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Review and Herald, Vol. 42, No. 25.

COLLEGE SECRET SOCIETIES

Review and Herald

Dec 2, 1873

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Dec 2, 1873

COLLEGE SECRET SOCIETIES.

By J. H. W.

“Some few weeks since, we published an article upon the subject of secret societies. A new illustration of their great evils has just been given us. The circumstances are so tragic that the public mind has been irresistibly drawn to it, and is prepared to receive the lesson which it teaches. We have heard it said that no argument against these societies can be found in the fact that in the initiation of young Leggett, at Cornell, he lost his life. Perhaps not. No evil intent was in the hearts of those college mates who led the blindfolded boy along the brink of the precipice and fell with him to its rocky bottom. The Kappa Alpha might be a very useful institution notwithstanding so appalling an affair. A floor of a church building may settle and break and let down to death a score of persons, and yet we would not do away with Christianity and religious worship on that account. The death of this college boy was purely accidental. In itself, it casts no evil shadow over this or any other like secret society. And yet one cannot but put alongside of this bright, promising life, brought to so untimely an end, the supreme folly of these initiatory rites. The utter childishness of these performances, the purpose of which is to whelm with mystery and terror, never struck in upon us with such force before. The long, blind walk, the words of feigned horror, the gropings toward the yawning gulf, the coffin, the skeleton, the sepulchral forms, the chill of death—all the paraphernalia of terror—it seems like the grim play of children or the grotesque antics of some barbaric rite. One would think the Christian civilization and manly culture of the schools had grown far away from such unmitigated nonsense as this. But this is not the argument against secret societies which this tragedy furnishes. There is something else, something that strikes with a more crushing blow.
“The dead boy and his bleeding, senseless companions, with the breaking of the morning, were borne back to town in sad procession. The parents were gathered to the place by telegraph. A coroner’s jury began its investigation. The faculty of the college and the broken-hearted friends attended to listen to the awful story. But the members of this society were bound to secrecy. Friends were in agony to learn about their dead and wounded, but nothing for a long time could be elicited from their comrades. Professors were there, anxious to clear up a mystery which threatened to cover their college with infamy, but the oath which had been sworn sealed the lips of these witnesses. Prof. Wilder says in his masterly paper communicated to the New York Tribune, ‘Some of the witnesses could not have been more reluctant to give information if they had been under charge of murder.’ Not until the two men who fell with Leggett were so far recovered as to be able to give their testimony, was the awful affair cleared up. Prof. Wilder applauds their moral courage in daring to tell what others felt bound through a sense of honor to withhold. Here is one of the great evils to be found in these secret conclaves. It establishes a code of honor to which its members sacrifice all true honor. For the sake of the society, to shield it or its membership from anything injurious, the oath-taker hesitates at nothing unmanly or untruthful. Other claims are held in subserviency to the one supreme claim which the society has upon the members.
“We have before spoken of the low prejudices and antipathies which this secret fellowship engenders toward those who are outside, and of the unworthy and vicious friendships of those who are within. Prof. Wilder adds another terrible count to the indictment which we bring against these societies. He shows that their direct effect is to take from their members personal freedom, and that liberty of judgment and action which is necessary to the best growth of the individual and the happiness of society.
“How are these evils to be abated? We doubt the wisdom and efficacy of law in the case, whether State or collegiate. Secret societies will go down when a better moral sentiment springs up among students. There is hope of this. Hazing, against which college faculties have fulminated in vain, is already coming into disfavor under the more manly feelings which have come to the students in one or more of our colleges. We are sure that under the current already started, hazing will soon be swept out of every American college. Students are aspiring toward a larger and fuller manliness. In time, this wretched secrecy, with its ignoble friendships, its narrowing tendencies, its slaving judgments, will disappear as something unworthy of our American manhood.” —Watchman and Reflector.
These are good words, and worthy of being carefully considered. And every one that has paid any attention to the subject knows that the charge lies at the door of every secret society in the land. They all equally engender “the low prejudices and antipathy toward those who are outside,” and “their direct influence is to take from their members personal freedom, and that liberty of judgment and action which is necessary to the best growth of the individual and happiness of society.”
But we see little or no chance to hope for the abatement of the evil. The writer well says that “secret societies will go down when a better moral sentiment springs up among students.” But how is that “better moral sentiment” to be created, and under what influence is it to be fostered? Just now, after the death of the unfortunate student at Cornell College, there is a feeling which works against such societies. And so there was a tremendous feeling against the Masons after the murder of Morgan. But what do we see to-day? What “moral sentiment” against the evils of secret societies is inculcated by the highest powers of the nation? The corner-stone of the State Capitol of Michigan was recently laid by a secret society, by invitation of the Governor, and the citizens of the whole State were invited to come to behold the honor thus conferred upon that society, and upon the cause of secrecy. No important public building is erected in these days without laying the foundation in this spirit of servility to Masonry. How, then, can we expect a “better moral sentiment” to spring up in the minds of the youth, who are led to admire the gaudy trappings of some “R. W. G. M.” to whom the officials of the States and the nation pay such respect and give such honor? These things are a shame to our manhood, and to the enlightenment of the age, and a caricature of religion; for surely a system that professes to be sufficient to carry a person safely “to the Grand Lodge above,” and that has no merit above outward show, is a sad caricature of religion. The young, not only in our colleges, but all through the land, should be faithfully warned against these things. And parents should avoid bringing their children in contact with the evil, and not send them to public schools where secret societies are tolerated. When there, a pressure is brought to bear upon them which, to a sensitive youth, is irresistible, to cause them to unite. The only safety is to avoid such schools, and thus avoid the responsibility and the danger. J. H. W.

