The Book Fund Diary for 1885

BY dear Reader, — Will you pay me an early visit on this first morning of the New Year, and taking the most comfortable chair to be found in my cosy sitting-room, sit by the side of the blazing wood fire, while I proceed with the business of the day — opening and answering the goodly pile of letters which are awaiting my attention? It may interest all who love the Book Fund work to know exactly what I have to do, and how I do it; so on this auspicious morning I will take my friends into full confidence, and let them peep into every letter as I open it; sharing with me the pleasure or pain, the content or the anxiety, to which the correspondence may give rise. Before us lies a day’s work we shall not get through till sundown; are you willing and able, dear friend, to spend such a busy day with me?

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A tiny square box, addressed to me in my son Charles’s handwriting, first claims my notice. I wonder what it can

contain, and on opening it, I find, to my great surprise and pleasure, a pretty little sovereign purse, with one of those satisfactory coins inside, and a morsel of paper with a memorandum to the following effect: —

a gear’s ffiift to hear ffirantmtama’s Book j Funfc from Susie anh ffiora.

It is a new and very amusing experience to have my son’s little ones helping in my life-work! True, the wee mites do not know much about it at present; in the blissful ignorance of childhood, such tender, sheltered blossoms are all urn aware that out in the world, cold winds are blowing, and biting frosts are reigning: let them enjoy the warmth, and gladness, and couleur de rose, as long as possible. But at least this New Year’s Gift promises well for future training and bringing up in the way they should go, and, — who can tell? — in days to come they may take up “Grandma’s” work when she is at rest, and carry it on more extensively, and not less lovingly, than she has done! “Grandmama” / Ah me! How the days are going by! It seems but as yesterday that the father of these two little maidens was my own bonnie baby, laughing, ay, and weeping too, in what I then thought a most wonderful and exceptional fashion; yet so many years have flown away, and he has travelled so far on life’s journey, that now his babies crow and cry even as he once did, and make sweet childish music in his house, and call me “Grandmama” /

“Growing older!

With a sigh we say it.

That the early freshness of the dawn,

Rosy-tinted, rich in thoughts and fancies,

Seemeth farther at each birthday mom.

Growing older!

Joyously we say it.

Reaching onward to immortal youth,

And the fount of bliss that never endeth,

Promised us by Him who is the Truth.”

It will not do, however, to grow prosy over my venerable position, as a maternal ancestor, I must “wear my honours meekly,” I must persuade the rosebuds to lie lovingly by the side of the “sere and yellow leaf,” and teach the dimpled fingers to smooth away the wrinkles and the coming crow’sfeet, and be as wise and tender a grandmother as the Lord would have me be. So a letter is written to the dear son whose love for his mother is one of the joys of her life, thanking him for the sweet remembrance on behalf of his wee maidens, and invoking God’s rich blessings on him and his; — and thus ends the examination and reply to our first New Year’s missive.

But there lies on my table, awaiting completion, a letter to that other darling son, who at this moment is on the mighty waters, sailing away from mother and from home, to go and serve his God and his people in the distant colonies. Before I open another epistle, this one must be finished; it is to meet him at Naples, where his ship touches, and must carry a word of comfort and of lingering farewell, and assure him once again of mother’s fervent prayers for his safety. It is with a great yearning over him in my heart, and eyes that grow dim with tears as the pen runs on, that I fill up the last pages of my love-letter to my absent boy, and sealing it with a sigh, which is, in reality, a prayer, I drop it into the post-basket, and then turn to engage resolutely in the business of the day.

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The letter which comes now to hand is from an Evangelist who, not knowing that the work is for poor Pastors only, asks for a grant of books. He is trying to win souls to Christ; has a wife and four children, very little money, and very few books. I reply, informing him of my rules, which prevent full compliance with his request, but offering him a parcel of “Sermons,” which he can first read, and then distribute to his people. This offer he will be sure to accept; and, having by me some good second-hand volumes, I shall put in a few of these also, and the poor man will rejoice as over great spoil. This is better than a total denial of his request; for the blessed truths

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contained in the “Sermons” will be certain to feed his soul, and then, when he scatters them, who can tell where the precious seed may fall, and flourish, and bring forth fruit?

The next missive proves to be an acknowledgment of the safe arrival of a parcel for a minister in Wales. There has been a great deal of previous correspondence with this brother, a rather long delay in accepting his application, and so there may be an extraordinary depth of meaning in the few words by which he assures me that he received the parcel, and was “very thankful” for its contents.

Then I open one which promises to give me great content. It is from a former student of the College, now a worthy and hard-working pastor in the vicinity of London. He says: —

Dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — My cup runneth over. The books have safely arrived. Dr. Gilrs “Commentary,” five volumes of the “Sermons u of the dearest friend I have in this world, the last volume of “The Treasury,” and a nice lot of paper and envelopes. I feel perfectly unable to thank you for such a splendid gift, though the Lord knows how grateful I am to both Him and you for the help which the last hours of the Old Year have brought me. That God may pour down rich blessings in the New Year upon yourself and your beloved husband, and all the works of your hands, is the earnest prayer of the recipient of this noble and generous gift.

Again I find the letter I take up is from one of “our own men.” I have long sent the weekly “Sermon” to him, and he gratefully says that he cannot permit the year to close without thanking me for what has proved so helpful to himself and others. So his acknowledgment reaches me on New Year’s morning, and his kind wishes make a chime of pleasant music in my heart. “May your noble work be a fount of unfailing delight, throughout the year!” he says; “may your opportunities be many of cheering the poor servants of God; and, with ample means and renewed health, may your service be a perpetual joy and comfort to yourself and to others!”

I sent a New Year’s gift of 20s. each to about a dozen of the very poorest Pastors I knew, and the next letter from the pile on the table proves to be a thankful little note from one of these sorely-tried men. I cannot tell you how poor he is, I mean that I could scarcely make you believe the struggle he has to keep life in himself and family, and present even a commonly tidy appearance in public. Yet mark the sweet and chastened tone of his acknowledgment: “The Lord hath prepared of his goodness for me” — these are his words, — “my cup runneth over, may my gratitude keep pace with my mercies!” — and then note the tender grace with which, after blessing God for the unexpected gift, he asks for a benediction on the friend who was but the Lord’s messenger: “May your soul be filled with all the fulness of God, and the New Year be to you and yours the brightest and best you have ever known, continually blest with the Divine presence and favour!”

My heart responds to this prayer, “Amen, Lord, so let it be to Thine unworthy servant, that the sweet work which Thou hast given her to do may be all the better done because of the lifting up of Thy countenance upon her!”

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A lay assistant in the Church of England next asks to be presented with Mr. Spurgeon’s “Lectures to my Students.’* He sends the necessary testimonials as to his position as a worker for the Lord Jesus, and six stamps for the postage of the books; so I at once enter his name in my ledger as a recipient of the gift, and have the volumes wrapped up, addressed, and placed in the post-bag.

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Then I take up what proves to be a letter of earnest thanks for a parcel of mingled mercies — stores for the mind, clothing for the body, a little replenishing for the pocket — which I had sent to a poor minister last week. You shall look over my shoulder, and read what he says: —

My dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — Words fail me to express what my dear wife and I feel as we look on your valuable gifts. All I can say is that through your kindness I have another proof of my Heavenly Father’s

care for me and mine, and this fills my heart with deepest gratitude. When my wife saw the money enclosed, she exclaimed, “Oh, what a mercy! * And if the dear baby could speak, she would tell you of the comfort she enjoys in her warm clothing, but at present her happy looks are her warmest thanks. The books will be a great boon to me, and I pray I may use them aright; this new treasure increases my responsibility, for where much is given, much will be required; but the Lord will help me to profit by them, and teach my people to profit also. I thank you with all my heart.

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My hand next lights upon an envelope bearing a familiar and always welcome handwriting. The letter is from a dear friend whose face I have never seen, though her heart has been revealed to me in a beautiful and tender friendship. For many long years she has been confined to her couch by sore affliction; but from that sick-bed she stretches out loving hands of help and cheer to others, and manifests for all invalids a special concern and interest. Her love for me, and for my work, began, when I, too, was a constant sufferer, and it ceases not, though I have been led out of the rough road where her feet still linger, and where she waits with gentle patience for the Master’s voice to call her home.

When the intervals of comparative freedom from pain will permit her to use her pen, she writes long and brilliant letters to a large circle of correspondents. A stranger, reading these charming epistles, could scarcely imagine that they came from an invalid’s hand, so bright are they, so cheery, so vigorous, so free from all the conventional sentiments and subjects of sick-chamber experience.

If all sufferers could learn in the school of affliction such sweet lessons of sympathy and unselfishness as this dear friend has evidently “got by heart,” the world would be the purer and the better for the presence in it of its many sons and daughters of weariness. Her own trials and sorrows — by no means few or small — are scarcely mentioned, or only lightly touched on, while all the sweet energy of her nature is expended in drawing waters of consolation from the Divine Source, which she finds unfailing, and pouring them forth for the refreshment of tried and fainting souls. She is like Rebecca, who, not content with saying, “Drink, my lord,” fulfils the servant’s petition, and testifies to her own election as the handmaid of the Lord, by adding, “I will draw water for thy camels also.”

Dear L is one of God’s angels upon earth, one of His

holy band of night-watchers; her soul’s light shines so brightly through the battered lantern of her frail physical life, that I verily believe the Lord keeps her here to lighten the dark places in other people’s hearts, and to show how splendidly His grace can give power in weakness, strength in infirmity, gladness notwithstanding suffering, and visions of future glory through the black lattices of present pain! Thus, one of the sweetest missions of this lovely life is to comfort all who mourn, and send tender messages of cheer, or encouragement, or appreciation, to workers and waiters; and this she does with so much loving perception of their needs, and such rare sympathy of heart, that the comforted one wonders how she “knew all about it,” and feels that the word in season — fitly spoken — was indeed given of God.

To-day, this is but a wee business note from the dear ministering hand, yet the concluding sentences are full of gracious power and meaning — “May the New Year bring new strength to you, and ‘ fresh springs ’ open for your comfort! Lovingly do I remember your needs in prayer, and ask that you may find grace sufficient for all. As the year ends, with its varied story, a deep thankfulness is in my heart for the mercies so abundant” — mark this, ye who have health and strength, and “all things richly to enjoy,” yet never feel a throb of gratitude to the God who gives it all!

( Now we find it is time for “refreshments, and for the plates to pass round r,” as “Son Tom” so saucily said in his lecture on “Brighter Britain We will adjourn to the dining-room, my visitor and I, and since we cannot invite you, dear reader, to join us there, and listen to the “table talk 99 of C. H, S., we will promise to be but a short while absent, resuming our work as quickly as possible.)

The first letter I open on our return contains a £10 note for the Book Fund, and thus “refreshment” is graciously

given to both body and mind. Very grateful am I to the good friend who has sent this handsome New Year’s gift, and I bless the name of the Lord for inclining His people to remember my work of love. May this offering be accepted by the Master, and while His servant sends thankful acknowledgments, and tries to express her gratitude, may He reward the kind donor with the smile of His love, and the light of His countenance!

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Two other letters of grateful acknowledgment must be more expeditiously dealt with; for time is flying, and the heap of epistles on the table still looks large and formidable. In the first, the dear good man says he is astonished at the munificence of the present he has received, it is far beyond anything that he hoped for or expected; and he prays that I may be enabled to give to many more needy ones just such a store of solid help and real joy as he is now blessing God for. The second pastor thanks me warmly for the January number of The Sword and the Trowel, which is an earnest to him of its free gift all through the year — a boon which he thoroughly appreciates; and, as the post brought him also a little New Year’s gift of money, he exclaims, “So much mercy in one morning! It seems to overwhelm me!”

Ah 1 these very poor country ministers, dear souls! they have such close companionship with Poverty, and look so constantly into her wan and haggard face, that if the smiling eyes of Plenty do but peep inside their doorway, they are dazzled and breathless, and think they have seen an angel!

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What can I say concerning the communication which I now open and read? It is on a subject which is claiming some attention at the present time, and stirring up both interest and protest among all classes of religious people. It is, in fact, an earnest plea for “Faith- healing,” an enthusiastic entreaty to me to induce my husband never to have any more pain! (“O wad some power the gif tie gie me” f) And it comes from one who says she has herself been thus healed! “Dear Mr. Spurgeon’s ‘ Sermons ’ have been so much blessed to me,” writes my correspondent, “that I long for him to be quite well also; do, dear madam, believe for him, and ask him to accept healing from the Lord. ,, This lady tells me she was an invalid for four years, consulting the first physicians in London, yet getting rapidly worse, till she was at last persuaded to go to the Faith-healing Home through the importunities of her little daughter, who, having heard of the wonderful cures wrought there, kept saying, in sweet childish fashion, “Do go to ‘ Beth-shan,’ dear mamma; Jesus will make you well; do go, please”; and though scarcely able to totter from her doorstep to the carriage, the mother went, to satisfy her child’s longings, and returned — she believes — healed! This was two years ago; and she says she promised the Lord that, if he would heal her, she would write to Mr. Spurgeon, and beg him to “give his pain over to Jesus,” and trust Him for the healing of the body as well as of the soul.

I must answer this dear lady; but I confess I know not what to say. I am not convinced of the truth of the dogmas advanced by these brethren, nor of the possibility of such marvellous deliverance from physical pain as they promise to obedient souls; and yet I fear even to seem to underrate the mighty power of faith in God, or to appear for a moment to misinterpret those words of our blessed Lord, “If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that belie veth.”

In spiritual matters, it may be that many of us are too prone to linger in the shallows of faith, and to think, when we are wading only to the ankles in these “waters of the sanctuary,” that we have felt all the power and force of the sacred stream. Why not measure a thousand cubits, and be brought knee-deep into the holy river? Nay, listen, and wonder at the possibilities before you! “Again he

measured a thousand, and brought me through; the waters were to the loins. Afterwards he measured a thousand; and it was a river that I could not pass over: for the waters were risen, waters to swim in, a river that could not be passed over.” Oh for a plunge into the depths of such a promise as this —

“accortrinfl to gout fattfj, iz it unto gou,”

and the joy of finding it unfathomable! Did you ever try it, dear reader? Or are you satisfied to

“Linger shivering on the brink,

Fearing to launch away”?

The next communication contains a promise from a friend of boy’s clothing for a poor minister’s son, which I gratefully accept, and undertake to bestow on the right person; the only difficulty being, among so many needy ones, to choose the neediest.

After this I find a note of “sincerest thanks for the precious gift of books” from a poor minister in Wales, whose total income of £$ per month may presumably find him in bread and cheese, and a roof to shelter under, but can by no stretch of the imagination be deemed sufficient to procure him the luxury of much standard literature!

Yet another epistle encloses twenty shillings from a kind friend, for a “needy servant of Christ”; and at once I send a postal order off to one who is sorely pressed with anxieties, who will see in it a precious proof of his Heavenly Father’s loving care, and will most probably receive it as a direct answer to a petition of which I knew nothing. What a joy and privilege it is to be a channel of blessing from the Lord to His servants! I pray that nothing in me may ever hinder or divert the glad stream of His bounty which is now flowing so freely and fully to His needy ones, and rejoicing my own heart as it goes.

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Commencing afresh upon the heap of letters still lying before me, my visitor is surprised by sudden glad and jubilant sounds which escape my lips as I examine the contents of the next letter, “What have you found now?” is asked with interest and curiosity. O joy and delight! I hold in my hand a Scotch draft for twenty pounds 1 All my own for my dear work, and enough to make thankful hearts by the score! Is it not a beautiful New Year’s gift? And the kind donor has added such sweet words of cheerful encouragement and loving approval of my little book, that I seem verily to have received my “apples of gold in baskets of silver.” My soul blesses and praises the Lord for this mercy, which will bless so many others; and then I try to express, as best my emotion will allow me, the deep gratitude I feel to the friend whose gift has brought such gladness.

