every individual on the face of the earth. We cannot cast our eyes
around us without seeing, in some way or other, the wonderful power of
God in the creating and ordering of all things. Only what God has
purposed to do will take place; and, on the other hand, whatever God has
ordered He has power to bring to pass, although to us such things may
seem utterly impossible, "but with God all things are possible" (Matt.
xix. 26). If we look through the Bible, the power of God prevails in
every book, chapter, and verse. Was it not with a mighty hand that He
brought the Israelites up out of Egypt? and their enemies, who were much
stronger than they, when they knew the Lord was on Israel's side, feared
greatly, and were all overthrown and destroyed (Exod. xii. 33; Joshua x.
2). David, too, realized that wonderful power. He says, "But I will sing
of Thy power; yea, I will sing aloud of Thy mercy in the morning: for
Thou hast been my defence and refuge in the day of my trouble" (Psa.
lix. 16). David was often brought very low (Psa. xviii. 4, 5; cxvi. 3),
but the Lord did not suffer him to despair, for he was one of His most
precious jewels. Job, too, felt, in a remarkable way, during his
affliction, the power of the Lord, and he endeavoured to show and
explain it to his friends, but he had to finish up by saying, "Lo, these
are parts of His ways, but how little a portion is heard of Him!"
The omnipotence of God is so vast that it is quite impossible for us to
fathom it. Look at the history of Jehoshaphat. He heard that a great
army was coming to fight against them, and the army of Jehoshaphat,
being so small, he knew they must be defeated and slain. But, in his
extremity, he cried unto the Lord, saying, "O Lord God of our fathers,
art not Thou God in heaven? and rulest not Thou over all the kingdoms of
the heathen? and in Thine hand is there not power and might, so that
none is able to withstand Thee?" (2 Chron. xx. 6.) Was any able to
withstand the Lord? No! Read the twenty-seventh verse--"Then they
returned, every man of Judah and Jerusalem, and Jehoshaphat in the
forefront of them, to go again to Jerusalem with joy; for the Lord had
made them to rejoice over their enemies." Before, they felt condemned to
die, but now they were released, and filled with joy.
Such are the numerous instances in which the Lord, in His power, has
raised up the cast down, relieved the oppressed, and comforted mourners,
and such as are of a sad heart.
AGNES WILLERTON.
_Corby, Grantham._
[This is the best answer we have received, therefore we give it as
embodying the secret of the Enigma.--ED.]
BIBLE ENIGMA.
A giant.
One of David's wives.
A disease.
A piece of money.
A prophetess.
A garment worn by the priests.
A judge.
A brother of David.
A king of Judah.
A brook.
A colour.
The name by which the penitent Israelites were to address God.
A son of Jacob.
The mother of a friend of Paul's.
The initials form something which the Saviour said.
HARRY F. FORFEITT
(Aged 10 years).
ONE "WHOSE HEART THE LORD OPENED."
Carrie Foord, the subject of this memoir, was born at Tunbridge, in
Kent, on 27th September, 1867. At the age of six years she lost her
mother, and at eight her father, leaving her sister Kate and herself to
the care of their stepmother, who was in every way most kind to them,
which kindness they returned with much affection. It was Mrs. Foord's
wish to keep a home for them to grow up together. Man proposes and God
disposes. The home had to be given up, Kate going to her grandfather's,
and Carrie, in the providence of God, brought to live with us at
Hailsham, much against her inclination, as she neither liked us nor our
religion. This continued for some time, but
"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform."
She was brought, through divine grace, to see her state as a sinner in
the sight of God by hearing the third verse of the 666th hymn of
Gadsby's Selection given out one evening, as she took her seat in the
chapel. The arrow of conviction went home to her heart. Well do I
remember, on her return, finding her alone, and crying. Putting her arms
round my neck, she said, "What shall I do? I am such a sinner! I'm so
wicked!" although at the time I did not know what had caused her
distress.
At another time she was much impressed by a sermon our dear Pastor, Mr.
Nunn, preached from Hebrews xiii. 14--"For here we have no continuing
city, but we seek one to come." From this time she became an earnest
seeker, very regular in her attendance at the house of God, nothing but
duty keeping her away. Ultimately she was baptized, and became a very
useful teacher in the Sabbath School, where she was much loved.
