Review and Herald, Vol. 27, No. 1. (12/5/1865)

Review and Herald

Dec 5, 1865

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Dec 5, 1865

Hurting a Child's Heart.

ThE last sentence in Old Testament inspiration is, "Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord; and he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse."

The following beautifully written story is a very good comment on the above text. It is taken from the N. Y. Principia. Those upon whom rests the arduous task of training children—than which earth has no duties more important—will be instructed by it. Perhaps some may here read a delicate reproof. Parents and guardians should ever have a molding influence among the junior members of the household, and to this end Patience and Forbearance will be the most powerful agents in conciliating the affections of children. Let us all remember that inspired saying, "He that winneth souls is wise."

"I don't expect anything of my children!"

The tone was fretful, with a quality of accusation. The face of the speaker wore an injured look.

A boy, between fourteen and fifteen years of age, sat reading. He moved uneasily, as if pain had disturbed him, but he did not lift his eyes from the page on which they were resting.

"The harder a mother slaves for her children the less they care for her."

The boy moved again; almost with a start, as though the pain felt an instant before had suddenly increased.

"All children are thankless!" so the speaker kept on, talking to a friend, yet really thrusting at the boy.

"Not all," answered the friend. "I have a mother, and I know my heart in regard to her. It is full of love and gratitude, and I cannot remember the time when it was not so."

"There are exceptions to all rules. And, besides, there are few women like your mother. That would be a cold heart, indeed, into which she did not inspire love."

"Love begets love. That is the old trite story; and as true to-day as it was a thousand years ago. If children grow up cold and thankless towards their parents—if they early separate from them, going off into the world, and treating them with neglect, the fault, in most cases, rests with the parents. They did not make themselves lovely in their children's eyes."

There followed this a dead silence for some minutes. The boy had let his book fall from before his eyes, and was listening intently. His mother saw this, and had a quick perception of what was passing in his mind.

"Edward," said she, "I don't like boys in my bedroom. Go down stairs." This was not spoken harshly. The mother's tone of voice had changed considerably.

The boy arose without hesitation, and left the room.

"I don't think it's always good to talk before children," remarked the lad's mother, as soon as he had retired.

"A proper regard for our language and conduct before children," was answered, "is a theory of the gravest consideration. They have keen instincts—their eyes are sharp—they read us, and know us sometimes better than we do ourselves."

"They are sharp enough, I suppose; but not quite so sharp as all that," was answered. "I'm not one of those that make children of much importance."

"Our estimation in the case will not alter the result, my friend. Of that we may be certain. As we are to our children so will they be to us. Love begets love, and kindness, good-will. If we do not hurt them wantonly, they will not, in turn, wound us by neglect."

"Hurt them wantonly! I am not sure that I get your meaning."

"Are you much surprised that Tom Baldwin made his escape from home, at the first good opportunity?"

"Well, I looked for it, I must confess; but that don't excuse him. He's proved himself an ungrateful boy, after all his mother has done for him. But, as I said a little while ago, all children are thankless. I don't calculate on anything from mine. They'll grow up and scatter themselves east and west, getting off as far from home as possible; and I'll probably be left to an asylum in the poor house when I get old and helpless."

"You talk in that way before your children?" said the friend.

"They know my sentiments."

"So I inferred. In that way you hurt them. You put their future on trial, and write out a verdict of condemnation, when it is impossible for them to vindicate themselves against your cruel charges. I saw your boy stand and writhe a little while ago, under your sharp thrusts at him. He was no party to Tom Baldwin's unfilial act; and it was a hard thing in you, my friend, to make Tom's delinquency the occasion for smiting your own son, whom you may bind to you, if you will, by triple cords of love, not to be broken; or push away to a distance, where he can feel no warmth, and no attraction. Take care! You are on dangerous ground."

"Oh, you make too much of children," was answered, but with a little obstruction in manner.

"They are simply human beings. They have sensitive souls, quick to receive impressions. Tender to love, but hard or resentful toward all unkindness. They are creatures of feeling rather than thought, not generally holding malice, but rarely losing the memory of pain from unjust infliction. In after years this memory is often revived. It is my opinion that in a large number of cases, where children neglect their parents in old age the cause lies just here."

"All of which is simply vindictive," said the lad's mother, "and a poor compliment to human nature."

