Review and Herald, Vol. 18, No. 24. (11/12/1861)

Review and Herald

Nov 12, 1861

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Nov 12, 1861

Following Christ.

By Cuyler

"FOLLOW me!" This is the Christian's marching orders. And whosoever takes not up his cross and follows the commands of Jesus, cannot claim to be a true disciple.

1. And the very first thing that is requisite in following Christ is to have a new heart. This takes a man back to the "wicket-gate" of the way of life—conversion. Stop a moment, my reader! right here. Settle this question first. Have you a new heart attuned to the love of Christ? You cannot take the first step in a life of holy and happy obedience until your affections have been given to the Saviour. The carnal heart is wholly and forever as intensely hostile to Christ as is the most tyrannical slave-driver hostile to Fremont's proclamation of liberty. The carnal heart weaves no crown of glory for the lowly Jesus; it plats for him only a crown of thorns. It bows not to his scepter; but only holds out to him a reed of mockery. It takes up no cross for him; rather does it nail him to the cross, and by every willful sin crucifies afresh the Lord of glory.

But when the converting power of the Holy Spirit has come to you in answer to prayer, and changed and sweetened and purified your affections, then springs up a deep, genuine love of Jesus. This is the prime essential to a right noble and godly life. In fact, love to Christ is essential Christianity. It is more than a mere admission of his divinity—more than an admiration of his sublime character—more than a cold assent to his claims. It involves a faith in him so deep, an attachment to him so real, and a devotion to him so thorough, that it amounts to a new principle in the heart. Attachment to Jesus Christ, implanted in the soul by the Holy Spirit, is the groundwork, and the only possible ground-work, of a beautiful and effective Christian character. The deeper this love, the deeper the piety. The stronger this love, the greater will be the readiness to make costly sacrifices for his cause.

Does not my reader remember the famous political campaign of 1844, which furnished such wonderful instances of romantic devotion to the idolized orator of Kentucky? Time, talent, gold, were all laid at his feet. The counting-room and the work-shop, the loom and the anvil, harvest-fields and law-books, all appealed to their owners in vain. Their ears were deaf but to their leader's call. For him they journeyed afar to mighty gatherings; for him they mustered vast processions—wore his name on their breasts and floated it from their house-tops. And when the long, arduous struggle ended in dark disaster, we saw strong men weep aloud, and like Judea's stricken mothers they "refused to be comforted." There are men in this country who will carry down that political sorrow to their graves. To-day they worship a tomb under the oaks of Ashland with more veneration than they feel for any living statesman.

Now that is what we mean by devotion to a leader. Where the heart-loyalty is strong, there is but little difficulty in making the external manifestation. Paul found it easy to cry out, "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" when the newly implanted love of the Crucified leaped into a blaze on the altar of his heart. Peter girds his fisher coat about him, and impatiently plunges into the sea, when he sees his risen Master on the strand. Patmos with Christ is a sunnier spot to the beloved disciple than Cæsar's throne would have been without Christ. For these were the men who "followed the LAMB whithersoever he goeth," and love was the vinculum that bound them to the Captain of their salvation.

2. A good definition of serviceable piety would be—following Christ without a question and without a murmur. Does the pierced hand point us up the Hill of Difficulty? Then up the steep acclivity let us go, even though we fall from running to walking, and from walking to clambering on the knees. Does he bid us follow him into the Vale of Humiliation? Then welcome be reproach for the sake of one who entered Gethsemane for us. The cost of the sacrifice is never to be counted. He that loveth father or mother, houses or lands, more than Christ, is not worthy of him.

One day, duty lays his hand of impressment on the shoulder of a gifted young man or woman, and commands them to a foreign field. Christ says, "Yonder is thy sickle waiting for the reaper; yonder is the harvest waiting for the garner. No place for thee in these parts; thy place is beside the Ganges, or on the torrid sands of Africa." Following Christ makes such men missionaries. John Howard was but searching for the foot-prints of Christ in the dismal vaults of prisons and of dungeons. David Brainerd found them amid the forests wild—and Henry Martyn was but treading them when he explored the jungles of India and the sand-plains of Persia.

