give five thousand pounds," said a wealthy man to a friend of mine the other day, "for a passport to heaven when I die; but I can never kneel down before God and beg for it as many do." Ah, poor, rich, deluded man, well may the Saviour say, "How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!" It is the kneeling down and begging for salvation, as the free gift of God, that is so humiliating to the proud, haughty spirit of man. If a "passport" could be purchased, the wealthy would enter by means of their riches, "for all that a man hath will he give for his life." And if a passport could be merited by a few deeds of self-denial and religious ceremonies, the moralist and formalist would enter. But to abandon self in every respect, and to kneel before God and beg from a consciousness of helplessness and need, trusting entirely to the free mercy of God, through Christ, for pardon and salvation, is the very last thing a sinner will do. And yet none but beggars can enter there! A "clean heart" and a renewed spirit" are the only passport; and these can only be obtained by earnest begging and hearty believing. 66 But suppose the unrenewed could enter, they would find no happiness there. They would be as much out of their natural element as a fish would be out of water, or as a dog would be in it. The very things they loved most would be everlastingly gone from them. All would be a blank to them. The burning eye of an offended God would pierce them through. The countenance of Him whose love they slighted, and whose precious blood they trampled beneath their feet as an unholy thing, would strike them with terror. Heaven itself would appear as a huge temple, and the glorified as a mighty congregation engaged in sing. ing the praises of their Redeemer. And as they had no heart for the worship of God down here, they would have none up there. The Sabbath was often long and dreary to them down here, but up there it would be everlastingly so. They would therefore regard praise as an everlasting drudgery, and the company, the place, the song, everything, would be so unsuitable to their taste, and repulsive to their feelings, that, as good George Whitfield said, "they would want to run down to hell for shelter." To enter the kingdom of heaven, a man must be "born a second time, not of the flesh, but of the spirit. "Ye must be born again," said our blessed Saviour; and without a second birth a man must die the second death. The Christian has had two births, a natural one and a spiritual one, and he will have but one death, namely, the death of the body; his spiritual birth saved him from a spiritual death, both here and hereafter. On the other hand, the sinner has had one birth, a natural one, but except he " be born again" he will have two deaths, a natural one and a spiritual one; the latter should be greatly dreaded, and all may shun it; but the former we shall all have to meet. If we are saved from the latter, the sting of the former will be taken away. Death to those who love God, is only a short voyage to the better land; it is as welcome to the child of God as a mother's kiss to her infant, and as the infant falls asleep on its mother's breast, so the Christian falls asleep on the bosom of his God and Saviour. But with the sinner the matter is very different. To him death is an awful thing, and well it may, for who can tell the horror that hangs around the second death, to which the first is only the entrance. The grappling irons which he threw out to draw in the objects of his avarice are then wrapt around his own heart, and by them Satan drags him down to his infernal den. Every ungodly man is forging his own fetters, and daily manufacturing a chain by which he will be bound in the flames of hell for ever. The wicked are kindling, with their own hand, a fire that will burn to the lowest hell, a fire into which death will plunge them, and which never can be quenched, nor can their worm ever die. "Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me," said the once gay and noble young Altamont, "thou would'st struggle with the martyr for his stake, and bless heaven for the flame that is not an everlasting flame." "I would gladly part with all my estate, large as it is, or a world, to obtain salvation," said another," but, alas! I see a horrible night approaching, bringing with it the blackness of darkness for ever." Oh, how sad to die in this state. "In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Sinks, sinks into the bottomless abyss of eternal woe. Such is the end of a sinner's life on earth. From such an end may the Lord in his infinite mercy save us. Amen and amen! Dost thou cry, "What must I do to be saved?" That is an old question; here is the old Scriptural answer, we have no new one to give, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved." Saved now from all thy guilt and from all thy fears. "But have I nothing to do?" No, only believe and thou shalt be saved. There is life for a look at the crucified one. Take God at his word as thou would'st thy dearest friend, and the work is done. Doing will follow. Doing is the effect, not the cause of believing. As fruit is produced by the tree, so good works are produced by faith. First believe, and then show thy faith by thy works. Working for life is the wrong way; working, hard as thou mayest, from life, the divine life within, is the right way. May the Lord help thee. Amen. SQUINTY. I HAVE Sometimes been pained to observe the marked difference which some parents make between their children, and the invidious discrimination they cause to bear against those who have equal claims upon them for their kind regard and parental care. Many, doubtless, who but for this unreasonable distinction would have passed the morning of life happily, and have grown to useful manhood and womanhood, have thus had their youthful aspirations crushed, and have passed life's morning in sadness-a sadness which, by the time they arrived at maturity, settled into a confirmed melancholy, and perhaps had its issue in untimely death. To account, in every case, for this unreasonable estrangement from one child and superior attachment to another, would be difficult, perhaps impossible. Sometimes it is the case that one child is more than ordinarily dull and homely, while another is unusually brilliant and pretty; when this is the case, the brilliant is apt to become the favourite, to the neglect of the more homely and dull. At other times it happens that a child naturally or through accident is