BEGINNING AT HOME.

It was the evening of the day of rest, and in the glory of the waning sunlight, two young labourers in the Master's vineyard wandered through the meadows side by side. In the vale below them lay the village which had witnessed the day's pleasant, and yet-to the body-wearying exercises; around them corn waved gracefully in the cool breeze, or new-mown hay gave forth its fragrance; and between more distant hills a glimpse of the wide ocean met the eye. And to this spot they came, that they might hold communion with each other and with God.

The elder of these friends,-the pastor of the little band who weekly gathered in the chapel on the outskirts of the village,might at a glance be known as a man of no ordinary intellect: there were the noble forehead and the piercing eye, the bright smile and the earnest manner, so all-fascinating in the child of genius; and above it all a something which told of a dedication, unreserved and joyful, to the service of the Highest. The younger, too, was gifted,— how else could he have held such close communion with Paul Merriston ?-he, too, had given himself with holy joy to God and to his service: yet was his a different sphere. In the battle with the cares of this world, and with the deceitfulness of riches, he had apparently more active part; in preaching Christ to all around he had more difficulty, because his natural inclinations led him to reserve and even diffidence. Still, in the Sabbath-school, at the prayer-meeting, and in those quiet walks, he was ever to the pastor a dear friend, a willing helper; and the ardent christian love which had sprung up between them, since Paul Merriston first settled in the village, was a thing of joy to both.

They had been talking now of christian usefulness, and Henry, making a personal application of the sermon of the morning, had first expressed his earnest longing for a larger sphere, and then reproached himself for doing what he had to do so ill.

"I can quite understand your sense of feeble working," said his friend, "but I cannot think your sphere a narrow one." "Why not?"

"Because I see you doing much good

now, and I see much more which you might do."

"You see more than I see," said Markham, smiling.

"May I hint at one of the opportunities which I see?"

"Yes, on condition that you help me to avail myself of it."

"I do not know that I can," said the young minister, thoughtfully, "but you may have a higher help than mine." There was a moment's pause, and then the question came,

"Why not begin at home ?"

Henry Markham started,-his face flushed, and he looked out upon the strip of ocean in the distance, with eyes dimmed with tears. There was another silence, and then, with all a woman's gentleness, Paul leaned upon the shoulder of his friend, and gave him faithful, loving counsel.

But why should Henry Markham start thus at the mention of his home? Why should that simple question wake so much emotion? Just for this reason, that to him alone of all his family the light of God had come, and that he hitherto had lacked the courage to press home to any one of them the solemn truths which had brought healthful sorrow and the highest joy to his own soul.

True, there were difficulties in the path, -unusual difficulties; for his father- outwardly professing much respect for the religion of the Bible-was still at heart a worshipper of gold alone. His mother, an active, bustling housewife, although proud of her son's intellectual acquirements, could scarcely tolerate his being, as she said, "so extra-good." His elder brother, well to do in the world's regard, and proud of residence in busy London; his sisters, one of them an invalid, but seldom equal to the excitement of conversation, and the other a romping, laughing girl of sixteen summers, all were ranged against him,-all appeared to shut their ears to the sweet message which he longed to whisper to them,-all, while they loved him fondly for all else, almost despised him, as he thought, for his devotion to his Master, and renunciation of the pleasures of the world. Yet, notwithstanding the peculiarity of his posi tion, conscience would whisper still that duty, plain and obvious duty, had been

long neglected, and that Mr. Merriston was right in urging him to let his usefulness begin at home.

"But does it not appear to you," asked Henry, presently, "that there is really more difficulty in conversing on religious subjects with our relatives, than with friends such as you are, Paul, or even strangers ?" "It is not natural that it should be so; but I believe that it is thus with multitudes, and in such cases prayerful effort must be made to break through the restraint and awkwardness experienced, so that our duty, here so evident, may be performed."

Ah, who can tell the value of one tried and truthful christian friend? There are a few such in this world of ours; happy are those who by experience know their worth. Markham had seldom prized the pastor's friendship more than on this evening, when he spoke with censure,-gentle but decided, -of the past, and hopefulness,-bright, cheering hopefulness,-of time to come.

"What should I do without you?" he said, smiling, as with almost girlish lingering they stood at the pastor's door.

"Better than I without you," was the quick reply; "mine would be a solitary state indeed, but for my brother Harry."

66

"Yes," replied Harry, we get on very well together, I think."

"Well, well," said the young merchant, hastily, "for my part, I have never any faith in these romantic friendships; but every man to his liking."