A man need not cross oceans either to follow Christ. Whenever the owner of a winning tongue turns away from the allurements of the bar or the rostrum for the privilege of preaching salvation to the dwellers in some remote unnoticed parish, he is following Christ. Whenever a layman determines not to sleep away his Sabbath afternoons on his sofa or over his newspaper, but go out after the ignorant squalid waifs of the alley and the tenement-house, what is he but following his Master, who if on earth would delight in the mission-school more than in the cathedral? Whenever a sweet daughter of the church decides that instead of passing an idle hour in pulling silver bells on marble doorsteps, she will climb to the attics where wretched poverty is groaning on its sick-bed, she is surely following Him who went about doing good. Whenever you see a heroic statesman standing up in his high place for justice, truth, and liberty, you see one (as far as that noble act is concerned) who obeys Christ rather than man. And on the other hand, when a professing Christian is seduced into scenes of frivolity and folly, or into the cabals of intrigue and chicanery, then he or she has turned squarely away from their Master and their Model. For where Christ would not go—if on earth—no Christian ought to go. Would it not be a strange place to look for the Saviour in the ball-room or the theater, at the card-table or the convivial party, in the caucus where honor is sold and righteousness bartered for "the spoils?"

Blessed is the man who never sets his foot in any path of conduct without looking carefully for the way-marks of his Master, and consulting his guide-book! Through some lowly doors, where pride must stoop low to enter, he may be called to pass. Over thorny paths he may be made to tread. Up more than one mount of sacrifice, bearing heavy crosses, he may be summoned. But so that Christ be the leader, he may not be afraid to follow. And in heaven it will still be his joy and his glory to "follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth." There the "Lamb who is in the midst of the throne shall feed him, and lead him unto living fountains of waters."

"Our knowledge of that life is small, The eye of faith is dim; But 'tis enough that Christ is there, And we shall be like him."—Cuyler.

THE CONQUEROR'S SONG.

“He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.” John iii, 36.

A PILGRIM sandal'd passed the way, His eye was dark, his brow was sad, But ever would he sing and pray, And then he seemed more light and glad. But if you deemed the powerful lay Was of the Holy Mother mild, You would be wrong; for all the day He thought but of the Holy Child. His prayer was often deep and long, And this the burden of the song: He everlasting life receives, Who in the Son of God believes!

It was a charm of wondrous power, And oft, 'tis said, in times of old, The very dead have felt its power; The sun himself has stopped, when told; The lame have leaped, the dumb have spoke, The crawling leper, white as snow, From misery as a dream awoke, The blessedness of health to know; Nor aught of evil could repel The influence of the mighty spell. He everlasting life receives, Who on the Son of God believes.

By this the witnesses of God, Slain for the name of Christ confest, Sprang up and poured the truth abroad, O'er Pagan king and Romish priest, Till, like archangel's trump, its tone Had pierced the ear of the dead world, Shook the great central scarlet throne, Unmasked the Man of Sin, and hurled From many a seat his angels down! The word of power was this alone. He everlasting life receives, Who on the Son of God believes.

This is the bolt that shuts up hell, This is the key that opens heaven; No demon can withstand the spell, But to his native den is driven. This is the power that conquers sin, This gains the victory over death, By this the crown of life we win, The pilgrim enters heaven by faith. He everlasting life receives, Who on the Son of God believes.

Not I, But Christ.