A Crown of Golden Thorns.

AGAIN it is proposed by the admirers of the pope to present him with a testimonial of their homage, and this time it takes the shape of a crown of thorns, the thorns to be made of gold!
There is something, at first, inexpressibly shocking in the idea of likening the pope of Rome to the crucified Son of God. To those of us who look upon the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world, as the incarnation of infinite excellence, and regard the Christ of Judea as the divine Redeemer, the proposal to put upon the head of any man an emblem even of what was in derision the distinction of our Lord, is the highest style of blasphemy. We would have every mark of contempt with which he was mocked remembered as part of the load of reproach he endured for us; and as in his humiliation he trod the wine-press alone, we would not bestow on another anything by which it might be signified that he takes the place, or shares the work of Christ alone. That work stands by itself in the annals of the world. There has been but one Christ. Jesus only wore a crown of thorns. His life and his death are not reproduced in the life and death of any man, least of all in the royal potentates who dwell in the palace of the Vatican, and fare sumptuously every day.
It is just in character with the life of him who styles himself the vicar of Christ, his representative on earth, that it is now proposed to honor him with a crown of thorns, and make those thorns of gold. We have never heard that the popes pretended to represent Christ in his life of self-denial and suffering, nor that they who follow the pope desire to see him like the Master in his humiliation. Once a year he makes a show of washing the feet of paupers prepared for the ceremony, but no one ever heard of his feet being soiled and weary as were the feet which the sinful woman kissed. We have seen him in his chariot, rolling through the streets of the city; we have seen him clad in costly robes, carried on the shoulders of men who sank under his great weight; but we never heard of his bearing any burden for his people, or sinking under any cross. We often read his curses against the humble followers of the suffering Jesus; but he never bore a pain for them for whom the Master's heart was pierced.
What mockery, yet how fitting, it is to make this crown of thorns out of gold. It will not hurt his head, and it will be a crown. It will be costly and kingly, in keeping with his throne and palace and robes of state; but it will not suggest the wounds and blood and agony of that face which, as the “Ecce Homo,” haunts forever the memory of all who have seen it once. It is rather the fitting crown and climax of the life of a usurper, claiming the prerogatives and titles of the Man of Sorrows, but scorning to wear his insignia, except in that distant contrast which a crown of gold bears to a crown of thorns.
Yet it is just like the religion of the pope in its resemblance to the religion of the crucified Christ. Nowhere does the contrast force itself so powerfully upon the mind as in Rome itself, the very seat and summit of its chief excellence and glory. One never associates the kingdom of Christ on earth with earthly splendor. He who said, “My kingdom is not of this world,” was so meek and lowly that the pomp of a chariot and the robes of royalty and the applause of men would never seem in keeping with his humility. We think of him always as the “poor, wayfaring man of grief.” And when his wandering life of homeless poverty was coming to a close, we think of him as traveling to his doom with that derisive crown of thorns piercing his head, the reed sceptre in his hand, his head bowed in agony, and his form writhing under the burden of his cross.
To put a crown of gold thorns on the head of Pius IX., is a better satire which his friends have been left in their folly to inflict upon him, that all the world may see, and say, “So this is the man who was declared to be infallible like unto the Infinite, and claiming to be vicar of Christ is now by his own friends crowned in unintended derision with gold instead of thorns.” This is the latest act in the papal drama.—N. Y. Observer.

