Sunday-school times

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TIMES.
VOLUME IT.
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT ONE DOLLAR A YEAR-PHILADELPHIA, APRIL 26, 1862.
NUMBER IT.
THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TIMES,
A WEEKLY RELIGIOUS PAPER,
PRICE ONE DOLLAR A TEAR,
PAYABLE JS ADVANCE.
JOHN    S.   HART,    Editor.
Please address all communications to
THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TIMES,
148 South Fourth Street,
Philadelphia, Pa.
Subscriptions are also received by
A. D. F. RANDOLPH,
.683 Broadway, New York.
HENRY HOYT,
9 Cornhill, Boston, Mass.
J. W. McINTYRE,
9 South Fifth Street, St. Louis, Mo.
4^- For further particulars, see Notiobb on fourth page.
Tor the Sunday-School Times.
TWO WAYS OF ENTERING HEAYEN.
A BABY-GIRL was carried in her nurse's
arms up aud down the square for an
airing. The mother watched her darling
from a balcony, bending over the railing, that
nothing might obstruct her view. The child's
long embroidered robe fell gracefully, a soft
cashmere cloak protected the little form, a
pretty cap of lace arid ribbon framed the tiny
face. On the opposite side of the square stood
a large building open for public inspection.
Hither crowds of gay people were flocking.
Near the entrance crouched another mother,
holding in her arms also a baby-girl. This
child was wrapped in an old worn shawl, her
bead was shielded only by light, tangled
curls. Peacefully and sweetly the baby slept.
No prettier sigbt could be seen in tbe square,
with its marble fountain, than the face of that
beggar child, beautiful in its calm and trust¬
ing repose.
The young mother in the balcony had not
one glance for this poor baby. Her eyes fol¬
lowed continually the white frock. She had
no time to spend in looking at rags. Crowds
pressed in and out of the massive structure.
Ladies swept by the mother on the pavement
without a pitying look at the sleeping burden
in her thin, tired arms. A gentleman passed,
talking and smiling with a lady by his side.
To him beggars were not unlovely. He saw the
sleeping child, and said, compassionately,
"Poor little thing!" The lady turned, and
drawing up her elegant dress, a3ked in asto¬
nishment, " Are you really wasting sympathy
on that beggar?" At this instant the nurse
approached bearing the guarded baby. " You
little beauty 1"- exclaimed the young lady, and
she nodded to the pleased mother on the other
side.
" Yet for both these Christ died," said the
gentleman involuntarily, half aloud. His com¬
panion did not comprehend; she did wonder
to see him return to the little sleeper and give
the mother silver and kind words.
When evening came the square was de¬
serted. One baby had been hushed to rest in
a hanging cradle, under lace curtains, the
other baby was still sleeping in the cold arms
of her dead mother. Thus were two lives
commenced. In this manner did two more
pilgrims set out for life and death. Was
Heaven most sure for the petted and favored
child, or for the one motherless and alone ?
To whom would be granted the abundant en¬
trance ? Whose child is most likely to be
saved—so as by fire ?
In a few years look at these little ones
again. The cared-for child, well and happy,
is playing in a handsome drawing-room. She
is showing her costly Christmas gifts and
dancing in the firelight. Her mother watches
every movement admiringly, and rejoices that
her face is fair. A large mirror reflects the
velvet dress, the white neck and arms, the
light, restless feet of little Belle. Wandering
through the pleasant rooms she meets only
caressing friends ; they lavish smiles and flat¬
tery on her, she is the idol of the circle. Will
this child, accustomed to the luxuries of a
home adorned with beautiful objects, to every
comfort that parents can devise, have " an
entrance ministered unto her abundantly into
the kingdom of our Lord ?"
We do not often realize the meaning of an
"abundant entrance," and its blessedness.
If we can only attain "the resurrection of the
just," we feel satisfied. Compare the wel¬
come at home with the greeting extended to a
stranger whose claim on your hospitality is
very Blight, consider whether you would pre¬
fer this free, blessed entrance, or a place in
Heaven barely gained—so as by fire.