A FEW years ago, while traveling on a railway in Germany, an incident occurred which at the time made a deep impression on my mind. The remembrance of it will remain fresh and vivid to my dying day. I was seated in a third-class carriage, which was filled with Germans. A feeling of loneliness and isolation for a while oppressed me. I tried to amuse myself by listening to the animated conversation of those who sat near me, the language being not quite unfamiliar to my ear. I found that the principal topic that occupied the busy talkers was the Evangelical Alliance, which had met in the city of Berlin. The papers that had been read, and the addresses that had been delivered during the several days of meeting, had evidently awakened a deep interest in the minds of all. The fact that the king and queen of Prussia had attended some of the meetings of the Alliance, and had also shown much personal kindness to its members, by inviting them to the palace of Potsdam, could not fail to add to the eclat of the proceedings, and draw public attention more directly toward them.

Amid the general noise of many voices, and the smoke from many cigars, my attention was specially directed to two men, in a corner of the compartment I occupied, sitting vis-a-vis, engaged in the most earnest conversation on a subject which was plainly deeply interesting to both of them. I listened attentively, and heard that the theme was Christ. I instantly leaned forward, to catch, if possible, every word. I discovered that the principal speaker, an elderly gentleman, was narrating a remarkable change that his views had undergone, in consequence of an address which he had heard at one of the meetings of the Alliance. From this conversation I learned that, up to the time of his hearing that address, he had always regarded himself a sound and honest Christian. He had been regular in his attendance at church, and had paid all respect to the ordinances of religion. He had maintained an outwardly decent and respectable character, and would have taken it highly amiss if any one had suggested doubts about the genuineness of his claim to be regarded as a true Christian. He told his companion how entirely that good opinion he had formerly entertained of himself had been dissipated by the truths he had heard expounded in Berlin. They had forced him to the sorrowful conclusion that all his former good opinions of himself, and of his relation to Christianity, were wholly a delusion.

“But now,” said he, and his beaming eye and quivering voice betokened the warmth of his emotion, “now I have discovered what it is to be a Christian.” Opening his New Testament at the place, he read, with distinctness, and with an emphasis which showed that he understood and felt what he read, these words of the apostle, in the fine old translation of Luther: Ich bin mit Christo gekreuziget; Ich lebe aber; doch nun nicht Ich, sondern Christus lebt in mir.” (“I am crucified in Christ; nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me.” Gal. ii, 20.) “The man who can say that,” he continued, “is a Christian.” He expatiated with great earnestness and warmth on the vast importance of the truth which he had discovered, explaining to his willing hearer all the precious things which lay hid in this, to him, most marvelous text. The warmth and impressive seriousness of his manner, when, in the course of his remarks, he again and again exclaimed, laying at the same time his hand on his heart, “Nicht Ich, sondern Christus lebt in mir” (not I, but Christ liveth in me), deeply moved me, and I could not help saying within myself: “If this stranger has made a great discovery as to the Christian character, so, too, have I.” Familiar with the words he quoted and commented upon, they never appeared to me before so full of meaning, so luminous. The text came upon me with all the freshness and power of a new discovery. No commentary ever written, no critical exposition, however learned, could exhibit it with so much power as did the simple, fervent utterance of my fellow-traveler.

Reader, it is my most fervent prayer that you may be able to enter with me, in some measure, into the deep significance of these words, “I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me.” It is true, as the venerable, warm-hearted German so earnestly pressed upon his companion, that it is not outward conduct that constitutes a Christian. You may attend with regularity and assiduity to the external forms of a religious life, but ah! something greater, far better, than this, is needed, ere you can attain to the blessedness and the dignity of the true Christian. You must have Christ living and reigning in your heart; you must become so entirely identified with him that he will be as the very soul of your soul. Your thoughts, feelings, desires, hopes, must be all as if they had originated with Christ, as if Christ within you were thinking, feeling, desiring, hoping, and not yourself.

“Not I.” Is self, in all its forms, crucified and slain? Through a living faith in Christ, are you so one with him that your heart beats in unison with his? Do you realize the import of his gracious words, “Because I live ye shall live also?” If so, then you are united to him as the branch to the vine, and you will assuredly be found bringing forth the fruits of righteousness, to the praise of his glory.—Prot. Magazine.

