Review and Herald, Vol. 42, No. 26. (12/9/1873)

Review and Herald

Dec 9, 1873

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Dec 9, 1873

Deacon Barker’s Conversion.

By H. A. Berton

Of all the pillars of the church at Pawkin Center, Deacon Barker was by all odds the strongest. His orthodoxy was the admiration of the entire congregation, and the terror of all the ministers within easy driving distance of the Deacon’s native village. He it was who had argued the late pastor of Pawkin Center church into that state of disquietude which had carried him, through a few days of delirious fever, into the church triumphant; and it was also Deacon Barker whose questions at the examination of seekers for the ex-pastor’s shoes had cast such consternation into divinity schools, far and near, that soon it was very hard to find a candidate for the ministerial honors at Pawkin Center.

Nor was his faith made manifest by words alone. Be the weather what it might, the Deacon was always in his pew, both morning and evening, in time to join in the first hymn, and on every Thursday night, at a quarter past seven in winter, and a quarter before eight in summer, the good Deacon’s shoes could be heard coming solemnly down the aisle, bringing to the prayer-meeting the champion of orthodoxy. Nor did the holy air of the prayer-meeting even one single evening fail to vibrate to the voice of the Deacon, in scriptural language, humble confession and tearful pleadings before the throne, or—still strictly scriptural in expression—he warned and exhorted the impenitent. The contribution box always received his sixpence as long as specie payment lasted, and the smallest fractional currency note thereafter; and to each of the regular annual offerings to the missionary cause, the Bible cause, and kindred Christian enterprises, the Deacon regularly contributed his dollar and his prayers.

The Deacon could quote Scripture in a manner which put Biblical professors to blush, and every principle of his creed so bristled with texts confirmatory, sustentive and aggressive, that doubters were rebuked and freethinkers were reduced to speechless humanity or rage. But the unregenerate, and even some who professed righteousness, declared that more fondly than to any other scriptural passage did the good Deacon cling to the injunction, “Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness.” Meekly insisting that he was only a steward of the Lord, he put out the Lord’s money, that he might receive it again with usury; and so successful had he been that almost all mortgages held on property near Pawkin Center were in the hands of the good Deacon, and few were the foreclosure sales in which he was not the seller.

The new pastor at Pawkin Center, like good pastors everywhere, had tortured himself into many a headache over the perplexing question, “How are we to reach the impenitent in our midst?” The said impenitent were, with few exceptions, industrious, honest, respectable, law-abiding people, and the worthy pastor, as fully impregnated with Yankee thrift as with piety, shuddered to think of the waste of souls that was constantly threatening. At length, like many another pastor, he called a meeting of the brethren to prayerfully consider this momentous question. The Deacon came, of course, and so did all the pillars, and many of them presented their views. Brother Grave thought the final doom of the impenitent should be more forcibly presented; Deacon Struggs had an abiding conviction that it was the man of sin holding dominion in their hearts that kept these people away from the means of grace; Deacon Ponder mildly suggested that the object might perhaps be attained if those within the fold maintained a more godly walk and conversation, but he was promptly, though covertly, rebuked by the good Deacon Barker, who reminded the brethren that “it is the Spirit that quickeneth;” Brother Flite, who hadn’t any money, thought “the church ought to build a workman’s chapel;” but this idea was promptly and vigorously combatted by all men of property in the congregation. By this time, the usual closing hour had arrived, and, after a benediction, the faithful dispersed, each with about the ideas he brought to the meeting.

Early the next morning, the good Deacon Barker, with his mind half full of the state of the unconverted, and half of his unfinished cow-shed, took his stick and hobbled about the village in search of a carpenter to finish the incompleted structure. There was Moggs, but Moggs had been busy all the season, and it would be just like him to want full price for a day’s work. Stubb was idle, but Stubb was low. Augur—Augur used liquor, and the Deacon had long ago firmly resolved that not a cent of his money, if he could help it, should ever go for the accursed stuff. But there was Hay—he hadn’t seen him at work in a long time—perhaps he would be anxious enough for work to do it cheaply.

The Deacon knocked at Hay’s door, and Hay himself shouted:

“Come in.”

“How are you, George,” said the Deacon, looking hastily about the room, and delightedly determining, from the patient face of sad-eyed Mrs. Hay and the scanty furnishing of the yet uncleared breakfast table, that he had been providentially guided to the right spot. “How’s times with you?”