I am often greatly straitened when thus attempting to translate the fervid metre of my intense thankfulness into the plain prose of written language. Coldly and feebly do my choicest words seem to set forth my gratitude for a mercy which, though so constantly renewed, has as yet lost none of its wonder and marvel in my eyes. That for so many years, without a word of solicitation, dear friends should have sent me abundant means to carry on this work with ease and comfort, is plainly and positively the Lord’s doing, and my loving amazement at His goodness increases with every repetition of His favour. But I find it easier to thank Him than to make my acknowledgments to His people, and so it comes to pass that often, when I long to lay some tender tribute of loving, grateful language in my dear friends’ hands, I am conscious of a miserable failure, and can only turn to the Lord, and say, “Lord, undertake for me; make these dear friends know how precious their kindness is to me, and do Thou Thyself reward them by returning the blessing wherewith they have blessed me tenfold into their own souls!”

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Is it to be counted a strange thing, or may I not rather see God’s sweet providence in the matter, that the very next epistle I take up, after receiving the ^20, is an application for help?

A poor minister’s wife writes, “with very great reluctance,” to solicit aid in clothing, or in money; as her husband has been unwell for some months, doing his work with the utmost difficulty, and his illness has necessitated the expenditure of the little savings which they depended on to provide themselves with winter comforts. She says,

pleadingly, “we have never asked for help in this way before”; and her reference to “savings” shows her to be a thrifty woman; but what will my readers think of these good people’s struggles and endurance when I say that all the income they have to depend upon is less than ^40 per annum, with a chapel-house! This is a magnificent provision for an ambassador of Christ, is it not? I have scarcely patience to tell the tale, only that, before telling it, I have with quick and joyful fingers divided my Scotch present, and sent off the fourth part to bless and comfort the hearts of these patient servants of the Lord Jesus. And now I shall write to Mrs. Evans, to beg a parcel of nice warm garments for them from our Poor Ministers* Clothing Society, and in this way, for a time at least, their sorrow will be turned into joy.

Blessed be God, 1 have not to mourn over an empty treasury when His poor pensioners come knocking at the door! He puts the money into my hand ere yet they have entered within my gates, and thus sweetly He forbids me to send them empty away. O good and generous Lord, how liberally dost Thou deal with Thy poor dependents! Before we call Thou dost answer, and while we are yet speaking Thou dost hear: how is it that we ever dare to doubt Thee, with such constant and overwhelming proofs of Thy love and care before our eyes?

I pass rapidly over the two epistles which next present themselves — one is an application for books from a clergyman, which I immediately decide to grant, and thereupon enter the details in my ledger; the other contains a donation to the Fund, which I at once acknowledge with many thanks; but I pause a minute or two at the third letter, as it promises to yield matter for a paragraph of special interest. I must explain. About a week ago I received a note from a Congregational minister, enclosing a post-office order for a nice little sum of money, and asking me to lay it out in the purchase of books, making it “go” as far as possible. The volumes were to be for presentation, as a testimonial of esteem and gratitude, to a young man, who, as secretary

In the Seri’ice of the Book Fund ’ to the Sunday-school, and organist to the chapel, had rendered loving and important service to the cause of which the writer was pastor.

I should have been delighted to do this for any one; but when, reading further on in the letter, I found that the person thus to be honoured was one of the “old boys” of the Stockwell Orphanage, I was conscious of an excess of interest in the matter, and of a thrill of gratitude to God for this accidental and unexpected proof of the success and value of the training given in that Institution, so dear to its founder’s heart. “I assure you,” wrote the minister, “that he is worthy for whom we do this, and he would prize your husband’s works more than any others, for he regards Mr. Spurgeon as better than a father to him.”

The books were chosen and sent, and the letter now in my hand is the acknowledgment of the safe arrival of the parcel, and a brief notice of the presentation, which took place last evening. “Many very kind things were said,” writes the pastor, “about the recipient of the present, and also concerning the c Father * of the boys and girls of the Stockwell Orphanage; but though Mr. was so overcome with emotion that he could not speak much, what he did say showed how highly he valued the gift”

This is a pleasing little episode in my work. To help strangers is a great joy, since it is always more blessed to give than to receive; but to be asked to assist in aiding and honouring one of the young men brought up from childhood in our own Orphanage, is to have the happiness doubled, because it comes nearer the home and the heart. Even in this roundabout way there comes a fulfilment of the Psalmist’s declaration, “Blessed is he that considereth the poor.” Storms move in circles, so the scientific men tell us; the glittering spear of the lightning-flash rests not till it reaches again the cloud from which it issued; and the wise man of old wrote that “all the rivers run into the sea, and into the place from whence the rivers came, they return again.” Does it not seem that in the spiritual world there must be a principle identical with this wonderful law of Nature? That gruesome old proverb, “Curses, like chickens, come home to roost,” may be true enough; but

fax more incontestably certain is it that blessings encircle those who bless, they return like clouds after the rain, — they come back to the hands which freely scatter them; and there is ever a joyful incoming to the soul that has learnt the sweet art of constant outpouring of itself in love and blessing for others.

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We have now almost reached the end of the work for New Year’s Day; there remains but one more letter, and a quantity of pretty cards, bringing kind wishes and congratulations for the season, which must await inspection at greater leisure. My patient visitor must be getting quite tired, and though still interested in the many phases of the work which have presented themselves during the day, will be glad to say, “Good-bye, and God bless you!” It can scarcely be said of me, as it was of the governor of the wedding-feast at Cana, ‘‘Thou hast kept the good wine until now”; for there was no sorting or arrangement of my letters — I took them as they came, and they have all been enjoyable; but it is pleasant to me that I finish up my day’s work with a draught of pure gladness, a sacred refreshment and cup of joy which comes to me without fail, as surely as the first day of the New Year presents itself.

At a Watch-night service, in a chapel not far from London, the pastor has for some years been in the habit of bringing to his people’s remembrance my little service for the Lord’s poor servants, and asking their prayers and praise on its behalf. At midnight, while the year is dying, their thanksgivings to God for past mercies carry with them a song for the Book Fund; and, as the New Year is entered on, their prayers for help and blessing on the untried path lovingly enfold a petition that God will make me strong to work for those who so sorely need my ministrations. Then follows a free-will offering to the Lord for this work; and in the letter now before me the pastor sends ^3 for my acceptance, as the result of the first collection taken in the year 1885. Is not this a choice and beautiful thing to do? May the Lord very graciously accept this early “first-fruit” from the hand of each loving giver 1 I find my heart always

In the SetVtce of the Book Fund very tenderly touched by the love thus manifested; and I am glad that to-day this letter has lain so long concealed beneath all the others; for it comes forth at the last as a bright crown and climax to the labours of the day, a topstone to the work, which gracefully and fittingly closes and completes it

I give the pastor’s note word for word, and as I transcribe its sentences, I thank God for praying friends, and ask that, in return, the Lord will make all grace abound towards them: —

My dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — It is always a special joy to me that the first offering we present to the Lord in the New Year should be sent to the Book Fund. Of course I should be glad if the amount were larger, but such as it is, it is freely given. It is given, too, with much prayer, for your work was tenderly remembered at the Throne of grace, and the first public prayer in our sanctuary, in 1885, was for you, and for the dear President, that God’s presence may go with him to give him true rest.

May this be to you a very happy year! The Lord send health to your home, and take the dear boy, who is upon the sea, safely to his desired haven, and give even larger blessing to the Book Fund than it has ever known before! Yours very sincerely,.

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So now the day’s work is ended, and the pen may be laid aside, the ledgers shut up, the writing-table, with all its business paraphernalia, pushed into its own special corner; and the busy writer has time to fold her hands in happy idleness, reviewing the labour past with grateful complacency, and blessing God for all the help and strength given for so tender and sacred a service.

The day’s doings, represented by the letters, have passed before you, my dear friends, like a series of pictures or dissolving-views, each different, many dark with shadows, yet all truthful, and every one presenting some glorious aspect of God’s grace and goodness for your admiration and delight.

You can only say, on looking back over the hours we have spent together, “How tenderly loving and gracious are the Lord’s dealings with both service and servant!” It is no wonder that the work is the joy of the worker’s life, for* Ten Years of my Life

God gives such succour and support and satisfaction in it, that reward walks hand-in-hand with labour, and sowing and reaping are done in a day! Any one might crave to tend so delightful a vineyard, where the Lord’s care is constant, and His wonderful promise of old is fulfilled — “I the Lord do keep it; I will water it every moment: lest any hurt it, I will keep it night and day.”

Good-bye, my dear visitor, you have seen to-day something of the Lord’s abundant goodness to me in my daily life-work; could you not carry home some honey from this hive of sweetness? “O taste and see that the Lord is good, blessed is the man that trusteth in Him!” His loving power and grace have wrought all the work, and by means so feeble and unlikely that none can fail to see His hand in it! Herein is full proof that weakness and unworthiness need be no hindrance to service for Him! What matters it that the tool be rough and inefficient, so that it is held in the Master Workman’s hand? Its incapacity but reveals and exalts the perfect skill and matchless force with which He wields it! Let Him but condescend to use us, and we shall find that our actual fitness lies in our own helplessness; we shall learn that in our greatest weakness His strength is most manifested, and shall understand the depth of meaning in the apostle Paul’s words, “Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

Once again, good-bye. Let us ask for the Book Fund and its friends, and for each other, that during all the days of this New Year, the portion of Naphtali may be granted to us, that we may be

“Satisfied fcritfj fa&our, atth full of tfje filesgfng of tfje Horfc.”

Feb. 28. — Dear friends will readily admit that there can be no reason to think the work of the Book Fund is decreasing, when I tell them that this month has seen a repetition of the extraordinary pressure of correspondence which was experienced about two years since, and which then, as now, occurred in the month of February. I remember recording the fact that in twenty-eight days I had received 657 letters — this time the number has reached seven hundred and fifty-five! Coming in the following detailed order, my readers may imagine how full of busy interest these weeks have been: —

Monday, Feb. 2, to Saturday, Feb. 7 ... 260 letters.

Monday, Feb. 9, to Saturday, Feb. 14 ... 154 „

Monday, Feb. 16, to Saturday, Feb. 21 ... 177 „

Monday, Feb. 23, to Saturday, Feb. 28 ... 164 „ It is a good thing for me that the pens of these ready writers are not in such a state of feverish impetuosity all the year round, else one of two events must come to pass — either the days must be stretched to twenty-four hours, as the dials of the clocks have been, or die Book Fund manager must run away, and find a “lodge in some vast wilderness,” where postmen’s knocks and letter-bags are all unknown.

As a curious instance of the power of unconscious personal influence, there came to my notice just lately the following true little story. I tell it because I think it will help us to see how effectually — when He pleases — God can and does use the weakest and meanest things to bring glory to His name, and comfort to His servants: and it ought certainly to teach us the necessity and joy of being so entirely consecrated to Him that the habits of our daily life may prove our implicit obedience to the command — “Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.”

Some years ago, on a glorious summer’s day, there was a gathering of ministers and friends at a house in the suburbs of London. They had met for religious conference and the enjoyment of friendly intercourse, and in the beautiful

grounds of their host’s residence they found ample opportunity for delighting themselves, not only in each other’s society, but in the beauties of Nature and the wondrous works of God’s hand, so lavishly spread around them. Time was pleasantly and profitably spent; many were the wise and kind words uttered, and the communion of saints was felt to be very sweet and precious by all assembled. Among the guests was a famous “singing pilgrim,” and after the breaking up of the principal meeting his presence drew together a little band of those who loved to make melody in their hearts to the Lord, and song after song rose up from amidst the flowers, till the trees of the field did clap their hands, and the air was filled with such a concord of sweet sounds, that the birds in that beautiful garden must have wondered at the unexpected rivalry of praise. Presently a song was given which claimed special attention and interest The words were rough and quaint, and wedded to a strangely weird melody caught from the lips of some pious Northern fisherfolk. One seemed to hear in its singular harmonies the deep bass of the noise of many waters, mingled with the glad cry of the sea-birds as they flew across the waves; and when, at the end of each verse, the ringing chorus of

“Oh! Jesus is a Rock in a weary land,

A Shelter in the time of storm”

was repeated again and again, the effect was very thrilling, and many eyes were dim with happy tears.

The hostess, who, just before, had joined the singers, and helped to swell the chorus, boasted but small musical talent, and possessed only a weak and untrained voice; yet, with all the power and fervency she had, she sang the lovely, quaint words, and made up what was lacking in the science of her song by her evident heartiness and sympathy.

I expect she was at the moment inwardly realizing, not so much that this is “a weary land,” as that at all times, and in all places, Jesus is indeed a Rock and a Shelter to the trusting soul. When the song was ended, she mingled with the company, and entertained her guests, wholly unconscious that the Lord had wrought His purposes of mercy by her means, and spoken to a soul through her lips.

Two years after this little gathering, which I have thus briefly described, and when the circumstances had altogether faded from her memory, she received a letter from a foreign land, which the writer concluded thus: — “May I tell you how you were once the voice of Jesus Himself to me, in a season of very deep depression? It was two years ago when

the London Pastors were invited to your home at.

It was not anything you said, for I never spoke with you in my life, but your singing of the little lyric, “Jesus is a Rock in a weary land” went to the very depths of my heart. It stayed with me in its sweetness for a long, long time, and even now sometimes, when I glide into the strange, weird air on my violin, the joy of that happy gathering comes back to my soul, and I remember with thankfulness the power then given me to trust very confidently in the ‘Rest for weary sinners made.,”

That lady was a very happy woman when such a delightful piece of news came to her. To think that God had used her poor little unmusical voice to carry comfort into His desponding servant’s soul was enough to make her sing all her life long! “Oh!’’ she said, “I felt as if, for ever after this, every power of my being must be wholly consecrated to such a Master, and that I would do all to His glory who had thus condescended to make me so unconsciously His messenger of blessing! I would sing, and talk, and work, and write with this sweet hope before me, of being again allowed to honour Him, and, perchance, refresh His weary ones.”

I cannot tell you whether the Lord has since then laid His hand on the same string in that woman’s heart which gave forth such tender tones to His touch; but I do know that for all who believe on Him he has provided, and is ready to bestow, the needful grace for a life of holy consecration and obedience; and that He can so conform us to Christ’s image that we may reflect on those around us somewhat of the light of His countenance, and thus be a blessing and a joy to all.

Songs in tije Nijjijt.

“What time I am afraidp I will trust in Thee”

“I will trust, and not be afraid”

When the master of the house — the “houseband” — is away, we lonely ones at “Westwood” realize in an especial manner our complete dependence on the Lord for safeguard and protection both night and day. We know that the tender committal of home and its inmates to the Father’s care, when the farewells are said, is always renewed and repeated by our absent one; and at our own evening worship the prayer that He will “hide us in the shadow of His hand” while we sleep, and guard us from all evil, is never likely to be forgotten or omitted.

But, notwithstanding this actual appeal to the Preserver of men, and a conscious belief in His love and power, I had lately acquired a foolish habit of lying awake in the night-watches, with ear intent to catch the faintest sound, heart ready to beat wildly if but a window-sash shook in its frame, and every nerve on the alert to assert itself in throes of painful alarm at the least indication of any unusual movement.

What if Punchie’s fierce bark were to ring through the house in the darkness, or the sharp peal of the alarum should give sudden warning of the approach of danger? What if evil men should try to “break through and steal,” or a spark unwittingly dropped, and smouldering long, should at last burst into flame, and quickly enwrap us in a fiery and fatal embrace? To tolerate such imaginings was to be tortured by them, and I suffered greatly, till some nights ago the dear Lord ended all this for me, and sent so blessed a ray of enlightenment into my “dark place,” that at once I laid my head down on the pillow quite comforted. My painful care for the house and its inmates was all gone, because Scared for them; my watchings were over, because He watched; my fears were all allayed, because faith in Him was triumphant and complete!