On the Interpretation of the Bible.

IMPORTANCE OF ATTENDING TO PROPER NAMES.

I. THE same persons or places sometimes have several names. Moses' father-in-law is called in different places Raguel, Reuel, and Jethro. Joshua is twice in the New Testament called Jesus: Acts vii, 45; Heb. iv, 8. Mahash is the same as Jesse [2 Sam. xvii, 25; 1 Chron. ii, 13-16], the father of David; hence we find that Joab and Amasa were near relatives to David, and to each other. We are thus better able to understand many circumstances in their history, and more likely to see the guilt of Joab in the assassination of Amasa. 2 Sam. xx, 10. Mark ii, 14. “And as he passed by he saw Levi,” &c.; this is the same person as Matthew. Thaddeus, Lebbeus, and Judas, are all different names for the apostle Jude. Horeb and Sinai are often spoken of indiscriminately, being different peaks of one and the same range of mountains. Deut. v, 2; Ex. xix, 18-23. Greece, and Grecia, was known by the name of Javan among the Hebrews. In our English Bibles, Javan is sometimes used, as in Isa. lxvi, 19; Eze. xxvii, 13, and sometimes the modern name, Greece, as in Zech. ix, 13; Dan. viii, 21; Joel iii, 6. Javan was the fourth son, Japheth, Gen. x, 2.

II. Different persons and places sometimes have the same name. Ephraim, in Gen. xlviii, 5, refers to a person; in Judges i, 29, to a tribe; in Jer. xxxi, 18, to the ten tribes of Israel; in John xi, 54, to a city. There were several Zachariahs: 1. Zachariah the fourth in descent from Jehu, who reigned just long enough to fulfill God's promise to Jehu, 2 Kings xv, 8, and x, 30. 2. Zachariah, a prophet basely murdered by Joab, who had been redeemed from destruction by his father. 2 Chron. xxiv, 20-22. 3. Zachariah the prophet, whose writings form a part of the Bible, and who was raised up to encourage the Jews to rebuild the temple. Ezra v, 1. 4. Zachariah, the father of John the Baptist, Luke i, 5, 59, 60.

There were several Herods: 1. Herod, infamous for his attempt to murder our blessed Lord in his infancy, but called in profane history, the great. Luke xvi, 15. 2. Herod Antipas, his son—inquisitive about the truth without loving it [Mark vi, 20; Luke xxiii, 8], crafty [xiii, 32], incestuous [Matt. xiv, 3], superstitious [Mark vi, 16], the murderer of John the Baptist [Matt. xiv, 1-10], and the mocker of our blessed Saviour in his last sufferings. Luke xxiii, 11. 3. Herod Agrippa, nephew of Herod Antipas, and grandson of Herod the great, the murderer of the apostle James, and eaten of worms for his pride. Acts xii, 1-3, 20-23.

So there are some names which appear to have been common to several successive kings of a country. Thus we read of Pharaoh, king of Egypt who reproved Abraham for his sin [Gen. xii, 18]; of Pharaoh who commended Joseph, and made him ruler over Egypt [Gen. xli, 38-45]; of Pharaoh who, in attempting the destruction of the people of God, was himself destroyed [Ex. xiv, 28]; of Pharaoh whose daughter Solomon married [1 Kings iii, 1]; of Pharaoh Nechoh who slew Josiah [2 Kings xxiii, 29]; of Pharaoh Hophra (or Apries) his successor, denounced by Jeremiah [chap. xliv, 30], and Ezekiel [chap. xxiv, 2, &c.], for his arrogance, impiety, and treachery. Pharaoh probably means father of the country, and was the name of all the kings of Egypt till the Babylonian captivity, and perhaps longer; as Ptolemy was their name after the time of Alexander.