The beggar girl, dressed in a coarse blue
frock, is looking after some children in an
Orphan Asylum. A crutch is lying by her
side, her crutch, for she cannot walk without
this aid. Her face has an old, grave expres¬
sion. Very tenderly and carefully she helps
the babies in their play, soothing their griev¬
ances, and entering into ail their concerns.
The room is bare and plain. Their childish
voices echo through the unfurnished halls.
No mothers call them at evening to lay aside
their playthings and say their evening prayers.
It was a pretty sight to see them clustering
around this lame girl, ready to heed her gen¬
tlest word. A little peacemaker she seemed
as she sat on the wooden bench reading
stories to a child partly blind, and wiping
the tears of another on her apron. Like
Miriam, she was not toojyoung to watch the
cradle on the dangerous river, while ont of
sight the mothers could not^hear their chil¬
dren cry. She was the only ornament in the
room, this lame girl, with her smooth, brown
hair, and serious eyes under her white brow.
The other children were not very interesting.
Some of them were deformed, others looked
prematurely old, almost all betrayed their
parentage.
At night you could hear her little crutch
on the nursery floor, going from one cot to
another, while she taught the little ones their
evening prayer. Sometime she would sing
softly,
" Jesus Christ, my Lord and Saviour,
Once became a child like me,
Oh, that in my whole behavior,
He my pattern still might be."
Then all the inmates of the nursery would
listen until the music mingled with their
dreams. Oh the power of that little crutch 1
The orphans loved that sound. It told them
that a friend was coming, only a little girl
dressed in blue cotton, but one for whom a
white robe was preparing. WhoBe chance is
best now ?
The rich child grew to womanhood, still
loved and cherished. She was reared like a
plant in a conservatory, with every advan¬
tage which the most successful gardener can
bestow. From her father's house she went a
lovely bride into her own home. Sometimes
amid her gaiety and trifling she heard a voice
saying, « This is not your rest." But she
would not heed it until she was forced to re¬
linquish earth's attractions on account of
failing health. She was carried to a luxu¬
rious southern island, where flowers and
balmy air in vain persuaded her back to life.
Languid and weary she thought of the
cross hitherto shunned. Now her friends
could be of no avail. They had carried her
thus far. Alone she must seek the mysteries
of regeneration. At last the lustre of the eye
is quenched, the crimson fire in the cheek
chilled, Belle for the first time is alone.
Trusting to her Saviour, her soul goes up
from that sunny island. Yes, she is " saved—
yet so as by fire." Her works must.be burned
up, she has done nothing for Christ, she lived
wholly for herself, and in her last extremity
caught hold of the hem of his robe. Instead
of having the abundant entrance, instead of
hearing " the well done, good and faithful
servant," she is saved like the dying thief,
even in death, and barely hears "To-day
shalt thou be with me in Paradise." Is this
your choice at the last moment to cry for
help and be " saved—-yet so as by fire ?"
Through the wards of a hospital a crutch
is heard, a larger crutch than the one which
helped the lame girl in the orphan' asylum,
yet still belonging to her. She is a woman
now, and wears the white cap and apron of a
nurse. From these narrow beds many souls
has she helped on their way to glory. She
has made it easier for many to die. Her pro¬
vince is not restricted to any particular ward,
she passes from couch to couch comforting
and exhorting while it is called to-day. The
patients grow better when they see her
peaceful face, with the kind eyes and loving
smile. They listen eagerly for the crutch,
knowing that her hands will arrange their
pillows and cool the fever. Self-forgetful, she
walks through the valley of the shadow of
death triumphantly, for seldom a day passes
that she is not called to close two more eyes
for their long sleep.
One day the crutch is idle in the corner.
It is not heard up and down the wards of the
hospital. The poor souls long in vain for its
tap on the floor. It is her turn now. She is
ready to die. She has done with her poor
crutch. She will need it no longer. Angels
are appointed to bear her soul gently from
earth to the mansion long awaiting her.
There Bhe will "go from strength to strength,
running without weariness, walking without
faintness."
From the time when a poor orphan she
ministered unto others, she had given dili¬
gence to make her calling and election sure.
Therefore she receives the promise: " For if
ye do these things she shall never fill,
for so an entrance shall be ministered
unto you abundantly into the everlasting
kingdom of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus
Christ."            L. T.
For the Sunday-School Times.
COME TO THE SAVIOUR.
