Review and Herald, Vol. 18, No. 20. (10/15/1861)

Review and Herald

Oct 15, 1861

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Oct 15, 1861

The Spread of Christianity.

By Dr. Cumming

THE progress of christianity during the first years of its existence, is the most triumphant proof of the presence with it and in it of the finger of God. Let us recall some of the interesting facts of its early struggles. Thirty years after the ascension of our blessed Lord we read in the pages of Tacitus, the accomplished Latin historian, who was a Pagan, and hated, not merely tolerated christianity—"This dire superstition," that is, christianity, "was checked for a while, but it again burst forth, and not only spread over Judea, the first seat of mischief, but even introduced itself into Rome. The confessions of those who were seized discovered vast multitudes of accomplices. They were convicted of hatred to the human race." Such is the statement of Tacitus.

Another Roman writer, Pliny the younger, who was governor of Pontus and Bithynia, writing to his royal master, says, "The number of Christians is so great as to call for serious consultation. The contagion of this superstition has spread, not only through cities, but through all the villages of the country." This was seventy years after the ascension of our blessed Lord, and is a triumphant proof from the mouth of one of its enemies of the rapid spread of the Christian faith, in spite of every obstruction that political ingenuity could devise, or malice could invent.

Justin Martyr, a Christian apologist, who was born in the year 106 says, "There is not a nation, Greek or barbarian, even those who wander in tribes, and live in tents, amongst whom prayers and thanksgivings are not offered, to the Father in the name of Jesus crucified."

Clement of Alexandria, writing in the year 160, says, "The doctrines of christianity are not limited to Judea, but are spread throughout the whole world, into every nation, village, and city, Greek and barbarian."

Thus have we from the mouths of friends and foes, evidence the most irresistible, that christianity spread most rapidly during the first hundred years, after the ascension of our blessed Lord.

Let us ask and answer the question, How did it spread? Was it by the aid of men, by the patronage of princes, by the eloquence of its advocates; or can we trace in its majestic progress, as I believe we can, the finger of God? Let us see what it had to overcome, and what weapons it could or would wield in overcoming; and then, I think we shall conclude that it is impossible to account for the early spread of the Christian faith upon any other hypothesis, than that it was signally sustained, maintained and spread by the presence and power of God.

First of all, it had to overcome the Jew, its earliest, bitterest, and most unrelenting foe. The Jews, we must recollect, were disappointed expectants, and of all the passions that occupy the human heart, disappointed pride is the most bitter and malignant. They expected and prophesied a glorious conqueror; they hoped for emancipation from the Roman yoke, as their supposed only slavery; they believed that the Messiah would lead them to battles, which in every case would be victorious, and enthrone Jerusalem over the nations. Therefore, when he came, and was crucified in their capital; when they found that his emissaries were not princes and nobles, but the poor fishermen of Galilee, and the Jew and Gentile laid low as sinners in the common dust; their resistance became intense, their indignation irrepressible, their spite was keen and inexhaustible, and they left no stone unturned or untouched, that they could throw against the bulwarks and battlements of the Christian faith.

But what was the result notwithstanding? Thousands upon thousands of these very Jews were converted in a single day. Hebrew prejudices the most inveterate melted before the warm love of the gospel. The granite heart of the Jew, like Horeb's rock, when touched by the Rod of Jesus, broke into springs of beneficence, and love, and sympathy; and the most unconvincible of all the unconvincible tribes of the earth repented of their first cry, "Crucify him," and joined in the deepening swell of multiplying nations, "Hosanna in the highest!" Now how, I ask, was it that this religion, the origin and development of which the Jew thoroughly knew, the facts of which he was perfectly master of,—a religion which blasted his fond hopes, lowered his national pride, and placed him upon a level with the humblest tribes of the Gentiles—how was it that this religion so rapidly subdued his proud heart, so melted his obdurate nature, that the Jews became the most successful preachers of that Christ, whom they and their fathers crucified? Was it not the finger of God?