Abimelech [Gen. xx, 2; xxvi, 8]; which means my father the king, was a name common to the kings of the Philistines. Benhadad was a name common to the Syrian kings. 1 Kings xv, 18; 2 Kings viii, 7; xiii, 3. Jabin was a common name of the kings of Canaan, as evidently the Jabin mentioned in the book of Joshua, xi, 1; xii, 10, was not the Jabin mentioned in the book of Judges iv, 2. Agag was the name of the king of the Amalekites [Num. xxiv, 7; 1 Sam. xv, 8], and Artaxerxes, of the Persian.

The Roman emperors all took the names Cæsar and Augustus. The Augustus mentioned in Luke ii, 1, was the second emperor of Rome. The Cæsar who was reigning when our Lord was crucified, was Tiberius. John xix, 15. The emperor to whom Paul appealed, and who is called both Augustus and Cæsar, was Nero. Acts xxv, 21. The Antioch mentioned in Acts xiii, 1, and the Antioch mentioned in 2 Tim. iii, 11, were different places: the one was in Syria, the other in Pisidia. There were two Bethlehems. Joshua xix, 15. There were at least two Cesareas; viz., Cesarea Philippi [Acts viii, 40], near the spring-head of Jordan, about thirty miles to the north of the sea of Galilee; and Cesarea on the sea coast of Samaria, where Philip the evangelist lived [Acts xxi, 8]; where Peter converted Cornelius [x, 1]; where Paul defended himself against the Jews [xxiv, 23-33]; and where Herod Agrippa was smitten by an angel [xxii, 23].

The Rocket that Never Rose.

By Cuyler

DURING the eighty years' war which resulted in the triumphant establishment of the "United Netherlands," the city of Antwerp was besieged by the Spaniards under the celebrated Prince of Parma. The possession of that city was the turning-point in the war as far as the southern provinces (now Belgium) were concerned. Parma had nearly gained possession by constructing, at vast outlay, a bridge across the river Scheldt. To blow up that bridge was the aim of the Protestant forces within the beleaguered city. Accordingly two fire-ships—loaded with all manner of combustibles and terrible explosives—were floated down toward the bridge during the darkness of the night. As soon as the "hell-burners" (as the Dutchmen styled them) blew the bridge to atoms, a rocket was to be sent up, and the heavy-armed Dutch fleet lying below were to force their way through, and bring relief and triumph into Antwerp. Had that signal been made, the city would have been delivered—the Spaniards driven out of the Low Countries—fifty years of bloody war been prevented—and probably all Belgium would have been to this day a part of Protestant Holland. The weary patriots on the wharves of Antwerp heard the tremendous explosion of the fire-ships and anxiously watched for the rising of the appointed rocket. But alas! as Motley tells us in his brilliant narrative of the scene—"that rocket never rose." And after the lapse of three centuries, it is difficult to restrain

the bitter indignation which follows every mention of that stupid Dutch Admiral who failed to make the simple signal at the critical moment.

The history of the Crimean war furnishes a kindred instance of vast results all depending on a trivial incident. The night before the battle of Inkermann, the Russians stealthily moved out of Sevastopol to take the allies by surprise. The city gates were open, and the Russians were in a most critical condition. Had the allies discovered the movement in time, they might have easily driven back the assailants through the open gates and captured Sevastopol in a single night. An English sentinel heard the rumble of the Russian cannon-wheels as they moved slowly out, but mistook them for market-wagons bringing provisions into the city. Accordingly he gave no alarm. Had that sentinel but opened his lips, months of bloody war would have been averted, and thousands of precious lives have been saved. So providence hinges mighty events on pivots exceedingly small.

Had Columbus not seen the light in a fisherman's boat on a certain night, his mutinous crew might have forced him back to Spain, and the great secret for which he came had been a secret still for ages. Waterloo and the overthrow of Napoleon all turned on the coming up of Blucher at a given hour. A little more expedition on the part of our loyal troops would have carried them to Manassas on Saturday instead of Sunday. Jonston's re-enforcements would have been too late. The conflict of Bull Run might have had a different termination, and the history of the next ten years have read perhaps very differently. But alas! our rocket did not go up!