"Human nature doesn't often suffer unjustly through hard judgment," was answered. "But I am not offering an apology for her short-comings, only look after the cause. To prevent is better than to cure. Forewarned, forearmed. Is it not much the wiser course for us to make sure of our children's love in future by offering them love in the present?"

"You speak as though I didn't love my children."

A crimson stain marked the woman's cheeks. There were sudden flashes in her eyes. She was a woman of quick temper.

"Every feeling has its sign," was calmly replied. "Love, anger, dislike—each expresses itself in a different way. And these signs every one knows. Even the babe of one brief summer may read them. Why is it that Edward feels that you do not love him?"

"Who says that he feels so?" the mother asked.

There was a mingling of anger with surprise in her face.

"Must it not be that you withhold, too often, the signs of love?"

"I shall get angry at you, if you talk to me any longer in this strain."

"No, my dear friend, you must not get angry with me. Too many sweet memories of the past are shared between us. Bear with me, now, as one who holds you in her heart. Shall I relate to you an incident that occurred in my house, only yesterday? It is under the warrant of this incident, that I have ventured on the plainness of speech which has disturbed you."

The red spots faded off from the mother's cheeks. The keen light went out of her eyes.

"Go on," she said, her voice dropping from its sharp key.

"Edward had called to see the children. We always like to have him come. He is never rude, nor coarse in his manners, but gentlemanly in bearing beyond what is usually seen in lads of his age. I have more than once compared him with my oldest son, and wished that John resembled him in many things. The two

boys were in the parlor alone. John, I am sorry to say, is not always to be trusted. He is over curious, and apt to meddle with things that should be sacred from his touch. Recently, he has become interested in insects, and has begun to collect and preserve them.

'There was a vase of wax flowers on the parlor mantle-piece, the ingenious maker of which had placed several imitations of moths and beetles among the leaves. The vase was covered with glass. John's new formed interest in entomology had given a special attraction to these wax moths and beetles; and on this occasion he went so far as to lift the glass covering, that he might obtain a closer view. In venturing to do this, one of those accidents that so frequently happen with children and grown people, when they are not doing just right, occurred. The glass shield slipped from John's hand, and cracked to pieces on the floor. The noise startled and excited me. I went hastily to the parlor and saw at a glance the damage which had been done, and also comprehended the cause of the disaster. Edward looked pale and frightened, John flushed and grieved. Repentance and self condemnation had come with accident. Even through my indignation, which could not be stayed, I saw that. Hard words were struggling to come through my lips, but I repressed them. Experience warned me to keep silence until I could speak calmly, and under the influence of reason.

'I stood for a few moments looking at the shivered glass, and then, without trusting my lips to say anything, went out for the dust-pan and brush. I was glad that I had controlled myself. It is my experience that scolding almost always does harm; and even where it works correction of bad habits, I am certain that a different way would have been better. I was quite self-possessed when I returned. As I stooped to gather up the broken fragments of glass, John came up close to me. I did not speak to, nor look at him. Edward had drawn back to a distant part of the room. Silently the work of collecting the pieces of glass went on, John standing near me all the while. It was done, and I was about rising, when I felt his arm across my shoulder. 'I'm so sorry,' he said in a penitent voice, laying his face down against mine, which I had turned towards him. 'It was wrong to touch it I know; but I thought I would be so careful. I can't tell what made it slip out of my hand.' 'Accidents are almost sure to happen to us, my son,' I answered gently, but seriously, 'when we are not doing what is just right. Let this disaster stand as a lesson for the future.' 'You shall take my money and buy a new case, mother,' he answered, in a spirit of manly justice that was grateful to my ears. 'If this little experience will make you more careful about doing right,' I returned, 'none of us will very deeply regret the accident.' He put his arms around my neck and kissed me. I kissed him in return, and then went out, thanking God in my heart, that he had helped me to self-control in a moment of trial, when passion would have hurt my boy.

'Not long afterwards I heard the boys talking together. Edward said, 'If it had been my mother, she would have scolded at me, until I was mad enough to break everything in the house. Why didn't your mother scold you?' 'Because she loves me, and knows that scolding wouldn't make me half so sorry as I am.' 'I wish that my mother loved me,' said Edward, in a tone of voice so sad and longing that it brought tears into my eyes.'

The mother of Edward caught her breath at this. Her lips moved as if she were about to speak; but she repressed what was in her thoughts, and kept silent.