If I look at its progress amongst the Gentiles, I see the same evidence of a divine presence. It was said to be a stumbling-block to the Jew, and it was proclaimed to be foolishness to the Gentiles. A handful of men preaching a religion recently introduced, according to the popular notion, came into collision with the overwhelming force that sustained the religion of the Empire, the worship of Jupiter and Mercury and the gods of the Pantheon. Polytheism had struck its roots deep in the national soil. Its gods and the names of its gods were associated with their weddings, were hallowed by their funerals, and interwoven with the whole history of their domestic and social life. Poets, painters, sculptors, earned their bread by supporting the national faith. Interest, sympathy, patronage, power, eloquence, poetry, satire—all between Cæsar himself and the meanest of his subjects, conspired to beat back a religion that they felt would revolutionize the Empire, and render insecure the throne of all the Cæsars. And yet, in spite of all this, it made way, and gained converts where it seemed impossible that a single convert should be made to the Christian faith. It was a religion, too, that did not suit fallen nature. To the guilty it proclaimed, "Repent;" to the proud it said, "God resisteth the proud," to the revengeful, "Love your enemies;" to the greedy, "Lay not up treasures upon earth;" to the rich, "How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven;" to the ambitious, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven;" to masters, who had half the population as their slaves, "Forbear threatening;" to the slaves, who formed a vast proportion of the population, "Be subject to your own masters for conscience sake;" and told all its converts, "Ye shall be hated of all men for my name's sake. They shall persecute you, and cast you into prison and put you to death." The resistance or treatment it received was just what might have been expected. The dungeon, the cross, the wild beasts—these were the arguments employed by imperial Rome, to put down the religion that Jew and Gentile equally detested. And hence, Tacitus, the Pagan historian, records: "The Christians died in torments. They were nailed to crosses, or sewed up in the skins of wild beasts, and exposed to the fury of dogs, or smeared with combustible materials and used as torches to illuminate the darkness of Rome." This was the treatment Christians then received. And Gibbon, generally an impartial historian says, "If the Empire was afflicted by any calamity; if the Tiber

overflowed, if the earth shook, or if temporary order of the seasons was interrupted, the superstitious Pagans were convinced that the crimes and impiety of the Christians had provoked the divine justice."

I ask, how can you believe that by its own, or by any human power, a religion that repudiated fraud and force, and rolled back the current of morality and belief, and reversed the inveterate instincts of man, made so great progress? It was met by sword, and fagot, and all that ingenuity could suggest, and all that power could achieve, in order to repress and put it down—yet it gained speed at every stage, and attained increasing popularity; it subdued the wills, and conciliated the affections of its bitterest foe,—made converts in the shops of Italy, and proselytes amongst the soldiers of the imperial army,—raised up its advocates from the orators of Rome, penetrated the palace of Cæsar, and literally had its detested symbols at length emblazoned upon the Roman labarum. Is it possible to suppose that such a religion, so opposed, so fitted to humble the proud and to rebuke the sinful, nevertheless spread in the face of all persecutions, using no policy, disdaining fraud, never employing carnal weapons, wielding only spiritual ones—owing to any other presence than a divine one, or that this is explicable on any other hypothesis than that it was the finger of God himself?

But perhaps you will say there are elements that will explain its progress of a purely human character as I might suppose, but I will refer to an historian I have already mentioned—Gibbon, an infidel but a very faithful narrator of facts, who assigns what he thinks satisfactory human reasons for the spread of christianity. He was so startled, I may add, with its rapid progress, and felt it to be so much an argument in its favor, that he exhausted his brilliant and inventive mind, in order to find reasons for it without admitting that it was the finger of God. Let us see what the reasons were, and we may depend upon it they are the very best that can be invented to account for a so very extraordinary phenomenon.