“Not very good, Deac’n,” replied Hay. “Nothing much doing in town.”

“Money’s awful scarce,” groaned the Deacon.

“Dreadful,” responded George, devoutly thanking the Lord that he owed the Deacon nothing.

“Got much to do this winter?” asked the Deacon.

“Not a d—day’s job—not a single day,” sorrowfully replied Hay.

The Deacon’s pious ear had been shocked by the young man’s imperfectly concealed profanity, and for an instant he thought of administering a rebuke, but the charms of prospective cheap labor lured the good man from the path of rectitude. “I’m fixing my cow-shed—might perhaps give you a job on it. S’pose you’d do it cheap, seeing how dull everything is?”

The sad eyes of Mrs. Hay grew bright in an instant. Her husband’s heart jumped up, but he knew to whom he was talking, so said, as calmly as possible:

“Three dollars is regular pay.”

The Deacon immediately straightened up as if to go.

“Too much,” said he; “I guess I’d better hire a common laborer at a dollar’n a half, and boss him myself. It’s only a cow-shed, you know.”

“Guess, though, you won’t want the nails drove on less particular, will you, Deac’n?” inquired Hay. “But I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll throw off fifty cents a day.”

“Two dollars ought to be enough, George,” reasoned the Deacon. “Carpentering is pretty work, and takes a sight of head-piece, sometimes; but there’s no intellect required to work on a cow-shed. Say two dollars, and come along.”

The carpenter thought bitterly of what a little way the usual three dollars went, and of how much would have to be done with what he could get out of the cow-shed, but the idea of losing even that was too horrible to be endured, so he hastily replied:

“Two and a quarter, and I am your man.”

“Well,” said the Deacon, “it’s a powerful price to pay for work on a cow-shed, but I suppose I must stand it. Hurry up; there’s the mill whistle blowing seven.”

Hay snatched up his tools, kissed a couple of thankful tears out of his wife’s eyes, and was soon busy on the cow-shed, with the Deacon looking on.

“George,” said the Deacon suddenly, causing the carpenter to stop his hammer in mid-air, “think it over again, and say two dollars.”

Hay gave the good Deacon a withering glance, and for a few moments the force of suppressed profanity caused his hammer to bang with unusual vigor, while the owner of the cow-shed rubbed his hands in ecstasy at the industry of his employee.

The air was bracing, the winter sun shone brilliantly, the Deacon’s breakfast was digesting fairly, and his mind had not freed itself from the influences of the Sabbath. Besides, he had secured a good workman at a low price, and all these influences combined to put the Deacon in a pleasant frame of mind. He rambled through his mind which would piously express his condition, and texts brought back Sunday, and Sunday reminded him of the meeting of the night before. And here was one of those very men before him—a good man in many respects, though he was higher-priced than he should be. How was the cause of the Master to be prospered if his servants made no effort? Then there came to the Deacon’s mind the passage, “—he that converteth a sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins.” What particular sins of his own needed hiding the Deacon did not find it convenient to remember just then, but he meekly admitted to himself and the Lord that he had them, in a general way. Then, with directness and grace which were characteristic of him, the Deacon solemnly said:

“George, what is to be the sinner’s doom?”

“I don’t,” know replied George, his wrath still warm; “’pears to me you’ve left that business till pretty late in life, Deacon.”

“Don’t trifle with sacred subjects, George,” said the Deacon, still very solemn, and with a suspicion of annoyance in his voice. “The wicked shall be cast into hell with—”

“They can’t carry their cow-sheds with them neither,” interrupted George, consolingly.

“Come, George,” said the good Deacon, in an appealing tone, “remember the apostle says, ‘Suffer the word of exhortation.’”

“Excuse me, Deacon, but one suffering at a time; I ain’t through suffering at being beat down yet. How about Deac’n’s not being given to filthy lucre?”

The good Deacon was pained, and he was almost out of patience with the apostle for writing things which came so handy to the lips of the unregenerate. He commenced an industrious search for a text which should completely annihilate the impious carpenter, when that individual interrupted him with:

“Out with it, Deacon—you had a meeting last night to see what was to be done with the impenitent. I was there—that is, I sat on a stool just outside the door, and I heard all ’t was said. You didn’t agree on nothing—may be you’ve fixed it up since. Any how, you’ve set me down for one of the impenitent, and you are going for me. Well—”

“Go on nailing,” interrupted the economical Deacon, a little testily; “the noise don’t disturb me; I can hear you.”