BY M. L. HOFFOKD, A. M.
Come to the Saviour!
Sinner come!
'Tis mercy's voice
Invites you home; ~
In earnest tones
It calls to-day,
Why dying sinner
Yet delay!
Come to the Saviour!
Sinner come!
Iu Jesus' arms
There yet is room;
Just as you are,
Approach to-day,
He died to bear
Your sins away.
Come to the Saviour!
Sinner oome!
No more away
From him to roam,
No more to grieve
That loving heart,
But in his glory
Share a part
a large assembly listened with deep interest,
and then short addresses were made to im¬
press the facts upon the minds of the hearers.
The children of the school belonging to the
church where the meeting is held, do the
singing. Thus the interest of the meetings
are kept up. But one thing is necessary in
all work, namely, to use the right kind of
tools. A farmer does not use a mowing
machine to hoe corn, or a hoe j to cut grass,
and our churches are beginning to find that
to have successful schools and meetings, the
right kind of superintendents and teachers are
needed. For this particular work, a good, sub¬
stantial, quiet, consistent deacon, though he
may be the very best of a Christian and deacon,
is not always the best man to work in the
Sunday-school cause as superintendent. Elect
men of action, men whose hearts sympathize
with children, men apt to teach, men whose
love is so great that the children can say,
"Oh, don't our superintendent love us?"
Among the Methodists here, we should judge
just such men were found to fill the important
places of superintendents. We were only
acquainted with one, Mr. Blythe, who pre¬
sided at this meeting. He has a warm heart,
and the manner of his presiding enlivens the
whole exercises. May God bless such men,
and keep them always in the harness.
Yours, Scatter Good.
For the Snnday-School Times.
THE RIGHT KIND OP "WORKERS.
BEING present at a union meeting of
several of the Methodist Episcopal Sun¬
day-schools in Rochester, on Monday evening,
the 7th inst., and listening to the reports of
the superintendents, you will excuse me if I
trefpass on your columns, by giving to the
public a few facts. This union have monthly
meetings, and every school is expected to have
done something worth reporting. (Oh that
every Christian soul could feel himself as re¬
porting monthly to God of the work he has
done, and see by his doings, how little he is
accomplishing for the glory of his Saviour,
and the salvation "of souls). One school re¬
ported 43 conversions; another 16, and others
less numbers. Some reported concerning
additioos to church, condition of library,
numbers of attendance, Ac.   To these reports
lor the Sunday-School Times.
JUNO AND GEORGIE;    .
OB,
PRACTICAL SUNDAY-SCHOOL INSTRUCTION.'
Juno's Way of Answering Questions.
MANY persons complain of children for ask¬
ing so many questions abjmt every thing
they see and hear. They find it very difficult
too, sometimes, to answer some of the ques¬
tions ; and very often, when some poor litjle
fellow, who is earnest to find out as much as
he can about the strange things that he sees arid
hears around him, in the world so new that
he finds himself living in, and which are all
so wonderful to him, instead of getting kind
and civil answers, and the help and informa¬
tion that he needs, he often meets with some
harsh rebuff from an older brother or sister
whom he is playing with, and who, haying
lived so much longer than he has, might, if
they chose, give him information which would
afford him much satisfaction, and be very
useful to him. v
One excuse which older brothers arid
sisters sometimes make for their pettishnecs
on these occasions, is that the children ask
questions which they cannot answer. Thfijy
don't know themselves^ they say.,.,. But.jft jjH
almost always be found in such cases that
they know something more in respect to what
the children ask about than the children
themselves do, and if they would only tell that
something, it would be all that would be re
quired.
In fact, it is generally very easy to answer
children's questions, no matter, how difficult
the questions themselves may seem to be,
provided you only know the secret, which
consists chiefly in this, namely, in being con¬
tented to give the children as little informa¬
tion on the point as they are contented to re¬
ceive. When they come to us with'an inquiry,
what they desire in answer to it is, not a com¬
plete philosophical explanation of the subject,
but one or two simple truths, just sufficient to
extend their ideas aud conceptions a little way.