First, he says that the progress of this religion is to be accounted for by the inflexible zeal of the early Christians. In answer to this, we ask, Had the Jews no zeal? We read of their untiring and earnest attempts to repress christianity. Had the Pagans no zeal, who kindled the martyrs' fires, and who made such efforts to repress and put down christianity? We well know that zeal that has not good fuel very soon goes out. Zeal in a bad cause is generally the effervescence of a day, or of a passing hour; but the zeal of Christians seems to have had with the fervor of a passion, the fixity of a deeply-rooted principle; and instead of disposing of our assertion that the finger of God alone explains the progress of christianity, it appears rather that zeal, so pure, so sustained, so unpolluted by any earthly element, must have been kindled from the altar of heaven; and thus what Gibbon regards as a disproof, is a positive proof of the presence of the finger of God.

But the second reason, he says would be, the more complete manifestation of a future state, which the Christian religion revealed to its followers. I reply, both the Jews and the Pagans believed in a future state. Christianity in this respect could have no pre-eminence. But the future presented in the Polytheistic creed—the Pagan Elysium—was far more powerfully fitted to captivate the depraved nature of man; for he was taught to believe that he would be there admitted into all voluptuous and sensual enjoyments. And therefore, if the prospect of a future state was calculated to make converts, the future state that the Pagans put forward was more fitted, because far more congenial to the natural man, than the sublime, holy, and beautiful heaven, the everlasting Sabbath, the only future rest that Christianity reveals as remaining for the people of God.

And the third cause of the progress of this religion, he says, was the miraculous powers ascribed to the primitive Christian. To this I answer, If the miracles done by the apostles were impostures, there were sophists and advocates in Rome admirably able to detect the imposition. But if they were really proofs of a supernatural presence, then the admission of Gibbon is most candid, and it is at the same time most decisive; for a miracle, such as the apostles wrought, acknowledged to be so by the bitterest enemy of our religion, is only another and incontrovertible trace of the finger of God.

The historian says a fourth cause of the spread of this religion was the pure and austere morals of the early Christians. One rejoices to find a skeptic admitting that the morals of the early Christians were so pure; but we naturally ask, Can good fruit grow upon a bad tree? May we expect pure morals from impure men? Can thieves live honestly? Would liars speak truth? Could men who spent their days in spreading a conscious imposition and a fraud advocate whatsoever things were pure and just; and not only advocate them, but live, amplify, and illustrate them? The supposition is impossible. How hard is the skeptic pushed, in order to get rid of the only solution—"Truly this was the finger of God!"

Another reason assigned by Gibbon is the union and discipline of the Christian army. We answer, this union of the early Christians was not the result of compression. There was then no person pretending to be the Vicar of Christ; there was no Pope to drill and discipline the Christians into an army. If, therefore, there was union, it was the result of some common inner love and holy principle. Union in evil is a conspiracy; union without clear concord is only coalition; union that is lasting and real must be the growth of common principles, and the reciprocity of common affections and universal love toward a common Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. The admission, therefore, of the union of Christians is the compliment, if so any one may call it, that a skeptic pays to christianity.

Do any of these statements explain the rapid progress of christianity? Is it not much too credulous to infer, that the spread of a religion so pure in its nature, so repressing to the long-cherished lusts and passions of mankind, so fitted to make humble and lowly them who treated these graces as sins, deformities, and crimes; so spiritual in its nature, so resisted by great power, and persecuted by every mode that cruelty could invent, or calumny concoct, was the result of the presence of the finger of God?

WELL WITH THE RIGHTEOUS.

By Kent

"Say ye to the righteous, it shall be well with him." Isaiah iii, 10.

WHAT cheering words are these! Their sweetness who can tell? In time, and through eternal days, 'Tis with the righteous well.

In every state secure, Kept as Jehovah's eye; 'Tis well with them while life endure, And well when called to die.

Well when they see His face, Or sink amid the flood; Well in affliction's thorny maze, Or on the mount of God.

Well when the gospel yields Pure honey, milk, and wine; Well when the soul her leanness feels, And all her joys decline.

'Tis well when joys arise, "Tis well when sorrows flow, 'Tis well when darkness veils the skies, And strong temptations blow.