deformed. This alone will seldom occasion this cruel feeling of estrangement, but in connection with dullness and lack of beauty increases the danger. If, however, the deformed child is brilliant, or so deformed as to be more than usually dependent, it is ordinarily secure. Other causes, doubtless, frequently modify or increase this feeling; but, however produced, it is cruel and wrong, and should be guarded against, as well on account of its inherent wickedness as on account of its sad effects. The family of Mr. B. presents a case in point. Mr. and Mrs. B., although respectable members of society, and sustaining an honourable connection with an orthodox church, were yet not proof against this feeling. They had but two children-two little girls. The younger, Celia, was very pretty and intellectually brilliant, exhibiting grace quite beyond her years. The other, Martha, was two years older, and neither handsome nor brilliant-indeed, she was esteemed a dull child. Her homeliness was in part owing to a deformed eye, of which she was totally blind. As soon as Celia's superior brilliancy became manifest, this hateful feeling of partiality began to develop itself in the parents' hearts, and found its first noticeable expression in the unseemly nickname they gave Martha on account of her defective eye. While Celia was addressed by every term of endearment, Martha was invariably called Squinty. The parents themselves having inaugurated the practice of calling Martha by this meanly derisive name, it was not long, as will always be the case, until she was called so by everybody else. Parents are generally responsible for the nicknames their children bear. Let them persist in calling them by their proper names, and others will do so too. It was truly painful to observe the palpable difference in the treatment of these two children. In the morning it was, "Squinty, up with you!" while it was, "Celia, love, don't you wish to rise?" In the evening, 'Squinty, off to bed!" while it was, "Celia, dear, you are sleepy; come kiss Ma and Pa, and then go to your little couch." Squinty, Squinty, Squinty, the livelong day, grated harshly upon Martha's ears. But there were meaner ways in which this feeling manifested itself. Mr. B. never went to the city but he brought a nice toy for Celia, while poor Martha was either neglected or had to be content with a much inferior one. Mrs. B. always dealt a double portion of sweetmeats to Celia, and if she fretted for Martha's stinted portion, it was, "Give it to her, Squinty, or I shall chastise you severely." Every little difficulty between them was sure to result in Martha's chastisement, without question as to where the blame rested. Even in dress the partiality of the parents did not fail to find expression. Celia was arrayed in the finest and best, and complimented for her ladylike appearance, while Martha was dressed in common clothes, and mocked for her old womanish appearance. Such unkind treatment did not fail to have its appropriate effect upon Martha. Her spirits became soured and saddened, and frequently she would seek a place of seclusion and weep. For this she was chided as peevish, and at times chastised. Fortunately for Martha, this cruel conduct was destined to receive a salutary rebuke. The time had come for Martha to be sent to school. Miss Longley, an old and cherished friend of Mrs. B., whom she had not seen for many years, had been engaged to teach. Her school opened on a bright September morning. Martha was there. After a friendly lecture to the children, she proceeded to enroll the names of the scholars. She requested the children to give their names in order as they were seated. When Martha's turn came she uttered her name in a subdued, melancholy tone. "Ah, Mistress, it ain't, her name is Squinty," spoke up a bold, bright-eyed little girl at Martha's side. This started a titter all round the room. Miss Longley to relieve the embarrassment of the occasion, said, "Oh, no, Sissy, that's not her name." "It is, Mistress, it is; I heard her Ma say it so," rejoined the little impertinence, determined not to be so easily vanquished. Those who tittered before, now laughed outright. Martha dropped her head and began to cry. Miss Longley said nothing more, but proceeded enrolling names. When she had finished, she went to Martha and endeavoured to comfort her, and in the conversation learned that she was the child of her old friend. She promised to accompany her home in the evening. Her tender words were like oil upon the wounded heart of Martha. She felt that she had at least one friend in the world. According to promise, she went home with Martha. Mrs. B. was overjoyed to see her. While they were exchanging their expressions of delight at seeing each other, Martha, who had become so attached to Miss Longley that she seemed loth to leave her, attracted Mrs. B.'s attention, "Out to the kitchen, Squinty, I presume Miss Longley has had sufficient trouble with you blockheads to-day." Large tears gathered in Martha's eyes as she promptly obeyed. Mrs. B. noticed this, and remarked to Miss Longley, "Squinty is the most stupid and peevish girl I ever saw; so different from her sister Celia." Miss Longley was shocked, and with difficulty concealed her warmth of feeling. She now understood the school-room occurrence. As Mrs. B. proceeded to institute invidious comparisons between Martha and Celia, she delicately advocated Martha's cause, and defended her against the charge of stupidity. During the evening and morning, Miss Longley witnessed such hateful exhibitions of partiality on the part of the parents that she resolved to call their attention to the matter, even at the risk of losing their friendship. While she was walking in the garden with Mrs. B., she related the school-room incident of the day previous. At first Mrs. B. was amused, but as Miss Longley recounted what she had noticed since she had been at her house, she manifested uneasiness, but such was Miss Longley's tenderness, that she could not refuse to hear her. She kindly but faithfully exposed the cruelty and sinfulness of making Martha's misfortune the occasion of an unseemly nickname, and portrayed the sad effect such treatment had upon Martha. Mrs. B. was completely overcome by Miss Longley's logic and tenderness, and wept freely, confessing the sinfulness of the feeling which had prompted her to act so. She promised to do all in her power to conquer the feeling and change her conduct, and said she would speak to Mr. B. about the matter. |