patient sufferer looked calmly at him, gently moved to the other side of
the chair, said 'Mother!' and resting his head on his arm, and with a
pleasant countenance, and without a groan, quietly fell asleep in
Christ, November 17th, 1851, at five o'clock a.m."
Thus died George Woolford, aged nine years and nine months.
"Those that sleep in Christ will God bring with Him."
"'I take these little lambs,' said He,
'And lay them in My breast;
Protection they shall find in Me;
In Me be ever blest.
"'Death may the bands of life unloose,
But can't dissolve My love;
Millions of infant souls compose
The family above.'
"His words the happy parents hear,
And shout with joys divine--
'Dear Saviour, all we have and are
Shall be for ever Thine.'"
HEPHZIBAH.
"My dear Hephzibah was taken ill on the fifth of November, and though I
have not many sayings of hers to record, I nevertheless believe that
there was 'some good thing in her toward the Lord God of Israel,' and
therefore, in solemn pleasure, rehearse the memorials of His grace.
"On the fourth day of her illness she said, 'Mother, I am very ill, but
I am not afraid to die, mother. No; I should like to die, and be with
the Lord, for I do love Him, mother, that I do, better than every one
besides.' 'But do you not love your father and mother best?' I inquired.
Her answer was, 'I do love _you_ both very dearly, but I love the Lord
_most_. Ought I not to love Him most, mother?' I said, 'Yes, my dear.'
She replied, 'And so I _do_. I want to go to heaven, to be with Him. And
I should like my dear father, and mother, and Ann Jane, and George, and
Rhoda to go with me. Would not that be happy, to meet and never part
again? There we should have all we want.' I replied, 'Yes, my dear, "for
the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall
lead them unto living fountains of water, and God shall wipe away all
tears from their eyes." "And there shall be no night there."' 'Oh, will
not that be happy, mother?' she exclaimed. 'I want to die, that I may
see the Lord. He is so good and kind to me.' I asked, 'Would you not
like to get well again?' and her reply was, 'I would rather die and go
to Jesus.'
"The frequency of her expressed desires to 'depart and be with Christ'
excited a trembling apprehension in my mind of her speedy dissolution,
an apprehension fully verified by the event.
"She now sunk into a state of unconsciousness, in which she continued
for more than a week, suffering very much, indicating the speedy
disrupture of all earthly ties, and inducing a perpetual vigil.
"To my surprise she suddenly rallied, seemed to get better, and 'hope
told a flattering tale'; but it disappointed us, and rendered the
separation more trying.
"The sensitive vigilance of my child's conscience was very remarkable.
For instance, when any little delicacy had been declined, she remained
inflexible, remarking that to alter her decision would be to 'tell a
story,' which, she said, 'would be very wicked.'
"On the day she died, she said, 'Mother, I am very ill. I think I shall
die. My throat is so bad.' Shortly after, she said, 'Mother,' and was
silent. A few minutes after that, she lifted up her dear eyes and hands
to heaven three times, clasping her hands and letting them down again.
"None but a mother knows a mother's heart. I saw the stroke, clasped my
loved Hephzibah, and impressed the farewell kiss on her dying cheek. She
looked at me, gave up the ghost, and was 'carried by the angels into
Abraham's bosom' on November 28th, 1851, in the sixth year of her age."
"One gentle sigh their fetters breaks,
We scarce can say, 'They're gone!'
Before the willing spirit takes
Her mansion near the throne.
"Faith strives, but all its efforts fail
To trace her in her flight;
No eye can pierce within the veil
Which hides that world of light.
"Thus much (and this is all) we know--
They are completely blest;
Have done with sin, and care, and woe,
And with their Saviour rest."
[The memoir of the third child, Ann Jane, will appear next month.]
THE BLIND TORTOISE IN THE WELL.
A blind tortoise lived in a well. Another tortoise, a native of the
ocean, in his inland travels happened to tumble into this well. The
blind one asked of his new comrade whence he came.
"From the sea."
Hearing of the sea, he of the well swam round a little circle and
asked--
"Is the water of the ocean as large as this?"
"Larger," replied he of the sea.
The well tortoise then swam two-thirds of the well, and asked if the sea
was as big as that.