“Well, what way am I so much wickeder than you—and t’other folks at the meeting-house?” asked Hay.

“George, I never saw you in God’s house in my life,” replied the Deacon.

“Well, suppose you haven’t—is God so small he can’t be anywhere except in your little meeting-house? How about his seeing folks in their closets?”

“George,” said the Deacon, “if you are a praying man, why don’t you join yourself unto the Lord’s people?”

“Why? Because the Lord’s people, as you call them, don’t want me. S’pose I was to come to the meeting-house in these clothes—the only ones I’ve got—d’you s’pose any of the Lord’s people would open a pew-door to me? And s’pose my wife and children, dressed no better than I am, but as good’s I can afford, were with me, how d’you s’pose I’d feel?”

“Pride goeth before a fall, and a haughty spirit before,” groaned the Deacon, when the carpenter again interrupted.

“I’d feel as if the people of God was a gang of insulting hypocrites, and as if I didn’t ever want to see them again. If that kind of pride’s sinful, the devil’s a saint. If there’s anything wrong about a man’s feeling so about himself and them God give him, God’s to blame for it; but seeing it’s the same feeling that makes folks keep themselves straight in all other matters, I’ll keep on thinking it’s right.”

“But the privileges of the blessed gospel, George,” remonstrated the Deacon.

“Don’t you s’pose I know what they are worth?” continued the carpenter. “Haven’t I hung around in front of the church on summer nights, when the windows was open, just to listen to the singing and what else I could hear? Hasn’t my wife been there with me many a time, and haven’t both of us prayed and groaned in our hearts, not only because we couldn’t join in it all ourselves, but because we couldn’t send the children either, without their learning to hate religion before they fairly knew what ’twas? Haven’t I sneaked into the vestibule winter nights, and set just where I did last night, and heard what I would liked my wife and children to have heard, and prayed for the time to come when the self-appointed elect shouldn’t offend the little ones; and after sitting there last night and coming home and telling my wife how folks was concerned about us, and our rejoicing together in the hope that some day our children could have the chances we’re shut out of now, who should come along this morning but one of those same holy people, and Jewed down on pay that the Lord knows is hard enough to live on.”

The Deacon had a heart, and knew the nature of self-respect as well as men generally. His mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked:

“Reckon Flite’s notion was right, after all—there ought to be a working man’s chapel.”

“Ought?” responded Hay; “who d’you

s’pose would go to it? Nobody? You can rent us second-class houses, and sell us second-hand clothing, and the cheapest cuts of meat, but when it comes to cheap religion—nobody knows its value better than we do. We don’t want to go into your parlors on carpets and furniture we don’t know how to use, and we don’t expect to be asked into society where our talk and manners might make some better educated people laugh. But when it comes to religion—God knows nobody needs and deserves the very best article more than we do.”

The Deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly examined. The indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great deal of reason, and yet—God’s people deserved to hold their position, if, as usual, the argument ended where it began. So he asked, rather triumphantly:

“What is to be done, then?”

“Reform God’s people themselves,” replied the carpenter, to the horror of the old man. “When the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back, when a poor man comes along, there’ll be plenty that’ll be glad to take it. Reform your own people, Deacon, before you pick out of our eyes the motes we’ll be glad enough to get rid of, you can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of your own.”

Soldiers of the cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.

Reform God’s people themselves! The Deacon was too old a boy to tell tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform. Of course there was—weren’t we all poor sinners?—when we would do good, wasn’t evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to complain, when they weren’t at least any better? Besides, suppose he were to try to reform the ways of Brother Graves and Deacon Struggs and others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to reform him? And who was to know just what quantity and quality of reform was necessary? “Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines.” The matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed the injunction, “Commit thy way unto the Lord.”

But the Lord regulated the entire matter to the Deacon. They did a full day’s work. The Deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the Deacon’s red cow made an addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the Deacon was far from comfortable. The idea that certain people must stay away from God’s house until God’s people were reformed, seemed to the Deacon’s really human heart something terrible. If they would be so proud—and yet, people would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray, and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could scarcely be very proud. He knew there couldn’t be many such, else this out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn’t a full congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which Hay spoke, and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the subject of their eternal welfare?

