honor of the kind. The Marshal will bear me out in the assertion, that it was altogether unsolicited on my part. In every honcrable case the office ought to seek the man, and not the reverse. How it happened to find me, who can tell? The ancient goddess of Fortune is represented as blind, with wings on her feet. It was said that the person who turned the wheel for drafting soldiers was blind, too. And if some of the lucky ones would have had wings on their feet, they would have outflown the Marshal's notification. I had written an article against the clause in the Conscription Act, compelling the clergy to perform military duty. May not my audacious sling thrown at the law, have helped me to this bit of glory? After all even for a clergyman to be drafted, is not an unmixed evil. It gives one a sense of his muscular importance to be called into a three years' service in such a momentous conflict. It teaches him that his blood, bones and limbs, can be of service to his country, no less than his brains. Had it not been for a few drawbacks, service in the ranks would have been cheerfully rendered. As it was the Marshal's card of exemption was accepted with equal cheerfulness. In the ranks, a six-foot Bakalion, like the famous tall Guards of "Old Fritz" of Prussia, might be preferable. Stonewall Jackson ordered his men to fire low; hence the higher the head the safer it will be, whatever may become of the other end of the soldier. And where balls have so little respect for one's previous standing, it might not be pleasant to carry one's head higher than other people. While this draft is pending, all kinds of military dreams and fancies float through your head. What position would be assigned you? One in the forts or open field; serve as drum-major or in digging trenches? What kind of a figure would one cut as cook for the mess, boiling coffee and roasting meat, provided he had any? How would he get through a long fast, a long march, or a long sleepless night on a hard earthen bed? And then in battle? Ah, yes, there's the rub. To kill a fellowmortal, or be killed by him! Either horn of the dilemma is bad enough, perhaps of the two the second the least to be desired. It is cruel to tread on an inoffensive worm; murderous to give a chicken more pain than is necessary in cutting its head off. Angling for trout may be a pleasant pastime to all except the trout. Put yourself in the trout's place, friend Isaac Walton, and learn how the angle feels. I had never shot a living thing. How could such a man shoot a fellow-mortal? Once I fired at a rabbit, six paces off. After taking good aim, I shut my eyes and pulled the trigger. The crack of the gun frightened the innocent being out of a sound nap. How glad I was to see him run away unhurt. No man can safely keep his eyes open within a foot from the flashing sparks of exploding powder. In shooting I have always gone it blindly; shut the eyes when I pulled the trigger. Rather save my eyes than hit the mark aimed at, be it man or animal. In the use of carnal weapons I am a "non-combatant." Save in one country, I have never seriously fought with man or beast. On the Plain of Jezreel I used a revolver without powder, to prevent a man from committing murder; in Egypt I thrashed the degraded sons of Thebes with unstinted blows, for their instruction. Whoever makes the trial will find that for the back of a Turk, no less than for that of a fool, the rod is necessary, chiefly because the Turk belongs to the fool tribe. But as for shedding of blood not a drop can I remember. Whether rabbit, Arab or rebel be the mark, no one could get me to risk my vision by firing with eyes open. Blindly must I turn this wheel of destiny, as did the blind boy who drafted my name. If an overseen power directs his hand, why not my bullet? In moral and spiritual battles the firing is done with open eyes. Ministers are, or at least ought to be, the salt of the earth, and the oil too. Whoever prefers to be the pepper and powder of the earth, by the use of these let him stand or fall. As for me, give me the oil and salt, that which nourishes, soothes and gives a healthy savor, rather than that which burns and explodes. That which makes, and preserves and purifies blood, rather than that which heats and sheds it. HOW A BOY'S SOUL WAS WON. The farm on which I worked was in the suburbs of a Massachusetts village; and a beautiful night in June, when a few scattered drops of rain were falling from fleecy clouds. I was overtaken in the streets by a pleasant-faced young gentleman as I was driving two Durham cows from the pasture to the stable. I cast my eye backward. Hearing footsteps, and seeing a cheerful face, my whole soul was delighted, and I felt it meant me. He approached on the opposite side of the street, did not hesitate to put his nicely-blacked boots into the mud, coming to my side, and kindly holding over my head the umbrella he was carrying. So cheerfully he asked the natural questions to interest a boy: "Whose cows are they? How much milk will they give? What did they cost? Do you drive them night and morning?"