Early in 1886 she caught a severe cold, which settled on her lungs,
causing the rupture of a blood-vessel. Some scattered sayings, spoken at
different times during her illness, were recorded, of which the
following are a few:--
"Oh, I do wish he did not think so well of me, and call me good!"
alluding to a remark of a very dear friend. "He does not know how wicked
I am, or he would never say I was good. What a mercy I was ever brought
here, under the sound of the Gospel! But then, God is not confined to
places, is He, auntie? If I am His child, He would be sure to reveal
Himself to me, in His own good time; but I do thank Him for bringing me
here. My dear uncle, how kind he is! How earnestly he has prayed for me,
and our dear Pastor too! I believe their prayers have been answered.
What a mercy!"
After a bad fit of bleeding, I said, "Did you think, dear, you should
die, when bringing up the blood?" She said, "No, auntie; I never once
thought I should." Our hopes were raised as she got better so quickly,
and we thought it might have been only a lodgment. She frequently said,
"I don't mind if it is not my lungs." But when she grew rapidly worse,
and we called in another doctor, he only confirmed what our own doctor
had said--that her case was hopeless. After they were gone, she said,
"What did they say, auntie?" I told her it was the lung. She very
quietly remarked, "People often live a long time with their right lung
gone, don't they?" I said, "Yes," not having the heart to tell her, in
her case, it would not be long.
One day, turning over the leaves of a hymn-book, I came to the one on
the safety of believers, which I read. The first verse is--
"There is a safe and secret place,
Beneath the wings divine,
Reserved for all the heirs of grace;
Oh, be that refuge mine!"
She said, "I do like that hymn so much, auntie. I have had such sweet
times in my little room. Often when you have sent me up to study for my
class, I have had such sweet enjoyment that I could not study."
On awaking one night, she said, "Oh, auntie, I have had some beautiful
words come with such power, and I keep saying them--'Thou art Mine, as
the apple of Mine eye.'" I said, "You could not have a more precious
portion. That will do to go to sleep on, won't it?" She said, "Oh, yes!"
and soon fell into a peaceful slumber.
One night she said, "Auntie, do you ever feel your prayers to be very
formal, as if it was merely a habit, and no heart in it?" I said, "Yes,
dear; too often." She said, "Do you?" "Oh, yes," I said; "I wish I did
not."
One morning, going into her room, she said to me, "I have had a nice
time. The sun shone brightly in at the window, and those words came, 'So
shall the Sun of Righteousness arise with healing in His wings.'"
One day she said, "I used to cry so when I was at Gravesend. Do you know
what for?" I said, "No; why did you?" She said, "Because I was coming
here. I did dislike coming so, and for a long time after I was here I
would go and pray, as I thought, very earnestly that mother would send a
letter to fetch me away; but that letter never came. No, it never came;
and what a mercy it did not! God knew what was best for me. How we can
look back and say, 'All was for the best.'"
We felt that we should like her to know the state of health she was in,
but felt quite unfit to tell her. During a visit, a friend asked her if
she wished to get better? On referring to me, after they were gone, she
said, "Is it wrong, auntie? Don't you think it is natural for me to wish
so, who am young?" I said, "Yes, dear, quite natural." She said, "But I
know the Lord will do what He thinks best."
Previous to her nineteenth birthday (September 27th) she had a return of
the bleeding, which again confined her to her bed for a time. We all
felt her end might be very near, and would perhaps come suddenly by the
rupture of another blood-vessel; therefore we were very anxious she
should know what a precarious state she was in. It was, therefore, quite
a relief when she said one day, "Auntie, I did not think at one time I
should be alive now. I did not think I should live to see my birthday."
I said, "I am very glad to hear you say this. I quite thought you were
under the impression you would get better. What were your feelings when
you thought this?" "Oh," she said, "I felt I could leave it all in the
Lord's hands. He would do what was best." There was a sweet resignation
to His will at this time; but, after a little while, her bodily strength
increasing, she was gradually buoyed up with a hope that she might get
better. Knowing from the faithfulness of our doctor that her case was
hopeless, we could not participate in that hope. She was most honest in
her principles, and could not bear to deceive any one.
One day, as we were sitting alone, she said, "Oh, auntie, you never
thought I could deceive you or uncle, did you? But I did." I said, "I am
glad you have spoken of this, dear, although I think in your case it was
different from many" (knowing that what she alluded to was a private
matter). "At any rate, you have our pardon." She said, "What stings of
conscience I have had through it! It has quite taken away any feeling of
pleasure I may have had; and yet my will was so strong to have my own
way, I could not give it up.[10] I have not deceived you in anything
else, auntie. You believe me, don't you?" I said, "Indeed I do."
[10] We hope all our young readers will mark this honest confession,
which was produced by the fear of God, and ever remember that deception
is mean and sinful.--ED.