Harry stood hesitating what to say. Here was a golden opportunity! They were alone. Robert was somewhat softened by the thought of parting on the morrow. Should he speak ?

"I suppose we must say, 'Good night,' then," said Robert, noticing his hesitation; "are you waiting for anything?"

"Yes, Robert, I have something to say to you."

"Say on!" said Robert, with a wondering stare.

"You must have thought me very unconcerned about your interests, since I have never spoken to you on the subject which is to me, as you well know, the most important in the universe." The young man

paused, hoping his brother would say something; but Robert went on packing his portmanteau without speaking a single word. "Oh, Robert, I feel sure that you must sometimes long for peace and rest such as no earthly gain can bring to you; will you not let me, younger, and yet happier, perhaps, than you, beg you to seek for peace only through faith in Christ?"

The silence which ensued was broken by the elder brother, in his usual tone: "Call me in the morning, Harry, will you? Good night."

"Good night," said Harry, with an aching heart." Oh, why," he murmured, as he threw himself upon his bed, "why did I speak to him at all? he treats it with contempt,-how mad I was to think that be would heed my words!"

Three or four days passed by, and, still encouraged by his friend, Markham was waiting for another opportunity of usefulness in the home circle. He felt more forcibly than ever, that something more than the quiet example of former days was needed, if he would be the instrument of leading any of his dear ones to true peace: they would expect of him, even if they confessed it not, that he should seek to lead them to the joys which he believed so precious; and, if he failed to make such effort, they might well think in their secret hearts that he cared little whether they were lost or saved! Especially was he concerned for Esther, the poor invalid of whom we spoke: Esther had ever loved her brother Robert with a love which coldness and neglect on his part never seemed to lessen, and which the kindness he had shown on his last visit had considerably heightened. And thus it was that Henry found her weeping over his return to London.

"You must bear up better than this," said he, as he bent over her; "Robert will write to you very often, dear."

"I know he will," she said; but I am so weak now, I cannot keep from tears; and, besides, when Robert leaves me, I feel as if my best, my truest friend were gone."

"Nay," said her brother, tenderly, "there is a Friend who never leaves his loved ones, and whom you may have for ever by your side."

She turned away with a gesture of impatience.

"Esther, I know that you are tried and tempted much,-oh, when will you seek strength from heaven in all?"

"When I am better, I will talk to you," she answered, quickly.

"And why not now, dear?" asked he, earnestly; and then, praying for help, he poured into her ear some of the loving Invitations of the Gospel, watched until she sank to gentle slumber, and so left her.

He could not speak to his father or his mother yet,-a time might come when such thing could be done, but not just now; so there was only Minnie,-noisy, laughing Minnie, could he gain her ear?

"Minnie," he said, one evening when they were alone, "are we travelling both together, Minnie?"

"Where?" she said, laughingly.

"To heaven!" said Harry, with an arm around her waist; "we love each other dearly, Minnie, do we not? Shall we be parted when we come to die?"

To his surprise she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and burst into tears.

"Oh, why," she cried, "why did you not speak to me, Harry, long ago?"

How his conscience smote him then! "For weeks," said Minnie, weeping still, "for weeks I have wanted you to talk to me, and have thought you did not care for me, because you never said one word!"

"I did not know," said Harry, in a trembling voice, "and I am very, very sorry, Minnie, dear; my usefulness should have begun at home, and for the future I do hope it will!"

And Minnie, sitting by his side, her gaiety, which had of late been but a hateful mask, all passed away, opened her heart to him and told him all. His Bible, left upon his table, had been her daily study, and by its means she had been led to deep anxiety,and now it was for Henry, with all gentleness, to guide her, by God's blessing, to the only refuge for the heavy-laden soul.

And scarcely had he left her, that he might in secret mourn over the past, rejoice in the glad present, and implore aid for the future, when a servant placed a letter in his hand. It was from Robert; and he read as follows:-"I have been thinking, my dear fellow, over my goings-on that night before I left. The fact is, I did not know what to say to you. I had often expected you would begin upon it, and determined that if you did, I would soon

settle the matter with you; but when you did speak, I was nonplussed! Now, if you want to write to me about it, do so; I've no objection in the world; it's as well to write about that as anything else.-Yours, Robert."

Was this a sign of better times? Henry thought it was.

