Chapter 31

It was the day for the meeting of the Monthly Missionary Society, in the village of C.; a day of pure unclouded loveliness in early summer, when the sweetest flowers were blossoming, and the soft delicious air was laden with their perfume, and that of the newly-mown hay. All nature seemed rejoicing in the manifestations of the goodness and love of its Creator, while the low mingled murmurings of insects, breezes and rivulets, with the songs of birds, formed a sweet chorus of praise to God. The society was to meet at deacon Mills's, who lived about four miles out of the village, and whose house was the place where, of all others, all loved to go. Very early in the afternoon all the spare wagons, carriages, carryalls, chaises and other vehicles were in demand. A hay-rack was filled with young people, as a farmer kindly offered to carry them nearly to the place, and toward evening, they considered, it would be pleasant to walk home. So deacon Mills's house was filled with old, middle-aged and young, who were all soon occupied with the different kinds of work, requisite for filling a box to be sent to a missionary family among the distant heathen. Seaming, stitching, piecing, quilting and knitting, kept every hand busy, while their owners' tongues were equally so, yet the conversation was not the common, idle talk of the day, but useful and elevating, for religion was loved, and lived, by most of those dear and pleasant people, and it could not but be spoken of. Still there was interest in each other's welfare, as their social and domestic pursuits and plans were related and discussed.

There was a piazza in front of the house, the pillars of which were covered with vines, running from one to another, gracefully interlacing, and forming a pleasant screen from the sun's rays. At one end of this piazza, a group of five young girls were seated at their work. They were chosen and intimate friends, who shared with each other all that was interesting to themselves. They had been talking pleasantly together for some time, and had arrived at a moment's pause, when Clara Glenfield said, "Girls, I think this is a good opportunity to say to you something that I have for a long time wished to say. You know we are in the habit of speaking to each other upon every subject that interests us, excepting that of religion. None of us profess to be Christians, although we know it is our duty to be. We have all pious mothers, and, if yours are like mine, they are constantly urging, as well as our other friends, to give our hearts to God, and we cannot but think of the subject; now, why should we not speak of it together? and why are we not Christians?"

Emily Upton. "I should really be very glad, Clara, if we could. It seems to me we might talk much more freely with each other, than with older persons; for some things trouble me on this subject, and if I should speak of them to mother, or any one else, I am afraid they would think less of me, or blame me."

Clara. "Then let us each answer the question, why are we not Christians? You tell us first, Emily."

Emily. "Well, then, it seems to me, I am just as good as many in the church. I do not mean to say that I am good, but only if they are Christians, I think I am. There is Leonora D., for instance, she dresses as richly with feathers and jewels, attends parties instead of the prayer-meetings, and acts as haughtily as any lady of fashion I ever knew. Now, I go to the Bible class, evening meetings, always attend church, and read the Bible, and pray every day. Notwithstanding all, mother says, so tenderly, 'Emily, my child, I wish you were a Christian,' and I get almost angry that she will not admit that I am one."

Alice Grey. "Well, I do not blame Leonora much. To tell the truth, I do not believe in so much church-going and psalm-singing. I think God has given us these pleasant things to enjoy them, and it is perfectly natural for a young girl to sing and dance, visit, dress, and enjoy herself. It seems to me there is time enough for religion when we grow older, but give me youthful pleasures and I can be happy enough."

Sophia. "But you think religion is important, do you not?"

Alice. "Yes, I suppose it is necessary to have religion to die by, and I own I sometimes feel troubled for fear that I may die before possessing it, but I am healthy and happy, and do not think much about it. I want to enjoy life while I can, like these little birds in the garden who are singing and skipping so merrily."

Clara. "Annie, you are the reverse of Alice, quiet, gentle, and sedate; why are not you a Christian?"