As in public affairs, so is it in private history—the destiny of a man for time and for eternity often depends on events as apparently trivial as the glimpse of a light or the sending up of a rocket. The turning into one street instead of another—the delay of ten minutes—the meeting or the missing of a friend at a given moment—the Yes or the No spoken at a critical time—all determine human destinies. What men call "accidents" are God's appointed incidents. They draw bows "at a venture," and he directs the arrows. And whole lives have been lost or gained by the arrow being sent at the right or the wrong time—in the right or the wrong direction.

In the revelations of the last great day, it will be wonderful to discover how many spiritual destinies have been decided by actions that at the time seemed of but small account. A young man of high promise is invited by his associates to join them in a social glass. He firmly says No, and the danger is passed. He lives and dies a sober, useful man. Or with silly cowardice he yields, and acquires a habit which lands him in the drunkard's perdition. On the summit of a hill in Ohio is a court-house so singularly situated that the rain-drops which fall on one side of the roof descend into Lake Erie and thence through the St. Lawrence into the Atlantic sea. The drops on the other side trickle down from rivulet to river until they reach the Ohio and the Mississippi, and enter the ocean by the Gulf of Mexico. A faint breath of wind determines the course of these rain-drops for three thousand miles. So a single act determines a human destiny for time and for eternity. A fashionable young man, partially reformed from drinking habits, was once offered a glass of wine by a thoughtless sister; and in yielding he re-enkindled a thirst which carried him back to drunkenness and ruin.

Pastors will discover at the day of judgment how far the eternal interests of their parishioners have turned on single instances of performance or neglect of duty—on a sinner's yea or nay at a critical season of the Spirit's striving with him. The timely visit of a pastor to a sick man, or a faithful conversation with one whose heart was made tender by affliction, has often resulted in a soul's salvation. Ministers cannot always tell just when the rocket may best be lighted; but it is a safe rule to present the claims of Christ at every proper opportunity, and leave the leaven to do its work. Harlan Page never missed an opportunity to speak the "word in season," and the conversion of one hundred souls was the blessed result of his prompt and prayerful labors.

Nearly every human life, in Christian lands, has its spiritual crisis. It has a time when the Spirit of God is striving and truth is pressing closely upon the conscience. At such seasons every act may have a momentous significance. The attendance upon a particular service—the reading of a certain book brought before him—the offering of a prayer in the hour of need—the doing of a single deed to please God—the yielding of the soul at a particular moment—these are the pregnant events that determine men's destinies for heaven or hell. Doors of mercy are not always open to an impenitent sinner. Doors of opportunity are not always open to the Christian.

From the history of the Dutch Admiral's rocket we may learn that no act is a small one on which moral consequences are depending. The moral future of a nation was altered by the failure to send up his signal of deliverance. We may also learn to do always the right act at the right moment and then leave results to God.—Cuyler.

Evil Speaking.

Evil speaking, like smoking cigars, or like profane swearing, often becomes a habit. By habit, we mean all things that men slide into with great facility, practice readily without thinking, and get out of, if ever at all, with great difficulty. Persons who are a little selfishly inclined, fall into this habit of evil speaking with astonishing facility. What they say against their neighbor seems to them so true—certainly somebody ought to say it. If other people had as much independence as themselves, and as much abhorrence of wrong, they too would speak out against the evil things of their neighbors. So they take to themselves the honor of being special champions of virtue and censors of wrong. Each shaft hurled against a neighbor's sin is silently passed to the credit of their own virtue. The quiet assumption is that I never do or say what I condemn in my neighbor. This assumption is often the seasoning which makes evil speaking palatable, until habit shall have blunted the nicer moral sensibilities.