THE COMING OF THE LORD.

By S. B. S. W.

“At even, or at midnight, or at cockcrowing, or in the morning.”
It may be at the closing day, When from the golden west The sun’s gleam slowly dies away, Bringing the hour of rest, And the twilight shades are slowly Gathering round thy home, And a silence calm and holy Sweetly pervades thy room, Then in the stillness, watch and pray, At the closing day Thy Lord may come.
It may be at the midnight hour, When earth is hushed in sleep, When clouds of darkness round thee lower, And angels vigil keep; When the lights are out, the fire’s faint glow Scarce piercing through the gloom, Although no footstep, soft and low, Is heard within thy room, Watch and pray, at the midnight hour, Though the darkness lower Thy Lord may come.
It may be when the herald of dawn Sounds forth so shrill and clear, When dewy night is almost gone, And day is drawing near, When the waning moon is sinking low, And stars are growing dim, And fitful slumbers come and go, While quiet reigns within. In that calm hour, oh! watch and pray, Ere the dawn of day Thy Lord may come.
It may be in the morning bright, When shades of night are gone, And the sun’s early slanting light Gleams over hill and lawn; When the birds are gaily singing Their songs around thy home, And the morning air is winging Sweet fragrance in thy room, Watch and pray, in the early light, In the morning bright Thy Lord may come.
—S. B. S. W., in The Christian Press.

Publicity in Christian Work.

THE London Friend says: It is a trite remark that, in matters of every day life, few men seem able to stand popularity and fame, and in higher things it would, perhaps, be difficult to say whether the fear or the praise of man is the greatest snare.
It has often been remarked that even she whose deed of loving thankfulness was declared by our Lord himself to be worthy of being told for an everlasting memorial of her, is only spoken of as “a certain woman,” and this is not a solitary instance.
It is related of Father Taylor, the sailor missionary of Boston, that on one occasion, when a minister was urging that the names of the subscribers to an institution (it was the missionary cause) should be published in order to increase the funds, and quoted the account of the poor widow and her two mites to justify this trumpet-sounding, he settled the question by rising from his seat, and asking in his clear, shrill voice, “Will the speaker please give us the name of that poor widow?”
This remark hits the true solution of this question of publicity. The account to which he alluded may seem to warrant us in recounting and publishing the details of Christian labor, in so far as they will encourage and help others in similar circumstances. But it will be found not unnecessary to guard carefully against such a reliance on outward sympathy as may weaken that individual responsibility and independence which are so essential; and, above all, lest any echo of their labors coming back to scholars, teachers, or workers, should crowd out of the minds of any what should be the constant thought of all of us, “Not unto us, not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory.” For “we are unprofitable servants, we have done that which it was our duty to do.”—Golden Censer.

The Work Done Inside.

ONE of my friends is a very earnest, shrewd man, who seems always to know how to do the best thing at the right time. One day he was passing a gin-shop in Manchester, England, when he saw a drunken man lying on the ground. The poor fellow had evidently been turned out of doors when all his money was gone. In a moment my friend hastened across the street, and, entering a grocer’s shop, addressing the master, said:—
“Will you oblige me with the largest sheet of paper you have?”
“What for, my friend? What’s the matter?”
“Oh! you shall see in a minute or two. Please let it be the largest sheet you have.”
The sheet of paper was soon procured.
“Now will you lend me a piece of chalk?” said my friend.
“Why, what are you going to do?”
“You shall see presently.”
He then quickly printed, in large letters, these words: “Specimen of the work done inside.”
He then fastened the paper over the drunken man, and retired a short distance. In a few moments, several passers-by stopped and read aloud: “Specimen of the work done inside.”
In a short time a crowd assembled, and the publican, hearing the noise and laughter outside, came out to see what it was all about. He eagerly bent down and read the inscription on the paper, and then demanded, in angry voice: “Who did that?”
“Which?” asked my friend, who now joined the crowd. “If you mean what is on the paper, I did that; but if you mean the man, you did that! This morning when he arose, he was sober; when he walked down the street, on his way to work, he was sober; when he went into your shop, he was sober; and now he is what you made him. Is he not a true specimen of the work done inside?”—Band of Hope Review.

