harps are often on the willows; but there will be no willows on the banks of the waters of life,-no emblem of weeping there;— "For there are no prisons to hold The captive from tasting delight; These thoughts on a silent Sabbath are written with a trembling hand, -but with the prayerful hope they may tend to cheer some afflicted brother or sister, by their companion in tribulation, Bury St. Edmunds, Lord's-day, Jan. 14, 1855. CORNELIUS ELVEN. THE BRIGHTER SIDE. "Contemplate more the good you can do than the evil you can only lament. Allow yourself to see the loveliness of nature amidst all its im perfections, and employ your moral imagination, not so much by bringing it into contrast with the model of ideal perfection, as in gently blending some of the fainter colours of the latter with the brighter hues of real experienced excellence; thus heightening their beauty, instead of broadening the shade which must surround us till we awaken from this dream in other spheres of existence."* It is very certain that, if a man will look only and continually at the evil about him or in the world, he will become sad either in real grief on account of it, or in misanthropic hatred of man and life. He may look at the intemperance, in its more than single form,-the irreverence, the selfishness, the oppression, the superstition, and all the darkness that exists in its multiplied, and wide-spread, and most hideous forms, and grieve. He might, like Carey (though with different aim), look at the globe, and, pointing, say, "These are Pagans, these are Pagans,-and only these are Christians!" and weep. And looking only at this, it would be easy, I suppose, to raise another gloomy mountain of doubt of the Divine goodness, and so have sadness induced, not only by the fact that the evil is, but also by doubt as to whether it is controlled by the Great Father. Indeed this is possible without going so far. Perhaps many a minister even, zealous in his work, ardent in his hopes, longing for spiritual good, about his own home, may see such coldness, such inconsistency, such self. seeking and grasping, and such utter destitution of the Christ-like spirit, and aim, and working, even amongst those who bear his name, to say nothing of the hardened indifference and open sin of those who do not, as often to fill his heart with grief, not only because it is so, but also because of the suspicion that will cross his mind, that religion with such is but a sham; and the temptation that will come upon his soul, saying that Christianity itself is no better, else its power would be greater. As an antidote against such feelings, some might say, "Look more on the ludicrous side" of evil even; and others, "Meet and battle it with satire." But the first might tend to too light a view of sin; and the second, whether it proceeded from mirthful ridicule or indignant wrath, might be found very expensive to the mental and spiritual economy, and might not in either case prove effectual in destroying the evil. But surely there is much that is better in the way prescribed by Sir James Mackintosh. It was written to his friend Robert Hall, after the temporary aberration of intellect which had befallen him; and though we cannot say the writer was right in his conjecture as to the cause, yet he * Sir James Mackintosh. was a physician and metaphysician, knew his friend well, and possibly he was right. At least we must admire the delicate, the generous, and noble spirit with which he wrote, and the profound and beautiful character of his suggestions. It is better to think of the good we can do, than of the evil we can only lament. It is better to see the loveliness of nature than its seeming imperfections; and it is better to clothe excellence with more excellence, far rather than darkening the shade that is about us, and must here hang qver us. We know not the hearts of any, and often may there be not qnly evil but good-good we cannot see where it is little suspected, and which, if discovered to us, would be like bringing gems from the deep. And, as a general thing, it must be better with all to look on the "bright side;" for whilst the darker might often prejudice and repulse, and that mistakenly and unwarrantably, the brighter might increase our charity, make our communion sweeter, and give us better faith in humanity. It is indeed blessed that there are some good people, possessing the graces of the christian, showing forth the real excellencies of a child of God, and a heavenly character. They are the fragrant flowers, the majestic trees towering to heaven, the bright stars in the firmament of our spiritual world. It may be as flowers amid weeds, trees with surrounding desolation, stars in a dark night, or oases in the desert; but it is good to have them even so. They are fragrant with heavenly perfume, aspiring in God-like character, bright with celestial light, and refreshing to all, as diffusing the Holy Spirit's influences all around. And to look on these, to study them, to mingle with them, will not only show us the possi bility of their being such-and so of heaven, in a sense, on earth-but it may bring us to partake of their character; it may increase our faith in the powers of God's truth, in the worth of Christ's religion; it may bring to us heart-experiences, life-manifestations, glorious examples, to and in the service and defence of that truth; and it may cheer us on in our labours in its cause, with the conviction that it is never powerless, and that not only a few, but eventually all, shall be the Lord's, "and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose." Devonport. THE PROMISED LAND. We mortals spend our strength, our life, for nought! If we have gained the object that we sought, We're not content with all the glitt'ring heap, But Alexander-like we turn and weep! Our life through on some Pisgah's height we stand, When we aspire