Annie. "Since we are talking so candidly, I will tell you. I really do not know how to be. I cannot feel that I have ever done anything that was so very sinful, although I know, for the Bible says so, that I am a sinner. To be sure, I have done a great many wrong things, but it does not seem as though God would notice such little things, and besides it did not seem as though I could have done differently in the circumstances. Mother has always commended me, and held me up for a pattern to the younger children, and I suppose I have become, at least, you will think I have, a real Pharisee. Yet when I have been urged to repent and believe in Christ, I have not known what to do. I have spent hours in the still, lonely night, thinking upon the subject, and saying, if I could only feel that I am a sinner I would repent. I have always believed in Jesus, that He is the Son of God, that He assumed our nature, and bore the punishment we deserve, and will save all who believe in Him. Now what more can I do? I know that I must do everything, for I feel that I am far from being a Christian, and yet I know not what. I suppose your experience does not correspond with mine, Clara?"

Clara. "Not exactly. I not only know, but deeply feel, that I am a great sinner; sometimes my sinfulness appears too great to be forgiven. The trouble with me is _procrastination_. I cannot look back to the time when I did not feel that I ought to be a Christian, but I have always put off the subject, thinking I would attend to it another time, and it has been just so for year after year. Only last week I was sitting alone in my room at twilight, enjoying the quiet loveliness and beauty of the view from my window. I could not help thinking of Him who had made all things, and had given me the power of enjoying them, besides so many other blessings, and I longed to participate in the feeling which Cowper ascribes to the Christian, and say, '_My Father_ made them all.' Then something seemed to whisper, 'wilt thou not from _this time_ cry unto me, My Father, thou art the guide of my youth?' 'Now is the accepted time.' 'To-day, if ye will hear his voice, harden not your heart.' But I did harden my heart. I did not feel willing, like Alice, to give up the pleasures which are inviting me all around, and become a devoted, consistent Christian, for I do not mean to be a half-way Christian, neither one thing or the other."

Sophia. "Nearly all these reasons have been my excuse for not becoming a Christian, but another has been, that I do not like to be noticed, and made an object of remark. My father and mother and friends would be so much pleased, they would be talking of it, and watching me, to see if my piety was real, and I would feel as if I were too conspicuous a person. Now if we would all at the same time resolve to consecrate ourselves to the Lord, I think each particular case might not be so much noticed."

"But why should you dread it so much Sophy?" asked Emily.

"I hardly know _why_" she replied, "but I have always felt so since I was quite a child, but since I have for the first time spoken of it, it seems a much more foolish reason than I had before considered it."

Alice. "And I must confess that I am not always so careless and thoughtless on this subject. When I am really possessing and enjoying the pleasures I have longed for, there seems to be always something more that I need to make me happy. Fanny Bedford, pious and good as she is, seems always happier than I, and I have often wished that I was such a Christian as she is."

"Who has not," exclaimed the other girls; and their praise of her was warm and sincere.

"She is so consistent and religious, and yet so humble, and so full of love to every one, that it is impossible not to love her and the religion she loves so much. Annie, I have never wished so much that I was a Christian, as when I have thought of her; how much I wish I was like her." "There is Fanny in the hall, let us speak to her of what we have been saying," said Sophia.

They agreed that they were willing she should know it all, and called to her. She came and sat with them, and they related to her the conversation which they had had together, to which she listened with much interest, and a warm heart, and replied, "It is a great wonder to me now, dear girls, that any should need to be _persuaded_ to accept of Christ, and devote themselves to His service; yet it was once just the same with me. I had all of your excuses and many more, and considered them good reasons for not becoming a Christian. How true it is, that 'the god of this world hath blinded the minds of them that believe not, lest the light of the glorious gospel should shine unto them.' Could you but once experience the blessedness of being children of God, you would be surprised and ashamed that you have so long refused so precious a privilege, to possess instead, the unsatisfying pleasures of earth. Consider, to be a Christian, is to have God for your father, to have all that is glorious and excellent in his perfections engaged for your good. It is to have Jesus for an ever-present, almighty friend, ready to forgive your sins, to save you from sin, to bear your sorrows, to heighten your joys, to lead and bless you in all the scenes of life, to guide and assist you while you engage in his blessed service, to be with you in the hour of death, and to admit you to the realms of eternal joy. I can scarcely commence telling you of all the benefits he bestows on His people."