'Of course your mother loves you,' answered John.

So the friend continued. 'But Edward said, 'No, I'm sure she doesn't love me.' 'Why do you say that?' questioned John. 'If she loved me she wouldn't be always scolding me, and hurting me by hard words, no matter what I do. Oh, John, if I had such a mother as you, I'd be the happiest boy alive! I'd do anything for her.'

There was silence for some time. It was broken by the friend, who said:

'Forgive me for having told you this. The wounds of a friend are better than the kisses of an enemy. Forgive what may seem an exaltation of myself above you. He who knows my heart knows that in it there is no pride of superiority. He knows how weak I am, how often I fall short, how often passion gets the better of reason; how near it was to bearing me down yesterday. It was in His strength that I overcame, and helped my boy, instead of hurting him. In His strength you may overcome also, and win the love of a child whose heart is athirst for your love, as is the drooping flower athirst for the dew and rain.'

The mother of Edward bowed her face into her hands. For a little while, her body shook with half-choked sobs. Then she looked up at her friend. Her eyes were wet, her face pale, her lips curved with pain and grief.

"You are not hurt with me?"

"No, no," she answered. "Not with you, but with myself. What have I been doing? What madness has possessed me? I know that love begets love—that in Mrs. Hewitt's beautiful words, it has readier will than fear. I know, also, that hardness begets hardness; that driving is more difficult and far less certain than leading. And yet, knowing all this, I have sought to rule my children by passion and force; to drive instead of leading them into the right ways. No, no. I am not hurt with you. For all this plain speaking, which I so much needed, I thank you from the depth of my heart. If it is not better with both me and my children in future, it will not be your fault. But it shall be better!"

And it was better. How quickly all changed under a new order of home government. Love and kindness found swift obedience where anger and harshness had met obstruction. Sunshine dropped in through a hundred places, which had been closely barred against its sweet influences; and Edward, wondering at the pleasant change, drew nearer and nearer to his mother, and felt that she loved him.

O, love! sweet to all hearts. Ye who should give of its treasures, see to it that your hand fail not in its dispensation. It has signs peculiarly its own, which are never mistaken. If you would win love, hang out the sign.

The Light House Watcher.

MANY a soul on life's dark ocean, Void of helm or oar, Battling with the waves' commotion, Seeks a quiet shore; Brother Christian, thine the labor By the light of love, To assist thine erring neighbor To the port above.

Like the light house watcher, keeping Every beacon bright, Waking, while the world is sleeping, Wrapt in thickest night; There is many an ocean ranger, Out upon the shoals, Friends and comrades are in danger; Save their precious souls.

Hold the light for one another, 'Tis the Lord's command Seize thy shipwrecked, drowning brother With a manly hand, Rouse him up to life and action, Ply the means to save, And by love's divine attraction, Lift him from the wave.

Hold the light up higher, higher, Thousands need your aid, Throw its flashes nigher, nigher, Urge, constrain, persuade; Borrow torches from the altar, Blazing like the sun, Hold them up, nor flag, nor falter, Till thy work is done.

The Recent Wonderful Phenomena in Heaven and Earth.

By Editor

THE following selection, sent us by a brother, appeared recently in the columns of a secular paper in New York city, but is more valuable than if it originated with the Advent press. We think its author shows a degree of sagacity amounting almost to prescience, which verifies the Saviour's words that "the children of the world are wiser in their generations than the children of light." Doubtless an All-controlling Power is speaking to the wayward sons of men in the multiplied and singular phenomena of the present time. All who read with care the Book of God, may learn that war, famine, pestilence, earthquakes, fearful sights, &c., are but the dread precursors of the judgment of the great day, and the ushering in of the reign of peace. As if in mercy to cause the inhabitants of earth to stop and think, while it may do them some good, God sends these portentous heralds among the people.

Reader, are you learning the lesson?

"Earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes and similar violent operations of nature are not uncommon in this uneasy hemisphere. The whole western slope of the continent is a region of 'violence, fracture and fire.' Two or three movements of the earth are felt every year on the Pacific side—now at St. Louis, and again, at San Francisco. And as a volcano is an almost necessary result of an earthquake of any consequence, we may say that we have also our two or three volcanic eruptions, either on the land or thousands of miles out under the sea. Four earthquakes were felt on the continent in 1864—ranging from the Mississippi to the Pacific, and from Canada to Panama. In the present year we have had already an even larger number. Hurricanes also are almost a feature of life in the tropical region of America—progressive whirlwind storms of the most terrific power. Sometimes these invade the temperate zone also, and last year one made a swathe all across the northern section of the United States.