above this transient earth, T. W. Tales and Sketches. THE SYRIAN DISCIPLE. A STORY OF OLD. A Syrian home stood beneath its palm trees. High in air their long boughs waved like royal banners, while below the wind dallying with the slender leaves of the olive, and the glossy foliage of the orange, now tossed them aside to let the sunbeams in upon their stems, and anon Closed them as suddenly above the deep, cool shadows. Around the eaves fluttered multitudes of sparrows, bees made • pleasant murmur in the creepers which flung their tendrils far up the roof, and flocks of doves, strong in their very weakness, alighted softly upon the grass, or as lightly rose again at approaching footsteps. Here and there might be seen peaceful hamlets encircled by groves and vineyards, on the slopes little children frolicked with the lambs and kids, and laughing maidens gathered the purple-edged laurel flowers, those sweetest of "incense breathing blossoms. Sweet tones came from a court, where a bride sang to her bridegroom, for Ackla had wedded the fairest of the Syrian maidens. The young man heard, but not with that rapt attention he had so often accorded, for the beauty of the singer fascinated equally with her song, and he might now without rebuke gaze into her dark eyes, and read therein her treasured secrets. In their clear depths lay an expression of trusting love and profound content, a something which seemed almost audibly to say, "My lot is indeed blessed." So the husband looked and listened till there sprang up within him a passionate fear of death, an unutterable longing for a lengthened span of life. Quick in his resolves as in his impulses, he exclaimed, This very night, Hillia, I will seek the Mountain Hermit and his magic stream." stretching out like a blue vapour, made him pause in his ascent. Sometimes the preci pice grew steep and stern, and sometimes a dull, cold fear, generated by often-felt suspicions, crept chilly to his heart; but above all gleamed a lovely face, floated fond home tones, and the loiterer again pressed on. The last height was won, and the dim cavern was just before him. As he stopped uncertain how to address its inmate, there came forth a man of gentle aspect, who spread some dried fruit upon a rock, beside a limpid spring. He knelt a few mo ments, and then 'began to eat, but seeing the wayfarer, he beckoned him to come forward. "You are welcome, my son," he said, "to my frugal fare." Thus bidden, Ackla took a handful of dates, and then said, " It pains me to reduce the scanty measure of your little stock when I have myself enough for my neces sities, though, perhaps, for men speal wonderful things of thee, thou canst at wil multiply thy substance by a thousand fold." No," said the hermit; "such power s not given me, but there are those who would not willingly permit me to suffer." "Thou hast then benefited them! Per chance the deep buried gold comes to thee at thy bidding, and flashes in thy coffers as a call." "I have benefited those I spoke of, but not with gold.” "Thou hast, it may be, given them ran influence, or command over the elements to stay the rushing wind, and to call forth the pealing thunder." "No, my son, thou hast not yet reached the secret of my benefactions." "Then, oh, venerated sage! thou must have given them of that fountain of unending life which men say wells so brightly in thy dwelling. Oh, if thou wouldst give one draught only unto me !" "I do, indeed, teach the way to a well of water springing up unto everlasting life. I can give thee to hear its gushing, but not to drink of its crystal flood." "I have jewels, great magician. The chrysoprase, sparkling with imprisoned sunlight, pearls with a faint rose-tint lying upon their snow, and sapphires blue as the sky at midsummer, and glowing as its depths. They were part of the dowry of my bride, who sent them to exchange for thy wondrous treasure." The hermit looked on the excited countenance of his guest, long and sadly. At last he asked, "Hast thou found this world so full of happiness that thou wouldst fain dwell here for ever?" "My home is the loveliest in the valley, and my bride is fairer than the day star; aad her voice is sweeter than the tones of the lute heard from afar in the midnight. Life is glorious to us, father, and we would grasp its cup to the very last." "And all thou askest is the life here?" W Aye; for me and for my bride, the life Aere." "Thou wouldst then pass by the founLain even though I should lead thee to its very briuk, for the life it gives pertains to another world, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, neither buying nor selling, neither wealth nor poverty." So the two talked far into the night, but the younger heard all the while the bleatIng of his great flocks, the lowing of his oxen, mingled with the rustling of vine leaves, and the songs of his merry bride; and when the grey dawn was visible he rose, saying, Farewell, for the present, father, I will come again." "Yes," said the hermit, thou wilt come again. Not as thou now art, but thou wilt surely come again." "Dost thou then see so much darkness In my future that thou so certainly countest upon my return ?" "No," replied the sage, "I see in thine Only what I see in that of others,-weariness of the world's best gifts, sickness, disappointment, and sorrow; and running through all, lessening the brightness and deepening the gloom, a vague, haunting aread of the unknown hereafter." "Ten years from this I will come again," answered the youth. "Thy blessing, father, and now once more farewell." Ten years! It seemed a long, long time the young man as he dashed down the mountain steeps, yet when they had gone by, he said sadly, "Are they fled so soon ?" The valley home was enlarged and decofated with the luxury of a palace. More heavily hung the vine branches over the high trellises, broader were the shadows