Christ in His Garden.

By F. E. Clarke

The relation of Christ to his church is exquisitely imagined in the song of Solomon: “I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse.” An early walk among the flowers and fruits helps the imagination in its grasp of its highest spiritual truths. When the sun is beginning to pour its glory abroad, when dew-drops glisten upon fragrant blossoms, when birds are breaking the stillness of the morning, it is easy to conceive
“How all of brightest, best we see, Must shadows of the heavenly be; How the blue dawn and morning’s glow And the vast sunset’s fiery show, Soft, pearly moon and stars of night, Are shadows of the heavenly light; How all the sweetest sounds of earth, Music of winds, birds, infants’ mirth, Anthems that float church aisles along, Are shadows of the heavenly song.”
As the sun rises upon the garden, every leaf and tiny flower, every plant and blossom, turns to kiss his rays, and to welcome his coming. So the church, Christ’s garden, turns, in heartfelt longing, toward the light of her Master’s countenance.
Who has not wondered at the mysterious sympathy which exists between the sunlight and every green thing depending upon that light? Who shall describe to us the yearning of soul with which Christ’s members long for his coming? Listen! how that weary soul cries to the north wind to revive its vigor, to lift up its faith, that it may come to Jesus for rest! That drooping soul, alas! which with so little love gives forth so little fragrance, cries to the south wind to breathe on it, that its spices may flow out, and that Jesus may delight in it once more. That fruitless soul for which Christ has done so much, on which he has lavished so many mercies, but for which he has made such poor return—how that soul cries for the breath of God to quicken its life and make it fruitful!
The voices of beauty in the garden are inaudible, and yet they penetrate our sensitive nature. So are the longings of unsatisfied souls inaudible, indeed, to human ears; often inarticulate toward God; but Jesus can hear them. He has said, “Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.” If any voice sounds sweet in the Master’s ear, it is the cry of longing souls for the presence and joy of their Lord. What music in his ear is that subdued petition, “Let my Beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruit!” For this is as the turning of plants toward the sun in which they live. This is the up-looking of hearts which can be satisfied only with the Saviour’s love. Does the disciple mourn that Christ seems so far away, and that he enjoys so little the fragrance of his graces? Let him be thankful for that divine presence which is disclosed in these very yearnings—this is the touch of Christ’s own hand, the beginning of the joy which that soul supremely craves.
For, lo! the instant response of Christ to the prayer of the longing soul: “I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse.”
Every tender heart is touched with this fact, for it is a literal fact that Jesus comes instantly into the heart which really longs for him. Does the church moan in her solitude, and say, through her tears of penitence, “Let my Beloved come?” At once the answer is heard, “I am come, my sister, and my spouse.” Does the church grieve over her unfruitfulness, and cry to God that spices may flow out, that her withered graces may again refresh her Lord? So, at once, the gracious response, “I am gathering my myrrh with my spices; I am eating, I am drinking; my joy is fulfilled.” Does the church look with heavy heart upon the careless ones who mingle in her assemblies, and does she travail in birth for her unconverted children? So, at once, the salvation of God, the voice of inquiry for Christ, and the joy of the new-born souls, the moment the church desires souls more than she desires any other gift. Impenitent men are all around us, and they will be converted any time when Christians live, labor, and pray, for it with zeal and earnestness. At once, upon seeing that there is room for him, Jesus comes; at once, upon seeing faith enough to make salvation possible, Christ begins to pour the joy of salvation upon the church. Christ is infinitely concerned to refresh, enlarge, adorn, and bless, the church, for the church is his own body. Christ desires to walk in his garden, and to refresh himself there—for all his joys are in her. All his plans of redemption are centered in the church. All his interest in the affairs of the world is limited by the relation of these affairs to his church. What men struggle for, live for, die for,—all earth’s gains, promotions, and successes, are not worth the ink which records them, except as they touch and influence the church. No language can exaggerate this truth, no imagination can approach its measurement—that Christ has no joy like the joy of his people. The salvation of his elect is the travail of his soul. When this is accomplished, he will be satisfied—never before.
What a stimulus is this to our zeal, what a reward to our faith! So Jesus comes at thy bidding, humble disciple. He comes into thy love. He comes full of gladness, walking amidst the bowers of thy revived affections, gathering spices, smelling the fragrance of every grace—eating, drinking, and supping, with you; and in the joy of this present communion, giving you a sacrament and pledge of the joys which he will share with you in his kingdom above.
Will you not then so live as constantly to welcome Christ into the garden of your soul, that both he and you may rejoice in the fragrance of your graces?—Rev. F. E. Clarke.