But recently a great number of these wonders of nature have occurred within a short period of each other—so short a period as naturally to suggest some relation of cause and effect. On the 6th of September there was a terrible hurricane at Guadaloupe, in the West Indies, and on the 22d, an earthquake at Porto Rico. On the 23d of the same month Mt. Hood, in Oregon, began to discharge volcanic matter, and the internal disturbance thus indicated was also seen in a very considerable earthquake that on the 8th instant rocked the houses of San Francisco to and fro in a very free and easy manner. Several celestial wonders have also come in this same period. Some accident of a stupendous nature evidently occurred in the sun in September; perhaps a fiery crust caved in over an immense space, making visible nine thousand miles of a darker central substance. That is the magnitude of the darker part of a spot now visible on the luminary—the length of the whole spot darker and lighter together, being twenty-nine thousand miles. In the same eventful September a new planet was discovered in the heavens; and only the other day we had that ever fresh wonder, an eclipse of the sun.

We do not assert the relationship of these phenomena, but no man having full regard to the history of science will venture to deny that such relationship exists. We cannot see, perhaps, that a great wind storm in the West Indies has anything to do with the agitation of the molten masses beneath the crust of the earth on the Pacific shore of our continent; nor can we say how a volcanic demonstration of nature's gigantic chemical processes may be associated with shadows seen on the sun. But it is known that the disturbances in the sun directly influence the electrical conditions of the earth, and to the influence of those electrical disturbances no one can assign a limit. They cannot be without their influence on such a purely atmospheric phenomenon as the hurricane. Between the disturbed electrical conditions of the earth and the central fires there is also an evident connection. Tremblings of the earth—shocks, volcanoes—are always preceded by changed electrical conditions; and when considerable, this changed condition has even a remarkable influence upon animal life. And it should be remembered, in connection with all these phenomena, that only so long ago as when the attempt was made to lay the Atlantic cable, the earth was swept by a remarkable electric storm.

This period of remarkable phenomena comes just at the close of another sort of a storm. It follows a great war, and with us, perhaps, precedes a pestilence. Perhaps it is one of the ancient errors of the human race that earthquakes and eclipses accompany pestilence and war. Wars certainly come oftener than eclipses or even comets, and earthquakes shake countries that are otherwise in the most positive peace. It may be convenient to assume this connection when we cannot explain war in any other way, and there is some use for such an assumption in our war. Reflecting that Southern men made it, it would seem almost as if their action must have been influenced by some uncontrollable madness, as wide spread and general as the air. But in the case of pestilence, and especially such a pestilence as the cholera, science has made the connection obvious. Certain states of the atmosphere unquestionably favor the spread of that disease, and these states may possibly result from the same electrical conditions that associate the natural wonders with each other. Undoubtedly the physical life of man is thus "subject to all the skyey influences." Medical science can see very well that the influence of an eclipse, a comet or an electrical storm, if it changes the condition of the atmosphere, will enable an epidemic to sweep off a whole section of the human race; and it acknowledges as true, this ancient notion, so often denounced as a superstitious error. But now we denounce as superstitious error the other ancient notion, that the eclipse and kindred phenomena affect also our intellectual life. May not the next hundred years of science prove that also to be a truth?

Christ Must Be More Than a Profession

If a man be not interested in Christ, he may perish with, "Our Father" in his mouth.

Spiritualism in New Zealand.

THE article below, sent in by Bro. Cornell, shows what progress "the doctrine of devils" is making among the heathens. The prophecy that these spirits of darkness should "go forth unto the kings of the earth, AND OF THE WHOLE WORLD," Rev. xvi, 14, does not lack for a fulfillment. The next verse says, "Behold, I come as a thief." Who is so blind that he can not discern this "sign" of the impending day of God? G.