Juno understood this, not theoretically, it is
true, nor scientifically, as it is explained
above, but practically, and by a sort of in¬
stinct. Thus there were a great many ques¬
tions, which, if they had been brought by an
educated man to some profound philosopher,
would have puzzled the philosopher exceed¬
ingly, but which, when asked of Juno by
Georgie, did not puzzle her at all, and she
gave Georgie what he considered very full
and satisfactory answers to them.' For exam
pie, if Prof. Agassiz were to be asked to ex¬
plain to an audience at a lecture what makes
trees grow, he might find it very difficult to
know what to say. But when Georgie came
to Juno with that question, one day in the
woods, she found no difficulty in it at all.
She was Bitting upon a smooth log on the
shady side of a copse of small firs, while
Georgie was playing about among the tall
trees which grew there in the, forest. She
herself was employed in sewing, her work
basket lying on the log by her side, while
Geergie was amusing himself by riding about
on the mossy ground, under the trees, upon a
long spreading branch which he had found,
and which served him for a horse. The
spreading part of the branch which dragged
upon the ground behind him was the horse's
tail. *
The horse pranced about a great deal, and
his rider seemed to find some difficulty in
controlling him, but at length Georgie brought
him to a stand, and stopped to take breath.
A morr "nt afterward he called out to Juno,
whose s- at was at some little distance from
where t d was resting—
"Juno," said he," do you know about trees ?"
"Yes," said Juno, "I know all about them."
"Then what makes trees grow?" asked
Georgie.
" The roots," said Juno.
Georgie looked up into tbe top of a tall
tree that was standing near him, and then
down upon the ground, where he saw the
roots spreading about in all directions from
the foot of the stem.
'^And what makes the roots grow?" asked
Georgie.
"The sun and the rain," said Juno.
" Oh !" said Georgie, speaking in a tone of
satisfaction as if now he understood the sub¬
ject.   His horse now all at once seemed to
♦Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1862,
by John S. Hart, in the Clerk's office of the District
Court of the United States for the Eastern Distriot of
PenasylTania.
grow restive and impatient, and Georgie let
him go, and for several minutes he raced about
at full speed. Presently Georgie came to a halt
again, and looked up into the top of the tree.
"Juno," said he, after a moment's pause,
" what makes the branches grow ?"
" Buds," said Juno. " The branches begin
in the little buds that come out on the tree
when it is small, and then grow bigger andr
bigger."
"Oh!" said Georgie, "now I understand it."
So saying he whipped up his horse, and went
galloping round and round among the trees
again.
Georgie liked to ask Juno questions, be¬
cause she never rebuffed him, but always re¬
turned him some kind of an answer; and the
answer always gave him some information,
though usually very little. But a very little
was all that he wanted each time. He could
not have taken in a great deal, even if Juno
had been able to offer it to him.
Presently he said he had rode horseback
long enough, and so he put his horse in the
stable—a dark and very shady place under
the firs of the little copse near Juno's log
served for the stable—and then came and sat
down by Juno's side.
"Juno," said he, "see how tail these trees
are.   What makes them grow so tall ?"
"Because they have been growing such a
long time," said Juno; " they have been
growing a great many years."
"A thousand years ?" asked Georgie.
"GueSs again," said Juno.
"A hundred years," said Georgie, venturing
another guess.
"That's about right," said Juno. "I sup¬
pose that some of the trees in those woods
have been growing about a hundred years.
That gives them time to grow very tall."
"How much do they grow every year?"
asked Georgie.
"Abont so much," said Juno, "or so much,
or so much," measuring different distances
with her hands, from six inches to two feet.
Juno did not know very definitely what the
usual annual growth of forest trees was, but
she bad some vague and general ideas on the
subject, and these she could communicate.
ThiB was just what Georgie wanted, for before
he asked the question he had no ideas on the
subjett at all. For aught he knew about it,
trees might shoot up half their whole height
in a single year, and the other half the next
year; or, like cornstalks, they might have
grown their whole length in a single season.
Juno's answers to Georgie's questions were
not always as brief as those she gave in this
case. She made her answers long or short,
and more or less explanatory, according to
the circumstances of the,case and the state of
"mind- Georgie was in on each occasion. When-
his mind was disengaged, and he was quiet
and still, she made her explanations longer,
though she was in all cases careful not to
attempt too much at any one time. While he
was prancing about on his horse, she gave
very brief answers to the questions, but now
that he was tired of riding and was sitting
quietly by her side, she was prepared to reply
a little more fully to any inquiries that he might
make. He sat musing for a little time, and
then he said:
"Juno," what is the bark for, on a tree ?"