THE BRIGHT SIDE.

Now and then a shining pebble, As we walk the wave-washed strand, Smiles upon our passing footsteps, From its lowly bed of sand. Now and then a virgin rose-bud, Breathes upon us by the way; And its sweet, delicious fragrance, On the breeze doth round us stray.
And in winter’s desolation, While the naked boughs are seen, There amid its bleak surroundings, Smiles the pine-top evergreen. Though the road be rough and weary, Till we reach the mountain height, Then are we repaid our climbing, By the prospect grand and bright.
God hath placed these things to please us, All along our path each day; Emblems faint that just before us, There are better things than they. These are green spots as we travel, Oases on “weary” ground, Left there by “our” loving “Father,” By the pilgrim to be found.
Happy he who sees the beauty, Leaves the bitter, tastes the sweet; And enjoys each pleasing object He may on his pathway meet. Thus will gloom be quickly scattered, And the sun will brightly shine. All of sadness be defeated, And a happy life be thine.

Duty of Believers.

By D. F. Quinby

It is the duty of believers to give a reason for the faith they hold and the hope that is in them, to every one that asketh them. And this is to be done with all simplicity and godly sincerity; not in the words which man's wisdom teacheth, which may be understood two ways, so that no one will know on which side of any question they may stand; but in such unequivocal language as shall be fully understood even by the careless hearer. If he shall use ambiguous terms, what benefit shall he be to others? But if, on the contrary, he uses Scripture phrases as far as it is consistent, he is more likely to convince the unbelieving, and bring him to see the truth and feel its saving power.
The confession of our faith, before a sinful world, is designed by the Holy Spirit, to affect the heart and life of the hearer, and if heartily and faithfully made, will be brought, by the influence of that Spirit home upon the hearts of sinners, to convince them of sin and to make them feel that its consequences will be destruction and death to all their fond hopes of life and immortality if they continue in sin and wrong-doing. And thus they are constrained to cast about them for a way of escape from the danger that lies in their pathway. And then the expression of a joyful hope, through Christ the merciful Redeemer, comes in, to show the remedy and to lead forward the awakened sinner to the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world.
Then there is a clear revealing of the temptations and trials that beset the path, by which one who is not fully staid on the living God may lose his balance, fall from his steadfastness, and be overwhelmed by the powers of darkness which are ready to bewilder and destroy those who are not grounded in the truth. Then is brought forth the security of the faithful, confiding child, who calmly trusts all to Him who is able to save to the uttermost all who come unto God by him. How gloriously this man stands in the time of the greatest commotion. He is founded on a Rock which the gates of hell shall not prevail against. His rock is Christ. He has built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ being the chief cornerstone.
All this, and more is brought out in the clear testimony of the faithful child of God, until the wayfaring man need not err, but may start and run in the race for the eternal crown, with the full consciousness that the crown of life and immortality are attainable, and that they will be given by the Lord, the righteous Judge, in that day. Here is, then, the work, and the incentive to work, until Paradise is regained, and eternal life is given.
D. F. QUINBY.

Temples of the Holy Ghost: Purity and Constant Prayer

By Bramwell

We are the temples of the Holy Ghost. I see the necessity of the greatest purity in the outward man. To keep the whole requires constant prayer, watching, looking always to Christ. I mean that the soul never be diverted from him for one moment; but that I view him in all my work, take hold of him as the instrument by which I do all my work, and feel that nothing is done without him. To seek men, world, self, praise, is so shocking to my view at present, that I wonder we are not all struck dead when the least of this comes upon us. I know immediately when I grieve the Lord, the Spirit speaks within; and to do wrong in the great light, is the great offense.— Bramwell.

Modern Religion.