And it came about somewhat on this wise: The two texts which I have placed at the head of this paragraph had been much on my mind during my wearisome nights; but they had evidently not then found entrance into my heart. I had thought of them without fully realizing their depth of blessed meaning; they had lain on the outside of my soul as fair lilies lie on the surface of a pool; but now I was to discover that they were fast anchored by strong roots in the exceeding great and precious promises of my God.

In a moment there dawned upon me the possibility and blessedness of being absolutely without fear because I trusted in Him. “What time I am afraid.” “Yes,” said I, “that is just now, dear Lord, when the creaking of a piece of furniture startles me, and the very thought of the bark of a dog strikes terror into my heart.” “I will trust in Thee” As I said it, deliverance came. “Do I really trust in God?” I asked of myself; and I could steadfastly reply, “Yes, blessed be His Name! I do trust Him; and I know He can keep us in perfect safety; moreover, I am assured that He never fails those who put their trust in Him.” There came a pause, the light had broken in, and I was wondering at the fast-fleeing shadows. “Now surely, my heart, thou canst go on with the other text, and boldly say, ‘ I will trust, and not be afraid, What sort of trust dost thou call this that wakens, and listens, and imagines all sorts of evil instead of calmly sleeping and resting in the sheltering arms of the Blessed One? If thou dost honestly trust Him, thou shouldest certainly not be afraid; for thy faith should deal a death-blow to all thy fears.” And it did, dear reader; then and there I gave up all my nervous apprehensions. I surrendered myself and all my belongings to the Father’s keeping, and I have had no more gloomy fancies, or midnight watchings. I have laid me down in peace and slept, because He only has made me to dwell in safety; or if any wakeful hours have come, my mouth has praised Him with joyful lips, while I remembered Him on my bed, and meditated on Him in the night-watches.

Why do I tell such a simple little tale of personal and private experience? Well, just because it was a real and blessed fact to me, and I think that the relation of such instances of God’s tender care and love, in even the minor matters of daily life, not only helps some of His timid and

distressed ones to cast their burden on the Lord; but it is also graciously accepted by Him as a grain of sweet incense laid on the golden altar to His praise and glory by His grateful child.

If any courageous and lion-hearted people fail to understand my terrors, there are others who, having groaned under the pressure of like irrational disquietude, will sympathize with me in my past bondage, rejoice in my emancipation, and take heart of grace themselves to seek from the Lord by simple faith as complete and perfect a deliverance as His mercy has accorded to me.

There are many seasons in a Christian’s life when he is afraid” with much more need and reason than I could urge for my nervous alarms; but there never can be a day, or an hour, or a moment, when he may not “trust” his God absolutely, perfectly, totally; and, as surely as he does that, so surely will faith overcome fear — trust will lift him over the trial, confidence in God will end the conflict. Not to night-watchers only, but to those who, day and night, find fears and foes to fight with, do I lovingly commend my two “Songs in the Night,” to be sung in any time, and to any tune —

44 EJEfjat time I am aftato, I brill trust in SEfjee.”

49 1 brill trust, attto not be afrafa”

* *

May io. — A most blessed and joyful Conference has ended with this week. It has truly been a season of refreshing from the presence of the Lord, a time of pleading and power in prayer, of spiritual satisfaction and enjoyment, which will not soon be forgotten by those who shared in its sacred delights. Every night, when the dear President returned home, he had tidings of new joys to tell, fresh wonders of grace to talk about; and, late as was the hour, he seemed reluctant to go to rest while yet such a mighty burden of unsung and unrecorded mercies lay upon his grateful heart All the papers that were read were full of unction and sweetness, all the Pastors seemed endued with power from on high, and throughout the week the Spirit of God was manifestly poured out upon the solemn assembly

Thus I heard from day to day of the “good times” which were going by, and I rejoiced with them that did rejoice; “For thou, Lord, hast made me glad through Thy work: I will triumph in the works of Thy hands”; but on Friday, the last day of the days of feasting and gladness, “she that tarried at home divided the spoil,” and a portion of meat in due season was granted to the servant, from the well-provisioned table at which the guests had so richly fed.

Some eighteen or twenty of the. ministers came to spend the last evening at “Westwood and they brought with them so much of the fragrance of the sweet spices and precious ointment which had been laid at their Lorcas feet, that my soul was quickened and refreshed by sweet communion with them. They even looked like men who had been on the Mount with Jesus, beholding His glory; and their presence, their prayers, and their songs of triumph were to me a foretaste of heavenly rapture and delight

The evening all too soon came to an end. I could have looked and listened all the night long; but I was reminded that we were still on Earth, and not yet in Paradise, by the fact that we had to say “good-bye,” and part.

All the dear brethren were much pleased with the annual present. This time it was, Sir Richard Baker’s “Meditations and Disquisitions upon Certain Psalms,” a book of great excellence, as my readers will know when I give Mr. Spurgeon’s opinion of it, as found in his “Commenting and Commentaries.” “O rare Sir R. Baker! Knight of the flowing pen! His € Meditations and Disquisitions’ are altogether marrow and fatness. We have often tried to quote from him, and have found ourselves so embarrassed with riches, that we have been inclined to copy the whole book.”

God ever bless the Pastors’ College! Very tender memories linger round its name and work! When the dear President first had it laid upon his heart to train men for the ministry, or rather, to help those who were called of God to preach to prepare themselves for their life-work, he began with one young brother. We were but newly-married, and had great

difficulty in meeting the expense of maintaining such a full-grown son; but the help the Lord sent was so direct and marvellous, that our faith was strengthened to ask and expect great things, and we had the joy of not only seeing our grown-up family still growing apace, but of receiving proportionate means for its maintenance. Many moving tales could we tell of anxious hearts, and atn apparently failing purse, in those first days of trial; but always, yes, always, our God put our fears to flight, and sent the needed funds to us — sometimes from an utterly unexpected quarter. Since then, well may we say, “What hath God wrought!” From the first day until now more than seven hundred men have been sent forth to preach the gospel, and the dear President says of this his chosen life-work in the last Report: “It was commenced in faith, it has required faith to carry it on, and it has rewarded the faith exercised concerning it. To him who led the way in the work it has been a spiritual education, by which spiritual life has been tested and strengthened. In no one point has it disappointed our confidence in God concerning it, though it has brought upon us a thousand trials which else we might not have enjoyed. We have nothing to do in the review of it but to thank God and take courage.”

. Although the editorial “we” in the above paragraph is not at all intended to refer to the President’s partner in life’s joys and sorrows, she would nevertheless suggest her modest claim, being the nursing-mother of the Institution, to avail herself also of that mysterious plural phraseology, and to say with all her heart, “God bless our College, and our Pastors, and our Students, and — emphatically

Our President.”

Excursions from an &rtn=rfjair.

By the aid of a large bundle of letters which lies before me, and with your cheerful concurrence, my dear reader, we will now take a few mental journeys, following some of my parcels to their destination, and witnessing, as far as is possible, their reception by the persons to whom they are addressed. As we travel in imagination only, we shall not need train, or boat, or carriage; we can pass quickly at our own sweet will from one country to another, and in a moment transport ourselves from a far distant city to some quiet country village in our own dear land. We shall have no fussiness of departure, no burden of baggage, no expenses of transit, no weariness of body, no discomforts of strange resting-places; from our arm-chair we shall flit across the seas and back again, and, without removing our feet from our comfortable footstool, we shall measure many leagues of land in our wanderings. Prepare yourselves, therefore, for this pleasant tour, which will have also this advantage, that we shall, Asmodeus-like, take a peep into many homes and hearts, and be privileged to see and hear many charming views and voices, without once interrupting or disturbing those whom we visit, or giving them — unless we so will it — even a suspicion of our invisible presence.

* *

Into the fair land of France we will take our first pilgrimage; a way not often trodden by the feet of those who bear Book Fund parcels, since but a few of the Pastors of the Protestant Church are sufficiently conversant with the English language to read its literature to edification. But here, far away in the region of the “Basses-Pyr6n6es,” lives one who has solicited the boon of an English Commentary, and fully proved he can use and understand it by admirably expressing both his need and his gratitude in the language in which it is written. We shall hear what he says; and as we listen to him, we seem to see him standing at the door of his modest little cottage, with its vine-covered porch, lifting up his eyes to the “everlasting hills” which overshadow the sweet valley where his lot is cast, and blessing God for the English friends who have so kindly enriched his far too scanty library, and furnished him with companions who can cheer his loneliness, and comfort his heart.

Dear Madam, — It is impossible for me to express to you all my deep and heartfelt gratitude for the beautiful, or rather the magnificent, grant of books which has lately reached me from your hands. It is, indeed,

quite a “Treasury” of deep thought and spiritual experience. I have been able, as yet, only to glance at these eight volumes; but I intend to make good use of them, and I feel sure the blessing of God will rest on my study of them, not only for myself, but also for the flock the Lord has given me to lead to Him. May He bring to pass all the kind wishes contained in the little note I found in one of the books 1

French Protestant ministers are greatly in need of wise and loving help at this present time. In a former letter this brother said, “Now, more than ever, Protestant pastors have a great work to do in France. The people are tired of the clergy, while, on the other hand, infidels are trying to make way, and they boast of their science, comparing it with the too well-known ignorance of the Romish priests.** Good helpful books must be of immense importance to one in such a responsible position; for the man of God needs to be armed at all points to repel these cruel and cunning adversaries.

Passing quickly from the interior of “La Belle France” to the coast, we find ourselves in a thronged and fashionable seaport town, much frequented by English visitors, and teeming with seafaring men of ail nationalities. Down one of the narrow and crowded streets we come to the door of a “Sailors* Institute,* * and entering, we find a young man busily employed in preparing a large quantity of Mr. Spurgeon’s “Sermons,** for distribution to the mariners who will congregate in these rooms in the evening. Our friend is the Secretary of the Institution, and also a very earnest Wesleyan minister, toiling early and late in the Master’s service. We made his acquaintance some time ago, when he asked for “The Treasury of David,** and added a special plea for these poor friends of his, who need so much a helping hand, and a kindly warning voice, when exposed to the temptations of shore-life. He told of his scanty library, and of the still scantier means which prevented any replenishing of it; he said that to supply his own people with good food four times a week, attend to his many duties at the rooms, and conduct a special religious service for the sailors weekly, was very hard work for a young man; and he hoped that, as Mr. Spurgeon’s works would be more valuable and helpful to him than anything else, I would gratify his intense longing, and do the best I could for him. So the precious parcel of books was sent, and to-day, on our visit, we not only find him rejoicing over his newly-acquired possessions, but already joyfully dealing out the words of life to the seafaring men in whose welfare he takes so warm an interest.

God bless him and his work! He says the congregations have been trebled within the eighteen months of his residence. May the Lord add daily to their number of such as shall be saved!

* *

Crossing now the “silver streak,” we land serenely, and with no qualms either of conscience or condition, at a town on English shores, where we quietly enter the modest little lodging of a newly-ordained curate, who lately sought from me a gift of books, that he might do his Master’s work more thoroughly. And this is what he says of the gift now that it is his: —

Dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — The parcel of books has just arrived. How can I thank you enough for such a help to my heavy and responsible duties here? They are just the kind of books which will guide me aright in this the beginning of my ministerial career; and I feel to need such help, for the town is large, and the work great, and of myself I am so incapable of battling with the adverse influences at work that for any assistance I am most grateful, and do very gladly accept it for the furtherance of the Saviours name and cause. Please receive my warmest thanks for the books.

As we leave this young servant of Christ in his lowly room, gratefully looking into his new treasury of helpful thoughts, can we do better than earnestly beseech the Lord to give His Holy Spirit’s power with the books, that their teaching may sink deep into his heart, and bring forth precious fruit in his ministry?

* * * *

After this we take our places in a train on the London, Chatham, and Dover line, and for about an hour enjoy a pleasant ride through fertile fields, and rich pastures, and sweet sylvan scenery. Then we alight at the roadside

station of a lovely village in Kent, which looks so smiling and picturesque and peaceful in the sunlight, that one would fain believe that sin, and sorrow, and sickness, might never enter within its borders. Alas! how different is the reality from the appearance! We have proof enough as we pass along the village street that evil is present here, and that, though living in an earthly paradise, man still flees from his Maker under a consciousness of sin, as he did in the original Eden. But we have come to seek the minister, and must be about our business. We call at a pretty little house, and entering without the ceremony of knocking (our invisibility gives us this privilege) we seafch out the wee room which is set apart as the pastors “study,” and we find him there amidst the “most admired disorder,” surrounded by volumes new and old, and evidently enjoying what we housewives should call a “regular turn-out,” or “spring-cleaning.” “What can all this fuss mean?” you say. Well, only this, a Book Fund parcel arrived yesterday, and the good pastor is not only experiencing the delight of dusting, arranging, and placing these newly-acquired treasures on his shelves, but he has said to himself (and to me), “I intend to share with Mrs. Spurgeon in the blessedness of giving. I have some good local preachers working with me — poor men, but true and brave, and to them I shall give some of the old books which are displaced by these precious modern ones. Thus the seed Mrs. Spurgeon has sown shall at once bear good and unexpected fruit.” Now we understand the reason of the disordered room, and the secret of his eager energy; and as we look around, and note the scanty furniture, and the few comforts (we know he has a family to bring up and educate on only ^80 per annum), we admire his noble purpose and his cheerful piety, and rejoice to have had the double happiness of giving, and helping him to give!

The twelve new books are ranged on the shelf, and make a pretty show; but while we linger looking at them, and at him, we resolve that it shall not be long before some other volumes come to keep these company, and make glad the heart of this poor, good, generous man. God bless him, and all his local preachers, and all their work!

Behold, the scene changes, and we are trudging along a country lane in Cambridgeshire, and overtake a colporteur, on his rounds, earnestly engaged in reading a volume of “Lectures to my Students,” which he had received from the Book Fund the day before. Presently a farmer comes by in his trap, and asks him up to ride. Our friend with the pack very cheerfully mounts the gig, and we mount also, only, like “Brownie in the churn,” no one knows we’re there. At the end of the journey, the following brief dialogue takes place: —

Colporteur: “How much am I in your debt, master?”

“Two words will pay it all,” quoth the farmer.

“Thank you,” says the. man of books.

“That is it,” answered his friend, “you are clear now.”

So we are all landed on the road again, and the colporteur goes on his way to the village, bearing the gospel message, and speaking words of comfort and cheer to weary hearts. At home, in the evening, he has to write to the Book Fund manager, to acknowledge her gift, and as we look over his shoulder, we see that he partly reproduces the morning’s conversation. “Thank you, very much, Mrs. Spurgeon,” he writes, “and though I cannot hear you say it, I believe that I am ‘clear,’ at least if I make a good use of your gift.” If we wait to read the ending of that letter, we must admire the tender sympathy which offers a sweet morsel of encouragement to his fellow-worker in these kind words: “While going from village to village I often call upon the good pastors, and many times it has been said, ‘ See what Mrs. Spurgeon sent for me; God bless her; her gifts have been a great blessing to me! ’”

* * * *

From the green lanes and country villages frequented by our bookselling friend, we take a long and rapid flight to a large city in the North of Ireland. We do not stay to mark its public buildings, or watch the tide of its commerce, or note its parks and pleasant places; we go direct to the house of a clergyman, a curate of the Episcopal Church, and are shown into his study. I say “shown in” because, dear reader, it suits us at this time to manifest ourselves, seeing

that the good man is going to tell us about the gift which has come to him from over the sea, and we cannot expect him to talk to imperceptible visitors. So, when he appears, and we introduce ourselves, a very courteous greeting is given, and conversation quickly turns to the desired subject.