"Much larger than that," said the sea tortoise.
"Well, then," asked the blind tortoise, "is the sea as large as this
whole well?"
"Larger," said the sea tortoise.
"If that is so," said the well tortoise, "how big, then, is the sea?"
The sea tortoise replied, "You having never seen any other water than
that of your well, your capability of understanding is small. As to the
ocean, though you spent many years in it, you would never be able to
explore the half of it, nor to reach the limit, and it is utterly
impossible to compare it with this well of yours."
The well tortoise replied, "It is impossible that there can be a larger
water than this well. You are simply praising up your native place with
vain words."
How many people there are like the tortoise in the well!
BIBLE ENIGMA.
Though 'tis not seen, yet it is known,
For oft it makes e'en strong men groan.
The proud and bold have shook with fear
When they have felt this strong one near.
Yea, monarchs have before it fell,
And feared that they should sink to hell.
But oft the sad have felt this power,
And found, in trouble's darkest hour,
Such friendly help that they have said
They never more should be afraid.
And such as felt condemned to die
Have been released and filled with joy.
Now, reader, search your Bible through,
And tell us where these things you view.
THE greatest happiness of the creature is not to have the creature for
his happiness.
"THE SENSE AND SENSES OF ANIMALS."
Sir John Lubbock, M.P., some time since, delivered an address in Queen
Street Hall, Edinburgh, to the members of the Edinburgh Philosophical
Institution, on "The Sense and Senses of Animals." In the course of his
remarks the lecturer said that one would gratefully admit that the dog
was a loyal, and true, and affectionate friend, but when we came to
consider the nature of the animal, our knowledge was very limited. That
arose a good deal from the fact that people had tried rather to teach
animals than to learn from them. It had occurred to him that some such
method as that which was followed in the case of deaf mutes might prove
instructive if adapted to the case of dogs. He had tried with a black
poodle belonging to himself. He then went on to relate several
experiments he had made with pieces of cardboards, with different words
marked upon them. He had taken two pieces of card, one blank, and the
other with the word "food" upon it. He had put the latter on a saucer
containing some bread and milk, and the blank card he put on an empty
saucer. The dog was not allowed to eat until it brought the proper card
to him. This experiment was repeated over and over again, and in about
ten days the dog began to distinguish the card with the letters on it
from the plain card. It took a longer time to make the dog realize the
difference between different words.
In order to try and discover whether the dog could distinguish colours,
he prepared six cards, marking two of them blue, two yellow, and two
orange. He put one of each on the floor, and tried to get the dog to
bring to him a card with the same colour as one which he showed the dog
in his hand. After trying this for three months, he found that his
experiment in this direction was a failure.
He had always felt a great longing to know how the world appeared to the
lower animals. It was still a doubtful point whether ants were able to
hear. From experiments which he had made, he had come to the conclusion
they had not the power of addressing each other. His impression on the
whole was, that bees and ants were not deaf, but that they heard sounds
so shrill as to be beyond our hearing. There was no doubt about insects
seeing. He then went on to relate several experiments he had made with
the view of discovering whether different insects could distinguish
different colours, and had any preference for particular colours. The
colours of objects must present a very different impression upon insects
to that on human beings. The world to them might be full of music which
we could not hear, colours which we could not see, and sensations which
we could not feel.
BEWARE OF THORNS.
A hand encased in leathern glove,
One pensive autumn day,
Gathered some pretty wayside flowers,
To make a bright bouquet.
With kind intent the flowers were culled,
To please a loved one's taste;
But ah! unconsciously, some thorns
Were with the blossoms placed.
The hand that grasped the welcome gift
Soon felt the piercing smart,
And pain dispelled the grateful smile
That rayed out from the heart.
Would we to spirits bowed and sad
Convey a transient joy?
Let not the lack of tender skill
Our kindly deed alloy.
E. D.
IF you pursue sin for profit you will never profit by your sin.
THE COST OF A BROKEN SABBATH.