" It is a kind of a coat for it,'-' said Juno.
"Does it keep it warm in the winter?"
asked Georgie.
" I should not wonder if it did," said Juno.
"And then besides the bark keeps the tree
from getting hurt." ) ^
" Oh, Juno!" said Georgie, " a tree could
not be hurt."
" Yes," said Juno; " there is one part of
the tree which is very tender, the part right
next to the bark, where all the growing of the
tree is done. There is a new layer of wood
begun every spring all around the outside of
the tree, next to the bark. The new layer is
very juicy and tender while it is growing,
and if it were not covered over and guarded
by the bark the cattle in the woods would
rub against it and spoil the growing."
Juno always had plenty of brief answers
and simple explanations like these to give to
all the questions which Georgie asked her.
Sometimes she said she did not know, in reply
to his inquiries; but this very seldom hap¬
pened, because, however little she might
know in respect to any subject that excited
Georgie's curiosity, she almost always knew
more than Georgie did, and it was precisely
this, namely, what she knew and he did not
know, that he was most interested in learning.
Juno acted on the same principles in an¬
swering Georgie's religious questions, espe¬
cially those which arose from his lessons at
the Sunday-school. How she did this will be
explained more fully in the next number.
For the Snnday-School Times.
THE SOUL'S LONGINGS.
Where, where shall I for comfort go ?
I've drunk from many an earthly rill,
But 0, my God, their waters chill
E'en where they brightest flow;
Fountain of life, full, free and pure,
I'll drink of thee and thirst no more.
I hunger, Lord, for " living bread :"
I've fed upon the husks of earth
In scenes of giddiness and mirth,
By thee I'd now be fed;
Oh! ere I perish, gracious Lord,
Feed me with manna from thy word.
A pilgrim on life's beaten track,
I'm weary of its sin aud strife,
And panting for a better life;
0, take the weary wanderer back!
Sin-laden, hungry, thirsty, poor,
I come through Christ the "open door."
Wilt thou, 0 Lord, my portion be ?
When tossed upon a sea of doubt,
With fears within and foes without,
Oh! may I fly to thee ?
In such an ark, my Saviour, God,
I'll safely ride the o'erwhelming flood.
Trenton, N. J. B«ldi F.
For the Sunday-School Times.
LITTLE JACK'S FOUR LESSONS.
BY  AMY  LOTHROP.
SAYING   THE   THIRD   LESSON.
IT was a dark, rainy Sunday. The wind
was^ pretty quiet, to be sure, but the clouds
came flying up, one after the other, and the
raindrops came down all at once sometimes.
The little birds rushed out to get their break¬
fast and shook their wings, and tried to think
they liked wet weather; the cows stood under
the trees drooping their heads; the roses
hung down and dropped their red leaves
silently; and nobody seemed thoroughly
happy but the ducks. They splashed about
at a great i&\e, and said it was very well to
talk about sunshine, but after all there was
nothing like a good rainy day.
Not many children came to Sunday-school,
not many people came to church, and among
the missing faces little Jack's was one. Miss
Hunt was there, however; and when church
was over she stood on the church steps a few
minutes looking at the clouds and thinking;
but then she wrapped her cloak about her,
pulled the hood up over her bonnet, and be¬
gan to pick her way down the muddy road to
the little brown house with the blue door.
Jack and Lettie had had rather a rainy
morning of it indoors; for while no storm
that ever blew would have kept Jack from
trying to get to Sunday-school, (he was some¬
thing of a duck, to begin with,) his mother
had ordered him to stay at home, whereupon
Jack's tears had been many. But as his mo¬
ther had presently gone out herself to spend
the day with a neighbor, the tears had no
other effect than to make Jack about as dis¬
mal a looking boy as you can often find on a
rainy day; and poor Lettie waB hardly less
disappointed.
" They're going to church now I" Jack said
when he heard the bells.
" Well, you couldn't sit out on the grass if
you were there," said Lettie, consolingly. At
which Jack waxed indignant.