“The parcel of books reached you safely?”

“Yes, indeed, and I should have written at once to thank you for them, but was prevented doing so fully by pressure of parochial duties. I did send a card to relieve your mind.”

“Thank you, yes; but I am anxious to know how you like ‘The Treasury of David.’”

“I really find it difficult, if not altogether impossible, to express how deeply sensible I am of the debt of gratitude I owe to you for presenting me with that most valuable work.”

“You have already glanced at its plan and scope?”

“I have read a page or two in one of the volumes, and like it extremdly. I feel sure that it will greatly assist me in obtaining a sound knowledge of that precious portion of God’s Word.”

“I enclosed a volume of Mr. Spurgeon’s ‘Sermons,
did I not?”

“Yes, and I shall also set a very high value upon that handsome volume. I shall pray that the discourses may be as much blessed to my soul as they have been to the souls of so many.”

“What do you think of the ‘ Lectures to my Students,’ and the volume on ‘ Commenting ‘?”

“I expect to profit much by them, I look forward with the greatest pleasure to reading them, and I can assure you they shall be carefully and prayerfully studied.”

“Did I send, you only these?”

“You kindly included others which, in addition to being deeply interesting, will, I am sure, prove instructive and helpful.”

“It was a great joy to me to send them.”

“It is simply one of the many instances of the love and power of the cross, and will continue to be a memorial of the real unity which exists in the hearts of Christ’s faithful people; and if my study of those books redounds to the glory of God, and to the praise of our Lord Jesus (as I pray it may) you will feel more than rewarded.”

“I do feel fully, amply repaid; sometimes ‘ my cup runneth over. The grateful appreciation of my gifts is always delightful, but above and beyond this is the joy of knowing that God’s blessing rests on them in so large a measure.”

“Very earnestly do I crave that blessing on these volumes. The high value and extent of the gift — far more than I expected or deserved — render it difficult for me to thank you at all adequately, or as I should like to do, for it; but I pray that every blessing may rest upon you, upon the author of the books, and upon all the work we do for the glorious Master.”

“Amen, dear friend; thanks for your kind and grateful wishes! May the light of God shine upon every page of the books I have had the pleasure of giving you; and for many years to come may they be your choice companions, your reliable counsellors, your unfailing sources of cheer and comfort! Fare you well!”

*. * * *

Our next call is at the house of a young Baptist Minister in a small village in the midland counties of England. He is in a very lonely and isolated sphere, cut off from the rest of the world, as he himself says, “almost as much as poor Gordon was at Khartoum,” and needing reinforcements to his library to enable him to carry on the warfare against evil, and for the Lord Jesus Christ He solicited and received a grant of books which I expect will have brought him intense joy. We will hear what he has to say about them, allowing him to tell the story straight on, and without interruption.

This morning I received your beautiful parcel of books. Being a little tired with the three services of yesterday, I thought I would rest and refresh my soul a little; so I have been carefully reading some extracts from each of the volumes you sent me, and if you care to listen to my brief experience of their value, I should like to tell what I found in them. The remarks on posture, etc., in the second series of “Lectures to my Students,” afforded me huge amusement and instruction. I am sorry to say that I recognized myself as figuring in some of those ungainly postures. But the book has done me good, and made me

2 5

resolve to cure these faults. It is indeed a pity that the Gospel Message should be hindered by the ridiculous attitudes of the “Gospeller.” The lecture “to workers with slender apparatus,” in the first volume, gave me much encouragement, and fired me with enthusiasm; while that on “Commenting” was read with deepest interest. “The Treasury” has already furnished me with matter for a comment next Sunday on my favourite Psalm (the eighth), and I hope and believe that God, by His Spirit, will bless the teaching. I feel as if it had placed a key in my hand to unlock the spiritual significance of the Psalm. Next, I read a paper on the books of the New Testament in Olshausen’s works, which strengthened the muscles of my working faith, and deepened my love for the Master, who has given such ample convincing testimony to His own Word. Then I read through Mr. Spurgeon’s “Sermon” on “Supposing Him to be the Gardener,” and it had the same effect on my soul that a holiday ramble would have had on my body. I could almost see the tender, delicate hues of the flowers — could almost smell their sweet perfume. Lastly, a chapter in Valpy’s “Greek Testament” supplied me with matter for a sermon on Matt.... But there, I must not inflict a sermon on you, though my heart is already “inditing a good matter,” and I long to “speak of the things which I have made touching the King.” Very speedily and happily the whole morning has passed away, and I am filled with deep gratitude to you, and to our Heavenly Father, who put the thought of this kindness into your heart, and who will bless and reward your work of faith and labour of love.

As we take leave of this pastor in his secluded corner of the vineyard, we rejoice to know how much the Book Fund present has stimulated and brightened his life, and we hope these good results will remain with him for many a day to come.

Not a long journey this time. We go a few miles by rail, and are set down in a busy manufacturing town, where the din of machinery and

“The noise of moving wheels and multitudes astir”

are heard from morning’s dawn to nightfall.

What a change from the quiet hamlet in “Sleepy Hollow,” our last stopping-place, where the sweet songs and sounds of Nature alone broke the stillness, save when the creaking of the farm-waggons returning from the fields, or the occasional rumble of a wheelbarrow down the village street, added a not inharmonious chorus! Now we have come into the midst of busy human life, and the minister we seek must be a busy man, with the weight of the care of many souls on his heart, and the burden of the daily necessities of the toiling masses around him pressing heavily on his spirit. Such a one will surely hail the comfort and help which books can give as a precious and greatly-to-bedesired boon. Well, let us enter his room, and see whether we can gain an insight into the feelings with which he received the large parcel we sent to him yesterday! The books are lying on chairs and table, loosed from their wrappings, and looking already at home, albeit they are not yet installed in their places. Their present owner is writing fast and eagerly, glancing at them every now and then with loving, hungry eyes; and we, in virtue of our ghostly privilege, not only read what he is writing — which would indeed be an unwarrantable liberty were we not invisible — but we actually take notes of his letter for future use and good service. And this is what he is saying: —

The books have come, and your munificence has taken me by storm. Coming home late on Saturday, on my way I looked into a bookstall, where my heart yearned to take some of the inmates by the hand and lead them safely home. But lo! when I reached my house, I found quite a company of new friends awaiting me. While the voices of homeward-bound revellers sounded painfully outside my door, I poured out my heart to the Great King, and thanked Him for the right royal gift His daughter had bestowed on me. I read far into the night, and arose early this morning to greet again my lovely friends with their golden harps (the volumes of “The Treasury of David”), and now I sit down to give my thanks to you. I cannot express them, they will not dribble from the end of a pen; they want to come in a flood. Your gift has stirred feelings that had long lain dormant, and were, to all appearance, dead; emotions which only mother s kindness used to awaken, and which I had almost forgotten. It has been like “the touch of a vanished hand” to me, and the “sound of a voice that is still,” and I thank you with my whole heart. I had not dared to hope you would send “The Treasury”; but you stayed not your hand even there, and I feel its lovingkindness very deeply as I look on the many volumes with which you have enriched me, and read the good wishes you have expressed. Again and again I thank you, and pray it may long be your joy to send smiles and holy laughter into many a heart and home.

There! was not this worth coming for, even into this noisy, dingy place? We cannot fail to be encouraged by such an appreciative reception of our loving service, and the young pastor himself will be all the brighter and better able

to work for this tender little experience, which has evidently awakened hallowed memories, and will inspire high and holy resolves.

* * * *

We will now take a longer journey, and travel far away up north by land and water till we reach one of the wild and wind-swept islands which lie off the Scottish coast. The weird and solemn beauty of the place attracts many visitors, but just now, in the sunshine of a summer’s sky, it looks so fair and peaceful that one can scarcely realize that here, in other seasons, storm and tempest w T age their fiercest, wildest conflicts.

We land from the steamer in one of the beautiful bays which afford such convenient harbours for the fishing-boats; and passing quickly up the one principal street, we presently turn aside into a lane leading away from the noise and bustle of active, work-a-day life. Here, in a very small cottage, built roughly of stones and mud, we find two lone women living — mother and daughter — the former so grievously afflicted that all who know the details of her terrible sufferings wonder how she survives under the constant pressure of such dire physical infirmity and pain. We are not going to her bedside, she is unable to bear the presence of strangers, and very few could endure to witness her pitiful condition; our sympathy is sufficiently excited by the knowledge that she is very old — utterly helpless — blinded by disease — wasted almost to a skeleton — and suffering constant agonies of bodily pain. While we wait for the coming of the loving, dutiful daughter who has so patiently tended the poor sufferer through long years of fiery trial, we will sit in this tiny outer room from whence we can see the mighty Atlantic billows rolling into the bay, and we will comfort our hearts with the thought that the same God, who holds these great waters in the hollow of His hand, sustains, and cares for, and pities, and will perfect, the afflicted soul whose only hope is in Him.

“But are we following a Book Fund parcel into this strange place?” you say. Yes, even so; though this is not a minister’s house, and “standard works of reference and divinity” might not be suitable presents to the inmates of this humble home. But I have twice had the happiness of giving great comfort to these burdened ones by gifts of “Sermons” and devotional reading, and we have come now on purpose to hear the long story of gratitude and joy which is certainly awaiting us. See! the door opens, and a woman of a sad countenance approaches. Listen! she is speaking now: — “Mrs. Spurgeon,” she says, “likes to know of the good done by the books she sends out, and no one has more cause than I have to thank God for them. Yes, it was about eighteen months ago since she sent me the first parcel, and in it was that wonderful book ‘Morning by Morning, a gift that will never grow old to me; while as for mother, nothing else could have been like it; all the books were joy and gladness to me, but this was the best food for mother — brief, plain portions, full of the living Word, just as much as she could bear at a time when the pain was a little better. If you think of mother’s condition, you will understand what a boon the books were to me; they are real company as well as comfort. Why, last year we had a very rough winter, and oftentimes the wind was fearfully high, and moaned and shrieked round our house, and then, as I sat through the long dark night, sick and weary in body, watching my suffering mother, and the only sounds I could hear were the roaring of the tempest and her cries of pain: at such times the company of a book was an unspeakable boon to me, and by God’s blessing helped me to bear the heavy burden of care and sorrow which might otherwise have crushed me. At intervals, too, when the pain abated, and mother could listen to a sentence or two, I would playfully say, ‘Now, I think, we will go and have a talk with Mr. Spurgeon,’ and she would cheer up, and a few words from the portions would calm and comfort us both in those terrible ‘ night-watches.’”

“Did I receive some 1 Sermons ’? Yes, Mrs. Spurgeon sent me a good many in monthly parts, and some numbers of The Sword and the Trowel, and after reading them I was anxious to do all the good I possibly could with them, so I lent them to neighbours and friends; and when they brought back one they got another, till all had

been thus used, and then I sent them to the other side of the island, for all the people are desperately eager to get anything of Mr. Spurgeon’s. I can truly say that parcel of books was food, and company, and work, for me for more than twelve months!”

“Have I been made happy by another gift quite lately? Yes, indeed I have! and though I never danced in my life, I felt very much inclined to do so when the precious packages came to hand. But you see, my poor body is so worn, and so many pains prevail against me, I had just to sit down and let my heart dance, and my lips sing praises to God, while I looked at the riches so lovingly sent by Him through His messenger. Mother seemed to think that her eyes must be opened to see the good things that made me so glad; and when she knew that Mr. Spurgeon’s son’s likeness was in a small volume of his ‘ Sermons,’ she insisted on having the bandages removed from her eyes, and while I supported her head with one hand, and held the book close to her poor face with the other, she tried her utmost to see the dear young preacher. But alas! all our efforts were in vain, the dim old eyes were fast closed, and might never more see earth’s shade or sunshine. Blessed be God, their next vision will be the heavenly glory, and the face of Jesus Christ!”

“Did mother fret over the disappointment? Oh no, not in the least, she was quite content to hear of all the nice books and papers, and listen to a bit of one of the ‘ Sermons,’ and then to enjoy the taste of the excellent tea, which I found so snugly wrapped up in the midst of all. We did think it so wonderf ul that Mrs. Spurgeon should have thought of this for us; and I am now rejoicing in the prospect of more delightful reading for myself, my mother, and my neighbours. I am especially glad to find some ‘ Illustrated Almanacks ’ in the parcel, and on looking for the first text in the year, how did my heart glow to find it was that wonderful question, ‘ Is not the Lord your God with you? 9 We had been talking over that very subject, mother and I, only a few days ago, and we could truly say, * Yes, the Lord our God has been with us, and is with us still; not only that, He has come very near to us every day, and His blessed presence banishes our every

In the Service oj the Book Fund.

39 *

fear, and we believe His promise that He will remain with us to the end, till He takes us to dwell with Him for ever.*”

“You are fearing to take up too much of my time, though you delight to hear of God’s tender kindness to us? Well, I must soon go back to mother; but do tell Mr. Spurgeon how we thank him for the cheering words of his ‘ Sermons,* and the precious things he says to us. I saw one day in a paper that he had asked his friends to pray for him, and spread abroad his ‘Sermons’; it made my heart glad to think that I could do both these things, though I am so poor and feeble. Good-bye, kind friends, do not weep for me when my trials increase, then my Father multiplies His mercies — the deeper I sink into trouble, the more fully do I feel the support of the everlasting arms; and the more I suffer, the greater ^ause have I to praise and love the dear name of the Lord!”

What a glorious testimony to the truth and power of the love of Christ! What a blessed “Yes, Lord,” to the Saviour’s assurance, “My grace is sufficient for thee!” What a triumph of faith and hope over weakness, and poverty, and sore suffering! What rich clusters of fruit to reward the Husbandman’s constant and careful pruning! We come away from that lowly cottage as from the suburbs of Heaven, we have surely been where the feet of God’s ministering angels are wont to light softly and silently, as they bring succour and support to these heirs of salvation. Our tears for earth’s sorrows are dried upon our cheeks by the felt nearness of u the glory which shall be revealed,” and the sighs which might have risen to our lips are hushed as we hear “One” saying that His people shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

* *

After this visit, so full of holy lessons and sweet teachings, we end our wanderings, and come back to our home, with softened, chastened spirit, pondering these things in our heart, praising God for all that He is to His people, and praying on our own behalf that more simple, child-like faith, and tender, trustful acquiescence in His loving will may henceforth distinguish our daily walk and conversation.

Back, in a flash of thought, to the arm-chair, and the cosy room where plenty of Book Fund work is awaiting us, feeling amply encouraged by all we have heard and seen, to continue with unabated zeal the labour which the Lord has made so abundantly successful and profitable.

* * * *

In the early part of this year, a friend brought under my notice a very precious little volume by Andrew Murray, entitled “Abide in Christ,” * and subsequently I made the acquaintance of its wonderful sequel, “Like Christ.” Ever since then these two books have been held in dear and close companionship, and by God’s blessing have been most helpful to me in my spiritual life. Feeling a strong desire to spread the good tidings, as did the lepers when they found the spoil, in the camp of the Syrians (2 Kings viL 9), of riches and provision in abundance, I went and told “the King’s household” by distributing a great number of copies of these admirable works among the ministers applying to the Book Fund, praying that they might first enrich themselves, and then bless their people with the priceless jewels of truth herein set forth; and I believe God has answered my prayer.

