Thomas Spurgeon

Two seeds lie before us: the one is warmed in the sun, the other falls from the sower’s hand into the cold dark earth, and there it Hes buried beneath the soil. That seed which suns itself in the noontide beam may rejoice in the light in which it basks, but it is liable to be devoured by the bird, and certainly nought can come of it, however long it may linger above ground. But the other seed, hidden beneath the clods in a damp, dark sepulchre, soon swells, germinates, bursts its sheath, upheaves the mould, springs up a green blade, buds, blossoms, becomes a flower, exhales perfume, and loads the wings of every wind. Better far for the seed to pass into the earth and die, than to lie in the sunshine and produce no fruit. And even thus for thee the future in its sorrow shall be as a sowing in a fertile land; tears shall moisten thee, grace shall increase within thee, and thou shalt grow up in the likeness of thy Lord unto perfection of holiness, to be such a flower of God’s own planting as even angels shall delight to gaze upon in the day of thy transplanting to celestial soil. — C. H. Spurgeon.

THE name of Mr. Thomas Spurgeon has become widely known to readers of The Sword and the Trowel.” One of the twin sons of the famous preacher, he is developing an earnest manhood, enriched with study, experience, travel, and observation.

After serving some time to an engraver, he, like his brother Charles, decided to give his life to preaching the gospel. But his delicate health forbade his remaining in England. While yet quite young he sailed to Australia, and spent one year in evangelistic labors there. After his return to England it was decided that he must again turn his back on “home, sweet home,” and sail once more from the damp climate of his native Isle for the Antipodes. During the past few years he has preached in many places in that wonderful country, as well as in New Zealand; and finally he decided to accept the pastorate of a Baptist church in Auckland, where his influence is already becoming widely felt.

Thomas Spurgeon has proved himself “a worthy son of a worthy sire,” and the quaintness and humor of “John Ploughman” have found an echo in “Tom the Ploughboy.” Although the following letter, giving vent to the gushing ardor of an affectionate son poured out unreservedly to an indulgent father, was private and personal, yet it was too choice a morsel to withhold from the public.

To John Ploughman,

My dear Father, — I am so glad you have had your likeness taken with your smock on and the big whip in your hand. There are ever so many portraits of you in your Sunday go-to-meeting suit; but this suits you best of all. I wish you could have got Dapper and Violet into the picture. All your friends in this part of the world are glad enough to hear the smack of your whip again. It cracks as many jokes as ever. We rejoice, too, that the sharp share is driven through the monster evil, drink, and its attendant vices. “God speed the plough,” we pray, when it roots up such ill weeds.

There is any quantity of snakes in these colonies, and men either avoid or kill them; but this venomous viper they cherish and fondle till “at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.” It puzzles me why those who know and admit the danger still risk it. “Once bit, twice shy,” does n’t hold good in such cases. They see the devil’s hook, and yet grab at the bait, and drink like fish. Why, the very rooks in the trees might teach them a lesson. Let them but see a gun, and off they fly; indeed, conceal the weapon as you may, they spy it out somehow, and take to themselves wings, not waiting to hear the report, or give a chance; but these black birds “tarry long at the wine,” and “go to seek mixed wine.” They love to get within range of the Cannon Brewery or the Gunner’s Arms, and are willing targets for a shower of grape shot any hour of the day or night. What wonder that their eyes become bloodshot, and that they themselves are “brought down” shattered and tattered and torn.

As to public-houses (hotels they call them here), they are as thick as gum-trees in the bush, and, though Australia is free from wild beasts, the Red Lion does a roaring trade. And the stuff the topers swallow is, I hear, abominable, especially up in the bush, where folks are not expected to be over particular. If all the colonial beer and spirits were of the best quality, the harm would not be quite so great; but such mess as some of it evidently is must mean “death in the pot.” The best of intoxicants to my mind is bad; what must the worst be? Would to God the cursed traffic could be checked; a host of crimes would then be stayed. Red rum spelled backward reads “murder;” gin, the dictionary says, is “a snare,” and every-day facts prove it so to be. I feel sure that the “cold-water cure” is the only remedy. Moderation goes half-way, and therefore fails. Thank God, there are thousands of abstainers amongst us, so we will do the best we can, God helping us, to stem the tide.