On sufficient payment, the tohunga will even undertake to call up the spirit of any dead person. We give the story of a young chief who had been killed in battle. He had been very popular, and much respected in his tribe, and at the request of several of his nearest friends the tohungs promised to evoke his spirit, that it might answer certain questions they wished to put. The priest was to come to the village of the relations, and the interview was to take place in a large house common to all the population. The chief was the first of his tribe who could read and write. He kept a register of any remarkable event that occurred in his village. The book containing it could not be found, though his friends had searched unceasingly for it, both for its own interest and its writer's sake. The hour appointed by the tohungs came, and at night all those interested met the priest in the house agreed upon. Fires were lighted, which gave a flickering light. The priest retired to the darkest corner. All was expectation, and the silence was only broken by the sobs of the sisters and other relations of the dead man. They were heart-breaking in their violence, while the grave silence of the men showed that to them it was a serious interview. The brother of the chief now and then wiped his eyes as they filled with tears.

About thirty persons were seated on the floor, among whom was the Englishman who relates the scene, and who found his incredulity giving way before the solemnity of the occasion. The fire gradually burned down to mere glowing charcoal, and the light was little better than darkness, when suddenly a voice came out of the gloom: "Salutation! salutation to you all! salutation! Salutation to you, my tribe! Family, I salute you! Friends, I salute you! Friend, my pakeha friend, I salute you!" The feelings of the assembled persons were taken by storm. A cry expressive of affection and despair, such as was not good to hear, came from the sister of the dead chief, a fine, stately, and really handsome woman, of about five-and-twenty. She would have rushed in the direction from whence the voice came, had not her brothers forcibly restrained her. She lay then fainting and moaning on the ground. At the same instant a young girl who was also held back by main force, cried out,—"Is it you? Truly is it you? They hold me, they restrain me, they watch me; but I go to you. The sun shall not rise! The sun shall not rise!" She fell insensible on the rush floor, and, with the other girl, was carried out. Then the spirit was heard again,—"Speak to me, the tribe; speak to me, the family; speak to me, the pakeha!" At last his brother said, "How is it with you? Is it well with you in that country?" The answer came in strange, melancholy accents, like the sound of wind blowing into a hollow vessel. "It is well with me; my place is a good place." The brother asked him if he had seen persons whose names he mentioned. "Yes; they are all with me."

There were some more questions and replies, and directions by the spirit as to the disposal of his gun and his large tame pig. Then the pakeha asked where the missing book could be found. Its exact position in the thatch over the door was given. The chief's brother rushed out and found it, and brought the book in his hand. Soon after the spirit said suddenly—"O tribe, farewell! My family, I go." A general cry of farewell arose from all present. "Farewell," again cried the spirit from deep below the ground. "Farewell!" again from high in the air. "Farewell!" once more came moaning through the distant darkness of the night. All the people present dispersed, and quiet had been restored to the village, when the report of a musket broke the silence. The villagers, hastily armed, rushed toward a flame which was springing up, where a shed had been hastily set on fire to make a light. In the verandah of the house next to it an old man supported the dead body of the young girl who had said that she would follow her chief to the other world. She had secretly procured a loaded musket, pulled the trigger with her foot, and leaning on the muzzle, she had destroyed herself.—Cornhill Magazine.

Renewed Strength.

You are tired. Perhaps you have been hard at work all day till your weary bones ache. Well there is the arm-chair, the well supplied table, the comfortable bed: you can rest, and be strong again.

But it is your mind that is tired. You have studied too long, and thought too much; and so your ideas become confused. Go and enjoy the woods or the sea-shore, or walk out under the quiet stars. You will rest, and be strong again.

But perhaps it is neither body nor mind which is weary, and yet you are tired. Your heart and soul and spirit are weary of their strife with sin within, and evil without. Then go to Him who calls the heavy-laden, and he will give you rest. Go to your closet, and pray; and you will be strong again.

All our work on earth is done against resistance, as all motion is carried on against friction.

Physical effort is continually opposed by weight and inertia, by obstructions which consume the strength; and a man can not work with hands or feet, with nerve or muscle, without a constant renewal of his bodily energies. God has provided the means for this renewal in food and sleep.

Mental effort must militate against lassitude. The brain grows weary, and refuses to grapple with the difficulties which lie before it; and man must renew his vigor of mind by change and recreation.

Spiritual effort has to contend against depression and discouragement; and if man's bodily strength needs renewal in contending with the forces of Nature, and his mental energy needs renewal in its conflict with "this fleshhood," which else "as a soaked and sucking vesture would drag us down," much more does our soul's strength and courage need renewal in wrestling "against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places." And provision is made also for this greater need, even "waiting on the Lord," that is, prayer, whereby the soul casts off its weariness, and comes into fellowship with the Almighty.