Thomas k Kempis has said, “All men wish to be with Christ, and to belong to His people, but few are really willing to follow the life of Christ.” I would fain believe, dear reader, that you are one of the a few”; and if you long to leave the lowlands of doubt and indifference, and to walk in the highway of holiness in the sunlight of God’s countenance, I earnestly advise you to procure and prayerfully study these delightful daily portions, which, by God’s Spirit, will surely guide you into close following of the Master’s footsteps.

I think no true child of God, however dull or lifeless he may have become, could read these glowing, impassioned descriptions of the joy of abiding communion with the Lord Jesus without having his soul set on fire with longing after

•“Abide in Christ,” “Like Christ,” by Andrew Murray. James Nisbet and Co., Berners street, W. it, without being re-enamoured of the glorious beauty and tender love of the Saviour who calls him to it. Note, these books do not teach the doctrine of that “sinless perfection” by which souls are puffed up with pride and boasting, their spiritual senses being deadened, if not destroyed, by the opiate of self-approval; but, keeping close to the direction of the living Word, they set forth the blessedness and beauty of a Christ-like life, giving “such a portrait as should make likeness to Him infinitely and mightily attractive, should rouse desire, awaken love, inspire hope, and strengthen faith in all who are seeking to imitate Jesus Christ.” In the note to the 20th chapter, on page 154 in “Like Christ, 1 *’ we have so fine an illustration of the text, 2 Cor. iii. 18, that I must give it to my readers as a sample of the “precious things of Heaven” to be found in this earthly casket.

“What rich instruction in regard to the Divine photography of which the text speaks there is in what we see in the human art! In the practice of the photographer we see two things: faith in the power and effects of light, and the wise adjustment of everything in obedience to its laws. With what care the tenderly sensitive plate is prepared to receive the impression! With what precision its relative position to the object to be portrayed is adjusted! How still and undisturbed it is then held face to face with that object! Having done this, the photographer leaves the light to do its wonderful work; his work is indeed a work of faith.

“May we learn the precious lessons! Let us believe in the light, in the power of the light of God, to transcribe Christ’s image on our heart. * We are changed into the same image as by the Spirit of the Lord.’ Let us not seek to do the work the Spirit must do; let us simply trust Him to do it Our duty is to seek the prepared heart, waiting, longing, praying for the likeness; to take our place face to face with Jesus, studying, gazing, loving, worshipping, and believing that the wonderful vision of that crucified One is the sure promise of what we can be; and then, putting aside all that can distract, in stillness of soul, silent unto God, just to allow the Blessed Spirit, as the Light of God, to do the

work. Not more surely or wonderfully than in the light-printing which is done here on earth, will our souls receive and show the impress of that wonderful likeness.

“What a solemn calling is that of ministers as the servants of this heavenly photography! To lead believers on and point them to Jesus, and every trait in that blessed face and life, as what they are to be changed to; to help them to that wistful longing, that deep thirsting, for conformity to Jesus, which is the true preparation of soul; to teach them how, both in public worship and private prayer, they have just to place themselves face to face with their Lord, and give Him time, as they unbare and expose their whole inner being to the beams of His love and His glory, to come in and take possession, by His Spirit to transform them into His own likeness.”

Just one other short quotation will show how tenderly Mr. Murray seeks to put Christians on their guard against unworthy or selfish motives in seeking conformity to Christ, and how plainly he enforces the necessity of keeping God’s commandments, and doing those things that are pleasing in his sight

“We have heard a good deal in these later years of full surrender and entire consecration, and thousands praise God for all the blessing He has given them through these words. Only let us beware that we be not led too much in connection with them to seek for a blessed experience to be enjoyed, or a state to be maintained, while the simple, downright doing of God’s will, to which they point, is overlooked. Let us take hold of and use this word which God loves to use — obedience. ‘To obey is better than sacrifice’; self-sacrifice is nothing without, is nothing but, obedience. It was the meek and lowly obedience of Christ, as of a servant and a son, that made His sacrifice such a sweet-smelling savour: it is humble, childlike obedience, first hearkening gently to the Father’s voice, and then doing that which is right in his sight, that will bring us the witness that we please Him.

“Dear reader! shall not this be our life? so simple and sublime: obeying Jesus, and abiding in His love.”

* * * * Swiftly as the months go by, Book Fund work keeps pace with them; and sometimes, as my daily post-bag can well testify, it even seems to outrun them in busy haste and eager impetuosity. If I were to allow an accumulation of letters for a few days, the result would be such an overwhelming mass of correspondence that I should shrink from the difficult task of giving each one due attention; my only chance of keeping the work at all within the boundary of my strength is to clear up all business every day, as the banking clerks do, and allow no putting off till to-morrow of what should be done to-day.

I confess that, very often, this persistent and steady labour taxes my energy to its utmost limit, and consumes all my little store of strength; and it is on this account that I have no new plans, or projects, or proceedings to announce in this year’s “Diary,” but am compelled to report only a steady onward plodding, a persevering discharge of existing obligations, and an earnest desire to “keep inching along”* till my Master bids me stop. Here, however, is the pity of it, for fresh ways of usefulness are continually opening up, and I could tell of many pleasant side-paths of sacred service, which I have been obliged to pass by from sheer lack of power to pursue them. Oh that some willing heart and able hand would undertake the blessed work which has in it such possibilities of exceeding increase and expansion, that it must to some extent suffer and groan under the limitations rendered necessary by my weakness!

By the way, I heard lately of a lady in Scotland, who, in queenly style, had made a splendid present of books to a newly-ordained minister; her gift utterly eclipsing, both in monetary value and the number of volumes, anything that’ the Book Fund has been able to do at one time for its poor pastors. Here is a powerful rival in the little kingdom where I have hitherto reigned supreme! Yes, but I welcome her with all my heart, and pray that her work may be established, and glorious success crown all her endeavours to supply mental food to those who so painfully need it. Perhaps this is the beginning of the help I have so long and

* See pages 73, 74.

so earnestly desired; perhaps in this way the Lord will entrust to many hands the labour which blesses, while it has burdened, this one feeble pair; and fill many hearts with the sympathetic purpose which, till lately, has seemed to engage and gladden mine alone.

I do not know that I ought to be anxious, either for the present or the future of my work. It belongs to the Lord so manifestly; He gave it, He has supported it, He has smiled upon it, ever since. Surely I need have no care as to what shall become of it when I leave it No: yet sometimes the thought will intrude into quiet moments, “Who will carry this on? Will the poor Pastors be able to write to some one else? Will the beautiful ledgers and day-books, with their many thousands of entries all so carefully and lovingly kept, — will they be continued, or must they be laid aside on a shelf, disused and forgotten?” Ah, foolish heart! what needless vexation and anxiety these questions give thee, and how much of vanity and self-sufficiency do they reveal! As if thy little bit of work were of consequence to the universe! or thy morsel of ground in the vineyard brought forth all the fruit for the wine-press! Why, the Lord has hundreds of servants, ready and waiting to do His bidding, and to do thy work far, far better than thou hast done it; and if it pleases Him, He can enlarge its borders, and increase its strength, and make it a praise in the whole earth — without thee! Hush thee, then 1 wait, and watch, and work; “rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him.” He knows the end from the beginning, and thou mayest contentedly leave all in His dear hands, whether “for advance or retreat” — for life or death.

Give me, O Lord Jesus, a spirit of entire dependence on Thee, waiting to learn Thy will, looking for the “kindly light” which shall either lead me on, or give me blissful rest. All I can wish to know is known to Thee most perfectly; teach me to trust Thee fully, and to say, without the shadow of a fear, in this and in all other matters,

“STfje SLorti fntll perfect tjjat infjirfj concemetfj nte.”

* According to my usual custom, I have this year done some little business in encouraging the distribution of my dear husband’s “Sermons” among the needy and neglected population of our towns and villages. I do not profess to enter fully into this service; it is one of the splendid opportunities offered by Book Fund work to its manager, which I am compelled to dismiss with but scanty attention and notice; nevertheless, I feel that if I cannot cast the good seed with ungrudging hand over the broad acres of expectant furrows, I must be content to sow a tiny corner of the field with loving care and watchfulness, knowing that the Lord will prosper the endeavour, and give the sheaves in harvest-time.

I think the first parcel of these soul-winners was sent to the canal boatmen in the Midland counties, and I know it was received with earnest prayer that God, by His Holy Spirit, would incline their hearts to hear the message. No class of persons more needs the loving efforts of Christian people to raise them from their degradation than these long-neglected toilers; and it is matter for great gratitude that of late years so many kind hands have been stretched out for their uplifting and deliverance. I believe that they will read Mr. Spurgeon’s words with eagerness; and I was glad indeed to be able to send 300 of these messengers of mercy, which will gently and quietly talk with them by day or night of the love of Jesus, as they pursue their monotonous journeys along the watery thoroughfares of our land.

After this, a grant of 250 “Sermons” found its way into the hands of two young ladies belonging to the Church of England, who, nevertheless, are very earnest distributors of the Baptist Pastor’s discourses. They have always kept their districts well supplied with tracts and papers; but since they commenced to furnish these “Sermons,” the demand has been so great that their resources were crippled, and application was made to me for assistance in the emergency. With great joy I gave it, wishing them still greater success and delight in their work, and marvelling at the way in which God’s loving purposes are sometimes carried out by most unlikely persons.

A fervent petition from the Black Country constrained a gift of 300 copies of “The Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit,” to form the nucleus of a “Loan Tract Society.” “Mr. Spurgeon’s ‘Sermons,’” wrote the applying pastor, “are anxiously looked for and highly appreciated in this part of the country, and when any are discovered in the religious papers, they are eagerly devoured. It would be practically impossible for us to furnish the funds to start the Society, and yet the church is so hopeful of the work that the members could not endure the idea of giving it up.” My little gift just started them, and cheered their hearts; and they have been working on ever since, I hope, with success and pleasure.

Of another parcel, sent to a large seaport town, the distributor says, “I am so glad you have sent ‘ Sermons ’ for sailors. I meet with many here, and try to point them to Jesus. I shall divide the ‘Sermons’ into sixteen parts, and distribute them at the sixteen railway stations where I visit, and who knows what widespread blessing may follow; for they will be read and passed on to all parts of the world from this place?”

A good Primitive Methodist brother, who labours as a voluntary home missionary in a distant county, going about from house to house, and trying to lead sinners to the Saviour, received a grant of “Sermons” and tracts some five years since, and now pleads for more. He is poor and in infirm health; but his heart yearns to do his neighbours good, and the Lord has given him much success in his modest mission; so another parcel was despatched to him, and it is good to think how busy he will be for many weeks to come, arranging and sorting, and giving away the precious pages. He is sure to “steep the seed” in tears and prayers, so we may know assuredly what the reaping will be.

A country pastor writes: “The villages and hamlets surrounding our own village are dependent entirely on the light received from us. Open-air and cottage meetings are held from place to place; and on leaving, each person is provided with a tract; but I find it very difficult to procure a fresh supply, and should be exceedingly grateful if you could favour me with some of Mr. Spurgeon’s 4 Sermons,” I sent 300 copies, and a nice lot in the form of little penny books, which are always welcomed most heartily, and perhaps are more highly prized on account of their neat covers, and somewhat superior appearance.

Two hundred sermons went to the very poor in one of the lowest parts of Glasgow, and two hundred more to a country village in Midlandshire, where, as the pastor writes, “there are many of our old people who cannot get out to the House of God, and I shall be glad indeed to take them a mouthful of such strengthening meat occasionally

From a “Report” of the “Seamen and Boatmen’s Friend Society” for 1885, I quote the following paragraph: — “March 31st. Boarded the ss. “S of West Hartlepool. On going into the cabin, was met by the steward, to whom I gave some tracts; he said, ‘ I beg pardon, sir, but have you any of Mr. Spurgeon’s “Sermons”? ’ I said, 4 Yes, through the kindness of Mrs. Spurgeon, I have, and I will give you some with pleasure, He said, 4 These will be treasured up, and read when we are at sea, I assure you, sir; many thanks for your visit and gifts,”

But I should tire my dear readers if I kept on in this strain, telling them of the design and destination of the thirteen thousand “Sermons” which I have sent out during the past twelve months. I will just gratefully record the help in this direction which some kind friends have given me, and then pass to another subject. About half-a-dozen persons have volunteered to send the “Sermons” regularly to poor country ministers, and have faithfully performed their loving and self-imposed task. During the war in the Soudan, there was one who longed to do the soldiers good, and failed not to post every week some copies of the Sabbath “Sermon”; while the more extensive effort, of which I spoke last year — the supplying of all the Fire Brigade Stations in London with Mr. Spurgeon’s discourses,

is still patiently and perseveringly carried on by the faithful friend who first commenced it

A fitting conclusion to this brief account of an earnest but fettered endeavour is found in the following sweet words from an aged lady — words so sweet, and pure, and precious, that comment or commendation would be equally out of place: —

My dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — I shall feel greatly obliged and thankful if thou canst send me another parcel of “Sermons” on the same terms as before. They are so well received that I wish to extend my district. Thy husband’s suggestion to look out for a fresh alabaster box of precious ointment to pour upon the Master’s feet, as an expression of love, has led me to make this effort, which, in the opinion of some, might appear an unsuitable undertaking for one in the last half of her 88th year. But I hope to find a successor; the “Sermons” are sure to be used, and a blessing is even now resting on the work.

* *

pictures anti parables.

July 8. — A very pretty and suggestive picture is this week to be seen from the windows of my sitting-room. To the uninitiated observer there might appear to be nothing more extraordinary than a dense mass of shrubbery, overhung with a canopy of trees, and exhibiting in one corner a profusion of white flowers of unusually large size; but I will tell the little story, and try to enlist your interest. This clump of evergreens has been allowed to luxuriate in unchecked growth during many years, and there is in consequence such an increase in their size and height that they are more like trees than shrubs, displaying a density and superabundance of foliage which is lovely, but undesirable in their position. Down in the heart of this miniature wood or forest, a small Syringa bush had its home, and disliking the darkness and lowliness of its dwelling-place, it took heart of grace, and for five years it has been endeavouring to gain access to the light, patiently pushing its way upward, growing through the laurels, and hollies, and briers, slowly ascending in spite of every obstacle, till now, in all the glory of eighteen or twenty feet of height, it overtops the surrounding trees, joyfully hangs out its snow-white garlands of perfumed blossoms, asserts its right to the lofty place it has attained, and seems to be making up in excessive beauty and luxuriance for the long years of repression and cruel hindrance it has suffered while struggling to reach this climax of growth.

“Are those white roses?” say our friends when their attention is called to the mass of blossom towering above the great arbutus trees. “No, not roses,” we exclaim, “but something quite as well worth looking at”; and then the aspiring Syringa is duly admired and applauded, while its heavy bunches of flowers nod and quiver, giving forth their fragrance to every gentle breeze that stirs them, as joyful evidence of fulfilled desire and complete satisfaction.

Pretty, impetuous, ardent, living thing, I love to think how it persevered in its efforts to escape from the surrounding pressure and darkness, how patiently it forced its way through the fretting obstacles which barred its progress to the light; and it does my heart good to go and look at it, as now, revelling in the free and open air of heaven, and the blessed light of the sun, it blooms in unexampled beauty, and showers down its sparkling white petals in a very abandonment of joy.

What does the Syringa say to me as I stand far below it, gazing with pride and pleasure on its loveliness?

1 think I hear a whisper from each little twig and spray, “Learn from us to be brave and patient, think no waiting too wearisome to win a blessing, no toil too great to obtain a triumph; ever turn from the darkness, and seek the light, though hindrances throng around you, and rankling cares, like thorns, would fain obstruct your progress; believe wholly in God, and trust in Him to bring you through all difficulties into the sunshine of His love and favour in His own good time. The days were very dark with us down there when we were growing, and sometimes we almost despaired of obtaining deliverance; yet inch by inch we advanced, the living sap within us enforcing our upward Ten Years of my Life

growth; and ever and anon, when the wind swayed the thick branches of the trees above us, we had such bright glimpses of blue sky and golden beams that the darkness became even more distasteful, and the imprisonment more intolerable, while our inward longing for the light lent us faith and courage to struggle bravely on! And see to what strength and beauty our Creator has brought us!”