What a pity it was that those workingmen who wished to repair to the sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! If he had only known this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired him at three dollars, though really, is a man to blame for doing his best in the labor market? “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” Gracious! he could almost declare he heard the carpenter’s voice delivering that text. What had brought that text into his head just now?—he had never thought of it before.

The Deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. Of one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the church at Pawkin Center was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever really known many such? If Hay only had means, the problem would afford its own solution. The good Deacon solemnly declared to himself that if Hay could give good security, he (the Deacon) would try to lend him the money.

But even this (to the Deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive of sleep. “He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.” There! he could hear that indignant carpenter again. What an unsatisfactory passage that was, to be sure! If it could only read the other way—it didn’t seem a bit business-like the way it stood. And yet, as the Deacon questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had a very small balance, even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the Lord. He had never lent to the Lord except in his usual business manner—as small a loan as would be accepted on as extensive collaterals as he could exact. Oh! why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of their forefathers and robe themselves in garments grievous in price, and stumbling-blocks in the paths of their fellow-men?

But sleep failed even to follow the pious reflection. Suppose—only suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend Hay money enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of money it would take! A common, neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars; an overcoat, nearly twice as much; a suit, cloak and other necessities for his wife, would amount to as much more; and the children—oh! the thing could not be done for less than two hundred dollars. Of course it was out of the question—he had only wondered what it would cost—that was all.

Still no sleep. He wished he hadn’t spoken with Hay about his soul—next time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn’t employed Hay. He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. “No man can come to me except the Father which sent me draw him”—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the Almighty’s plans.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” Ha! Could that carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with such tantalizing texts? They had kept him awake, and, at his time of life, a restless night was a serious matter. Suppose—

Very early the next morning, the village doctor, returning from a patient’s bedside, met the Deacon with a face which suggested to him (the doctor was pious and imaginative) “Abraham on Mount Moriah.” The village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him he was in time for a fine steak, but the Deacon shook his head in agony, and passed on. He neared the carpenter’s house, stopped, tottered, and looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his way behind the house, where Hay was chopping firewood. The carpenter saw him, and turned pale—he feared the Deacon had come to give him warning.

“George,” said the Deacon, “I’ve been doing much thinking about what we talked of yesterday. I’ve come to say that if you like I’ll lend you three hundred dollars for as long as you like, without note, security, or interest; you to spend as much of it as you need to dress you and your whole family in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the Savings Bank, at interest, to go on doing the same with when necessary. And all of you go to church when you feel so disposed. And if nobody else’s pew-door opens, you are welcome to mine. And may the Lord”—the Deacon finished the sentence to himself—“have mercy on my soul.” Then he said, aloud:

“That’s all.”

The carpenter, at the beginning of the Deacon’s speech, had dropped his ax, to the imminent danger of one of his feet. As the Deacon continued, the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow inquiringly, and awaited the conditions. But when the Deacon said, “That’s all,” George Hay seized the Deacon’s hard old hand, gave it a grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner, and exclaimed:—

“Deacon, God’s people are reforming!”

The Deacon staggered a little—he had not thought of it in that light before.

“Deacon, that money’ll do more good than all the praying you ever done. Excuse me—I must tell Mary,” and the carpenter dashed into the house. Had Mrs. Hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the Deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, seeing which the Deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane than he had done in any day for years. It is grievous to relate—but the truth is mighty—that within a fortnight the good Deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times. He would die in the poor-house if he were so extravagant again. Three hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—lumber, shingles, nails, labor and all—would cost. Suppose Hay should take the money and go West? Suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor? One suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and nervous. But on the second Sunday, having satisfied himself that Hay was in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought back bundles, and that he (the Deacon) had seldom been in the street without meeting one of Hay’s children with a bundle of books and eyes or a spool of thread, the Deacon stationed himself in one of his own front windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on Hay’s door, a little distance off. The first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no one appeared—could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night and pawned everything? No—the door opened—yes, it was—well, he never imagined Hay and his wife were so fine a looking couple. They came nearer, and the Deacon, forgetting his cane, hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew and left the door wide open. He waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come. He looked around impatiently, and there, oh, joy and wonder!—the President of the Pawkin Savings’ Institution had invited the whole family into his pew. Just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing

“From all that dwell below the skies Let the Creator’s praise arise;”

and the Deacon, in his excitement, distanced the organ, and the congregation, and almost brought the entire musical service to a standstill.