of The mulberry and the pomegranate, wider the fields of grain, more numerous the "She weeps for her two buried prattlers and with me asks only for the second and better life." Then the hermit took a manuscript from its hiding place in the rock, and read of the risen Saviour. And the great want which had so long been gnawing at his hearer's heart was satisfied. Again at the early dawn he took leave of his teacher, and with the precious scroll in his bosom hastened back to the valley. Not content that the infinite glory should light up only his own dwelling, he went forth to impart of his new knowledge, and soon gathered from rural hamlets and neglected bye-paths, a little church of believers. Once more Ackla sought the hermit's cell. The marks of care and suffering were thick and deep upon his brow, his figure had lost its robust development, and his foot its elastic tread. He needed sympathy, and kneeling before the sage, he laid his head upon his knee and wept. The old man remained silent, marking the white hairs which had mingled with the curls of glossy black, in the little time since his guest had last left him. At last Ackla rose and said, "Pardon my weakness, father, but the hand of persecu tion lies heavily on my people, and my flock is scattered, I know not whither." "And thy wife and child, the boy tho toldest me of, the heir to thy wealth and honours ?" "They have been taken from the evil to I mourned bitterly for them at first, but the pestilence is more merciful than come. the fire, and I thank God that I alone am left to walk that terrible pathway." The hermit looked up enquiringly. "Yes," answered Ackla, "there have been many martyrs among my flock, and few days will have passed ere the shepherd will be stricken with the sheep." "Syria is not all the world, my son, and the fury of the enemy will be at last appeased." 66 Nay, father, but the teacher must suffer with the taught. For me, there is no way to my Master, but by the fagot and the flame." The next morning the old man offered to accompany his guest. Many times Ackla entreated him to return, but in vain. His strength sustained by some lofty purpose did not falter. Now leaning on his staff, and now on his companion's arm, he lightened the toil of the descent by pleasant histories of his converts. As they neared the plain, however, he perceived a light wreath of smoke, which by degrees grew and deepened into a dense black column. He knew that at least one Syrian martyr was then passing upward to glory, and gradually turning to sacred topics he drew from his vast stores of divine truth, such fulness of instruction, such abundant consolation, such incentives to duty, such ground-work for hope, that Ackla divined his purpose, and pointing to the fearful signal, asked in a low choked voice, "Thou, also, my father?" "Yes," said the hermit. "Many years ago I fled from a like fate. My faith is now stronger, my hope brighter, my spirit more obedient. If God so wills, we will die together." When the sun on the next Sabbath Hooded the earth with its golden rays, fierce lurid flames shot upward to meet him, and the breeze that followed played with the ashes of the hermit and his disciple, as it careered across the plain. THE PRAYING BANKRUPT. Some twenty-five years since, in a town of some maritime importance, there resided a deacon, who was engaged in lucrative business. Although of prudent habits, his benevolence led him to endorse largely for one who had won his confidence as a christian brother, but who afterwards proved to be a designing knave. This issued in the good deacon's failure, when, with scrupulous integrity, everything that could be claimed by his creditors was given up. A winter of great severity and of general busines depression followed. His wife and young children looked to him for a subsistence which he knew not how to furnish, as his most diligent efforts for employment were. unsuccessful. A debt incurred with no prospect of payment was in his estimation sin; and he sadly saw the little stock of provision they Fossessed rapidly diminishing, with no way to obtain more. He was a man of prayer as well as action, and carried the case to Him who-feedeth the ravens. Yet long weary weeks passed, and no succour came At length the morning dawned when the last piece of coal was on the fire, and little Hatty told her father that the candles were all gone; "and how," asked she, "shall we take care of dear mamma to-night ?" The question went to the father's heart with dagger-like poignancy. The vision of his suffering wife gasping her life away in the last fearful stages of consumption, her comfortless sick-room, unwarmed, unlight ed, and the thick darkness which he kne would enshroud her mind, when made aware of the extent of their destitution, would have driven him to distraction. were it not that he yet had hope in One mighty to save. He fled to his closet, and there in an agony of prayer besought the Lord for help; and, forgetting all other wants, pled and pled again for the two articles now specially needed, specifying them with reiterated earnestness. He arose from his knees in full assurance of faith and with heavenly tranquillity, and went forth expecting deliverance, looking for it, however, in but one way,-through his own earnings. But, after a fruitless day of seeking employment, gloomily he returned home. He entered his gate, and was startled to see before him a generous pile of coals Little Johnny opened the door, clapping his hands, exclaiming, "Oh, pa! we've got some coals and some candles!" "But where did you get them? Are you sure they were not left here by mistake?" "Oh, no, pa !" interrupted Hatty," they were not left by mistake. A man knocked at the door with his whip, and when I opened it, he asked if you lived here.. I told him you did. Then he said, Here are some candles and a load of coals for him."" |