Dear fello w-Chr istians, — -the Syringa has a word for us all. “Go thou and do likewise,” it says. By the power of Christ’s life within you, you can rise above all your trials, and difficulties, and hindrances; you can get up above the darkness of any unhappy surroundings, and walk in the light of God’s countenance. Be not content to dwell in the depths where the galling, grieving contact of doubts and fears will well-nigh choke your spiritual life, but, asking God “that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might by His Spirit in the inner man”; seek to “grow up into Him in all things,” “forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,” and glorifying His dear name by bearing, not merely the fine flowers of profession, but the blessed fruit of a holy, consistent, gracious life. Sweet Syringa, now I leave you, pondering, as I go, the apostle’s words, which you have so well illustrated, — “Whereunto I also labour, striving according to His working, which worketh in me mightily.”

* * * *

I think it must have been through the attention we bestowed upon the Syringa, and the enquiries we made concerning it, that our eyes were first opened to the folly of our mistaken forbearance in allowing the unrestrained growth of the trees and shrubs in the garden. For it was not that clump of evergreens only, of which I have spoken in the former paragraph, that had escaped the pruning-knife; but everywhere the plantations had grown at their own sweet will, and developed an enormous amount of life and vigour during the five years of our residence at “Westwood.” When we came to look closely around, we found that these charming neighbours had completely surrounded and shut us in, and that the splendid view we had at first enjoyed and prized was now entirely hidden from us.

We awoke to the fact as from a dream. Where were the distant, but beautifully distinct, Surrey hills? Where was the lovely stretch of landscape? Where the ever-varying play of light and shade on all the nearer fields and meadows, and the changeful beauty of the far-off Downs and open country? They were all there truly, but we could not see them, they were effectually concealed from our eyes; and we went from window to window, vainly endeavouring to discover any opening in the leafy screen, through which we might once again gaze upon that glorious prospect which had hitherto so fascinated and delighted us. In the garden itself it was much the same. There were some charming nooks and comers where we had aforetime stood enraptured, watching the effect of every mood and variation of the atmosphere on the landscape; but these were now choked up by a dense mass of foliage, and tall trees waved their luxuriant branches in joyous defiance of the prying eyes which would fain look beyond them.

From the windows of the Pastor’s study there had been most lovely peeps at the distant hills; Caterham, and Wallington, and Banstead, and Epsom Downs were all spread before the spectator as in a panorama; on a sunny summer’s day quivering in a golden haze, or at night putting on a strange, solemn beauty, as one by one the lights in far-away villages and houses twinkled like stars come down to visit earth. Now one could see “nothing but leaves green and beautiful, it is true, but none the less embarrassing and mischievous, since they not only excluded some of the necessary light and air from the house, but did us the great wrong of concealing the loveliest of our lovely pictures.

“How could you have permitted this invasion of our once cherished privilege?” some reader asks. Well, the trees worked subtly, you see; they grew leaf by leaf, twig by twig, so noiselessly, so gradually, that we took no note of their encroachments till the thick barrier was formed, and our glorious view was hidden; and I must confess, also, that the Master of “Westwood,” though a decided Liberal in

politics, leans terribly to Conservatism in his own garden, and deems it almost a sacrilege to use knife or axe on any of the precious living things that have taken root in this favoured and fortunate spot

So, even when we became aware of our enclosed condition, no small amount of coaxing and persuasion was required to induce him to allow the first gap to be made in the green barrier; and I verily think that the passage of the saw through those tree-trunks, and the down-crashing of the severed branches, brought for the moment positive physical pain to his tender, sensitive heart.

But, oh! when the sacrifice was once accomplished, and an exquisite gem of a picture was revealed through a framework of verdure, with what exclamations of delight did he welcome the beautiful result, and with what readiness did he admit the necessity for like painful but decisive measures throughout our small domain! This first grand and successful venture of mine, this onslaught against the aggressive vegetable kingdom, was made on the dear Pastor’s birthday, and such a victory did I achieve, so charmed was he with the conqueror’s spoils, that he thenceforth began to wage war on his own account, and became almost as enthusiastic for the subjugation of our persevering obstructionists as I had schooled myself to be. Since that day, decidedly Liberal, not to say Radical, views obtain on the ‘“open space” question in our garden. Notable improvements are everywhere visible, pleasing prospects meet one at every turn; some of the trees that remain are taught to lend themselves to frame-making in the most charming manner, and through these lovely loop-holes we look across miles of hill and dale, while the larger part of our battlements of living green has been sufficiently demolished to throw open again the magnificent view which makes our Hill of Beulah into a true “Delectable Mountain.”

Now this is a little bit of very common-place experience, but is there not a lesson here for a willing heart to learn?

Is it not just in this way that, by ignorance or unwatchfulness, we often allow earthly cares, perhaps worldly enjoyments, to grow up so thick and fast around our life that we are at last fatally surrounded by them, and the glorious outlook, which faith should keep and enjoy from the windows of our soul, is blocked and almost forgotten. I have said that the trees grew but slowly — it was only a leaf at a time — and so imperceptible was the increase that not until the landscape was quite hidden did we discover the forfeiture of our privilege — and I fear it is often thus that we let our spiritual enemies steal upon us. A little conformity to worldly ways and fashions, an occasional divergence from the narrow path which is the only safe road for Christ’s followers, a small concession to that selfishness which so frequently urges disobedience to our Lord’s commands, sinful habits unchecked, the hour of prayer neglected — ah I how these things grow, grow softly, stealthily, but, oh, so surely, with fearful vigour and awful speed, till the soul is shut in, and the light of God’s countenance is shut out, and darkness and misery are the sure result!

Oh for an unsparing hand in the cutting down of all that dares to grow up between us and our God! It will not be enough to make only pleasant openings here; all must come down, every barrier must be swept away that hides the light of Heaven from our eyes, or intrudes itself before the fair vision of heavenly things which God’s love has set in faith’s sight; nothing must be allowed to cluster round our Christian life that can choke its power and spirituality, and intercept the sweet gales of the Spirit’s breath, which, if unhindered, will “blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out”

How pitiful is the state of an encumbered and hedgedup Christian! How great is his loss! How sorrowful his indifference! How unhealthy his condition! You can imagine some one coming to see us when we were surrounded as I have tried to describe, and saying, “Do you know what folly you are guilty of in letting these trees grow so thickly? Are you insane, that you allow yourselves to be deprived of that prospect which is the chief joy of your residence on the hill? Do you not realize that you are every day disregarding a precious privilege, and perhaps growing content with these nearer delights with which the dwellers in a mere valley are able to solace themselves?” Ah, yes! we were

indeed foolish. And all the time these barricades were closing around us, the fair landscape had been smiling in the sunshine, or veiling itself softly in the mist, — looking its loveliest at all seasons. Its glory and beauty were not lessened because it was hidden from our gaze, neither was its existence to be doubted because we could not see it; yet our joy in it was gone, and so far as our comfort and delight in it went, it might as well have been a parched and desolate wilderness. Ah, dear friend! cannot you see here some likeness to your own experience? I can to mine. You have seen other believers walking in the light, rejoicing in their God, steadfast in the faith, while you have felt gloomy, overshadowed, depressed, unable to lift up your eyes to the hills from whence cometh your help. And why? It cannot be that God’s love has changed, or that His mercy is clean gone for ever? No, the precious promises are there still, like green pastures, and the sweet influences of the Spirit, like still waters; all the great and glorious things that accompany salvation are spread out before you in their fairest reality and truth; but, alas! you cannot see them, you cannot enjoy them; you are shut in, encompassed; you are well-nigh stifled by the luxuriant, deadly growth of some sin, or habit, or indulgence, which you have, through ignorance or sloth, spared to develop itself into a screen between your soul and heavenly joys; it is with you as the prophet so sternly says of the Jews: “Your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid His face from you.”

Now, what are you going to do? Let the trees grow higher and denser, and your soul-domain become more darkened and desolate? Forget the lovely vision of the “things eternal” that your faith used to rejoice in, and content yourself with earthly shadow, in lieu of Heaven’s sunshine? No — a thousand times, no — if you are indeed a child of God; but the rather will you arise, and utterly destroy and lay waste all that dares to exalt itself against God in your heart, and cry to the Strong for strength to make the clearance complete and enduring.

. You will ask your Lord to show you all that is contrary to His will in you, and then solemnly and honestly give it’ up, whatever it may be; you will take the axe of holy resolution, and cut the barrier altogether down; even though it be some darling sin which looks innocent and fair, some beautiful earthly thing which has woven its tendrils into your inmost nature: all, all must be tom away and uprooted, before the peace and joy which God’s favour gives can shine into your heart again, or the eyes of your soul can look unhindered across the valley, and gaze upon the glory-land beyond.

And, dear friend, do not hesitate, do it now. “The Lord is able to give thee much more than this.” Thou dost but cut down and surrender that which would harm thee, and work thee incalculable mischief; and while thou art thus engaged, behold! before thee opens a vista of “joy unspeakable and full of glory”; the sweet gales of grace refresh thy tired spirit, and thy emancipated soul suns itself in the Father’s love, the Saviour’s grace, and the Spirit’s gentlest comfort; — the full light of “His reconciled countenance” falling on thee from the meridian of His love. Will not this entice thee? Doth not this suffice thee?

Giving up’ this, that, and the other,” says Frances Ridley Havergal, “is a downright unfair way of putting it; unless, indeed, the magnificent gain is distinctly set against the paltry loss. As well talk of an oak-tree ‘ giving up ’ the withered leaves which have clung to the dry twigs all the winter, when the sap begins to rise fresh and strong, and the promise of all the splendour of summer foliage is near! Over and above the unspeakable gift of eternal life, Jesus promises to those who leave anything for His sake that they shall receive ‘an hundred-fold now, in this time’ / Do you suppose He did not mean what He said? 99

May I try to say just two little words of comfort to those who have not negligently and wilfully allowed their “trees” to grow up in their soul’s garden, and yet can seldom get a glimpse of Canaan’s fair and pleasant land, or “view the landscape o’er”? Well, dear souls, perhaps you live in a valley, where no prospect is possible, except by long and painful climbing! Or it may be with you as it is with us sometimes, when our lovely view from Beulah’s Hill i a

obscured by cloud or mist, and we seem surrounded only by a dense white sea of vapour; — in both these cases God’s hand is to be recognized, and you must be content if He put you in the low place, or if His fingers drew the curtains of the sky across your fair landscape.

But, supposing that you are one of the dale-folk, a dweller at the foot of the mountain, and that you can very seldom climb the heights which hem you in, yet you know of the grand prospect to be seen from those summits, and you can talk of it to others; you can cultivate, even in the lowlands, a spirit of cheerful confidence in God; you can look up to the stars at night, and you can sing, oh! surely you can always sing, that sweet “Song of Degrees,” “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made Heaven and earth.”

Or, assuming that it has pleased the Lord to bring the shadow of a cloud between you and your spiritual joys, that He has darkened your sun for a while, and blotted out your fair prospect by some mysterious dispensation of His providence, you have but to trust Him, and bide His time, and sing softly, a In the shadow of His hand hath He hid me;” and if the interposing veil be of His weaving, you will presently find that He will “blow with His wind” and scatter all clouds and fogs and mists, and once again reveal to your adoring eyes the bright vision of things beyond, which faith holds so dear and precious.

Oh, Blessed Lord I teach us by Thy Holy Spirit to rest satisfied with nothing short of whole-hearted consecration of body, soul, and spirit, to Thee, and Thy sweet service! Let everything that hinders or darkens our spiritual life be instantly and joyfully surrendered, that so we may know the blessedness of the apostle’s assurance. “If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.”

I do not think that the dear soul whose loving act of self-denial I am now about to relate, and from whose letters I intend to quote, would imagine she had done anything worthy of notice in the pages of even this unimportant chronicle; but, methinks, the angels carried the sweet story to the heavenly Father, and that there, in His “book of remembrance, this “thing that she hath done’’ is noted down in fairer characters than earth can trace. If I had passed by the little incident, her record still would have been on high; but I should have lost a beauteous flower, which fairly claims the right to grace and adorn my work, since the Report for last year was the seed from which grew this lovely thought and act of a loving heart.

A large parcel of nice, clean, strong clothes for women and children came to me the other day with this note enclosed: —

Honoured Madam, — Reading your Book Fund Report set me thinking if I could not in some way help you to send gladness to the homes of which you speak. I have to-day sent a small parcel of things which I thought might perhaps be put in with your books. They were given to me by kind friends, but I just give them again to Him, who “gave Himself for me.” I wish so much that I could send more, and some money, but I cannot: I have five little ones, and my husband’s wages are 26s. per week, but oh! we have so much to be thankful for.

Thus this noble woman gives out of her poverty the things which would have saved her many an hour’s patching and darning for her own children, and consecrates to the Lord the comforts which she might most righteously have retained for herself.

In acknowledging her gift, I ventured a gentle remonstrance for her children’s sake, but this is the reply I received: —

Honoured Madam, — When I first began to think if I had anything I could send you, I clapped my hands for very joy as I came upon one article after another which I felt I could do without; but when they were all together, they looked so poor and mean, I was tempted not to send them, fearing you might return them, but I had asked my Father to accept them, and like Jephthah, I dared not go back. Your kind note this morning has put a song in my mouth to Him who has so graciously allowed me to offer Him a mite, and has accepted it too! I did just once think how much I would like to keep this and that, but to give something to God which costs us a little, oh! this is a great delight.

Then, lest I should again plead against her self-sacrificing spirit, she adds, —

Please do not think we are needing what I sent; neither myself nor mine want for anything. To the praise of my covenant-keeping God I can say. He supplieth all our needs, and for what He withholds, I praise Him also.

Is not this good womans heavenly charity a rebuke to some of us, who have more than heart can wish, yet keep it all selfishly to ourselves! Ah, my poor Pastors! ye would be no longer poor if but a grain of the sweet compassion which filled the Saviour’s heart could find a lodgment in some of our unpitying breasts! It is so easy to keep our stores to ourselves, so pleasant to lay up treasures on earth, and to enjoy the self-indulgence of forgetfulness of others’ needs. There is a poor minister, in the next town or vil- ’ lage, who is striving to bring up a large family on jQ6o or per annum. What are we doing to help him? We go sometimes to hear him preach, and wonder at his careworn face and shabby coat, and very likely grumble at his dulness and want of energy in the pulpit, and say he is “a poor stick.” But do we do anything to cheer, and comfort, and brighten him up a bit? “A poor stick!” Yes, very likely, with the biting wind of poverty always blowing upon him, and scarcely any nourishment, either mental or bodily, to invigorate him, and very little of the sunshine of human kindness to refresh him, how can he help being dwarfed, and stunted, and dry?

Let us give him some books — real, first-rate ones — and a new suit of clothes, and a nice dress and a new bonnet for. his wife, and some things for his children, and let us stock hislarder and. coal-cellar, and see what a change will come o’er the spirit of his dream! Would he not, think you, soon be stirred up, by the reading of those books, to fresh ’ lines of thought, and greater diligence in his preparation of’ sermons? And would not the absence of dull care, and the bracing effect of a heart at ease, lead to a livelier and warmer manner in the delivery of them? Certainly it would. I only marvel how some men can preach at all with the awful pressure of poverty’s grip upon head, and heart, and hand; it must be that God pities them, and gives them compensating’ spiritual riches. Blessed be His name I He will not forsalce His own; but He must be displeased with those who could help His servants if they would, and yet withhold “more than is meet.”

