you from Jesus takes your life for all eternity! The only true repentance is an abandon ment of known sin. The. only true faith is the entire yielding of the soul to Jesus for salvation. The 'two make up evangelical conversion. And sincere coming to Jesus embraces the two. This vital step may be attended with poignant distress of mind, or it may not. This will depend on your tem perament and on the methods of the Holy Spirit’s work. Do not be anxious about the degree of your distress. Tears do not save, Christ does. Wait for nothing. Wait for no one. Jußt begin to serve Jesus in the first duty that comes to your hand. Just refuse to do the first wrong thing to which you are tempted. Do this in prayer for di vine help. You will get -no help and no comfort while you remain with your “ nets.” Hasten to Jesus, and at once! — T. L. Cuyler. WHY DISTUEB THE SABBATH LAWS? A writer in the “ Olive Branch,” Balti more, advocates the maintenance of the old Sabbath laws, in Maryland, and shows the injustice and oppression of any legislation that should suspend or overthrow those laws; He says.:— “ But the Sabbath, when properly observed, not only prevents dissipation, but affords the only opportunity for moral culture, that the masses, especially of minors and employees, can secure—and thus preserves us from the greater increase of pauperism and crime. Therefore, every tax payer is personally interested in the maintenance of the laws protecting the Sabbath. Even Adam Smith, the apologist of David Hume, induced Sir John Sinclair to destroy his work against a strict observance of the Sabbath, by the remark: “ Your book, Sir John,'iß very ably composed; but the Sab bath, as a political institution, is of inesti mable-value.”. i , Let men, then, attach as little considera tion to the observance of the. Sabbath day, as a religious obligation, as they please —it concerns every wise eitizen to bo vigi lant for the preservation of our Sunday laws, against the movements of those whose callings prey upon the vices of society, or of others seeking such partial legislation tending to the general injury and tho de privation of many from ..their rightful op portunity of improvement. Every exception legalized, like a hole in a vessel, but endan gers the eventual sinking of the institution freighted with our civil, soceial, and moral interests.” MOBAL USE OF WINTEB. Rev. Dr. Bushnell, in the Hours at Home for March, impressively sets forth the ad vantages of winter as an element of human culture. He says:' I will name one other occasion, or contin gency of winter, that Sometimes takes a won derfully strong hold of our religious instinct, and .often., produces effects more decisive than we trace, ourselves. I speak of our winter funerals. To bury a friend in winter is a kind of trial that connects strange in ward commotions of feeling which it is difficult to master. We have cleared away the snow and hewn a passage down through the solid pavement Of the frost, and there, in that inhospitable place, we come to bury our departed, be it child or wife, or mother, or much loved friend. Our, heart shudders, in convulsive chill, at the forlorn last offices we are come to perform. While our feel ing is protesting, the solemnity, so-called, goes on, and before we have gotten our own consent, the “ tribute Of respect” is ended. The frozen chips., of "earth, loosened again by blows, are piled on the loved one’s rest, and we return to go. “ Will it storm to night ?’ The wind, alas! is howling even now in the trees, and the sleeting is already begun. O God, it shall not be ! We wero going to ho fools, we see, but now the spell is broken. Our departed is not in that hole, and we,scorn to say our farewell over it? Let the snows fall heavy, if they will, and the wind rage pitilesß and wild above, ours it shall be to tbank Thee, Father, Lord of the warmer clime, that our dead one lives with Thee.” Practically almost nothing will more surely compel a faith in immortal ity, even if one chances to be unbelieving, than to bury a friend in, the winter. And, as a matter of fact, it is not in the fresh, ontbursting life of the spring, or in softer season of the year, that wc think of im mortality with half the tension that we do at the winter, funerals. We ask it instinc tively, as we do a fire for, the cold. I‘Xdo not ask to see The distant scene,, one step enough for me. ’
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