"What must we do, Fanny?" inquired Annie.

"The first thing of all, dear Annie," she replied, "is to go to the Savior, at His feet ask for repentance and true faith in Him. Consecrate yourself to Him, and resolve that you will from this time serve the Lord. Then, Annie, you will have done what you could, and 'He giveth the Holy Spirit to them that obey Him.' That Spirit will convince you of sin, and you will be surprised and grieved that you could ever have thought of yourself as other than the chief of sinners, and while you shed tears of sorrow and repentance, He will lead you to Christ, the Lamb of God, whose precious blood will prevail with God for the pardon of your sins; in it you can wash away your sins, and be made pure and holy in his sight. Do what you know how to do, and then shall you know if you follow on to know the Lord; will you not?"

Annie. "I will try."

Fanny. "I think the sin of procrastination must be very displeasing to God, as it is to our earthly parents, when we defer obeying their commands. It is solemn to think that He against whom we thus sin, is He in whose hands our breath is, and who can at any time take it away. If He were not so slow to anger, what would become of us? Dear Clara, and each of you, you are only making cause for sorrow and shame in thus neglecting to do what you know you ought to do. 'Enter in at the strait gate and walk in the narrow way that leadeth unto life,' and you will find that every step in that way is pleasure. Not such pleasure as the world gives, Alice, but more like the happiness of angels. Religion takes away no real pleasures, nor the buoyancy and happiness of the youthful spirit. It only sanctifies and leads its possessor to do nothing but what a kind heavenly Father will approve, Alice."

"But, Fanny, all Christians are not happy ones."

Fanny. "Yet those who are the most devoted and consistent, are the most happy. Some have troubles and sorrows which they could scarcely bear if it were not for religion. They are sanctified by means of these afflictions and so made happier; holiness and happiness are inseparable. ''Tis religion that must give, sweetest pleasure while we live,' you know the hymn says, and it is true. Do you think Emily, that because you are as good as you think Leonora is, you are good enough?"

Emily. "No, Fanny, it was a poor excuse; I see that I must not look at others, but at what God requires of _me_."

Fanny. "How common is the excuse, so many people profess to think they can do without religion, because so many who call themselves Christian are inconsistent. Dear girls, I pray that if you are ever Christians, you may be consistent, sincere ones. Who can estimate the good, or the evil, you may do by your example. If you love the Savior more than all else beside, you will find his yoke easy and his burden light, and for his sake it will be pleasant to do what would naturally be unpleasant. Remember this, Sophy, and I hope you will soon all know the blessedness of being Christians. It is our highest duty and our highest happiness. Do, dear girls, resolve, each of you, to seek the Lord now."

Just then, their pastor came; he spoke kindly to each of the little group, before entering the house.

"It is nearly tea-time," said Clara, "let us go and offer our assistance to Mrs. Mills; as we are the youngest here, perhaps she would like to have us carry around the plates and tea. We will try to not forget what you have told us, Fanny."

"Pray for me, Fanny," said Sophia softly, as she passed her, and kissed her.

"And for me," said Annie.

"And for us, too," continued Clara, Emily and Alice, as they stepped back for a moment.

Tea was soon over, the missionary hymn, "From Greenland's icy mountains," was sung, and prayer offered by the pastor, and then the pleasant interview was ended.

A few days after, Fanny and Annie met each other in the street. "Have you tried to do, Annie, what seemed your duty to do?" Fanny asked.

"I have," she replied, as she looked up with a happy smile.