The Deacon had intended to watch closely for Hay’s conversion, but something wonderful prevented—it was reported everywhere that the Deacon himself had been converted, and all who now saw the Deacon fully believed the report. He was even heard to say that as there seemed to be some doubt as to whether faith or works was the saving virtue, he intended thereafter to practice both. He no longer mentions the poor-house as his prospective dwelling, but is heard to say that in his Father’s house are many mansions, and that he is laying up his treasure in Heaven as fast as possible, and hopes he may get it all on the way there before his heart is called for. At the post-office, the tin shop, and the rum shop, the Deacon’s conversion is constantly discussed, and men of all degrees now express a belief in the mighty power of the Spirit from on high. Other moneyed men have been smitten and changed, and the pastor of the Pawkin Center church daily thanks the Lord for such a revival as he never heard of before.—H. A. Berton.

HE LEADETH ME.

By Sel.

Although the way is dark, I'll follow on, My hand within my Father's all the way; And, though the brightness of the day be gone, And, though I see no glimmer of the dawn, I cannot go astray, While he shall lead me in his own right way.

On through each dismal swamp, Through thickets dark and damp, Or, on the highway's long and dangerous road; Up o'er each rugged hill, On through each caverned hill, 'Mid pains and trials still, With joy all paths I tread, If by the Father led.

The night is chill, and still he guides me through, Mire on my sandals, on my locks the dew; And, while I stagger on with weary feet, The distance shortens to his mercy-seat.

I ask no other help, no guidance crave: He is my strong right arm, how strong to save! And when my spirit owns his kind caress, Fresh roses blossom in the wilderness, Hope gilds the edge of every cloudy care, And rainbowed promise paints each dull despair: Each onward step grows firmer, for I know Some brighter day shall all his purpose show, Some happier moment open out to me, In fullest bloom, my life's long mystery.

Sometimes my steps go haltingly and slow, And doubt's black waters in my pathway flow; Yet, when I turn, some easier road to gain, Love smiles me back, and all the path is plain.

So, though the night be chill, I'll follow on, My hand within my Father's all the way; And, till I see the breaking of the dawn, I know full well I cannot go astray, For his kind hand will lead me all the way.

— Sel.

The Great Supper.

By C. Green

A FEAST of fat things has been prepared and promised to all who will accept the gracious invitation. “Eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness. Come, buy wine and milk, without money and without price.”

This supper has been prepared at great cost. All are invited to partake of its bounties. None will be slighted; none will say, in this land of Bibles, when the guests finally come to partake of the sumptuous repast, “I received no invitation.”

The rich and noble have been, and are being, invited. The majority of these slight the invitation altogether. They look about them, and feel no need; therefore they slight the generous offer. Other things occupy their attention, and take up their thoughts. The one has purchased a piece of land; he must needs go and see it. Another must prove the oxen of his last purchase, and so ascertain the profits of his investment; he begs to be excused. The third is more taken up with his bride than with this offer of better things, and experiences more happiness in her society than he thinks he can derive from the pleasure of a feast prepared by One altogether lovely and chief among ten thousand. He comes in with a pointed refusal, “I cannot come.” The thoughtless and the gay have no inclination, nor time, to consider these things, so they do not come to the feast.

Angry at the refusal and slight shown to his generous offers, the Master sends out for those to come who are poor in this world’s goods, of low estimate in themselves. Those who are hungering for righteousness, who take time to consider the invitation and place a proper estimate upon it, are invited. Those maimed by sin, lame, and halting, not able to go, and not knowing where to go, and those blinded by erroneous doctrines, hear the gracious message, and accept of it gladly. These can appreciate the bounties provided, and in return render to the Master, not only respect for the invitation he has given them by accepting it, but sincere gratitude and unfeigned love and devotion for the rich blessings he has conferred upon them.

But after all these have come, there still is room for more guests at this great supper. While the invitation is still a generous one, it becomes also a compulsory message. Go forth to those of the highways and hedges and compel them to come in, that the room may be filled.

This message is now being given. Who will heed it, and begin to prepare now, so as to participate in the marriage supper of the Lamb? “The Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely.” C. GREEN. Battle Creek.

The Unchanging Word.

“The word of the Lord endureth forever.”