I hear readers of your second edition comparing your last furrows with your first. Of course the novelty of such Plain Talk is not so keen, but the pictures are deemed a great improvement. Old Humphrey likes pictures as well as little Harry, and these are first-raters too. You remember I did a little ploughing on boxwood once on a time, so I reckon myself a bit of a judge. Here ’s my opinion, if it ’s worth the having. Your illustrations seem just to fit the writing: they might have been drawn by your own horses, so handy are they to the plough, and the engravings might be aits of your own whip.

Many a good laugh I ‘ve had over some of your quaint sayings and odd rhymes. They seem made to make one smile, and are more powerful than laughing-gas. This is the beauty of the book, to my mind. I like a mixture of pleasure and profit, and of wit with wisdom. Just a drop or two of sauce with the cold mutton is a grand improvement. The meat is good enough by itself, you know, but it slips down sweeter somehow with a dash of “relish.” When will people learn the absurdity of fancying that, because we have faith, we must n’t have any fun? I believe that holiness and humor can be yoked together, and pull finely too; and I can’t bring myself to believe that it is impossible to love Jesus and have a laugh occasionally into the bargain. What would you have done, dear father, but for a natural merriment, sanctified by grace? It would be dreadful hard labor to be always ploughing without whistling a tune every now and then, and having a hearty laugh when we knock off, or even during work. The plough does n’t go any better for being rusty, and the pilgrim is n’t a whit fitter for heaven because he ’s crusty.

If I remember rightly, those two favored evangelists from America were both cheerful, happy men; but I often think it ’s a good plan if I feel IMoody to sing Sankey, and let solemnity and song blend together. If I should feel a bit down at any time I mean to have another look at your pictures, and if the white Q%’g of the black hen, or the fiddle without the stick, or the cart before the horse don’t hven me up, — well, I must read some more. Here ’s a receipt for melancholy which beats half the tonics and enliveners “all to pieces.”

If you ‘re down in the dumps or given to grumble,

If things go awry or all in a jumble,

If storms should grow thicker and thunder-clouds rumble,

And down the big drops like cats and dogs tumble,

It ’s surely no good to murmur and mumble.

Nor yet to commence to flurry and fumble.

Accept my advice, nor think it too humble

(I give it to all you good gloomy folks),

Invest in a volume of John Ploughman’s jokes.

I am often asked if you are likely ever to come out here. Your horses say “neigh,” and I feel obliged to return the same answer. How I wish you could, though! What rejoicing there would be, and how the people would flock to welcome you! I fancy I see even the kangaroos hopping down to town to hear some of your “plain talk.” Will you ever plough the South Atlantic ocean, think you? We ‘ve got some good workers here, but we should all be the better for a look at your way of doing it, and a specimen of your straight furrow, just to guide us a bit.

You will be glad to hear we have got our new chapels up and opened. Our minister calls them tabernacles, after yours. Of course they ‘re not quite so big. A good deal of rough ground has been broken up: now we can go in more readily for sowing and reaping a crop which is already appearing. I think of going to New Zealand shortly to turn up some ground that is new, at least to me.

I need not tell you that my thoughts often fly home. I have put my hand to a colonial plough, but, truth to tell, I constantly “look back,” not from the work, but across the deep blue sea to “home, sweet home.” “Every bird loves its own nest,” and this “seagull” is no exception.

Give my love to dear mother. She has a work of her own, and a right good one too; I wish all were as well employed in the field. She does her plough share, and no mistake; the jNIaster help her in it! Brother Charles still ploughs at Greenwich, I suppose. There ’s plenty of ground to work upon there. God bless him. Remember me to Will Shepherd, and give Dapper and Violet an extra feed on my account.

I fear I ‘ve kept you too long reading this. It is something like stopping the plough to catch a mouse. I think it ’s time I gave over; so God be wi’ ye, and fare thee well, dear father.

Your loving son,

Tom, the Ploughboy.

Tasmania.

The ability, zeal, discrimination, and spirituality of Thomas Spurgeon are noticeable in the following series of articles from his pen. We also append a striking hymn, which is a sweet strain worthy of our best vocal powers.

HE TOLD US NOTHING NEW.”