If God had chosen to deliver to angels the charge of preaching His gospel of grace, how men would have hastened to load the heavenly visitants with marks of their favour and countenance! Would they not have offered fine salaries? Wealth and influence would have been laid un- grudgingly at the feet of those who needed it not Could anything have been too good or precious to offer to such distinguished guests, bringing such good tidings of great joy?

But when God sees fit to ordain men “subject to like passions as we are” to be His ambassadors on earth, and to tell out the tale of His love and pity, the matter assumes a different aspect. These persons are bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh; they must eat, and drink, and dress, and sleep as* we do; to them the items of beef, and broadcloth, and boots, and beds, are a daily and inevitable necessity, and so we disesteem them, and, overlooking their high appointment, we treat them with scant courtesy, feed them on meanest fare, burden them with all possible earthly cares, and then listen to the message God has given them with an indifference bordering on contempt!

If I am speaking too strongly, I must ask pardon; but my soul is stirred up to a righteous indignation sometimes,- when I see and know of the deep poverty in which some ministers have existed, year after year, while in the same village, or within a mile or two, reside professing Christians with ample means, who might easily help their poor brother, yet who stand aloof unpityingly, and withhold the succour which would bless and comfort the Lords servant, and never make themselves a penny the poorer. Oh! what blindness hath happened unto them? How is it that they cannot see the dreadful mistake they are making in despising the opportunities given them of ministering to the Lord of glory? With what horror of conscious guilt will they hear this sentence from the Judge’s lips: “Ye did it not to one of the least of these — ye did it not to Me”!

December 17. — For some time past, I have been debating in my mind whether or not I should give to my readers the particulars of a pleasant circumstance, which has lately enlivened my quiet life with its interesting details. To-day has decided the question, for a donation of to the Book Fund, the “First-fruits of the fishing-smack, ‘Susie Spurgeon,’” supplies the link to my dear work, which seemed needful to justify the relation of the story.

To begin at the beginning — among the large fleet of vessels which regularly leave the port of Grimsby for the fishing-grounds in the North Sea, there has long been one which bears my husband’s honoured name, and from time to time we have rejoiced to hear tidings of its voyagings and welfare, while mutual tokens of interest and goodwill have passed between the owner of the ship and the owner of the name. The “Charles Haddon Spurgeon” has done noble work, too; for not long ago it towed a wreck into port I The disabled schooner was a foreigner, and when the crew of the “C. H. S.” saw her flying signals of distress, they boarded her, and found her full of water; but they bravely agreed to tow her into Grimsby! This took them three days and nights. During this time, the second and third hands had to remain on board the water-logged vessel, at the risk of her going to pieces any moment, and sinking under them! The good friend who gave me these details feelingly adds, “I like to think of the ‘ C. H. S.’ doing this! It is so suggestive I How many wrecked and storm-tossed souls has the Pastor, C. H. Spurgeon, been the means of bringing into the haven of rest! How has he toiled to win them to the only place of safety!”

In this last summer, there was another vessel built for the same owner, and it was decided to call her the “Susie Spurgeon,” to my intense gratification and delight. While she was building, Mr. E. greatly desired that I should be the first to see the “burgee,” a large flag with the ship’s name in; so it was sent up for my inspection, and, on unpacking it, I found to my great surprise a huge “colour,” eight yards long, and two and a-half yards wide, with the smack’s name, “Susie Spurgeon,” in great letters a foot long, marvellously fashioned, and inlaid in the bunting. It was too large to go up anywhere but in the largest room in the house, and there, though it wound itself gracefully round the book-cases, and dropped in voluminous folds from the curtain-rods, it looked as if it pined for the bright blue sea, and felt out of place in a parson’s library! As it hung there day after day, waiting till the ship was fitted, a strong desire took possession of me to use it in some way to show my appreciation of the honour done me. But how should I set about this? I lay awake at night, pondering by what means I could make it my messenger to carry a word to captain and crew, of good cheer and good wishes, and give a little evidence of my interest in my ship 1 At last a “happy thought” visited me, and I caught it, and cherished it with much care! It occurred to me that it would be a delightful task to work some few words on the flag, which should not only embody my best desires for the brave men who would serve under it, but should also set always before them the only way of safe sailing over the stormy sea of life, something which should not only attract the eye, but find an entrance into the heart! So far, so good; but how to bring my “happy thought” to a happier interpretation was another embarrassment. What should the few words be? How I puzzled over that question! How many things my mind suggested and then “declined with thanks,” I cannot tell you. Then, one wakeful night, some rhymes popped into my head, and I cried “Eureka! 99 But I have no gift for rhyming, and it took me an inconveniently long time to arrange my undisciplined numbers into the following lines: —

This flag shall bear
On high my prayer,

While playful winds enwreath it:

God save the crew,

Good men and true,

Who worship God beneath it!

Now, I must confess I thought this rather good, and was a little bit proud of it, after all the trouble I had expended on it; but my dear husband, being an editor, is also a critic, and rather hard on “poets,” as a good many people know to their cost; and so, when I, with meekness and fear, showed him this production, he smiled, and shook his dear head, and said it was “very nice, but it would not do.” The rhymes of the third and sixth lines he could not pass — I must try again. I did so, with this result: —

This flag shall bear
Aloft my prayer

As it floats in the heavenly blue s
God bless the “S.S.,”

Give good success,

And save every one of the crew!”

This time I was not surprised when I found my dear Mentor could not give his unqualified approval; but I had done my best, and could do no better, so he tenderly undertook to revise the lines, and put them into proper shape for me, and from his unfettered pen they flowed forth thus: —

This flag shall bear
Aloft my prayer,

That good success attend you;

God save each one,

Through Christ His Son,

And from all ill defend you.

Hurrah! This was just what I wanted, good wishes and the gospel of the grace of God combined! Thanks to the dear writer, and blessings on his words!

Then I began to work the lines on the great flag, and many tender little prayers were interwoven with the stitches, as one by one the letters were formed in white and gold silk on the bunting! The labour of love was accomplished in about three weeks, Book Fund work not allowing me to spend more than an hour each day upon it, and the large size of the canvas preventing rapid progress. But at last it was finished and forwarded, and most enthusiastically received at Grimsby, giving great delight to all concerned in the matter. “I have seen almost all kinds of things in flags,” wrote my correspondent, “but never before an inscription of any kind. I can assure you this is a real novelty; but it is splendidly in keeping with the name on the

* burgee.’ The owner and captain, together with a great number of friends, have seen it this morning, and all are highly delighted with it, and are deeply gratified by the fact that you have yourself expended this labour on it Nothing I could have suggested would have given the pleasure that this has done. Please thank Mr. Spurgeon for the lines you have worked on the flag. All our friends say there is a hearty ring in them — -just like him /”

In the cabin of the “S. S.,” which is fitted up with unusual taste and cost, the verse has been carved on the main beam, so that, as long as the ship lives, her crew may know of our interest in them, and our prayers for their welfare; and over the brass stove a large embossed plate of the same metal is set, with these quaint words engraved thereon —

“ail ffiob genha to take,”

which it is hoped may prove a message, or a word in season, to all who come on board. Medallions of Pastor C. H. S., and the ship’s namesake, are also fixed in the cabin; and Mr. D., in one of his many kind letters, says, “The ‘S. S.’ is a noble ship. About thirty-five of us had tea on board the day before she sailed, and- we had a good time. The cabin looked beautiful, the medallions in their cases on the sides giving it quite a home-like appearance. I can assure you the crew are all very proud of your notice and kindness.” Later on, in another letter, my friend says, “You cannot imagine the interest that the ordinary labourers on our fish-market take in the ‘ S. S. J; it is really quite amusing. When she came into dock last time, I was passing by, and iust for a minute I joined a group of men who were giving their opinion on her, and, as if 1 knew nothing of the ship, I asked one or two questions, and was told that you had put a verse on the flag. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘what was the verse? ’ and, to my great surprise, the man repeated every word of it.”

My friends can imagine what a freshness and novelty these details have introduced into my somewhat monotonous life. Pleasant sea-breezes these, blowing briskly round

the house at “Westwood,” sweeping away the dust that gathers on an undisturbed existence, and bringing an invigorating ozone into the mental atmosphere! And now that the “Susie Spurgeon” on the sea has sent part of her earnings to her namesake on the land, to help to cheer the hearts of poor ministers, what can this “S. S.” do less than record her gratitude, and tell of her delight and pride in the other “S. S.?” God speed her!

The Bethel Flag is hoisted on board the “C. H. S.,” when at sea, and services are held on board. I need scarcely say that we have provided the crews of both vessels with books, “Sermons,” etc.; and since the captains are Christian men, we may hope that the good influences surrounding the sailors will, by God’s blessing, result in an abundant answer to the prayer on the flag:

“God save each one
Through Christ His Son.”

©tetr (tuition of Sermons to Jfitssionartrs in
JForeijjn 3Lan0s.

This good work goes on steadily and prosperously, rejoicing the hearts of many labourers in distant lands, and helping, so we have reason to hope, in the spread of Christ’s kingdom on earth. What urgent need there is for the extension of God’s truth in this wicked world, we at home have only too sorrowful evidence; while abroad, error, superstition, ignorance, fanaticism, and gross sensuality are all ranged against God and His Christ.

Perhaps this service is more essentially a “work of faith” than the home-labour can be, because the fields are so far away that we cannot walk in them, and pluck the ears of com which have sprung from the seed we have sown; but lacking this, we have abundant assurance that God has given a harvest, and that it continues to be a very blessed and glorious one. Most of my foreign correspondents speak touchingly of the aid given by the “Sermons” to their own spiritual life, and the help they are to their daily walk with God. Doubtless this is one of the chief reasons that they are so desired and longed for, because they feed the soul with the rich dainties of covenant love, and strengthen the heart “unto all patience and long suffering with joyfulness” in the cause and for the sake of so blessed a Master.

I give a few quotations from the letters lately received, as they will illustrate the nature of the work far better than any description from my pen.

From New Guinea, a missionary writes: —

Dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — A word or two of thanks comes to you from this land, as I know they will do from “all along the line,” all round the globe. Many years have your beloved husband’s “Sermons*” been to us a feast in seasons of poverty of means of grace. We have been * blessed, strengthened, fitted for new work through them, and now to be regularly supplied with the source of such great blessings is a boon, the result of which only the glorious future can unfold.

From that land of fire and fever which has been the “Gate of Heaven” to so many of our brave men, from “Afric’s burning strand,” I have this encouraging word: —

I must express my most hearty thanks for the “Sermons” you have sent me so regularly. After having read them to my own soul’s profit,

I forward them to my brethren on the Congo, so that they have been read at Stanley Pool, and, perhaps, further up than that, and wherever they have gone they have been a blessing.

A missionary in Almora, North West Province of India, writes: —

Allow me to assure you, and that very heartily, that the “Sermons” you send are most welcome. In such a land as this, with a constant and heavy drain on faith, hope, patience, and love, any help is welcome, and these “Sermons” are especially precious. The cry here is constantly, “Give, give”; and though it is undoubtedly “more blessed to give than to receive,” still there are times when the soul grows very hungry, and is very glad of even the crumbs from the Master’s table, to say nothing of such good fat loaves as those you have so kindly sent.

I have a very interesting letter from the martyr land of Madagascar, giving particulars of two native gentlemen, father and son, who are specially interested in Mr. Spurgeon 4iS

and his work, and to whom the “Sermons” are sent by the missionary who receives them from me. The younger of the two — Dr. Rajonah — received his education in Edinburgh, and is of course a highly intelligent and cultured man. Some time since he gave an interesting lecture on “Mr. Spurgeon,” which was printed in a monthly magazine, and has secured a large circulation.

“I thought you would be pleased to know,’* says my correspondent, “that even in this remote region Mr. Spurgeon’s name and work are well known. When the ‘ Sermons ’ began to arrive, I thought I could not do better than forward them to Dr. Rajonah and his father; and should you continue to send them, I purpose to continue the practice, as I believe good use will be made of them in this way. Though I do not .think any of Mr. Spurgeon’s discourses have been translated into Malagasy, some of our educated natives are said to make great use of them, and to borrow from them pretty freely. This kind of plagiarism will not, I think, incur your censure, but rather will you rejoice that even here Mr. Spurgeon may, though indirectly, make his voice heard. May God long spare him to lift up that voice in making known the glorious gospel of the blessed God!”

Time would fail me to tell of all the interest which letters bring to me from Northern and Southern India, Jamaica, Newfoundland, Rio de Janeiro, Eastern Roumelia, Texas, Cape Verd Islands, Natal, West Indies, Smyrna, Turkey, Palestine, Morocco, Samoa, Colorado, Dacota; and, nearer home, France, Italy, Belgium, Prussia, and Sardinia! I wish I could transcribe them all; they would make a most effective all-round-the-world Missionary Record! In China, the “Sermons” are likewise received with great joy, and are carried far into the interior, for the comfort and cheer of the lonely workers. I send nearly 200 “Sermons” there every month, and the “Father” alone knows how His exiled children are helped by them. “Surely the Lord has led you to undertake this important service,” writes a missionary from Ta-li-fu. “We who are buried among the heathen do so enjoy something fresh from home, especially when isolated as I am, my nearest neighbours being forty days away. How I do enjoy Mr. Spurgeon’s ‘Sermons,’ and what a help they are to me!” “I was led to devote my life to mission-work,” says a young preacher atGan-king, “through reading Mr. Spurgeon’s sermon, ‘ A Divine Call for Missionaries,’ and therefore I need scarcely tell you how delighted I shall be to receive every utterance of the ‘beloved preacher* which you are able to send me.” Another missionary, from the North-west of China, sends similar testimony. He says, “It was the sermon, ‘A Young Man’s Vision, read on a packsaddle, during a drizzling rain, among the mountains of the Kokonor border, that moved me to desire to circulate God’s Word throughout all Eastern Central Asia, Mongolia, Turkestan, and Thibet. The same sermon suggested to Mr. King, of Shense, his appeal for fifteen hundred missionaries for this vast and needy field. I always take a packet of these treasures with me on distant itinerations, and many a Sabbath evening has our little company been refreshed by a sermon that has previously stirred my own heart in my lonely travels.”

I have space for only one more letter, though it grieves me to crowd out others which equal, if they do not excel, in interest those already given. From North China comes the following: —

Dear Mrs. Spurgeon, — The arrival of your kind letter and the copies of Mr. Spurgeon’s “Sermons” has made me more deeply in debt than ever. Before they arrived I was in doubt as to how much of my sermons were my own, and how far they belonged to your husband, but now, with the prospect of such a continual supply of his good things, I think my doubts will be resolved. Ever since I arrived in China, his works have been my storehouse, my armoury. If I may be allowed the figure, his productions have been the mine from whence have come the lumps of ore, and I have sought to pass them through the mint of my own mind, and so give them currency. His books have supplied the wheat, and I have sought to grind it down to flour, and so dispense food to the hungry. I have filled my little water-skin from his ever-springing well, to give the thirsty ones drink. Dropping all figures, however, I do thank you most heartily for sending me the “Sermons.” I have already read two of them in public, and hope to use them, in one way or another, to a far larger extent; and they will be, I am sure, the means of great blessing.

I have thus given you, dear friends, just a taste of the sweet wine of grateful joy which has been poured out from the hearts of many weary toilers in heatphen lands. As you read of their loneliness and need, breathe a prayer for them, that they may be sustained and strengthened in their noble.

self-sacrificing work, and then help me to be one of God’s ways of answering your petitions, by continuing to send them the blessed food upon which their souls may fatten and grow strong.

To those dear helpers in this part of my service, whose faithful devotion has stood the test of years, and whose love does not grow cold, or their zeal diminish, I tender my warm and fervent thanks. My God shall reward you.