'Tis well when at his throne They wrestle, weep, and pray; 'Tis well when at his feet they groan, Yet bring their wants away.

'Tis well if they can sing As sinners washed with blood; And when they touch the mournful string, And mourn an absent God.

'Tis well when on the mount They feast on dying love; And 'tis as well, in God's account, When they the furnace prove.

'Tis well when Jesus calls, "From earth and sin arise; Join with the host of ransomed souls, Made to salvation wise."—Kent.

The Poor Washerwoman.

"I DECLARE, I have half a mind to put this bed-quilt into the wash to-day. It does not really need to go either; but I think I will send it down."

"Why will you put it in, Mary, if it does not need to go?" asked her good old aunt, in her quiet and expressive way.

"Why, you see, aunt, we have but a small wash to-day; so small that Susan will get through by one o'clock at the latest, and I shall have to pay her the same as though she worked till night:—"

"Stop a moment, dear," said the old lady, gently, "stop a moment and think. Suppose you were in the situation poor Susan is, obliged, you tell me, to toil over the wash-tub six days out of the seven, for the bare necessaries of life; would you not be glad, once in a while, to get through before night, to have a few hours of daylight to labor for yourself and family; or, better still, a few hours to rest? Mary, dear, it is a hard, hard way for a woman to earn a living; begrudge not the poor creature an easy day. This is the fourth day in succession she has risen by candlelight and plodded through the cold here and there to her customers' houses, and toiled away existence. Let her go at noon if she gets through: who knows but that she may have come from the sick bed of some loved one, and she counts the hours, yes, the minutes, till she can return, fearing that she may be one too late? Put it back on the bed, and sit down here while I tell you what one poor washerwoman endured, because her employer did as you would to make out the wash." And the old woman took off her glasses, and wiped away the tears that from some cause had gathered in her aged eyes, and then with a tremulous voice related the promised story:

"There never was a more blithesome bridal than that of Ada R——. None ever had higher hopes, more blissful anticipations. Wedding the man of her choice; one of whom any woman might be proud—few, indeed, had a sunnier life in prospect than she had.

"And for ten years there fell no shadow on her path. Her home was one of beauty and rare comfort; her husband the same kind, gentle, loving man as in the days of courtship; winning laurels every year in his profession; adding new comforts to his home, and new joys to his fireside. And besides these blessings, God had given another: a little crib stood by the bedside, its tenant a golden-haired baby-boy, the image of its noble father, and dearer than aught else earth could offer.

"But I must not dwell on those happy days; my story has to do with other ones. It was with them as it has often been with others—just when the cup was sweetest, it was dashed away. A series of misfortunes and reverses occurred with startling rapidity, and swept away from them every thing but love and their babe. Spared to one another and to that, they bore a brave heart, and in a distant city began a new fortune. Well and strongly did they struggle, and at length began once more to see the sunlight of prosperity shine upon their home. But a little while it staid, and then the shadows fell. The husband sickened, and lay for many a month upon a weary couch, languishing not only with mental and bodily pain, but oftentimes for food and medicines. All that she could do, the wife performed with a faithful hand. She went from one thing to another, till, at length, she who had worn a satin garment upon her bridal day, toiled at the washtub for the scantiest living. In a dreary winter, long before light, she would rise morning after morning, and labor for the dear ones of her lowly home. Often she had to set off through the cold, deep snow, and grope her way to kitchens, which were sometimes smoky and gloomy, and toil there at rubbing, rinsing, starching, not unfrequently wading knee-deep in the drifts, to hang out the clothes that from even ere she had fastened them to the line. And when night came, with her scanty earnings, she would again grope through the cold and snow to her oft-times lightless and fireless home; for her husband was too sick, much of the time, to tend even the fire or strike a light. And, O, with what a shivering heart she would draw near, fearing ever she would be too late! It is a fact, that for six weeks, at one time, she never saw the face of her husband or her child, save by lamp-light, except only on the Sabbath. How glad she would have been to have had, once in a while, a small washing gathered for her!