A very dear friend calling to see her one afternoon, who had not seen
her since she was called by divine grace, said in the course of
conversation, "Well, my dear, there are times and seasons, I have no
doubt, when you can say you would not have it otherwise, but that it was
good for you to be afflicted?" She turned very red, paused, then said
with her usual candour, "I cannot say that, Miss G----." After her
departure, she said, "Auntie, I wish to be submissive to the will of the
Lord, but I felt I could not say that I have ever had a time when I
would not have it otherwise."
A friend calling one evening, spoke in a very solemn manner of those who
had a false enjoyment, and put some close questions to her. She said
little, but after he was gone seemed much put out, and said, "I know I
cannot talk like those he visits. I expect he thinks there is nothing in
me. What do you say, auntie?" I said, "He was certainly very searching,
my dear, but I don't think you understood him. He is so afraid of any
one resting on a wrong foundation, and knowing what a very delicate
state of health you were in, he was anxious to know if you were resting
on Christ, and Christ alone, for salvation." "Well," she said, "I felt
dumb. I expect he thinks very badly of me."
Her strength seemed to go daily. As Christmas drew near, she said,
"Auntie, let everything go on the same as it has done other years. Make
no difference for me. Invite your friends for the day as usual." But we
felt it a very solemn time, and hard work to put on the appearance of
cheerfulness, feeling sure, ere another Christmas came, her place would
be vacant, and she in eternity.
Her dear little cousin was a great sufferer at times all through her
illness, and it became apparent that she, too, was fast hastening home.
I said to Carrie one day, "I used to feel, dear, that I should have you
to leave to see after our dear Flo, if we were taken, but it seems the
Lord's will to take you, and I sometimes think she won't be long." She
answered, "No, I don't think she will; but she will be safe whenever she
goes."
We could have but few quiet times together after this, through the
serious illness and death of her dear cousin, but she was wonderfully
buoyed up at this time with the assurance that nothing was too hard for
the Lord, and apparently rested upon it, for when I was alluding to her
sad state of health, she said, "I know I am beyond the power of earthly
physicians to cure, auntie; but, you know, nothing is too hard for the
Lord."
After the death of her cousin, she was most anxious to have her mourning
made, which we felt sorry for, as it seemed such a clinging to life; but
we found it was only a natural desire to show her love for her dear
little cousin. At any rate, the wish gradually left her, and all things
of an earthly nature lost their charm.
One day she said, "I have no wish to join in anything now. I don't feel
to want to go and witness anything. That is a blessing the Lord only can
give, isn't it?" I said, "Yes," knowing what great delight she used to
take in many things, and how active she had been, especially in anything
connected with the chapel or Sabbath School.
After this darkness set in. The Word of God was as a sealed Book, and
she had no spiritual enjoyment, which she much deplored; also, the
visits of our dear Pastor and her uncle failed to give any comfort.
One day, after a doze in the easy chair, she said, "Was it not strange?
It seemed as if, when I was sleeping, a little boy came to me, and said,
'The Lord hath not forgotten thee, so live in peace.' It did seem so
strange to see the little boy come up and say this. What do you think
of it?" I said, "I cannot tell."
She grew rapidly worse, and our dear nurse thought it advisable to ask
the doctor to call, as he had not been for a few days. He came, and said
she might be gone in twenty-four hours, or might linger a few days, but
the beginning of the end had taken place. Our dear Pastor went and spoke
a few words to her ere he left, and said, "Ah! dear, it is well with
you," and other words of comfort. But after he was gone she was much
cast down, and said, "Oh, why did he say that? I don't feel it will be
well." Then, after a little while, she said, "Do you think I am much
worse?" "Yes, dear," I replied. "Do you think I shall die?" I said, "I
fear you will." Then she said, "Oh, auntie, what trouble I am in! I fear
I have deceived you and myself, and that I shall go to hell." I replied,
"But, my dear, you have had some sweet promises applied with power,
haven't you?" "Oh, I've thought so, but if I have been deceiving
myself?" I said, "You have had a desire after these things, have you
not?" "Oh, yes!" she replied. "Then," I said, "I feel assured, my dear,
you would not have had a real desire if you were a deceiver." She said,
"Auntie, what shall I do? I feel I can't die like this; but I can't do
anything, can I?" Wringing her hands in agony of mind, she cried, "Do,
please, Lord, come! Do come! Oh, dear Lord Jesus, do please come!" She
continued in much distress, until I felt quite unequal to talk to her,
and said, "My dear, shall I send for some one?" She replied, "Oh, no,
auntie; don't send for any one. The Lord must do it all" (laying great
stress on the _all_); "but do pray for me, that He will appear." Her
distress of mind was very great. No words or texts of Scripture named
gave her any comfort. I left the room for a short time, leaving her in
the care of our dear nurse (of whom she was very fond), and on my
return, found she had had a nice sleep. Going up to her, she said, "How
can I thank you enough?" I said, "Don't say a word about that, dear. My
earnest desire is, that you may get a word from the Lord." Her
countenance looked so placid, and she said, "I have, auntie." I said,
"Is Jesus precious to you as your Saviour? Can you trust Him?" She
replied, "Yes. These words came--'Fear not; I will be with you,' and I
think He will. Yes, His promises stand good. 'He'll never, no, never,
no, never forsake.'" She then dozed again. I saw her lips moving, and
caught the words, "With Christ in the vessel I smile at the storm,"
having evidently been repeating that beautiful hymn of Newton's, "Begone
unbelief, my Saviour is near."