"I s'pose there's other places to sit!" be
said. And so, between tears and talking, th e
morning passed away, and the village peop: -
began to come home again from church.
But I never can tell you how surprised Let' i <-.
and Jack were when some one knocked ;->.t
their door, nor. how delighted they were to
find that it was Miss Hunt: you'll .nave to
think it all out for yourselves. And if I could
tell you how she looked when she came in,
how bright, and cheerful and loving—then
you would know that people can be real sun¬
beams sometimes, if they will. Was not that
poor little room full of sunshine when Miss
Hunt had thrown off her wet cloak and seated
herself close by Lettie's Tagged patchwork
quilt ? and yet ten minutes before you would
about as lief have been out of doors.
" I couldn't come!" said Jack, nestling close
up to her feet with his little bench.
" It does rain almost hard enough to wash
such a little boy away," said Miss Hunt,
cheerfully, " but I came safe."
"It wasn't the rain," explained Lettie.
'' Mother said he shouldn't go, and Jack
wanted to run away after she went, and then
he thought you said 'tother little boy would
mind."
" Ah, it is worth coming down in tRe rain to
hear that," said his teacher, looking pleased.
" Then the Lord has answered Jack's prayer,
and is teaching him what to do, and helping
him do it. And now we are to find out all
we can about this same little boy in the brown
house with the blue door: what do we know
about him already ?"
" Why God took care of him," said Lettie.
" And he was rich," said Jack.
" Yes, in one way," said Miss Hunt; " but I
do not. mean that he had plenty of money."
" He had fine clothes, hadn't he ?" said Let-
tie ; " because if God took care of him he
wouldn't give him poor ones."
" Ah, my dear," said Miss Hunt, " God is so
wise and so gcod, as well as so powerful,
that he gives his children what ia best for
them, each one; and notall just alike. Some¬
times it is one thing, and sometimes another.
Now one of my friends dresses her little girl
in silk and velvet; and another, quite as rich,
never puts anything on her daughter but
muslin and stuff."
" Don't Bhe love her ?" asked Lettie.
" More than the other lady loves hers, I
think; but she believes the stuff dress is bet¬
ter for her than the velvet."
" The next," said Jack, " is how he be¬
haves."
" Yes, if he lpved God. Then he would do
all he could to please Gno", who was so good
to him, he would try to b- trood himso'f. So
he would do if he realty ioved the Lord who
had taken care of him all his life. But he
did not always do so, Why was this, Jack ?
you have been trying to find out this week."
" I don't know why he didn't," said Jack;
"but J didn't*want to."
" That was just the way with him," said
Miss Hunt." But now, Jack, what do you
think of him ? God had taken care of him
always; had given him food and clothes
and home ; God kept him well and strong,
and yet when he told the boy to mind his
mother, to be kind to his sick sister, to be
patient and obliging, then the little boy did
not want to do it."
" Well, I don't think he was much of a
boy," said Jack; while Lettie cried out—
" Why, Jack! it's you t You're the very
boy, I do believe 1"
" No," said Jack, shaking his head, " 'taint
me. You said yourself he hadn't taken care
of us."
" Who does ?" said Miss Hunt.
"I don't know, ma'am," said Lettie; " no¬
body seems to. We just get up in the morn¬
ing and eat our breakfast, and then I sit
here all day by the window, and Jack he runs
about."
" Very well," said Miss Hunt; " now let us
see what we can find about it in Jack's little
Bible. Here is one verse: «I laid me down
and slept, I awaked, for the Lord sustained
me.' You see, my dear, it was God who
gave you quiet sleep, it was God who kept
you alive all through the night and waked
you up this morning.
" Well, mother got breakfast," said Jack,
" and I got the pitcher of water."
For the Sunday-School Times.
Working "Together with Him."
AN "INCIDENT OP TRAVEL."
SOME years since, while traveling with a
party of friends upon the New Haven rail¬
road, our attention was attracted at one of the
stations by the appearance upon the platform
of a long, narrow, wooden box, in which, upon
pillows and cushions, lay the prostrate form
of a woman of perhaps five-and-twenty years.
The car which we occupied was selected for
its reception; and much excitement among
the passengers was manifested in consequence.