Long years have passed since then, and tall grass waves over the resting-place of Esther Markham, on whose simple gravestone,-placed by a brother's love,-the brief inscription tells us that "she sleeps in Jesus." To Robert, her death-bed has taught the lesson, which all must learn or perish; and he seeks to lay up treasure, now, in heaven. Minnie, sweet Minnie, as a missionary's bride, has crossed the deep blue sea. Paul Merriston, at duty's call, has gone to a more arduous sphere of labour: and, in old age and feebleness, Mr. and Mrs. Markham listen to their son's respectful teachings as regards the world to come; but in the midst of all these changes, Henry Markham keeps the lesson of that Sabbath eve in view, and, with his children grouped around his chair, he takes heed that his usefulness begins at home!

DEACON STANLEY,

AND HIS FAMOUS RECIPE BOOK.
No. 2.

Having a few moments to spare, we, according to promise, take up the pen to jot down a few more reminiscences of this remarkable man, and still more remarkable book. His memory is precious, and deserves to be had in everlasting remembrance. To perpetuate his memory is one of the reasons why we transcribe his name and some of his doings in this periodical. We sincerely hope and trust that the reader will prize them, and not only prize them, but that he will be much improved thereby; for the memory of the just is blessed. In this way, too, we prepare ourselves for that time when we shall "stand before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple." These were the last words which Deacon Stanley heard read from his famous Recipe Book, which, during his life-time, he so usefully employed for spiritual maladies,-specimens of which we proceed again to lay before the readers of "The Church."

Mr. Junck was a member of the church,

but he was a do-nothing member. Having obtained a name and a place with the household of faith, he seemed completely satisfied. He thought, or seemed to think, that the christian name could be sustained without bringing forth fruit to the praise and glory of God. As for bearing much fruit, that was quite out of the question with him. A spirit of indifferentism seemed to rest upon him. The extension of the Redeemer's cause was a matter out of question with him. He was at ease in Zion. He slept, and did nothing for the furtherance of truth and righteousness in the world. Often did the deacon endeavour to arouse him from his spiritual torpor; and amongst the recipes which he gave him, the following was one:-" Then he which had received the one talent came and said, Lord, I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed: and I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth: lo, there thou hast that is thine. And his lord answered and said unto him, Thou wicked and slothful servant, thou knewest that I reap where I sowed not, and gather where I had not strawed: thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received my own with usury. Take therefore the talent from him, and give it unto him which hath ten talents. For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath. And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth" (Matt. xxv. 24-30).

Mr. Markham believed in Christ, but did not openly confess him. He was of the Nicodemus class, and seemed to wish to live the christian life as it were in the night, or out of the observation of his fellow-men. He was very respectably connected, and his friends belonged to the establishment. He had for a long time attended a Baptist ministry. By his conversation, which was intelligent and christian, he gave proof that he not only well understood the theory of Christianity, but that he, to some extent, experienced its inner power. His actions, in many ways, proclaimed him to be a man who feared God, and thought upon his great and holy He was quite a companion of the He visited the deacon's house,

name.

deacon's.

and the deacon visited him. They were, indeed, friends,-friends who enjoyed each others' fellowship. Of course, when they met, their conversation very generally took a religious turn. They were one on nearly all points, especially on the cardinal points of the christian scheme. Mr. Markham likewise was at one with the deacon on the mode and subjects of baptism. He admitted the Divine authority of the ordinance as practised by Baptists, and occasionally defended their sentiments when in company with pædobaptists. But when the deacon put the question, "Why are you not baptized?" he was silent. On one of these occasions the deacon read the following to him: "And when he had called the people unto him, with his disciples also, he said unto them, Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life, for my sake and the Gospel's, the same shall save it. For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul.? Whosoever, therefore, shall be ashamed of me, and of my words, in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him also shall the Son of man be ashamed, when he cometh in the glory of his Father with the holy angels" (Mark viii. 34-38).

Mrs. Edmunds was a member of the same church. She was a sincere believer in Christ Jesus the Lord, but she did not sufficiently rejoice in him as her Saviour. She went mourning all her days. She walked in darkness, and had no light. Clouds and darkness seemed to intervene between her and her risen and glorified Head. She thought that the Spirit did not bear witness with her spirit that she was a child of God, an heir of glory. Her days were spent in Doubting Castle, and she often felt herself in the hands of Giant Despair, and his wife, Mrs. Diffidence. All this was prejudicial to the pleasing manifestation of Christianity, which its disciples ought ever to hold forth for the notice of those who are out of the way. Her ways are ways of peace, and all her paths are paths of pleasantness. Rejoice evermore, is the language which Christianity addresses to its true disciples. Not only does it give the precept, but also reveals joys which are unspeakable and full of glory. This Deacon Stanley knew