Our words come and go. We ourselves are always changing, and what was a genuine effusion of our hearts at one period of our history, may be no true index of our feelings afterward. And circumstances vary. We find that we have been deceived in our estimate of character, and people turn out so different from what we took them once to be. The consequence is, that many of our past sayings are now a dead letter; and when reminded of an old promise, we are apt to feel that, were it to be repeated, we should not make that promise now. But not so with the precious word of our Heavenly Father, inviting to repentance and offering pardon; and when he proclaimed the fullest and freest gospel to our world, he did not feel more propitious toward sinners of our race than he is feeling now. No crime has evolved so tremendous as to modify the saying, “The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin;” so no transgression has arisen so gigantic as to limit the divine forgiveness, or to form an exception in the divine and world-embracing “whosoever.” Among all the utterances of the Most High, and all the declarations of that faithful witness, his incarnate Son, there is not one which has faded into inanity or grown a dead letter; but, like the wise, holy, and unchanging Speaker, each is a faithful saying—a lively oracle—vital with divine significance—like God himself, a word that liveth and endureth forever.

The Death of a Drunkard

If there is one spectacle on earth more melancholy than another, it is the death of a drunkard. Friends turn away from such a scene in despair, not wishing to linger to catch the last whisper of the dying wretch, whose scarcely perceptible breath is impregnated with the fumes of poison that has destroyed both soul and body. When the last spark has expired, and the soul has taken its flight from a rotten carcass, and a few friends, out of duty to kindred humanity, carry the cold, polluted body to its silent hiding place, a voice seems to proclaim, in accents from the eternal world, Lost! lost! No hope—no hope! Notwithstanding the awful truth of the above, there are those dear to many who read this, now rushing on to perform a part in this melancholy tragedy. Some of the most promising of friends, a few years ago, have written, while others are now writing, their names upon this pass-book of hell, and it would appear from their acts as though each were striving to be first on the list of victims. How heedlessly they rush on to ruin! We would snatch them from the blood-dripping wheels of this idol, but they will not be saved. If not, great God! deliver coming generations from such a fate.

Doing Small Things for Christ

By Spurgeon

If there is some little thing I can do for Christ, though my minister will not know about it, though the deacons and elders will not know, and nobody will know, and if I leave it undone nobody will suffer any calamity because of it, but if I do it, it will please my Lord, and I shall enjoy the sense of having done it to him, therefore will I attend to it, for it is no slight work if it be for him—Spurgeon.

The Gospel Net.

By M. E. P.

WHEN Jesus was walking by the sea, he saw Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea, for they were fishers. He said unto them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Matt. 4:18, 20. Strange words! Perhaps they question, What does he mean by the words, fishers of men? Possibly Christ explains; but we only read, “They left their nets, and followed him.” The sacred record does not say they waited, or caviled, or queried, or doubted. No; but their simple faith was acted out by their leaving their nets and immediately following Jesus.

And Christ is even now saying these words to each of us. If we follow closely after our Lord and carefully heed his teachings, we shall see the power of God manifested, even as Peter afterward saw multitudes gathered into the church through the effectual preaching of the gospel.

But there is a fact in connection with this that all should give heed to. The Scriptures do not teach that all who are gathered into the gospel net shall finally be saved. “Many are called, but few are chosen,” and yet salvation is free for all; then why will not all be saved? Because all will not make the requisite effort. Many seem to look upon the promise of eternal life as though they only half believed, and half doubted. If they fully believed that all the conditions must be complied with, they would surely be more earnest and persevering. According to our faith will our actions be. If we are not willing to agonize with all the powers of our being to enter in at the strait gate, how can we expect to be among the few who will find it?

But says one, “I do not believe that God will destroy all his creatures except a certain few who think they have more light than others.” Nor does any one who possesses the true spirit of meekness so believe. But all will have sufficient light to enable them to discern between the right and the wrong path, and none will be left with good excuse for not obeying the truth they might have received.

In these latter days, new light has dawned upon the prophecies, and upon the revelation of Jesus Christ to St. John. The vision, as recorded in Dan. 2, 7 and 8, is made “plain upon tables, that he may run [or make haste] that readeth it.” Hab. 2:2. It has hitherto been as a sealed book, “which men deliver to one that is learned, saying, Read this, I pray thee; and he saith, I cannot; for it is sealed. And the book is delivered to him that is not learned, saying, Read this, I pray thee; and he saith, I am not learned.” Isa. 29:11, 12.