The Pastors’ Aid Fund has again this year rendered loving service to many needy brethren, whose scanty stipends have known no augmentation, even though, in many cases, their families and consequent expenses have increased. It is said that “agricultural depression” is at the root of all their sorrows. One feels a little tired of hearing this cuckoo-note year after year, and the high-sounding syllables may cover as much pretence as possible truth. I know not, but the pitiful fact remains that, from some cause or other, poverty in its deepest and darkest aspects is overshadowing our villages and hamlets, and our Pastors are sharing to the full in the universal discouragement. Only to-day, a letter from a country pastor reveals a sorrowful state of things, which, alas! is not peculiar to the place from which he writes. He says he never before witnessed so much poverty and distress in his district; yet, at the same time, he speaks with holy enthusiasm of the trust in God and resignation to His will manifested by the suffering people. “It is no easy work,” he writes, “to live in a place like this, where one sees c trouble ’ written on every face I could not go into the homes of my people, and see shoeless feet and empty cupboards, without doing something to help them. Many must have gone to the poor-house, or have died without medical aid, if I had not paid the cost.” This pastor, dear friends, so ready and willing to help others, has a wife and five children, and only a few pounds over £100 per annum to live upon, and in his own household has experienced a large share of the prevalent sickness and sorrow. With noble self-forgetfulness, he chooses to remain with his flock. “I cannot leave the post of danger,” he says; “God has helped me, and greatly blessed my ministry. There is suffering to be borne, but He suffered the shame of the cross for me, and when He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them.”

To such a true under-shepherd the Pastors’ Aid Fund delights to stretch out a helping hand, and though its grants are small, they many a time tide over a season of trouble, and heal with tender touch the festering wounds which Poverty’s barbed stings produce.

“I have been afflicted in body these many years,” writes a veteran minister. “I am straitened in circumstances, affected by the general depression, and I am hungering after knowledge: so that I can hardly say which is my greatest sorrow — my lack of health, money, or books.” Is not this a sad story to have to tell after a ministry of nearly forty years? Yet this is but one out of many, many cases, all of which present some special claim to tender and helpful sympathy.

The gratitude of some of these tried servants of God, when a little relief does reach them, is often very touching. A minister wrote the other day: “My wife has never before had a book or a dress-piece given to her; she can scarcely believe that your generous present is meant for her;” and then, thanks for all I sent are poured forth from their full hearts, overflowing with the joy of escape from the burden of care and anxiety.

“I feel I must join my dear husband,” writes a pastor’s wife, “in thanking you for the books you so kindly sent him, and for all the other things the parcel contained. Our hearts are so full of thankfulness to our heavenly Father, and to you, His servant, that we do not know how to express it. My husband feels too much overcome by your kindness to write more just now. We can only say, ‘ Thank you, and God bless you! ’”

The gifts of the Pastors’ Aid Fund are limited to poor Qaptist ministers, necessarily, for I could not undertake so

immense a work as the relieving those of all other denominations; yet my heart often grieves over this inability, and I wish that I had strength enough and means sufficient to help all the Lord’s servants, not to books only, but to the money which never seems to find its way wisely to the empty, waiting pockets, where it is so deeply needed.

You will not wonder that sometimes I cannot keep my rule. I must break the barriers down. Here is a case in point In a respectably-sized city there lives a minister, his denomination I will not divulge, but he is not a Baptist, and in a letter which now lies before me, he gives these pitiful facts: He has a wife and four children to keep, clothe, and educate; his salary is £70 per annum, and a rent oi £17 10s. to pay out of that. “I need hardly say,” so he writes, “that we are in a very reduced state. My wife and two girls have but one dress each for week-day and Sunday. None of us have more than one pair of boots, and these are in bad repair. The pinching and contriving to which I and my wife are put, in order to make things straight, is very trying, and detracts much from our home comfort and happiness. I am serving on the Relief Committee, and, really, I frequently feel I am myself needing the help given to others; but very few know of our troubles.”

I am hotly indignant as I quote his words; I have scarcely the patience to write them out! What can his people be thinking about? Are they blind, and deaf, and altogether foolish? But “indignation” will not help him, and a £$ note will; so the money, and a parcel of clothes, will be despatched, and while they make a large gap in the hedge set around my little Fund, they will carry so much joy and blessing with them, that who could say me nay? Certainly not you, dear friends, who so generously entrust me with the means wherewith to bless these needy ones!

What I should do without this power to supplement, in a small degree, the meagre pittances on which some of our Pastors contrive to live, I do not know; but the Lord has inclined so many loving hearts to help me in this matter, that I am generally spared the sorrow of seeing misery which I cannot relieve. God reward you, dear friends, you, whose noble generosity keeps my treasury ever full and open! The Lord will deliver you in time of trouble, and the blessings of many grateful hearts shall rest on your heads. I have given away ^317 17s. 9& during the past twelve months, and I wish it had been in my power to have doubled or trebled the amount sent to each case, so sadly urgent and distressing have been the needs and privations which have come under my notice.

The Sword and the Trowel is still sent out to the very poorest ministers month by month, and appears to give great help and comfort to them in their work. There is generally a chorus of thanksgiving at the end of the year from the recipients, and a very hearty encore to the twelvemonth’s pastorale from all the auditors. They say it helps them in their labours among the people, profits their own minds and hearts, instructs, suggests, and inspires them with fresh faith and courage, and is so very welcome a visitor at their homes that they “really couldn’t do without it” I think this is one of the little things that give great pleasure; and I should be very grateful if many friends would follow the example of some, who regularly despatch a copy of the magazine to a poor country minister, rejoicing in the thought that, though he might be able to afford threepence a month for it, it is better for him to receive it from them in this kindly and gracious fashion.

* * * *

The Gifts of Stationery have been continued on the most liberal and extensive scale by my munificent friend, who is as wholesale in his generosities as in his commercial transactions.

The present of writing-material to a poor minister is so useful that one expects it to be valued, and almost invariably grateful mention of the writing-paper mingles with the glowing thanks for paper already written on in the shape of books. “The first use I make of the stationery enclosed

in your most welcome parcel,” writes a pastor, “is to send a sheet and an envelope back to you bearing my most thankful acknowledgments.”

A serious item in a poor minister’s expenditure must be this same letter-paper when he has to buy it all himself; and thus we find one saying, “The stationery will be very useful, for while I am writing hundreds of letters for all sorts of objects, and to all sorts of persons, somehow I fail to. get a special fund from which to draw expenses.” Very often my friend’s gifts are received in a tender, loving way, which is most pleasant. “The envelopes and note-paper touched me as a gift of thoughtful kindness most unexpected,” says one; and again: “When we came to the paper and envelopes, we could not help exclaiming, ‘This is like a parcel from home,, it is so full of kindly thought and consideration.” It was indeed a happy thought, as well as a devising of liberal things, when my good friend undertook to provide thus bountifully for the enrichment of my parcels. The pastors do not know to whom they are indebted for this increase in their stores, but none the less surely will the blessing of the Lord follow the gifts given in His name, and the deed of kindness done for His sake.

* * * *

The Lemon tree must have a word of remembrance in this closing record of my work. How it has grown! And what a sturdy, healthy tree it is! Yet it has never borne fruit, and in this respect has greatly disappointed me, though it is foolish to be impatient at Nature’s dignified deliberation. If it had been grafted, the fruit would have been forced; now it awaits the time of perfection as God ordered it, and as it was arranged when He pronounced all to be “very good.” So it stands in the green-house, flourishing, and extending its branches year by year, and I still hold it in tender estimation as the emblem of my Book Fund* blessing the Lord that He has allowed the spiritual work to outstrip the leisure of Nature, and come into full fruit-bearing so soon and so happily, to feed and refresh His fainting servants. It is to me a tree of tender memories, for not only has its simple story won sympathy and help for

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my Fund, and interested friends in my work, but, whenever I look at it, I seem to see again the sick chamber which was my pleasant prison in Nightingale Lane; the couch where I lay suffering so many months and years; the sunlit window where the little flower-pot was placed, and where the “pip” grew slowly into a feeble plant; then, looking round upon myself and my present circumstances, I am amazed at the gracious contrast which the Lord’s loving hand has wrought. “Can that fine tree, of eight feet six inches high, be the same tiny thing that began its frail life under such unusual conditions?” “Can I, with this unexpected

measure of health and activity, be the same person who then seemed to be passing quickly through the Valley of the Shadow of Death?” Tis even so. Then do you wonder that often, as I stand gazing upon this lemon tree, happy tears of thankfulness for God’s great tenderness to me should gently blot out the details of that last experience; and then that they should magnify the beauty and brightness of the present blessings?

gear’s

December 31. — Once again the Lord has brought us within sight of the closed door of another year; in a short hour or two we shall stand upon the threshold, its solemn portals will open wide before us, and passing through, our feet will tread the vestibule of the year of grace 1886.

What awaits us within this unexplored palace, which, like the Heavenly City, hath twelve fair gates of pearl? Shall we be allowed an entrance into the King’s chambers? Will He bless us with a time of feasting in the banqueting-hall of His love? May we look for an active part in the work and service of His household? Or shall we find that our appointment is to make close acquaintance with gloomy corridors, and dark places, and shadowy corners in the house?

It may be we shall be called upon to wait and watch by the sick-bed of one of the inhabitants of the place, letting the light of our faith, and love, and patience, cheer and gladden the heart of the suffering one; or again, this

“House of God” may prove to some of us to be the very “Gate of Heaven,” where the King’s messenger awaits us with the glad summons to the Royal Presence!

What say you, dear friend? Would you rejoice to pass quickly through the lower rooms, and, ascending by “the secret places of the stairs,” come upon a quiet, shadowed chamber, set apart and made ready for you by your loving Lord, with its “window open toward Jerusalem,” and the attendant angels waiting on outstretched wings for your ransomed spirit’s flight, “coming to carry you home”? Oh! methinks, if we did but realize the bliss of life for ever with Christ, the disrobing room of death could have no terrors for us. Rather should we enter it with glad surprise, and expectant haste, and with this sweet password upon our lips: “My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.”

* * * *

Let us stay a moment, and ask ourselves this question, “Am I ready and prepared for anything that my God may appoint for me during the coming year? Have I so truly proved His faithfulness in the past, that with joyful unconcern I can rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him?” It is well for us, if from the depths of our heart we can say, “I have no fear, or foreboding of evil; I know whom I have believed, all I have is in His dear hand, and I myself am in Him; if He bring me into bright and glorious places, it will be His smile, and the light of His countenance, which alone can make my blessedness, and with these, what matters it even if He should see fit to guide my feet where the shadows fall, and the night draws on?”

“Christ leads me through no darker rooms
Than He went through before,”

and the sure confidence in His presence and His love makes it blessed to go with Him anywhere.

This is “Watch-night,” and in a few hours, God’s people everywhere will be meeting together to praise and bless His name for mercies past, present, and to come, and to welcome. this New Year’s Gift of His with the voice of joy and melody. Though I can only join them in spirit, lifting up my heart to the same God and Father, this quiet study shall not be a place of silence, for a tender little song of thanksgiving shall go up from my “solitary place” unto Him, who, throughout all this year, throughout all the ten years of my work, — ay, and throughout all my life, hath “done all things well” for me.

On such a night, one can hardly help indulging in a renewed retrospection of the “eternal mercies” which have compassed one’s path so long and so faithfully. The history of my unknown and sheltered life repeats itself as strangely and constantly as does that of the great tumultuous world outside, only with this difference, that my record can tell of naught but a repetition of pleasant things, a very tautology of tenderness, a sweet rhythm of gracious remembrance; and when for a moment I look back on the many “Ebenezers” I have had to raise to the lovingkindness of my God, I feel an ardent desire that this additional “stone of witness” shall rise as high, and be inscribed with as glad a song as any that have preceded it.

I am reminded by my present surroundings of the many times that, in this very room, and under almost exactly similar circumstances, I have prepared this Report for the press, and bid you and the Old Year — “Good-bye.” I have before told you how I come into this great, solemn study when the dear master is away, bringing all the belongings of my work, because I somehow feel nearer to him, and the shadows cannot gather in the corners, or the room look desolate while Punchie and I are here. So again I am sitting in my husband’s lonely study, yet I am not alone; once more he is in the sunshine, and I in the snow, yet both united in heart, with sea and land bridged by love; and again, as aforetime, I have to say to you what I have so many times repeated, that the Lord’s goodness has been so wonderful, His love so tender, His mercies so manifold, His gentleness so great, His arm so ready to save, His pity so swift to succour, and His grace so abundant to forgive, that though I should write on for ever, the half would not be told you.

The Lord has made my time of loneliness to be a season of such intensely busy labour, that the days have not been long enough to enable me to finish all my work; and there has not been a crevice of time into which a dreary, cheerless feeling could intrude itself. Then the news from Mentone has been so encouraging and hopeful, that were it only for that mercy, I ought to sing the Old Year out with a “Jubilate.” There came this sweet message to me this morning, and it will not be difficult for my readers to imagine that it has made music in my heart all the day: —

“From sunny lands my spirit flies to thee.

And doth salute thee in the chilly day:

Long hast thou been a summer’s sun to me,

Fain would I chase thy every cloud away.

Though dark thy skies, I would thy light increase By one short message which my pen can tell,

It brings thy love some little light of peace
To know that with thy husband — All is well.”

Perhaps I ought not to give my “love-letters” in the Book Fund Report, but this one came on a post card and by this fact proclaimed itself pro bono publico; besides which, my few previous home confidences have been so tenderly welcomed and cherished, that I could not refrain from sharing with my readers on this last day of the Old Year the “little bit of sunshine” which has gilded every hour of it for me. Oh, blessed wedded love! that has grown brighter and clearer after shining on for thirty happy years! Thanks be to God for a love that “Fonder grows with age, and charms, and charms for ever.”

Very soon, if the Lord will, there will be again the joy of the home-coming, when the happiness of re-union will efface all the heartache of separation, and the two lives which, like mountain streams parted for a while by some ponderous impediment, having passed it, meet again with tumultuous current, shall flow on once more in deep and abounding bliss. Then all the routine of the dear happy home-life will begin afresh, and the days, so full of work and service, will fly swiftly on their busy rounds, and the sweet Saturday nights — my Sabbaths — will again crown the week’s labour with blessing and holy peace.

In the Set vice of the Book Fund, Seeing that we began this year with a long account of the doings and the duties of its first twelve hours, I might have asked my dear readers to “assist” in the same way at its close; for the letters of to-day have been, to the full, as many and as interesting as those we opened on January 1st, 1885. Do they not say that, in a well-concerted piece of music, the final note should correspond to that on which the air commences? Even so, in composing this unpretending little tune of mine, I ought doubtless to have tried to harmonize it rightly; and have played the “finale” on the same chords as the opening “aria.” But I spare you and myself.

The hand that holds this pen is very weary; and the brain, which tries to think the thoughts that guide it, is jaded and overstrained. Soon the midnight chimes will be ringing, and “each breeze that rises from the earth be loaded with, a song of Heaven.” It is meet and wise to say adieu now, softly and tenderly, to those who have for so many years been partakers with me of the joy of this sweet service, and then to go alone before the Lord, and bless Him for the immeasurable love and goodness which have ensured so blessed an ending to a year of blessing.

“Oh! tired heart —

God knows!

Not you nor I,

Who reach our hands for gifts

That wise love must deny —

tVe blunder, where we fain would do our best —

Until a- weary, then we cry, * Do Thou the rest 9;

And in His hands the tangled skein we place
Of our poor blind weaving with a shamed face —

All trust of ours He sacredly will keep 3
So tired heart —

God knows!

Go thou to work or sleep.”