A bright Sabbath morning in August, a young minister was on his road to
a distant parish, where he had engaged to take the services. He overtook
a group of lads, evidently bent on an excursion of amusement. A boy,
coming from the opposite direction, was being alternately persuaded and
chaffed to give up _for once_ going to Sunday School, and join the
pleasure-party instead. Just then an old man, of venerable appearance,
who had watched the group from his garden, came forward and addressed
the boys in the following words--
"Lads, you may think lightly _now_ of what you are doing, but
Sabbath-breaking leads to ruin--has led to the gallows. Ben"--turning to
the boy on his way to Sunday School--"don't be ashamed of doing right.
The Lord saith, 'Them that honour Me I will honour, and they that
despise Me shall be lightly esteemed.' Ah! boys, be warned in time. You
cannot reckon _the cost of a broken Sabbath_."
Ben, strengthened thus, went on his way, regardless of the jeers of the
other lads, who, turning over a stile, were quickly out of sight and
hearing.
The minister also went on his way, but the earnest tones and sad
expression of the aged man had made a deep impression on him, and he
pondered if some personal experience lay behind that solemn warning,
"You cannot reckon _the cost of a broken Sabbath_."
The evening of that day found him coming through the fields by a path
which led hard by the door of the cottage of the old man. It had been
pointed out as shorter and pleasanter than the dusty high road which he
had travelled in the morning. The day had been hot, and an offer to go
back to the rectory for refreshment had been declined, as it would
lengthen the walk considerably; but now, tired and thirsty, he resolved
to test the hospitality of the owner of the cottage.
The old man sat outside his doorway, with his big Bible on a round
table. The wayfarer asked for a little water to drink. He was
courteously requested to enter in and rest, and a draught of milk
proposed instead, unless he could wait for a cup of tea. The kettle was
boiling in the back kitchen, and the little table, covered with a snowy
cloth, was already set for a solitary meal, which the visitor was
invited to share. He accepted the kindly offer, not sorry to have an
opportunity of converse with one whose words had lingered with him
through the day.
Having explained how he had been occupied since passing in the early
morn, he remarked--
"You live alone?"
"Yes, sir, I am alone in the world, but yet not alone, for the Saviour
is often with me in my humble dwelling, and I hope in a little while
He'll come and take me to His home above."
"That is a blessed hope to cheer and make you patient to wait His time,
my friend," was the rejoinder. "Have you been left long alone?"
"The last went home twenty years ago, come Michaelmas," said the aged
host. "It has been whiles a weary waiting-time, but it's sinful to
repine. His time must be the right time."
Whilst the old man went to fetch the tea, the guest looked round and
observed some articles of carved wood--boxes, flat rulers, and
leaf-cutters--and was struck with the frequent recurrence of short words
of Holy Writ on the Sabbath. Some little books lay on the window-sill,
many of which were on the same subject.
After impressively asking God's blessing, and whilst partaking of the
simple meal, the visitor remarked--
"I see the sanctity of the Lord's Day is a strong point with you. I
was struck this morning with the expression you used to those
lads--'_the cost of a broken Sabbath_.'"
[Illustration: "THE OLD MAN SAT WITH HIS BIG BIBLE." (_See page 132._)]
No response came for some minutes, as if the host was debating some
question with himself; and so it proved, for at last he raised his head
and said, with a vast depth of pathos in his tones--
"None have had greater reason to know the bitter cost, sir, than myself.
It is not often that I speak of the past, but it may be the Lord has
brought you here for a purpose to-day, and you may be able to use it as
a warning to some within your influence."
"If your story will not be too painful to you, my friend, I should
indeed feel grateful to you for it," was the response.
"I do not belong to these parts, sir," he began, "but I've been here
over a quarter of a century. I lived in a large village in a midland
county, where some extensive mill-works were carried on, and rose from a
lad's tasks there to fill the place of foreman. I married happily, and
had a home of comfort and peace with a loving, godly wife. Four children
out of six born to us grew up--two sons and two daughters--and after the
toil and din of the week, Sunday was a day of quiet enjoyment, in the
midst of my family, spent in God's house and our home, with the aid of
books and singing, for we all had fair voices. It had never been counted
a dull day by the young folks. The lovely flowers and birds, and the
wonders of the book of creation and the Book of grace, made the day of
holy rest seem all too short. But our circle did not remain unbroken.