Now these prophecies are unsealed; and will any dare to scorn the light so graciously given and yet hope, like the unbelieving Jews, to gain Heaven at last? Many have accepted, and profess to believe, present truth. Multitudes may be gathered into the gospel net. But these are the questions of greatest importance to be answered: Are we daily practicing self-denial? Do we strive earnestly to imitate our Pattern in all things? If so, let us not be weary in well-doing; for in due season we shall reap if we faint not. And may we follow Christ so closely that we may realize his power in defeating the works of Satan, and in accomplishing glorious things for those who are children of the light.

M. E. P.

WHY I LOVE JESUS.

“Why do you love this Jesus?” said a scoffing one to me; “And what is the feeling you have for him more than for one like me? Do you truly love, as we say we love, when our hearts are full to the brim? Do you love,” and the voice grew softer, “as though you could die for him?”

“Why do I love, and how do I love?” I said as I took her hand; “Oh! if I only might tell you, so that you’d understand! I love him because he came below, and suffered and died for me, Leaving a home of joy and love, for pain and the bloody tree.

“Yet not alone for what he has done do I love the risen Christ— Not only that for my worthless sake he was scoffed at and despised— But for what he is in his real self, and for what his beauties are, Because he is utterly perfect, and because he is perfectly fair.

“We love our friends, if we really love, for what they are, and can; And one who is great, and able, and good, we count a lovely man. Now, come and gaze on the face of Christ as he appears to me, And how he stands above all such, only look and you will see.

“If one builds houses grand and rare, with spire and arch and dome, We count him great, and his name is bright in history’s blazoned tome; Yet no one has made, as our Christ has made, a plan of sun and star Like that which flashes out on our sight from the depths of space afar.

“I have read the works of the masters, and my soul has thrilled to hear Their sounding words, through the ages, come out, ringing grand and clear; Yet never a poem of earth has filled my soul with such a joy As the lofty ecstasy Jesus gives, which time cannot destroy.

“I have looked on faces so strangely fair that my vision could not stay From gazing upon their beauty, though I tried to turn away; Yet never a face of all I ween, can, in one thing, compare With the features of the Master—like the Rose of Sharon fair!”

Signs of the Times.

By Sarah A. Dunbar

The Scriptures teach “that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils.” 1 Tim. 4:1. Is it not even so? Some make a start to serve God, but after a short time lose their love for him. Desirous of earthly gain and popularity, they soon come under Satan’s contaminating influence, when they sink deep into sin, and will sink still deeper unless they turn at once and do their first works. “But as the days of Noe were, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.” Matt. 24:37. They laughed at Noah’s belief in a flood, as they do now at our faith in Christ’s soon coming. Those who do not heed this warning will suffer the wrath of God poured out without any mixture of mercy.

Lot gave the people warning in his day that God was about to destroy the city of Sodom, but they heeded not the warning. “The same day that Lot went out of Sodom, it rained fire and brimstone from heaven, and destroyed them all;” “even thus shall it be in the day when the Son of man is revealed.” Luke 17:29, 30. “When they shall say, Peace and safety; then sudden destruction cometh upon them.” 1 Thess. 5:3.

Daniel was to seal up the book, even to the time of the end; and as time is drawing to a close, God has prepared a people to give the warning and proclaim the third angel’s message to a perishing world.

The church is taught to be ever looking for Christ’s appearing, then they that are ready will go in to the marriage, and the door will be shut. Matt. 25:10. Christians ought always to be watching, for we know not when the time is. The Master may come at even, at midnight, or in the morning. Watch, “lest coming suddenly, he find you sleeping.” Mark 13:36.

Sinners are commanded to repent, and be converted, that their sins may be blotted out when the times of refreshing shall come. Acts 3:19. How slow we are to believe, and how few of us will be saved unless we seek that godly sorrow which “worketh repentance to salvation not to be repented of;” that our sins may go beforehand to judgment. May the Lord help us to take our stand on the side of truth, and if we meet with trials, take them to the Lord in prayer, believing that, if we cast all our burdens on the “Burden-bearer,” he will give us the required strength to overcome this wicked world, and to gain victory over death, and a home in the kingdom prepared from the foundation of the world for those who love and fear his holy name.

SARAH A. DUNBAR.

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