After this she had a little time of peace. The next morning, on being
asked if the Lord had again given her comfort, "Yes," she said; "He has
promised that, when through fiery trials He'll cause me to go, He will
be with me."
Darkness again took possession of her mind, and she was often saying,
"Oh, to be a castaway!" She said she would like her uncle to come, which
he did. On his approaching the bed, she said, "Oh, uncle, what will
become of me if I am a deceiver? I shall be lost!" He took her hand, and
said, "Jesus came to save the lost, so you see, dear, you are one. 'The
whole need not a physician, but those who are sick.'" After a few words,
he engaged in prayer. She then dozed, and was never again so harassed by
the enemy of souls.
On Friday morning she was much favoured with the Lord's presence, and
longed to "depart and be with Christ," saying repeatedly, "Do, dear Lord
Jesus, take me to-day! I do so want to go!" I said, "We must wait His
time." "Yes," she replied--
"Till He bids, I cannot die;
Not a single shaft can hit
Till the God of love sees fit."
Her throat and breathing at this time were very bad, and she asked the
doctor when he came if he could relieve her at all. He said he was
afraid he could not, but it would not be long. After he was gone she
again said, "I do so hope the Lord will take me to-day. Do come, Lord
Jesus; do come! Oh, how I long to go! What a glorious meeting it will be
for me, if I am right!" Then clasping her dear hands together, she said,
with such a sweet smile as nurse and I shall never forget, "Oh, blissful
home! What a glorious meeting! I shall see Christ in all His beauty!"
In the afternoon her breathing altered, and she seemed gently passing
away. Looking up so sweetly, she said, "Am I dying, auntie?" I answered,
"Yes, dear; it won't be long now. You want to go, don't you?" "Oh, yes,"
she replied. Her difficulty of breathing returned, and she suffered much
through the night. In the morning she said, "You thought me dying
yesterday, and the doctor too; but the dear Lord did not, did He? It was
not His time." She continued very ill through the day--scarcely able to
speak. Towards night she slightly rallied, and looking up at the clock,
said, "Oh, the night!" She had often during her illness dreaded the
nights. I said, "You know that beautiful hymn, dear--'Sun of my soul'?"
She took it up, and said--
"Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near;
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise,
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes,"
after which she did not say any more about the night.
Her dear Pastor and others bade her "good-bye," but her breathing was
too bad for her to speak, until about two o'clock, when she startled the
dear friend who was sitting up and myself by turning round, calmly
putting her hand in mine, and, with a kiss, said, "Good-bye." Then
turning to Mrs. T----, she did the same to her, and then very quietly
remarked, "You don't hear it now, auntie?"--alluding to the rattles. I
said, "No; the conflict will soon be over, darling." Still, it was not
yet ended--not until a quarter to four on the 8th of May, 1887, was her
soul permitted to "depart and be with Christ," whom she had longed to
see in all His beauty.
LITTLE BY LITTLE.
One step and then another,
And the longest walk is ended;
One stitch and then another,
And the largest rent is mended;
One brick upon another,
And the highest wall is made;
One flake upon another,
And the deepest snow is laid.
So the little coral-workers,
By their slow but constant motion,
Have built those pretty islands
In the distant, dark blue ocean;
And the noblest undertakings
Man's wisdom hath conceived,
By oft-repeated efforts
Have been patiently achieved.
Then do not look disheartened
O'er the work you have to do,
And say that such a mighty task
You never can get through;
But just endeavour, day by day,
Another point to gain,
And soon the mountain which you feared
Will prove to be a plain.