"You have done what you could," said Fanny; "it is all that God requires of you, continue to do so." Annie's heart thrilled with joy, at the first faint hope that she was indeed a Christian, and from that time her course, like that of the shining light, was onward and brighter.

C. L.

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Original.

MOTHERS NEED THE BAPTISM OF THE HOLY GHOST.

At one period of my life, during a revival of religion, God led me by his Spirit to see and feel that the many years I had been a professed follower of Christ--which had been years of alternate revivings and backslidings, had only resulted in dishonor to Him and condemnation to my own soul. True, I had many times thought I had great enjoyment in the service of God, and was ever strict in all the outward observances of religion. But my heart was not fixed, and my affections were easily turned aside and fastened upon minor objects. In connection with this humiliating view of my past life, a deep sense of my responsibilities as a mother, having children old enough to give themselves to God, and still unreconciled to him, weighed me to the earth.

I plainly saw that God could not consistently convert them while I lived so inconsistent a life. I felt that if they were lost I was responsible. I gave myself to seek the Lord with all my heart, by fasting and prayer. One day, in conversation with my dear pastor, I told him my trials, and he said to me, "What you want is a baptism of the Holy Ghost. Give yourself up to seek this richest of all blessings." I did so--and rested not until this glorious grace was mine. Then, oh how precious was Jesus to my soul! How perfectly easy was it now to deny myself and follow Christ!

I now knew what it was to be led by the constraining love of Jesus, and to do those things that please him. Then it was that he verified to me his precious promise, "If ye keep my commandments, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you." Very shortly, one of my dear loved ones was brought to make an entire surrender of herself to Christ.

I trust I was also made the instrument of good to others, who professed to submit their hearts to my precious Savior. Will not many more be induced to take God at his word and believe him when he says, "Then shall ye find me, when ye shall search for me with all your hearts"?

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Original.

EXTRAVAGANCE.

The following paragraphs, which we have met in the course of our reading, contain a great deal of truth worthy the consideration of our readers.

_Extravagance in living._--"One cannot wonder that the times occasionally get hard," said a venerable citizen the other day, "when one sees the way in which people live and ladies dress." We thought there was a great deal of truth in what the old gentleman said. Houses at from five hundred to a thousand dollars rent, brocades at three dollars a yard, bonnets at twenty, and shawls, and cloaks, &c., from fifty dollars up, are enough to embarrass any community that indulges in such extravagances as Americans do. For it is not only the families of realized wealth, who could afford it, that spend money in this way, but those who are yet laboring to make a fortune, and who, by the chances of trade, may fail of this desirable result. Everybody wishes to live, now-a-days, as if already rich. The wives and daughters of men, not worth two thousand a-year, dress as rich nearly as those of men worth ten or twenty thousand. The young, too, begin where their parents left off. Extravagance, in a word, is piled on extravagance, till

"Alps o'er Alps arise."

The folly of this is apparent. The sums thus lavished go for mere show, and neither refine the mind nor improve the heart. They gratify vanity, that is all. By the practice of a wise economy, most families might, in time, entitle themselves to such luxuries; and then indulgence in them would not be so reprehensible. If there are two men, each making a clear two thousand a-year, and one lays by a thousand at interest, while the other spends his entire income, the first will have acquired a fortune in sixteen years, sufficient to yield him an income equal to his accustomed expenses, while the other will be as poor as when he started in life. And so of larger sums. In fine, any man, by living on half of what he annually makes, be it more or less, can, before he is forty, acquire enough, and have it invested in good securities, to live for the rest of his life in the style in which he has been living all along. Yet how few do it! But what prevents? Extravagance! extravagance! and again extravagance!