-with 1 many others, to which with a real pleasure I answered. Then, with the same pleasant, winning way, asked if I was a Christian. "No, sir." (Wonderful, I thought, to talk about cows and being a Christian at the same time, and in the same pleasant and natural way.) "Do you want to be?" "I've always wanted to be, sir?" Do you pray?" "I've prayed, night and morning, since I was old enough to understand what it meant." "Have you a mother?" "No, sir." "Where is your mother?" "Was she a Christian ?" "A Christian, sir! The best mother a boy ever had." "Tell me about her sickness." "She had consumption, coughing for three years, and was confined to her room for six months." "Did she talk with you about being a Christian?" "She was not a talking woman, but she prayed and lived before me, sir." "Tell me about her dying." "My father called my brother and self about two o'clock on a very cold December morning, saying: 'Hasten, boys; your mother is dying.'" "How did you feel when you were dressing?" "It was very cold in that unfinished attic where we slept, and I shook from head to foot. Putting on my coat, I got my hand between the lining and the sleeves and could scarcely get it back, I shook so." "What did you think then?" "Think, sir! What could I think, only that I had no mother to mend it? For it was never like that, no, never, when my mother could get about the house." "When your mother was put down into the grave, how did you feel?" "Feel, sir? If I was prepared, I felt that I would like to be buried by her side!" "Do you feel lonely?" "All the time, sir." "Why so?" "Oh! sir, it seems to me no one loves me!" "Have you a Sunday-school teacher?" "Yes, sir." "Don't he love you? "I don't know, sir; he never said so." "How do you expect he would say it?" "Oh! sir; not to talk it out, but to speak to me on the street, and to seem interested in me." "Does he never do that?” "Never, sir; he doesn't seem to know me on the street, and us boys feel that he doesn't care much for us. Why, sir, he went to sleep in our class a few Sundays since!" The stranger seemed so interested in me, his face glowing with love, as he continued: "Can't you tell me something your mother said to you during her sickness ?" "Yes, sir. I used to watch with her occasionally the last few weeks of her sickness, calling my father at midnight or at one o'clock. One morning I stepped to the bedside to kiss my mother good-night, before calling my father, and she said, 'Hand me the glass of water, my boy.' Giving it to her, sir, she drank the contents. Handing back the glass, and dropping her thin, bony hand upon the sheet, she said: 'It is very white, but it will be whiter in a few days, and you won't have to sit up and watch with your mother."" The stranger's interest in me seemed to overflow as he passed his umbrella from his right to his left hand, seizing my right hand with his, exclaiming: "My dear boy, I think you ought to become a Christian now!" "Yes, sir, I would like to, if I knew how." At this point in the interview, we came to the street-corner where the cows turn to go to the stable. Grasping my hand with. increased warmth, he said: "Do you turn here?" "Yes, sir." With a look of tender love that I have no power to describe, he said: "My dear lad, you must become a Christian, and grow up and be useful, doing good in the world!" Then bending toward me, and drawing down the umbrella that he might be unobserved by passers-by, he offered in substance, this prayer, still firmly holding my hand: "O God! bless this motherless boy. He says no one loves him; but, dear Lord Jesus, show him how much you love him, and how you will wash away his sins and make him happy here, and give him a home with his mother in heaven forever. Hear the prayer his mother offered when on earth, and hear his own prayer, for Jesus' sake. Amen." When I opened my eyes at the close of that wonderful petition, and looked into the stranger's face, the tears were dropping from his cheeks. He withdrew his hand from mine with a strange reluctance, saying: "Good-by, my lad, the stranger loves you much; your mother loved you more; but Jesus Christ has died that you might live eternally with Him." as. he He followed me with his eye till his vision was cut off, passed behind a fence. Going a few yards, I stopped with amazement to think on what had occurred, and watched the umbrella as it passed along at the top of the high board fence, till it was lost behind a barn. Dear young friends, love to be taken by the hand and be talked with of the life to come; and, beloved teachers, love to take your pupils by the hand, weeping over them in your soul-longings. -Burnell. SAINTS WITHOUT SEPULCHRES. BY THE EDITOR. "No man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."-DEUT xxxiv. 6. Many saints of ancient and modern times either sleep in unknown graves, or have never been honored with a burial. The remains of the inartyrs burned at the stake, and of those devoured by wild beasts, were never allowed the sad repose of the grave. Even on their dead bodies their savage murderers continued to vent their ferocious rage. In many cases the furious foes of Christ and His people went to special pains to scatter the dust of the martyrs, so as forever to put it beyond the reach of their friends. In 1415 John Huss was burned at the stake in an open field a short distance from Constance, Switzerland. When the fire had consumed his body his ashes were gathered and cast into the neighboring Rhine. This historic stream served as the coffin and the hearse of John Huss' body, bearing them many hundred miles in solemn silence along its romantic banks, towards the Northern ocean. The grand old river seems to serve as a monument of the martyr. For centuries the countries along its banks have been mainly owned by Protestant nations and rulers. From Constance to Holland the doctrines |