Let me transcribe Dean Trench's beautiful sonnet:

"Lord, what a change within us one short hour, Spent in thy presence, will prevail to make! What heavy burdens from our bosoms take! What parched ground refresh us with a shower! We kneel, and all around us seems to lower; We rise, and all, the distance and the near, Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear; We kneel how weak! we rise how full of power! Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong, Or others,—that we are not always strong; That we are even overborne with care; That we should ever weak or heartless be, Anxious or troubled, while with us is prayer, And joy and strength and courage are with thee?"

Voltaire's Nurse.

"SOME years ago," says the Rev. D. E. Ford, in his "Damascus," "a gentleman, well known and highly respected in the religious world, narrated in my hearing the following incident:

"While on a tour with a college companion, the latter was seized with an alarming illness at Paris. A physician of great celebrity was called in, and requested to recommend some confidential and experienced nurse. He mentioned one, but added, 'You may think yourself happy indeed, should you be able to secure her services; she is so much in quest among the higher circles, that there is little chance of finding her disengaged.' The gentleman at once ordered his carriage, went to her residence, and, much to his satisfaction, found her at home. He briefly stated his errand, and requested her immediate attendance. 'But, before I consent to accompany you, permit me, sir,' she said, 'to ask you a singular question. Is your friend a Christian?' 'Yes,' he replied, 'indeed he is—a Christian in the best and highest sense of the term; a man who lives in the fear of God. But I should like to know your reason for such an inquiry.' 'Sir,' she answered, 'I was the nurse that attended Voltaire in his last illness, and, for all the wealth of Europe, I would never see another infidel die.'"

That Is All I Want

“THAT IS ALL I WANT.”—A missionary preacher, on the banks of the Ganges, declared that “the blood of Christ cleanseth from all sin,” which was overheard by a poor heathen sailing down the river, who at once stopped his boat and demanded to hear that again. After it had been repeated several times, the poor man cried, with passionate vehemence, “That is all I want!” and accepted at once the offered salvation.

How often that preacher had given his Gospel message apparently in vain! “Thou knowest not which shall prosper, this or that.”

Disputation

DISPUTATION.—One should not dispute with a man who, either through stupidity or shamelessness, denies plain and visible truths.—Locke.

Resurrection Hymn.

'Tis the very same Jesus, 'Tis the very same Jesus, 'Tis the very same Jesus The Jews crucified.

CHORUS—But he rose, he rose, he rose And went to Heaven in a cloud.

One Joseph begged his body (Repeat), And laid it in the tomb.

CHORUS—But he rose, &c.

The grave it could not hold him (Repeat), For he was the Son of God.

CHORUS—And he rose, &c.

Down came an angel (Repeat), And rolled away the stone.

CHORUS—Then he rose, &c.

Poor Mary came a weeping (Repeat), And looking for her Lord.

CHORUS—But he'd rose, &c.

Two men in shining raiment (Repeat), They sat within the tomb.

CHORUS—But he'd rose, &c.

Oh! where have you laid him (Repeat)? For he is not within the tomb.

CHORUS—But he'd rose, &c.

Go tell to John and Peter (Repeat), Their Jesus lives again.

CHORUS—For he has rose, &c.

Go preach to every nation (Repeat), And tell to dying men.

CHORUS—That he rose, &c.

But oh! he said he'd come again (Repeat), And take his people home.

CHORUS—Then we'll rise, we'll rise, we'll rise And go to meet him in the cloud.

Nothing Lost.

PHILOSOPHERS tell us that since the creation of the world, not one single particle of matter has been lost. It may have passed into new shapes; it may have floated away in smoke and vapor, but it was not lost; it will come back again in the dew-drop of the rain; it will spring up in the fiber of the plant, or paint itself on the rose leaf. Through all its transformations, Providence watches over it and directs it still. Even so it is with every holy thought or heavenly desire, or humble aspiration, or generous and self-denying effort. It may escape our observation, we may be unable to follow it, but it is an element of the moral world, and it is not lost.

Dedication.