_Wives and carpets._--In the selection of a carpet, you should always prefer one with small figures, for the two webs, of which the fabric consists, are always more closely interwoven than in carpeting where large figures are wrought. "There is a good deal of true philosophy in this," says one, "that will apply to matters widely different from the selection of carpets. A man commits a sad mistake when he selects a wife that cuts too large a figure on the green carpet of life--in other words, makes much display. The attractions fade out--the web of life becomes weak--and all the gay figures, that seemed so charming at first, disappear like summer flowers in autumn. _This_ is what makes the bachelors, or some of them. The wives of the present day wish to cut too large a figure in the carpet of life."

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Selected.

EVERY PRAYER SHOULD BE OFFERED UP IN THE NAME OF JESUS.

Through Him alone have we access with boldness to the throne of grace. He is our advocate with the Father. When the believer appears before God in secret, the Savior appears also: for he "ever liveth to make intercession for us." He hath not only directed us to call upon his Father as "Our Father," and to ask him to supply our daily need, and to forgive our trespasses; but hath graciously assured us, that "_whatsoever_ (we) shall ask _in his name_, he will do it, that the Father may be glorified in the Son."--(John 14:13.) And saith (verse 14), "If ye shall ask _anything in my name_, I will do it." And again (John 15:23, 24), "Verily, verily, I say unto you, whatsoever ye shall ask the Father _in my name_ he will give it you. Hitherto ye have asked nothing _in my name_; ask, and _ye shall receive_, that your joy may be full."

All needful blessings suited to our various situations and circumstances in this mortal life, all that will be necessary for us in the hour of death, and all that can minister to our felicity in a world of glory, hath he graciously promised, and given us a command to ask for, _in his name_. And what is this but to plead, when praying to our heavenly Father, that Jesus hath sent us; and to ask and expect the blessings for his sake alone?

H. MORE.

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Original.

THE MOTHERS OF THE BIBLE.

BATHSHEBA.

A summons from the king! What can it mean? What can he know of her? She is, indeed, the wife of one of his "mighty men," but though he highly esteems her husband, he can have no interest in her. She meditates. Her cheek pales. Can he have heard evil tidings from the distant city of the Ammonites, and would he break kindly to her news of her husband's death? It cannot be. Why should he do this for her more than for hundreds of others in like trouble? Again, she ponders, and now a crimson hue mounts to her temples--her fatal beauty! Away with the thought--it is shame to dwell upon it--would she wrong by so foul a suspicion the Lord's anointed? She wearies herself with surmises, and all in vain. But there is the command, and she must be gone. The king's will is absolute. Whatever that summons imports, "dumb acquiescence" is her only part. She goes forth in her youth, beauty and happiness--she returns--

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Weeks pass, and behold another message, but this time it is the king who receives, and Bathsheba who sends. What is signified in those few words from a woman's hand, that can so unnerve him who "has his ten thousands slain"? It is now his turn to tremble and look pale. Yet a little while, and he, the man after God's own heart, the chosen ruler of his people--the idol of the nation, shall be proclaimed guilty of a heinous and abominable crime, and shall, according to the laws of the land, be subjected to an ignominious death. _He_ ponders now. Would he had thought of all this before, but it is too late. The consequences of his ungoverned passion stare him in the face and well nigh overwhelm him. Something must be done, and that speedily. He cannot have it thus. He has begun to fall, and the enemy of souls, is, as ever, at hand to suggest the second false and ruinous step.

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Another summons. A messenger from the king to Joab. "Send me Uriah the Hittite." It is peremptory; no reasons are given, and Joab does as he is bidden. Unsuspecting as loyal, Uriah hastens on his way, mindful only of duty, and is soon in the presence of his royal master, who, always kind, is now remarkably attentive to his wants and thoughtful of his interests. He inquires for the commander of his forces and of the war and how the people fare, and it would almost seem had recalled him only to speak kindly to him and manifest his regard for the army, though he had not himself led them to battle.

But though unsuspecting and deceived, the high-minded and faithful soldier cannot even unwittingly be made to answer the end for which he has been summoned, and after two days he returns to Joab, bearing a letter, of whose terrible contents he little dreams and is happy in his ignorance.