"Rome was not builded in a day,"
The ancient proverb teaches;
And Nature, by her trees and flowers,
The same sweet sermon preaches.
Think not of far-off duties,
But of duties which are near;
And having once begun to work,
Resolve to persevere.
C. SWAIN.
FLYING FOXES.
Among the many anomalies presented by Nature, that of a flying mammal
has seemed strikingly incongruous, and has always left an impression on
the popular mind generally the reverse of the truth. The fox-bats are an
example in point. Superstition has gathered about these strange
creatures the wildest fears; and their uncouth and weird looks have
strengthened a foolish credence in the stories of the vampire. They, it
was declared, settled at night upon the wearied sleeper, and sucked his
life-blood, or with a malicious bite involved the souls of the virtuous
in the terrors of their own lost estate.
The examinations of the naturalist long ago put to flight these romantic
tales; but in their haunts, among the woods of Southern Asia, in Africa,
Australia, Java, and Sumatra, their black swarms and flying movements
yet cause dread and disgust.
The flying foxes are ranged under the order of the _Cheiroptera_, or
hand-winged mammals, and are grouped together in the sub-section of the
fruit-eating bats, as distinguished from those feeding mostly upon
insects.
Their depredations upon orchards and vineyards are notorious. Sailing
through the air at sundown, and guided by an acute sense of smell, they
will enter the plantations containing some plant upon which the fruit
has reached maturity, and, covering it in crowds, will revel in the
delicious repast, leaving the tree or vine at dawn stripped of all its
precious wealth. They fly rapidly, but never at any great height, and
sometimes will traverse considerable spaces, migrating from island to
island over intervening arms of the ocean. On the ground they are agile
and curiously active. They climb trees with ease, and during the day
hang by their hind limbs, their wing membrane wrapped around them, from
the loftier boughs. So densely are they sometimes congregated that the
tree seems a solid mass of black, motionless bags.
The species is distributed over East India, and finds also a favourable
habitation in Madagascar. It lives in immense colonies, and its swarms
have been compared with those of gnats, while the branches they infest
sometimes break down with their great weight. They feed on dates,
bananas, the guava fruit, and also eat insects, the young and eggs of
birds, and apparently at times snakes. Their flesh is edible, and
esteemed immensely by natives, who catch them in nets in the trees, and
kill them on the ground.
In flight, they can be brought down by a blow delivered on the expanded
arms, covered with the flying membrane (patagium), as these are very
weak.
This species is seen more often in captivity than any other; and Brehm,
from whose admirable Thierleben these notes are taken, speaks with
characteristic enthusiasm of his observations made upon one. The "fox"
slept nearly all day, though regularly he devoted some time to the
cleansing and preparation of his "flying machine," and occasionally
bestirred himself for the enjoyment of a cherry or a sip of milk. At the
approach of night he became restless and excited, stretched his wings,
and vainly attempted to escape. He displayed temper, and would bite
sharply any one whose familiarities he resented. The combats of these
animals with one another are very relentless, and generally terminate
with the death of one or both contestants.
The head in these bats is long and pointed, the ears moderately large,
the nose without the appendages seen in the insectivorous bats, and the
jaws armed with incisors, canines, and molar teeth. They form in their
habitat interesting spectacles; and their whirring progress through the
air at night, or the pendent throngs they present by day, alike
astonish the visitor to Ceylon and India. The bats are naturally
regarded as one of the most distinctly marked groups of animals; and
among them the flying-foxes (_Pteropidae_) are easily identified. They
have long been known in literature, and the ancient Herodotus spoke of
them in Arabia, and said that the inhabitants protected themselves
against them in dresses of leather. Later classic authors referred to
them, and many naturalists have in the East carefully observed their
habits.
[Illustration: FLYING FOXES.]
KILLED BY LIGHTNING.
DEAR MR. EDITOR,--As a warning to any of our young friends who, when
they leave home to take part in the battle of life, may be thrown
amongst revilers and blasphemers, I will relate a sad occurrence which
took place in the next village to this on Monday, June 25th, 1888.
A club is held in the village of Birdham, where this took place, and on
the evening previous, being the Sabbath evening, the stall-keepers,
swinging boat proprietors, &c., were drinking at the village inn, and
one of the company, a young man of twenty, was swearing and flourishing
his hands over his head, saying he did not care for any one. God might
strike him blind if He liked.
The next day, about noon, a heavy thunderstorm burst over the village.
This young man had gone into the field with the horse, a little boy
being beside him, when a flash of lightning darted down, cut his hat to
pieces, and left him a corpse. One ear was split, and one hand and the
face were black.