By John Nevins Andrews; M. E. Cornell

PROVIDENCE permitting, the new Meeting House at Norridgewock, Maine, will be dedicated by appropriate religious services, on Sabbath and first-day, Dec. 9 and 10. It is but little more than eight weeks since the timbers of this house were growing in the distant forests, and the foundation stones were in the mountain quarries. The workmen have been engaged on the house only five days each week.

The good hand of the Lord has been with us, to prosper the work so that our large and commodious house is nearly finished. The house is 38 by 55, and so well finished that it will compare well with any house in this region. When completed and furnished, the entire cost of lot and house will be about $1900. We now expect to follow up the dedicatory services with a two or three weeks' course of lectures. J. N. ANDREWS. M. E. CORNELL.

Self-Denial.

By R. F. C.

I ONCE read a work upon Natural Religion, published, I think, by Fowler and Wells, of New York, in which a comparison was instituted between natural religion, so called, and that which is revealed in the Bible. In most things a perfect agreement was found, the author giving natural or philosophical reasons for obedience to the revealed commandments of God. But when he came to the precept of self-denial, given by our Saviour, he found, as he thought, the two systems of religion at variance. We may readily guess which system he thought was wrong. I view his work as an insidious attack upon the Bible, finding much in it that is reasonable, for the sake of finding something in it that is unreasonable, making reason, falsely so called, condemn it. "Self-denial," said he, (I quote from memory,) "forms no part of the creed of natural religion. On the contrary, nature teaches us to enjoy the greatest amount of good, possible."

He reasoned like this: The unrestrained indulgence of the appetites and passions is productive of pain, and not of permanent pleasure. Therefore to control them agreeably to the laws of nature, is to seek and obtain their highest gratification. This is self-enjoyment, not self-denial. Again, individual sacrifice, in certain things, tends to the good of society in general, producing the greatest amount of happiness in the aggregate. Seeking the greatest good of society is not self-denial, but the gratification of our highest natures—our moral and social sentiments or propensities. Hence self-gratification, and not self-denial, is the true teaching of natural or philosophical religion.

Now I submit that all this reasoning against the doctrine of self-denial is founded upon a misapprehension of the doctrine as taught by our Saviour. The doctrine of self-denial is entirely distinct from the doctrine of penance or self-inflicted punishment. The Scriptures speak against "voluntary humility," "will worship," and "neglecting of the body." In the indulgence of our appetites we are called only to temperance; and temperate and healthful use tends to the highest enjoyment of our senses, as well as of the mind. Only that which is hurtful is excluded. Consequently, in this we are to deny ourselves of no real good. And in regard to sacrificing for the good of others, properly viewed, it is our highest enjoyment. So we are not called to needless suffering at all. All suffering to which we are called is for the attainment of good, and imparts the highest rational enjoyment to the benefactor.

Christ is our pattern in self-denial and in suffering. He made the greatest sacrifice possible. But he did not suffer without an object. It was for the attainment of good. It would make men happy; and this he esteemed his happiness. "The joy that was set before him" made it his pleasure to "endure the cross." His humiliation in leaving the glory he had with the Father, and taking our nature, his life of toil and sacrifice, and his cruel and ignominious death, were a practical illustration of his remarkable saying, which, but for the "apostle to the Gentiles" and the "beloved physician," would never have come down to us, namely, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." Our Saviour did not suffer without an object, a joy in doing good to others. And he will finally "see of the travail of his soul, and be satisfied." We are not called to suffer without a like object.

But suffering and self-denial are two things. With regard to suffering, it is written for our encouragement, "If we suffer, we shall also reign with him." But by self-denial I understand a renunciation of our own will, and submission to the will of God. This does not always and necessarily bring suffering. On the contrary it often brings the greatest joy. In harmony with this idea is the rendering of the passage by Mr. Campbell: "If any one will come under my guidance, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me." Matt. xvi, 24.

Self-renunciation and cross-bearing is the glory of the Christian, as it is the glory of Christ. And as no one is called to suffer, but for the purpose of doing and receiving good, it is in perfect harmony with the laws of our individual and social being. Let every one live temperately, and enjoy the greatest amount of individual, physical, and mental good. Let each seek the good of others, toiling and suffering, if need be, for its attainment, and enjoy the highest social and rational good, the blessedness of proving a blessing to others. But let no one, without an adequate cause, deny himself of any real good, thinking that mere suffering will recommend him to God. The poet, I think, was right, when he said,

“Religion never was designed To make our pleasures less.” R. F. C.

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