Manv a critic praises when he intends to censure. The man who uttered this complaint had not got what he expected, but the fault was with himself, in that he did not look for what it was the preacher’s duty to supply. Blame from certain quarters is the highest commendation. The fly blamed the spider for spreading a web right in its way, and thus paid an unintentional compliment to the skilful fly-catcher. The nail chided the hammer for hitting it right on the head, and indirectly praised the stroke. The fish complained that the bait completely hid the hook, and this was one to the fisherman. Now if the fly and the nail and the fish had been able to congratulate one another on escape from web and stroke and hook, spider and carpenter and fisherman would not have shared the joy, but would have needed to look to their laurels and try again. This case is somewhat similar. From the son of a great preacher, this fault-finder expected to receive something not only startling in delivery, but novel as to matter.

A fellow-townsman said to him the morning after the evangelistic service, ‘’Were you hearing young Spurgeon last night, and what did you think of him?”

“Little enough,” he answered. ‘Lit was the same old stuff. He told us nothing new.” The reader must imagine the shrugged shoulder and the disappointed look which accompanied this lamentation. Sorry as I may be for the poor man’s disappointment, I cannot bring myself to murmur at his criticism. I gladly own the judgment just. There could be no credit to the preacher of the gospel if men who were by no means strangers to the truth exclaimed in rapturous delight, “It was all new to us; we never heard such things before! “Is it ours to be ever” telling some new thing,” tickling the ears of Athenians, and finding food for speculation and superstition? I thought “the old, old story” was our theme, and none of your new-fangled notions and startling novelties.

What this malcontent expected, I am at a loss to knoAV. The avowed object of the preacher was to proclaim the gospel, and the promise was fulfilled. He certainly had a gospel text: ‘’This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners;” and if I remember rightly, the sermon stuck to the text, the tune was in the same key as the first note.

Had the platform been occupied by a conjurer whose programme promised a succession of “startling novelties” and “real surprises,” the audience would have done right in grumbling if these were not forthcoming. An ordinary show of sleight of hand, simple card-tricks, and the like, would not satisfy a public whose appetite had been whetted by a magniloquent advertisement. Nothing short of decapitating an obliging attendant and afterwards restoring his headpiece, or the production of live turtle-doves from a magic frying-pan, could be reckoned a completion of the contract. If a lecturer or concert-company visited the township with songs or subjects said to be “entirely new,” the folks might ask for their money back again (I do not say they would get It), if all they heard was on some local topic from the orator, “Nancy Lee,” or “Home, sweet Home,” from the

songsters.

But in this particular case the speaker made no pretensions, charged no fee, made no promises. He could not be charged with “giving out that himself was some great one.” He did not cause a trumpet to be sounded before him, nor did he blow his own. Passing through the town, he consented to preach the gospel as best he could, and though weary with journeying, he spoke earnestly about the way “from death unto life.” No bargain was broken, no promise forgotten.

I wonder what the grumbler looked for? Surely he could never have hoped I was a purveyor of such misty, mazy doctrines concerning the creation, Christ’s atonement, and future punishment as some men teach. ‘My very name might tell him differently; for though it does not always happen (would God it did! ) that sons continue in their sire’s holy faith, yet hope points that way, and disappointment generally arises in cases of departure rather than in instances of adherence. Did he expect me to introduce a new Saviour to the township, or to rear some ladder to the skies such as he had dreamed of or was wishing for? If so, I thank God that he was disappointed, for I have “determined not to know anything among men save Jesus Christ and Him crucified.”

Gladly I leave others to preach such sermons as one I heard of lately, in which — so says a hearer — “the most comforting truth was the fact that traces of the human race have been discovered thousands of feet beneath the earth’s surface.” Possibly such a statement might be classed under the head of “some new thing;” but if the gospel is still to be had, we say “The old is better.”

That “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners,” is the grandest news that earth can ever hear. It made even heaven rejoice, though our gain was its loss. Was it not to this glad tune that angels sang to shepherds on the Saviour’s birth-night? Did not the eastern sages hail with joy the tidings that the God-sent star proclaimed? And this same news, older in point of time, but fresh and fragrant still, is what we preach; indeed, our news is better, for we can tell not only of our Redeemer’s advent, but of His finished work, His complete sacrifice, and His ceaseless intercession. We speak not of the manger only, but of the cross, the grave, the throne.

Let them call this “the same old stuff,” if they will. We take the liberty of wresting their words till the title, contemptuous though it seems to be, serves as a glorious motto. Let every pulpit provide “the same old stuff! “The loaves and fishes of the gospel are better far than any of the dainty dishes the modern confectioners of the Church concoct. But let it not be thought that when we glory in the old gospel we admit it is not news. Paradoxical as it may seem, we hold that the charm of the old truth is its perennial freshness. It renews its youth “like the eagles.” In some quarters, they tell us it is worn out and threadbare.