"One dark winter morning, as she was preparing the frugal breakfast and getting every thing ready before she left, her husband called her to the bedside.

" 'Ada,' said he, in almost a whisper, 'I want you to try and get home early to-night; be home before the light goes: do, Ada.'

" 'I'll try,' answered she, with a choked utterance.

" 'Do try, Ada. I have a strange desire to see your face by daylight: to-day is Friday; I have not seen it since Sunday. I must look upon it once again.'

" 'Do you feel worse?' asked she, anxiously, feeling his pulse as she spoke.

" 'No, no, I think not; but I do want to see your face once more by sunlight. I cannot wait till Sunday.'

"Gladly would she have tarried by his bedside till the sunlight had stolen through their little window; but it might not be. Wanted,

and she must go forth to labor. She left her husband. She reached the kitchen of her employer, and with a troubled face waited for the basket to be brought. A smile played over her wan face as she assorted its contents. She could get through easily by two o'clock; yes, and if she hurried, perhaps by one. Love and anxiety lent new strength to her weary arms; and five minutes after the clock struck one she hung the last garment on the line, and was just about emptying her tubs, when the mistress came in with a couple of bed-quilts, saying—

“As you have so small a wash to-day, Ada, I think you may do these yet.” After the mistress had turned her back, a cry of agony, wrung from the deepest fountain of the washerwoman's heart, gushed to her lips. Smothering it as best she could, she set to again, and rubbed, rinsed, and hung out. It was half-past three when she started for home, an hour too late! and the aged narrator sobbed.

“An hour too late,” continued she, after a long pause. “Her husband was dying; yes, almost gone! He had strength given him to whisper a few words to the half-frantic wife, to tell her how he had longed to look upon her face; that he could not see her then, he lay in the shadow of death. One hour she pillowed his head upon her suffering heart; and then—he was at rest!

“Mary, Mary dear,” and there was a soul-touching emphasis in the aged woman's words, “be kind to your washerwoman: instead of striving to make her day's work as long as may be, shorten it, lighten it. Few women will go out to washing daily, unless their needs are pressing. No woman on her bridal day expects to labor in that way; and be sure, my niece, if she is constrained to do so, it is the last resort. That poor woman, laboring now so hard for you, has not always been a washerwoman. She has seen better days. She has passed through terrible trials too. I can read her story in her pale, sad face. Be kind to her; pay her what she asks, and let her go home as early as she can.” *

“You have finished in good time to-day, Susan,” said Mrs. M., as the washerwoman, with her old cloak and hood on, entered the pleasant room to get the money she had earned.

“Yes, ma'am, I have; and my heart, ma'am, is relieved of a heavy load, too. I was so afraid I should be kept till night, and I am needed so at home.”

“Is there sickness there?” said the old aunt, kindly.

Tears gushed to the woman's eyes as she answered, “Ah, ma'am! I left my baby 'most dead this morning: he will be quite so to-morrow. I know it, I have seen it too many times; and none but a child of nine years to attend him. O! I must go, and quickly.” And, grasping the money she had toiled for while her baby was dying, she hurried to her dreary home.

Shortly after they followed her; the young wife who had never known a sorrow, and the aged matron whose hair was white with trouble, followed her to her home, the home of the drunkard's wife, the drunkard's babes. She was not too late. The little dying boy knew its mother. But at midnight he died, and then kind hands took from the sorrowing mother the breathless form, closed the bright eyes, straightened the tiny limbs, bathed the cold clay, and folded about it the pure white shroud; yes, and did more—they gave, what the poor too seldom have, time to weep.

“O, aunt!” said Mrs. M. with tears in her eyes, “if my heart blesses you, how much more must poor Susan's! Had it not been for you, she would have been too late. It has been a sad yet holy lesson. I shall always now be kind to the poor washerwoman. But, aunt, was the story you told me a true one—all true, I mean?”