Several individuals, the father and brothers,
perhaps, of the invalid, entered, and we
watched their proceedings with great interest
as they arranged, upon»the backs of the seats
at the lower end of the car, a number of elas¬
tic springs. Upon these the box was adjusted
with great care, and in this new and strange
conveyance the poor invalid was to be borne
to the place of her destination.
Prompted by sympathy, we went to her,
and asked some questions in regard to her
situation. A spinal disease had rendered her,
for many, many long years, incapable of mo¬
tion, or of any other position than that in
which she now lay. For a change of scene,
and in the hope of benefiting her, a sister
living at N had long and earnestly de¬
sired a visit from her, and she was now on
her journey thither.
Her countenance was pale but very tran¬
quil, and while she talked with us, a calm and
placid smile rested upon her features ; the
surface-light, it seemed to us, of a deep, in- #
ward- peace—the peace of God—which was in
the soul that there lay, fettered and manacled
in its fleshy prison-house, and patiently
awaiting the hour of its freedom.
We returned to our seats, and sat watching
the loving friends who, without apparent
weariness, stood the entire distance, steady¬
ing the strange vehicle, to prevent its bound¬
ing motion; and, almost in tears, we thought
of the wondrous love of the Father in heaven,
who thus sustained his suffering child. What
had been her past history ? What the fearful
accident that had led to this result ? Perhaps,
a young, gay, thoughtless girl, she had wan¬
dered among the hedgerows, climbed the
mountain-side, danced- among the merriest, at
the May-day festival, or skated in the ex¬
hilarating winter breezes on the smooth pond
before her father's cottage door. One mis¬
step, a heavy fall, and the work was done. " In
the midst of life we are in death" : and in our
happiest hour, we may be near a living death,
more fearful than that which opens to us the
gates of everlasting life. And so it was with
her; or, so it would have been, had not the
strength to bear it been imparted with the
suffering.
Perhaps her young spirit had repined ; and,
in the still watches of the night, she had wept
in pain, in anguish, and in hopelessness.
Then came back to her memory the teachings
of the Sunday-school; and a soft whisper
breathed upon her spirit's ear. "Perfect
through suffering," it said. " Is God angry
with me," she answered, "that he has so
visited me ?"
" Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth."
" I can bear my pain better with that
thought; but come to me and abide with me,
oh, my Saviour ! I am so sinful, so weak."<gjfc
" My strength is made perfect weakness, on,
my child." "When thou did'st give me
health, I was forgetful of thee. Thou hast
died for me, my Saviour, and I can do nothing
in return."
" I have taken thee away from the din and
tumult of the world, my child, that thou
might'st hear my voice. I have laid thee
here, that thou might'st be a " worker toge¬
ther with me."
" A worker with thee, 0 blessed Comforter!
I so helpless I    How may I do thee service!"
" 'In much patience' thou may'st manifest
my power.' 'As sorrowful, yet always re¬
joicing,' thou canst prove how religion can/
sustain the soul. ' As poor, thou canst make
many rich.'"
" How can I do so, oh, my Saviour ?"
"By thy prayers, my child, ascending con¬
tinually for my cause. Thou art poor. I
have made thee so. But,' Blessed are the
poor, in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven.' Give thyself to me me wholly, and
thou hast nought to fear. I will comfort,
sustain, and manifest myself in thee; and
having nothing, thou shalt possess all things."
Such was the history written on that pale,
white forehead. " Suffering, but not dis¬
mayed." " Cast down, J)ut not forsaken."
At peace with God, and with the world, she
awaited his good time patiently. My fellow-
traveler has probably, ere this, passed away :
the fetters have fallen, and the freed spirit re¬
joices in the presence of him whose cause
she served on earth, se humbly, yet so truly.
But, we have not forgotten her; and, if dead,
she yet speaketh in her Master's cause.
" I will not leave you comfortless ; I will come
unto you." B. W. B.
Portsmouth, N. H.
Evbby trouble flies before the soul which
is entirely subjected to God.
Patience i3 a tree whose root3 are bitter,
but the fruit is very sweety
Thb beginning of anger is foolishness, and
its end repentance.
Evsbt day of thy life is a leaf of thy history.