The temptations to evil speaking ought to be studied. In some minds it is first tolerated, then loved as giving vent to a just indignation against supposed wrong. To others it has attractions as putting their own better ways in the light of a contrast. To others of strong talking proclivities, it has the charm of an exhaustless topic; it always supplies them something to say, just as tobacco supplies certain men something to chew, and as profanity helps men to be very emphatic and very smart of speech. That becomes a temptation which agreeably meets and fills some want.

But some one will say, What's the harm? Why may we not speak the evil that is in our neighbors?

You may—sometimes, in a certain spirit, for certain ends, and in a certain way.

You may—in the spirit of true love to him—for the sake of doing him good and in the way best adapted to this end. Certainly, neither God nor reason shuts you off from any suitable efforts to correct apparent evils, and to reclaim your apparently erring friend. The Scriptures have even defined the excellent method in this case. "If thy brother trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone." That is it. You may speak of his evil to him—your heart being full of love and yearning to reclaim a straying friend. But you will observe this is quite different from a general warrant to speak evil of your neighbor behind his back, and to any and every body whose ear you can gain.

Certainly the Lord is willing you should do all the good you can, and all you can to suppress and cure existing evils. But he does not wish you to bring a curse upon your own soul by causeless and selfish evil-speaking.

And this opens the way to remark that one of the most fearful elements in the habit of evil-speaking, is its self-depriving power. It surely eats out of the soul all those kindly sentiments of well-wishing for others' good in which virtue finds its life and joy.

The man or the woman who forms the habit of evil speaking must learn to enjoy it. This point gained, they certainly cannot enjoy the good reputation and the real welfare of their fellow-being. The law of their moral progress is toward finding their own good in others' grief and trouble—building up self on the ruin they can make of others' good name.

In the end, this sin of evil speaking brings down a terrible retribution, for society must, in self defense, spue out the slanderer; and in the nature of the case his resources for happiness within himself are turned to gall. Poor man!

So let us earnestly recommend that you resist this practice before it becomes a habit. Compel your tongue, if it speaks at all, to speak well of your neighbor; it will do you good. Say all the good of each neighbor that you can find to say. It will not only make your neighborhood more pleasant, but your own soul more benevolent and more pure.—Ob. Evan.

Early Piety.

How little do we think that our little children can become hopeful and faithful! How little do we think they can become Christians! We think they are too young. We limit the grace of Him who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven," and do not think they can become Christians, when Jesus says, Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings God perfects his praise. We have not been half awake to the salvation of our children. Who knows how long they may be spared to us? Who knows the period allotted to us and them? Let us endeavor to save our children while we may. The night is coming in which no man can work.

RECEIVING MEMBERS.—A NEW FEATURE—

A well known minister of the Central Ohio Conference, recently in receiving several persons into full connection, after putting the usual disciplinary questions, said: "I have now, my friends, to put one question to you not found in our Book of Discipline. It is a plain—a very plain and pointed question; will you give of your means, as God has prospered you, to the support of the Gospel—the ministry, the cause of missions, etc.?" The question, we are told, was affectionately and earnestly put, and the response in each case was, "I will." Is not such a course wise and politic? and if judiciously pursued, would it not start new ideas in the minds of many of those whom we receive into Church fellowship?—Ob. Evangelist.

Breath of Religion

BREATH OF RELIGION.—Religion should influence its professor in all the relations of life. Whatever he does, he should do it the better for being a Christian. Religion should make one a better student, a better servant, a better master, a better parent, a better child, a better man in all respect.—The pious but eccentric Rowland Hill remarked, "He would not give a farthing for that man's religion whose cat and dog were not the better for it."

Sensuality

SENSUALITY.—The wicked and sensual part of the world are only concerned to find scope and room enough to wallow in; if they can but have it, whence they have it troubles not their thoughts; saying grace is no part of the meal; they feed and grovel like swine under an oak, filling themselves with the mast, but never so much as looking up, either to the boughs that bore, or the hand that shook it down.

A Tender, Enlightened Conscience

ONE of the greatest blessings you can enjoy is a tender, honest, enlightened conscience.

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