First, our eldest girl, poor Maggie, left home to take a situation in a
neighbouring town, and soon after, our first-born, David, who had never
taken kindly to mill-work, obtained employment in an office in the same
town, within five minutes' walk of his sister. This seemed well for
both, being much attached to each other. Ned and Mary still clung to the
old home, and the other two frequently spent the Sabbath in our midst.
David almost always walked over in the early morn, or late on Saturday
night, returning, if alone, on Monday morning, or, if Maggie accompanied
him, the same evening, as she was not allowed out at night. She could
only, of course, take turns with her fellow-servants; but, unless
weather prevented, we could surely reckon on the flown birds coming,
when able, back to their nest on the Sabbath.
"But at last came just such a lovely summer day as this has been. We
lingered before starting for church till long after the bells had been
chiming, but neither of them came. We looked to find them on our return,
and dinner waited long; but the night came, and we had not heard or seen
aught of either. I overheard Ned in the garden speaking to Mary--
"'I shan't feel easy till I've run over to the town to-morrow, after
work-hours. I hear there was to be a river excursion from the town
to-day--a steamer calling for a lot of folks.'
"'But, Ned, you don't believe Davie or Maggie would go?' said Mary, half
reproachfully.
"'I don't feel comfortable about it,' replied her brother. 'Maggie could
be persuaded to go anywhere with David, and he and I had a talk not long
ago on Sunday trips. He said folks could thus get out into pure country
air, for a few pence, who were cooped up all the week in the smoke of
the town, and those who desired it could go to a place of worship even
twice, and get tea, before they had to start on the return voyage.'
"The fear expressed was, alas! too well grounded. David's master's son
was one of these habitual pleasure-seekers, and had long tried to
persuade him to join him. He had also become acquainted with Maggie,
through meeting her out with the children to whom she was nursemaid, and
often fell in with her on the Sundays she spent in the town. In vain had
he tried to induce her to join the steamer trip, till one day he said--
"'If David went, you could not scruple about going under his care.'
"'Oh, I'm safe enough not to go at that rate,' was her reply.
"But she was mistaken. David had been persuaded to put his conscience to
sleep by the resolution that it should only be _for once_, just to see
for himself how it worked really, for good or evil. He was more than
half inclined to retract his consent, when he learnt that his sister was
to be of the party, but the tempter having got his victims into the net,
did not let them off.
"David and Maggie found a church near the river, and went to morning
service. Their evil adviser accompanied them on condition that the
afternoon should be spent in the woods.
"It was not difficult to get separated in the many paths, and when the
steamer's warning bell was heard, amid the hurried rush onboard, David
did not discover till too late that, amongst several missing, were
Maggie, and also his master's son. No entreaty could induce the captain
to put back.
"Some fresh passengers had come on board, showing views and engravings,
and David, glad to divert his attention from self-reproach, amused his
mind with looking through their collection, for he now repented bitterly
that he had ever come--still more that he had brought his sister, and
then allowed her to slip out of his charge. One of the new comers was
especially friendly, explaining the views to 'cheer up his spirits.'
"When within ten minutes of landing, a boat came alongside with two or
three police in plain clothes, and soon arrested, as well-known
pickpockets, two of the fresh passengers, whilst all were advised to see
what they had lost. Much of the booty was found on the prisoners, but
not all, which led to a general search of the passengers. On my poor
son, in his coat-pocket, was discovered the rest of the missing plunder,
which had doubtless been slipped in by his friendly entertainer when he
saw the police on board. David's protestations of innocence were all
unavailing. The contents of his pockets were then and afterwards deemed
conclusive proof of his guilt. All efforts to save him were in vain. He
never breathed free air again in this life. His sentence placed him
among convicts at Portland, where his health broke down under grief and
disgrace. The tidings of his death reached me after I had moved here, in
a kind letter from the chaplain, sending this precious relic [taking a
well-worn Testament from his breast], with its marked verses of comfort
and a few lines from my poor boy--all I have left of him."
A folded sheet of paper, yellow from age and tender from frequent
handling, lay between the leaves of the little Book. The old man handed
both to his guest. In the touching farewell to his father were the
words, "You and mother know I've suffered innocently, and it's now
nearly over, and I shall soon be free and with Jesus, whose precious
blood has cleansed me from all sin. But, dear father, never cease to
_warn_ the young of the fearful _cost of a broken Sabbath_."