The correspondent of a New Zealand paper, when writing the other day from America, said that in that country the old-fashioned theology was “played out.” This startling intelligence was followed by an insinuation, in language which I do not care to quote, that the departure of some from sound Scriptural views argues a general decay and failure of our holy faith. Because some remove the ancient landmarks, he would have it that all are on the eve of changing their minds, recanting their faith, and striking their colors. The wish, I presume, is father to the thought. Such writers — who, by the way, are far more at home when writing of some notable scandal or political sensation — would make us swallow their persuasion that our sires have been mistaken, and that we have shared their folly; that the faith for which martyrs blazed and heroes bled — the faith in which Christians lived trustingly and died triumphantly — is a delusion and a lie. They would have us fling overboard the treasure that has been to us both ballast and cargo so long; and what are they going to give us instead thereof? They would load us; like the silt boats, with mud and mire which they have dredged from their own imaginations, — “primordial slime,” or some such stuff!

The fact is, that for those who are content to relinquish “the old, old story,” there is every provision made in order to supply the vacuum. There is a charming variety of substitutes to select from. As saith the showman, “Whichever you please, my little dears; you pays your money and you takes your choice!” Here is a peep-hole, with a view of “final restoration.” Another presents a scene in which certain learned divines, armed with hose, are playing jets of water on the flames of hell and putting them out (in the picture). Directions for looking through this hole are to the effect that you must keep one eye shut and not look out of the other; for who but the blind can fail to see unquenchable fire even in Christ’s teaching? Should you wish to change your views, you can be obliged with a glance through peep-holes labelled “Conditional Immortality,” “Cleansing Fires,” or “Annihilation.” Dropping the figure, you can find some to assure you that you will die like a dog, cr an ass, if such a doctrine pleases you; you can get a purgatory without going to Rome for it, and annihilation, or something very like it, from professing Christians.

Does some one remind me that these things are by no means new, — that these views have been held in some shape or form for years? I admit it; but are they not new, after all, in comparison with the gospel of the grace of God? Who knows when ‘* the wondrous plan” was first contrived?

The Lamb, whose blood still cleanses us, was “slain from the foundation of the world.” The first gospel sermon was preached as soon as Adam fell, when God the Father promised that the woman’s seed should bruise the serpent’s head. All else is new when we talk of God’s love to rebel men: and yet, old as this gospel is, its power remains as fresh and forceful as ever. “Played out,” indeed! What means the scribe? We may believe it when an angel tells us so, and God admits it. Is this penny-a-liner also among the prophets?

Just now God is telling us plainly, the world over, that His arm is not shortened that it cannot save; and what is His instrument but the tale of Calvary, the old-fashioned theology? Is the ‘’faithful say-ing “no longer true and “worthy of all acceptation?” Has “the truth as it is in Jesus” had its day, like the crowd of short-lived dogmas which have barked against it? Has the fringe of Jesus’ garment ceased to respond with “virtue” to the touch of faith?

When Christ uplifted fails to draw; when the fount, once opened for sin and all uncleanness, is “a spring shut up, a fountain sealed;” when Jesus gives up pleading and the Spirit ceases striving; when angels have no repenting sinners to sing about, we may look for a newer and a better gospel: then we may take up another sword and wear another badge; but “Till then, — nor is our boasting vain, — Till then we ’11 preach a Saviour slain; And oh, may this our glory be, The truth of Christ still makes men free.”

A word to those who read this paper, not having yet accepted for themselves the Christ we speak of. Dear friends, you have a reverence for the “old story” which my critic did not possess. Possibly you have got “so near to the kingdom” as to know that

“None but Jesus can do helpless sinners good.”

Still you have not made Jesus yours. Have you grown gospel-hardened? Have you built your nest so long in the belfry that the bells are scarcely heard? Are the terrible knells which speak of death and judgment, and the merry chime which calls to mercy, alike unheeded? Do not ask for a new gospel, — seek a new heart. God Himself cannot provide any other salvation than that which Christ has wrought. Is it too simple, too easy, too readily understood? iff

If these are the faults you find, be sure they cannot be altered, but you can and must be changed; for “except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.” God give you grace enough, and humility enough, to enable you to accept the simple truth, that you may not be “ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that bclicveth.”