“The reality of that story whitened this head when it had seen but thirty summers; and the memory of it has been one of my keenest sorrows. It is not strange that I should pity the poor washerwoman.”—Wesleyan Family Visitor.

A Lost Child Recovered.

An incident occurred recently, at the Eastern district police station, of a very affecting and interesting character. About three o'clock in the afternoon Mr. John W. Frank was passing along Gough, near Bethel street, when a boy about ten years of age met him and asked him for a penny. Mr. Frank handed the boy ten cents, but as he did so, thought he recognized the child, and asked his name, when he replied that it was Dehring. After some further conversation Mr. Frank became convinced that the boy was no other than the lost son of a widowed friend of his; and with this impression he took him by the hand and conducted him to the Eastern police station, when he informed the officers in charge of his suspicion. An officer was despatched for Mrs. Dehring, who hastened to the station. On entering and observing the child, she uttered a shriek, sprang toward him and clasped him in her arms, kissing him passionately, while the tears gushed from her eyes. The boy stood amazed, not exhibiting the slightest recognition. The mother continued her caresses, at the same time asking him if he did not remember her, and referred to incidents to awaken a remembrance of his home. In a few minutes the boy's countenance changed, tears started from his eyes, and then throwing his arms around his mother's neck, he exclaimed, “You are my mother.” On the recognition, Mrs. Dehring appeared to be wild with joy. She wept, laughed, clasped her boy to her breast, and then prayed. The scene was one which those who witnessed it will ever remember, and which awakened within a sympathy which found expression in tears. When about six years of age, the boy wandered from home, and after a diligent search the mother came to the conclusion that he was drowned, and for years mourned his death. The boy states that he has been living with many different families, who kept him to run errands and do light work, but lately he had no home, and was compelled to beg during the day, and the money he collected he gave to a German family, who gave him in return lodging and food.—Baltimore Exchange.

Extract from Mr. O'Conor's Argument Before the New York Court of Appeals, on the "Lemmon Slave Case."

"I SUBMIT most respectfully that the only desire I have manifested here or elsewhere, in reference to the question, has been to draw the mind of the court and the intelligent mind of the American people, to the true question which underlies the whole conflict, and that is the question to which my friend (W. W. Evarts, Esq.) has addressed the best, and, in my judgment, the finest part of his very able argument. . . . My friend denounces the institution of slavery as a monstrous injustice, as a sin, as a violation of the law of God and of the law of man, of natural law or natural justice; and in his argument in another place, he called your attention to the enormity of the result claimed in this case, that these eight persons—and not only they, but their posterity to the remotest time—were, by your Honors' judgment, to be consigned to this shocking condition of abject bondage and slavery. Why, how very small and minute was that presentation of the subject! My friend must certainly have used the microscope or reversed the telescope, when, in seeking to present this question in a striking manner to your Honors' minds, he called your attention to these few persons and their posterity. Why, if your Honors please, our territory embraces as the least estimate three millions of these human beings, who, by our laws and institutions, as now existing in these States, are not only consigned to hopeless bondage throughout their whole lives, but to a like condition is their posterity consigned to the remotest times. . . . It is a question of the mightiest magnitude. But the reason why I call your Honors' attention to its magnitude is this: that you may contemplate it in the connection in which my learned friend has presented it; that it is a sin—a violation of natural justice and the law of God; that it is a monstrous scheme of iniquity for defrauding the laborer of his wages—one of those sins that crieth aloud to heaven for vengeance; that it is a course of unbridled rapine, fraud, and plunder, by which three millions and their posterity are to be oppressed throughout all time Now, is it a sin? Is this an outrage against divine law and natural justice? If it be such an outrage, then I say it is a sin of the greatest magnitude, of the most enormous and flagitious character that was ever presented to the human mind. The man who does not shrink from it with horror is utterly unworthy the name of a man. It is no trivial offence, that may be tolerated with limitations and qualifications; that we can excuse ourselves for supporting because we have made some kind of a bargain to support it. The tongue of no human being is capable of depicting its enormity; it is not in the power of the human heart to form a just conception of its wickedness and cruelty. And what, I ask, is the rational and necessary consequence, if we regard it to be thus sinful, thus unjust, thus outrageous?"

