HOLIDAY AT THE PUBLISHING HOUSE.
By S. M. S.
Passing along the street by the S. D. A. publishing house not many days ago, a very unusual phenomenon arrested my attention. I instinctively listened,—because there was nothing to hear. The hush of perfect silence! What a strange thrill for those walls which have so long reverberated day and night with the clash, clatter, click, hum, and rustle of ponderous machinery, flying fingers, and hurrying feet, through all those busy apartments;—not to mention the hammer notes of the builder, toiling to secure more room for the work, while the business agent stands by with his head and hands full of more work for the room. For many weeks and months the steady, increasing tide of business has hurried on almost resistless in its course. But now a pause,—a breathless pause, for not one living pulse beats within those piles of brick. Such an unusual stillness! it seems almost as if silence were listening to her own voiceless echoes, and as if deep, solemn thought had chased all sound away. But this sudden pause is not an unmeaning suspense; it is only a brief holiday—rest for weary mind and muscle—a short pause to take breath for a fresh, bolder onset in the great battle for the progress of truth. May this short respite afford an hour for more calm reflection, for serious consideration of the important bearings of the present upon the future, hastening on with all its momentous interests. We bespeak for that faithful band of toilers glad and refreshing cheer during this brief rest-hour; but we reluctantly add: You must hurry to rest, for even now those burdened presses seem impatient of silent restraint, and must soon thunder on the louder notes of warning to a listening, dying world. All ready, we respond,—at our posts again—all weariness forgotten! On to duty,—all this living mass of industry, doing for the Master. As truth finds utterance in words, the printed page and sheet must be the winged messenger to bear it to every land. Then the fingers must pick and the type click, like the quickened pulses of time; and as letters grow into words, sentences, pages, the presses roll on with their masterly strokes for the impress of truth, saying in unmistakable accents, “Delay not; delay not.” Next we listen to the whispers of the folding room;—the still, small voices of the rustling sheets, saying ever, “Haste! haste!” “Work while the day lasts;” and, repeated at intervals, the crashing knife adds, “For the night cometh.” Thus quickly, the accumulated sheets are folded, stitched, bound, and on their way to distant lands. To a spectator there is something stirring and interesting in this busy round of harmonious labor. To one engaged in this work, these mingled sounds have a soothing power for the troubled spirit, giving inspiration for earnest work. Cheerful, willing hearts love a busy place in the vineyard of the Master. So it seems to man “who looketh on the outward appearance;”—how is it before God who “looketh on the heart”? To the All-searching Eye, each heart is uncovered, with every secret thought, desire, and motive. He alone knows how much of the pure love of the truth and the true spirit of consecration actuates this band of laborers. May God grant, that no impure motive or ambition, no youthful fancies and follies, may divert the mind from the high and sacred character of the work of the publishing house. In Israel’s time, polluted hands, put forth to touch God’s holy, moving ark were smitten with instant death! Only with clean hands and a pure heart, can one be accepted in this solemn service. May the Heart-searcher find in our midst no guile, nothing to hinder the progress and power of truth; and may he speed on his glorious work till the loud cry of the last message shall resound from earth’s remotest bounds; and soon the blessed coming of the Lord bring the glad morning of eternal day.