The aged man wiped away some falling tears.
"I shall see my boy soon," he continued. "I've tried to keep his
injunction, and, by tract given or word spoken, not to let a Sabbath go
by without some warning. His mother scarcely held up her head after his
trial, and did not survive her first-born many weeks, and I was left
alone with our youngest--my Mary. That broken Sabbath had lost Maggie
her place and character. The doors were locked against her that night,
and no explanation would be accepted next day. She wrote us word she'd
got another situation at a distance through a friend. We never saw her
more in the old house, and lost all traces of her. Our other boy, Ned,
came to us soon after his brother's trial, and, asking our consent and
forgiveness for going away, said he could not hold up his head in the
village, and must go to sea. We let him go, hoping time and change of
scene would heal the wound, and he'd come back to us to a fresh home,
for I felt like himself, that I could not stay on in the factory, and
resigned my post and came here, hoping our Davie might soon be free to
join us also; but the Lord set him free to go to a better mansion in the
skies.
"Four years after we came here, I had a letter from a neighbour who
lived hard by in the old place. What Mary had often secretly feared,
came to pass. Maggie had come back, to find no home left; but the widow
over the way had seen in the dusk a woman go and return, repulsed from
the old door, and sit down to weep by the road-side. She brought the
wanderer to her own fireside. I fetched her away, and we nursed the
poor, worn, wasted one tenderly, but she had only come home with the
prodigal's cry, to die--'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and
before thee.'
"That broken Sabbath was her first step to ruin, but the blessed Lord,
in His rich mercy, and by the Holy Spirit's gracious leadings, led her
to the fountain which makes crimson sins white as snow, and she is gone
before me too.
"The doctor--a good, kind man--shook his head, and bade me keep my Mary
in the fresh air, and give her plenty of new milk. He feared she had
taken the seeds of disease in that long nursing, and so it proved; but,
with the hopefulness of consumption, she did not believe she was going
to leave me desolate, and I deceived myself, and hoped against hope, as
I looked on the sweet face and lovely bloom as she lay on this bench,
enjoying the sight and breath of the flowers.
"By my carving, which went to a London house, we were kept from want,
and Ned sent us home, with sailor generosity, supplies of money.
"'If he'd only come himself,' said my Mary, 'it would be better than all
the gold.'
"'Write and tell him so,' I said; and so we both did, and I told him of
the fading away of his favourite sister, hoping it would draw him back
over the sea, if anything would; but the brother and sister were not to
meet here again. My Mary left me one early morn, as the sun's first
streaks were gilding the sky. No answer came from my sailor son, but the
good pastor who had ministered to us in our hours of sore need, came one
day, and gently told me, as I sat alone, that his ship had gone down in
one of the wild Atlantic storms. My boy is now safe in heaven, where
there is no more sea."
The aged man ceased. His eye was on the sunset cloud, but his heart was
in the spirit land. His guest, rising up to depart, took tenderly the
wrinkled hand, and said, "The ransomed of the Lord shall return and come
to Zion, with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall
obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
Then he hastened homewards, his own heart full with this touching record
of _the cost of a broken Sabbath_.--_From a Tract, published by S. W.
Partridge and Co._
A SOFT PILLOW.
If the pillow be too hard, it is very unlikely that the sleep should be
sound. Yet this mainly depends upon circumstances. If the conscience is
easy, the pillow will be comfortable, even though a block of stone.
Jacob slept sweetly at Bethel, when the Lord appeared to him and told
him that He was his God. If, on the other hand, there is guilt on the
conscience, though the head is laid on the softest down, the pillow will
not be altogether easy.
RECEIVING THE TRUTH.
Mrs. Le Pla was a French lady, who came over to England in the younger
part of her life, with much of the vivacity for which the French nation
has been remarkable. She was particularly under the eye of a grave,
Pharisaic lady, by whom she was persuaded to go to church, but the dull
manner in which the clergyman performed his office disgusted her so
much, that she withheld her attention, and fell asleep. At this, her
English friend was exceedingly angry, and reproved her sharply.