The religion of the day is entirely unlike the religion of the Bible. We are not now speaking from a theological stand-point, but refer to its spirit. In Bible times, religion separated people from the world, and made them “a peculiar people, zealous of good works.” Now we behold an assimilation to the world on the part of those who profess religion, and they are pre-eminently lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God, provided we allow their actions to speak, which so often speak louder than words. How unlike the apostle’s advice: “Be not conformed to this world, but be ye transformed by the renewing of your minds, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect will of God.”
As the heart cannot be fired with the love of God and the love of the world at the same time, the fact that the love of the world mainly predominates in the nominal church, is proof conclusive of a sickly religion within. Where is the victory over the world, over self, over sin, over Satan, which was once enjoyed? Where is the “pure and undefiled religion,” which formerly kept its possessor “unspotted from the world”? Has God’s plan changed? Or have men swerved from that plan, and hewn out to themselves broken cisterns that can hold no water? We need earnestly to inquire for the old paths of experimental religion, and to walk therein. This modern substitute for religion is a worthless coin. We want radical Christianity.

Speak Kindly Morning and Night

Speak kindly in the morning; it lightens the cares of the day, and makes the household and its affairs move along smoothly. Speak kindly at night; for it may be that before dawn some loved one may finish his or her space of life for this world, and it will be too late to ask forgiveness.

One Thing Thou Lackest.

By P. P. Werner

THESE were the words of the great Teacher over eighteen hundred years ago. How applicable they are to thousands whose names are upon the church record to-day, hoping and dreaming they have treasure in Heaven. This is a plain, direct, and serious answer to a serious question. Mark 10:17, 22. “And when he was gone forth into the way, there came one running, and kneeled to him and asked him, Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?” Jesus’ attention, no doubt, was immediately arrested by his dress and general appearance. Many of the poor had followed him from the beginning, but this probably was the first rich man. He manifested great earnestness, humility, and reverence, that—by kneeling in the road in the dirt—which to-day would be considered by many a mark of fanaticism. In his question, “Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?” he manifested a submissive and teachable disposition, a belief in a future state, in an eternal life that might be inherited. He showed that he had a stronger desire to insure that life to himself than any of the enjoyments of the present. Thus he differed from many of his age and quality, for the rich are apt to think it beneath them to make such an inquiry, and young people in general are inclined to defer it until some future period.
But he felt that something must be done, some duties performed, or some divine injunctions complied with, and that he was, or at least thought he was, willing to take the necessary steps to obtain eternal life, and glad to accept it on any terms. Jesus knowing that he was regarded by him merely as a prophet sent from God, a divinely commissioned teacher, and supposed to be only a man; said, “Why callest thou me good?” as there is none good, supremely, originally, or essentially, but God. “If thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments.” Jesus then rehearsed them, and the young man, feeling the reproof, drops the epithet Good, and replies: Master, all these have I kept from my childhood, what lack I yet? wherein am I deficient? what is further needful in order to my securing the glorious prize which I am pursuing? In answer to these inquiries, made by one evidently puffed up with a high opinion of his own righteousness, Jesus replies, If thou wilt be a real, thorough Christian, yet lackest thou one thing: thou must be saved from the love of the world, from all undue esteem and affection for earthly things: therefore go sell whatsoever thou hast and give, distribute the money arising from the sale thereof to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in Heaven. And come take up the cross and follow me; unite with me as my constant companion, although it may be at the expense of your life. Jesus saw his bosom sin, the love of his worldly possessions, that he could not be saved from it but by literally parting with them. For him to sell all was an absolute duty to get his affections from his earthly possessions. And when he heard this, he went away sorrowful, grieved at the saying, not being willing to have salvation at so high a price, for he had great possessions. He now plainly evidenced that he valued them more than eternal life.
This is a melancholy fact of a well-educated and well-disposed young man voluntarily giving up all hope of eternal life rather than part with his temporal possessions. This truly is a sad picture, but it is one of reality. This, dear reader, may be your condition; you may lack the one thing, and that will debar you from having treasure in Heaven, and your portion will be with the lost, instead of eternal blessedness at God’s right hand in glory.—P. P. WERNER, in Earnest Christian.

One of the Little Foxes! Kill Him?!