*’HE’S NOT A BIT LIKE A PARSON.’*

Such was the remarkable encomium passed by a sick man on a Christian minister by whom he had been visited. Just as sparkling little nuggets of pure gold are found imbedded in the hard and rugged quartz, so in that rough-hewn sentence there nestles the sincerest praise, unmixed with the alloy of flattery which many a polished phrase contains.

Although as a matter of fact the author of this eulogium had very little sympathy with religion and its professed promoters, I scarcely think he intended so wholesale a condemnation of “the cloth” as might be inferred from his curious criticism. It is just possible that the sick man had been visited by some ecclesiastic whose parsonic importance had irritated him. No lover of religion himself, he would not be too ready to cherish a liking for a professional religionist. Used to scoff and jeer at holy things when up and well, he did not relish parsonic visits during sickness. Perhaps it seemed like taking undue advantage of him. Anything of a priestly style would, of course, go against his grain. He would readily become suspicious, and, determined not to swallow any pious pills, he would not hesitate to make the visitor aware that his room was preferred to his company. The Christian minister who seeks to reach such a character as this needs wisdom that Cometh from above. The door of such a heart seems closed to priests and parsons. Officialism may give as many impressive knocks as it pleases, with nothing but the echo of its own raps as response. The very sight of a white choker and a long black coat to such a man as this will, so to speak, make the snail pull in his horns and shrink into his shell, or, to use another metaphor, it lifts the drawbridge of the soul and makes it quite impregnable.

Sanctimoniousness, too, will work as much evil as starchiness. If the voice be twangy, or if the eyes roll after “dying-duck” and thunder-storm “fashion, the sick scoffer is sure to notice it and to exaggerate it too. His eyes become magnifying-glasses, and his ears microphones. He sees rolling eyes without number, and hears cant phrases to any amount. He hates them all, and does not love the man who owns the rotating optics and speaks with what the scorner calls” the Bible twang.” Should the parson begin to talk on some subject less grave and solemn, in the hope that he may find a back entrance or a side door by and by, he is no more successful. The visit is essentially parsonic. The patient is not strong enough to scoff or argue, and therefore wishes ‘* his reverence “gone. And “his reverence” might as well go. Well meaning he may have been, but he went about a right action in a wrong way, and spoiled it all. Style and starch and stiffness are bad enough in the drawing-room and parlor; they are worse in the pulpit; but worst of all beside a sick bed and with an unbeliever. If that scoffer is to be won for Jesus, — and during illness is a hopeful time, — the attempt must be made cautiously, considerately, and prayerfully.

Our non-parsonic brother visited him. Of course he was an entire stranger, for never had the invalid attended his services. The bar (not legal) was the sick man’s particular shrine, and Bacchus his patron saint (?). It was a far better “spec” to his mind to spend his threepennies on beer than to put them into the collection-plate. He used to chaff his neighbors as they went to meeting, and asked if they were “going to give another threepenny.” Being a good-humored fellow, he would seldom do more than banter Christians about their faith; but his enmity to religion was by no means concealed by his jokes and jeers. A life of evil proclaimed aloud the deep-seated hatred in his heart to holiness and God.

What will he say to our dissenting friend, who sports no snowy choker, and whose coat and hat are neither longer in the tail nor broader in the brim than those worn by ordinary folks? He will look in vain for a priestly or professional style with this visitor, who enters in a free and homely way, shakes hands heartily yet tenderly, and storms the castle by the very first cannonade of kindliness and fraternity. We are not permitted to know all that was said and done, but we learn afterwards that the sick man

remarked to a friend of his,” What a nice fellow Mr. is.

He came to see me just now, and talked and prayed with me. I did n’t want to let him go. I never knew any one speak so kindly to me; quite brotherly he was, and not a bit like a parson!”

Well done, thou man of God! The common people hear thee gladly, so thou hast somewhat of thy Master’s manner with thee. What though no holy (?) hands have blessed thy head, and thou art not recocrnized a member of the line that comes direct from Paul and Peter, thy heart has been touched by a Saviour’s pierced hand, and apostolic success is more to be desired than apostolic succession.