A Word for the Times.

WHILE it becomes all Christians to be fully awake to the things of salvation, and actively engaged in the work which their great Head has assigned them, they are called upon to maintain a calm repose in God, knowing that he sits King forever, and is the wise and able disposer of all events.

The present is felt to be the time of extraordinary agitation and turmoil. The nations are in commotion. From every land we "hear of wars and rumors of wars." The world is fast becoming one vast military camp. All is a troubled sea; and the expectation which some cherish, of the kingdoms of this world learning war no more, seems be as distant as ever. Instead of peace, and "a universal brotherhood," the cry is heard, "Prepare war, wake up the mighty men, let all the men of war draw near; let them come up; beat your ploughshares into swords, and your pruning-hooks into spears: let the weak say I am strong."

But while the follower of Christ cannot look with indifference on the belligerent cloud which lowers everywhere, nor without earnestly praying that God will defend the right, yet they are not only to save themselves from the prevailing spirit of war, but also from being unduly agitated by the troubled scene. Jesus, the great leader of the true Israel, is saying, "Peace be unto you." "Stand still, and see the salvation of God." "Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth." "Fear not little flock, it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." In view of these gracious words, we may say, "Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea, though the waters thereof roar and be troubled; though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof." What the Saviour said when on earth still holds good: "My Father worketh hitherto, and I work." They are both working for the household of faith. All the wheels of providence and of grace move in harmony, and for one common end, viz., the salvation of the church. As all things work together for her good, so the griefs and turmoils of earth may be regarded as the clouds of dust through which the chariot of God is conveying her into the presence of the King of kings. Though the skies are dark and threatening, yet to the eye of faith they are tinged with an unearthly brightness, telling of the ineffable glory which is behind the cloud, and which is ready to be revealed. As Christians, then, we may "both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord," for he is a strong tower, and will save his trusting, faithful ones.—Millennial News.

SYSTEMATIC BENEVOLENCE.

By Editor

THERE is receipted in last week's Review over two hundred and fifty dollars systematic benevolence money for the Association. The churches, who have made these donations, have reserved, we presume, something in the treasury for the benefit of preachers who may labor among them. The Battle Creek church donated one hundred dollars for this purpose a few weeks since, and now has about seventy dollars on hand for any worthy objects which may present themselves. There are about ninety names on our s. b. book. These can give the one hundred dollars for the Association this year, and be able also to meet all other just demands. Suppose ten thousand Seventh-day Adventists do as much for the Association in proportion as the B. C. church has done (and no one can show why they cannot or should not), the sum raised for the Association for the year 1861 would be more than eleven thousand dollars. This is a greater sum than has been called for to meet all the wants of the Association.

We make the above statement partly to show how complete is systematic benevolence to supply all the wants of the cause, as far as means are concerned, without burdening any one, and partly to encourage all to faithfully enter into it. On the first first-day of each month our treasurer passes around with his hand-trunk, to wait upon all who have their names, with the amount of their weekly donation, on his book. All expect him, and all get ready for him, and meet him with open hands and benevolent feelings, and in a few hours he collects about twenty-five dollars. No one feels poorer, but all feel happier after casting their small sums into the treasury. Those who live scattered require a monthly meeting for this, and other business of the church.

But let this work be purely systematic benevolence, and not systematic compulsion, as in the Roman Catholic church. If it be true benevolence, then by it is accomplished one of the highest and best objects, viz., united action of all the members of the body. It will then be a living, weekly test of the liberality of the church, drawing all its members together in united action. By this system also all the wants of the cause can be supplied without burdening any. We are gratified to see a general waking up upon the subject. And we would here suggest that all our brethren who can spare (after supplying the more urgent wants of the cause) a good donation for the Association, send it along in this time of need.

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