He is not a wild beast, living in dark, gloomy forests. No. He is becoming domesticated. He rears his brood in the parlor and sitting room; he thrives near the easy chair, is a guest at the social meal. Many think the house gloomy without him. Some think a visit from a friend or neighbor unbearable without this little fox is there to enliven, with his gambols, the visit.
He is held in great esteem by many. They will neglect their work, business, children, their very souls, to run errands at his bidding. Few reckon him an evil beast—many think him as pretty as a lamb or kitten, more faithful than a watch-dog; they will watch for his coming more eagerly than for the postman; and like Æsop's fabled fox with a bone in his throat desiring the long-necked goose to pull it out, and then biting her head off, so this little fox is most ready to destroy those that pet him most. His name is—Social Small Talk! Some think he has religion, and will take him to church and pet him till preaching begins.
The foxes of Palestine often burrowed among the thick roots of the vine; so with this one, he has no desire to kill our vine—that would raise a hunt that would exterminate his species! He bites off the feeder roots, nips off the fruit buds, and makes the vine so puny and its fruit so insipid that men turn away disgusted. In a word, this social small talk robs the professor of religion of peace, shuts off the streams of power from the soul, disgusts the sinner with our insipid conversation, offends Jesus, and delights the devil.
Too often professors of holiness find in visiting others that, almost before they are aware of it, small talk has shorn them, and they are too weak to pray or talk about Jesus before they leave, the very object they had in view is thwarted, and they return feeling that they have done more to advertise the devil's wares than to please Jesus. Kill this social small talk, and let your conversation be in Heaven.

Finding Fault with Providence.

By Examiner

THERE is reason in finding fault, if there is either hope of thereby amending the fault or of uttering useful warning. Applied to the actions of our fellow-men, adverse criticism is sometimes legitimate. But when the matter complained of lies out of the reach of human interference or control, the language of complaint strikes past all intermediate agents to the Most High. He who accuses, accuses God.
But among the things that are above and beyond our determination, one is obviously the weather. It is God who “causes his sun to rise” and “sendeth rain.” It makes no difference, as to the present question, whether we can conceive of the action of divine Providence as direct and particular, or as limited to the institution of general laws. In either case, the weather is what it is by the appointment of God. He who complains of the weather makes complaint of God. And what is more common? We read, the other day, a paragraph in a daily paper which spoke of “execrable weather”—weather, that is, worthy to be execrated, or cursed. Would not a cursing of the weather be dangerously near to cursing our Maker?
This is a matter on which many Christians, it is to be feared, do not sufficiently reflect. They fall too easily into the fashions of speech that are common, without sufficiently considering what they are saying. We may wish the weather were different, and may express that wish in a proper manner. But when we allow ourselves to be impatient, and to “charge God foolishly,” it is but too plain that he “is not in our thoughts.”—Examiner.

Following Christ Without Conditions

Some will follow Christ on certain conditions—if he will not lead them through rough roads—if he will not enjoin them any painful tasks—if the sun and wind do not annoy them—if he will remit a part of his plan and order. But the true Christian, who has the spirit of Jesus, will say, as Ruth said to Naomi, “Whither thou goest, I will go!” whatever difficulties and dangers may be in the way.

Vice, Laziness, and the Mixed Character of Society

Vice and laziness have everywhere their votaries, and the vestiges of the “shabby foot-step” are to be met with in all places. No human beings ever congregated into a community without including among themselves the just and the unjust, the wise and the ignorant, the evil and the good.

Vain Amusements.

OUR Protestant Episcopal brethren have had, it seems, a canon against “attending horse-races, theatrical exhibitions, and other vain and light amusements.” It has been, we suppose, a “dead letter;” for, with here and there an exceptional individual, the theater, opera, etc., are zealously patronized by Protestant Episcopalians. We doubt whether many of them have been aware of the prohibitory canon. It is an ominous sign of the times that the late Annual Convention of the Maryland Diocese (which includes the District of Columbia) voted for the repeal of this unfashionable canon. Much debate attended the act, but it was passed with a qualification which, in such a connection, means nothing—namely, “That in recommending the repeal of this canon, the committee is not to be understood as intending to give any sanction to such worldly amusements as are plainly inconsistent with baptismal vows.”
Bishop Whittingham sent in a protest against this act, declaring that it is virtually a change of position respecting the specified vices; that the people would so understand it, and be thereby morally injured, and that his own authority and administration regarding the old canon shall not be affected by this indiscreet action of the convention. We honor the bishop’s course, and hope his people will uphold him.—Methodist.
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