My readers will not be surprised to learn that this visit was not the last, and that each succeeding one was doubly welcome. They will rejoice to hear that the sick man was restored, and that, best of all, “the plague of his heart” was cured. Of course he worshipped in the plain-built tabernacle, and heard the non-parsonic preacher; and never did I see a more attentive listener, nor ever catch a face amongst the auditors more helpful and inspiring to the preacher. Of course Bacchus did not profit by this change, and his priests were greatly angered. Of course the collection-plate was the richer by considerably more than a threepenny-piece, and the quondam scoffer counted it an honor to be ridiculed for Jesus’ sake.

What was it brought this man round, and turned the current of his life? ‘* The grace and power of God,” says one. Truly; nothing else could accomplish it. But what was instrumental? “The sickness,” say you. Yes, in part; but the directest influence was the kindly manner and Christ-like conversation of his visitor; and being ‘’not a bit like a parson,” had not a little to do with snatching the brand from the burning. Oh, for a heart to feel for other hearts, and beat in unison with them! The channel to the souls of men is intricate indeed; we need a heavenly pilot to teach us how to steer. Above all things, we must avoid a patronizing, condescending style when visiting the poor and sick. It is possible to descend without seeming to do so, and to rise again as imperceptibly. Christ-like humility is quite compatible with Christian dignity. We should do gracious actions with a good grace, or the acts are spoiled. The choicest viands should be nicely served. Some give their alms as they would throw buns to the bears at the Zoo, more for the pleasure of seeing them feed than anything else. Lady Superior leaves some food and money with the poor cottagers, who, needy as they are, sadly miss the kind words which should have accompanied the gift. How much sweeter the provisions would have tasted had the bread been buttered with a smile, and the basket lined with Christian love. Thank God, there are some parsons, and parsons’ wives too, who are veritable angels of mercy. Like nightingales, they fly into the solitary shades, and ‘midst the gloom of woe and poverty pour out the melody of gracious words and holy deeds. But wherein lies the secret of their success? Is it so much in what they say and do and give, as in how it is said and done and given? Apples of gold are all the better for being in pictures of silver, and ‘* n word spoken in due season, how good is it!” We should go to the poor and suffering, remembering that a kind providence alone has made us to differ, earnestly desiring their spiritual welfare, and acting and speaking as humbly and naturally as possible. And when we come to pray with such, we need especial grace, lest it should be a matter of mere routine or course.

I heard of a parson lately who visited a poor man supposed to be dying. While this spiritual adviser was with the invalid, his wife intimated her intention of slipping off to the neighboring township to buy some candles. The evening drew on apace, — indeed It was getting dark when the interview began. After a little very ordinary conversation, the “clerk in holy orders” proceeded to say “Farewell,” and added, as he took the wasted hand of his parishioner, ‘* I would have prayed with you, my friend, but your wife is such a time fetching the candles, and I cannot wait.” Would you believe it? His precious book of prayers was absolutely necessary; it was too dark to read, and therefore devotion was impossible! Thanks be to the darkness then, and blest be the evening shade that put their veto on such absurd formality, and spared the dying man the mockery of being prayed for from a book.

Hearty prayer is the only sort that can be acceptable at such a time, either to the sufferer for whom it is offered, or to the Prayer-Hearer to whom It is presented. “Lord, teach us how to pray,” especially when we kneel beside the couch of the dying, or in the houses of the poor! As a relieving contrast to so sad a case, I cannot refrain from telling of how another colonial parson went about doing good. The story runs that he was stopped by a gentleman in blue at dead of night while in the act of carrying a great roll of blankets down the street. When challenged by the officer, he simply said, “It ’s all right,” and attempted to proceed. “No,” said Robert, “you don’t get over me so easy as all that.” And not until the lantern light flashed on the supposed robber’s face, and revealed the countenance of a well-known ecclesiastical dignitary, was the watchman of the night content to let the blanket-bearer “move on.”

During the day this reverend gentleman had found out a necessitous case, and promised covering and clothing; but, what with other calls and business, he had forgotten his morning promise. But when he himself retired to rest, and gladly wrapped himself in thick, warm coverlets (for the night was cold), he bethought him of the needy ones, and, regardless of his own comfort, hurried out into the keen night air to perform his labor of love. No wonder such a man is honored and beloved, although, if we may judge from this incident, “he ’s not a bit like a parson.” Cannot we “go and do likewise?” We are all priests and ministers if we are God’s children; and since it appears that a professional style and clergy cut are not helpful in winning the ears and hearts of men, may not the humblest and lowliest look the more confidently for success in telling of the Saviour’s love to the poor and needy?

As for those Christians who are supposed to occupy a higher position in society, the religion of Jesus has done but little for them if it does not make them remember that “the rich and poor meet together: the Lord is the maker of them all.”

Christ’s example and teaching both tell us that the art of reaching men is to be men. W’e can do angels’ work without soaring aloft on angels’ wings and looking down on everybody else. We must stoop to conquer, — indeed, no action done for Jesus involves a stoop. “He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.”

“Lord, for ever at Thy side

May my place, my portion be;
Strip me of the robe of pride,
Clothe me with humility.”

‘’JESUS FOR ME!”

The old man was very deaf, so he sat close to the edge of the platform. During service he appeared happy and interested, so I asked him, when all was over, how he heard this time. Said he, “I got on better to-day”; and he seemed so glad that I half hoped he had heard most of the sermon. ‘’ Well, how much of it did you manage to catch?” I asked. He replied, “Only three words, but they were good ones, — ‘Jesus for me! ‘” This incident has suggested the following lines: —

A floweret bloomed in valley land,

It drank soft dews by night,
The summer zephyr wafted it,

But still it pined for light.
It said (you could not hear, but see),
With scent-cup drooping helplessly,
“Sunshine for me! Sunshine for me!”

O Jesus! light of earth and heaven!

Shine on my darkened soul;
Rise on me, with Thy healing wings

Restore and make me whole:
The balm of Gilead is in Thee
Go — creature aid and sympathy.
Jesus for me! Jesus for me!

A helpless, broken, bleating lamb

Lay in the deep ravine,
And blood-spots marked the dangerous way

The wanderer had been:
It said — with every wound a plea — “Have pity on my misery,
The fold for me, the fold for me.”

O Jesus! Bishop of my soul!

r m weary, wandering, cold;
Come ‘cross the hills to bear me back;

Replace me in Thy fold:
My soul restore, my Shepherd be.
Who is a pardoning God like Thee.’’
Jesus for me! Jesus for me!

A sea-bird circled round the ship,

Then lighted on a spar;
One tried to make it prisoner, —

It swiftly flew afar.
And screamed, in flying, “Wings are free,
For sea-fowls must have liberty.
Ocean for me! Ocean for me!”

THOMAS SPURGEON. r-j
O Jesus! Blest Deliverer!

Since Thou hast burst my bands,
My faith-winged heart cannot be held

By any sinful hands:
If free indeed, I ’11 evil flee,
Thy boundless love shall be mv sea.
Jesus for me! Jesus for me!

A spark flew upward from the fire,
Seeking the sun’s bright glow;

The parent claimed its tiny child,
And it rejoiced to go:

And said in tones of sparkling glee,

As up it sped obediently,

“The sun for me! The sun for me!”

0 Jesus! Sun of righteousness!
May I not rise as well?

May I not live and move in Thee?
May I not with Thee dwell?

1 love, for Thou hast loved me:
The spark of love flies back to Thee.
Jesus for me! Jesus for me!

A matron hasteth back to home,

The villagers all greet;
They bring her tokens of their love,

And waken music sweet;
Yet satisfied she cannot be:
“My lord,” she says, ‘• I long to see;
My spouse for me, my spouse for me.”

O Jesus! Husband! Once in heaven,
Nor harps nor crowns afford

One half the joy this hope can bring, — “For ever with the Lord.”

*’ Amen! “say I,” so let it be.

In time and through eternity.

Jesus for me! Jesus for me!”

THE HOLY GHOST IS HERE.

The Holy Ghost is here,
Where saints in prayer agree;
As Jesu’s parting gift, He ’s near
Each pleading company.

Not far away is He,
To be by prayer brought nigh,
But here in present majesty,
As in His courts on high.

He dwells within our soul,
An ever-welcome Guest;
He reigns with absolute control
As Monarch in the breast.

Our bodies are His shrine,
And He th’ indwelling Lord.
All hail, thou Comforter divine,
Be evermore adored I

Obedient to Thy will,
We wait to feel Thy power!
O Lord of life, our hopes fulfil,
And bless this hallowed hour!

C. H. Spurgeon.

THE ’70^
fUBi-IC ■.

A’

TIL

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