"THY GENTLENESS HATH MADE ME GREAT." The Psalms, considered collectively, may be taken as an exponent of God's educational system with erring man. We have here the experience of a wide, full, many-sided human nature, brought under the action of the direct training of the Divine Spirit. To David's eye the veil had been lifted, and he had learned to see in the whole complex system of life in the signs, and wonders, and starry dances of the heavens, in this earth with all its glorious garniture and systematic array of forces, only the scenery and accessories of a wonderful system of moral education, conducted by an Unseen Teacher. Hence through the whole of the Psalms are scattered such expressions as these, "Thou shalt guide me with thy counsel:" "The meek will he guide in judgment, the meek will he teach his way." This idea of Divinity employing superior wisdom and power in the moral training of man, is almost purely Hebraistic. We meet in the Greek and Roman literature but faint and shadowy glimpses of itwavering as tree shadows seen in water. Socrates had his guiding spirit, doubtless a dimmer and less perfect approach of Him who guided David; but Socrates as reflected by Xenophon and Plato, breathed altogether a different element from that which surrounds us in the Psalms. An inexpressible sense of sadness overcomes us in reading his noble and beautiful defence before his judges, as we hear him saying in conclusion, "It is now time to depart for me to die for you to live-but which is the better state is known to God only." We think of David's triumphant words, "Thou shalt guide me with thy counsel-and afterwards receive me to glory!" The intimate educational life of God with man is the very heart of the Psalms; it is what has given them their undying vitality in every nation, language, and tongue. Socrates and Plato interest one class of minds, but their words have not struck the great common chords of humanity, so that the rudest and most illiterate minds are aroused and vitalized by them in common with the most refined and elevated. David, in a few words, gives the summary of his great Teacher's method. "Thy gentleness hath made me great." Now there is a tendency in all merely human modes of education and discipline, to undervalue gentleness. The fact is, that gentleness is out of repute in society, because it is seldom exhibited by the strong-minded and sensible. What passes for gentleness is too often mere stupidity-a quiet sluggishness, or an indolent selfishness. So we commonly hear the expression, too gentle. We hear the mother's gentleness set off against the father's sense and right reason, as if it were necessarily an antagonistic force. But to David it was given to see that gentleness was the great embracing atmosphere in which all the intense energies of the Divine nature lived and moved. What was seen by John and Mary in the daily life of Jesus, was foreseen by David in all the movements of the One altogether lovely, with whom he walked. As one nearing the Spice Islands is encompassed by an atmosphere of perfume, so when he drew near to God he felt himself encompassed by an atmosphere of gentleness, and he recognizes this more than all, as having been the forming element in his moral life. "Thy gentleness hath made me great." We know full well in David's history that this was no weak gentleness-no dead, inert, blind impulse. For the faults and sins of his moral nature the great Physician employed treatment the most active. Despite the fastings, the pleadings, and the tears of the father, this Gentle One took from him the child of his love. From his throne came forth the destroying angel that scattered mourning and death through the doomed villages of Judah. By his permission David became for a season a crownless king-despised and rejected of men-a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. Severe as was this discipline, it was, after all, the essential conviction of the gentleness of Him who sent it that gave it its force. Severity from one who is at heart severe, has a crushing but never a reviving force; but any amount of necessary severity from one who is at heart gentle, has a tonic rather than a depressing power. We bear from the firm and careful hand of a physician, an amount of pain which would be absolutely unendurable if it was inflicted by angry violence. The Psalms, in unfolding God's method of moral education, give a perfect mode, to all who would strengthen and confirm the failing and erring heart of man. In the family it is gentleness that is more needed than anything else. Any amount of restraint or discipline may be endured, so long as it is made apparent to the child that the soul of the parent is not overclouded by angry feeling. Restraint and firmness there must always be in the guidance of inexperienced mind; but if the father finds that his reproofs and his discipline produce angry frowns and fierce retorts, let him ask himself, Am I not angry? Has not the mind of my own disturbed soul thus tossed the frail and moveable soul of my child? Am I gentle as God is gentle? If discipline come from a gentle and loving soul, the child's anger is short lived, and in a calmer moment he will acknowledge it. Happy the parent whose son can say to him in after years, "Thy gentleness hath made me great." In friendship, too; would we seek the highest and noblest office of friendship, the moral improvement and perfecting of our friend, we must become like God immoveable in gentleness. For if our friend's injustice or infirmity reacts in us, and we become also in our turn excited and unjust, then is our power for good gone. In maintaining perfect gentleness of feeling our hardest struggle sometimes is with our keen sense of justice. Our friend seems to us sharply unreasonable, and in a moment of bitterness overwhelms us with accusations which we know to be untrue. Shall I bear this? is the indignant language of justice within us. Yes, bear it. "Consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against himself, lest ye be weary and faint in your minds." How often have you wounded the Divine sense of what is just and right, and yet his gentleness fails not. Seek to enter with him into that secret tabernacle of patience, where the rude voice of injustice and fault-finding is heard as one by the warm fireside hears the raging wind beating against the bolted shutter. This immoveable gentleness has in itself a property and power of victory. He who can love, and whose love can not be vanquished, in the long run, must prevail. By invincible, self-controlling gentleness, the mother at last wins back to virtue the son whom no threats, no severities, no storms and upbraiding of passion could subdue. Geologists tell us that the calm and silent influence of the atmosphere is a power mightier than all the noisier forces of nature. Rocks and mountains are worn down and subdued by it. There are often times in the history of our friends when their minds are in a transitional state. The elements of an old life are breaking up, the elements of a new one forming; but all is wild, incoherent, inchoate. We do not know them they do not know themselves; what we once knew seems passing away; and what is coming seems chaotic and discordant. Such periods, however, unlovely as they seem, are often the birthhour of a higher and nobler nature. But there are few friends whose love can abide through these times, and yet these are the seasons when it is most essential that friends should stand firm. As Paul said of the sailors, "Except these abide in the ship ye cannot be saved." So when a poor human soul has lost its helm, and is driving wildly on rocks, the enduring gentleness of a friend is often the last cable that holds it from destruction. Ah, many a goodly young man has been wrecked because just at such a moment the cable of fatherly and motherly patience has snapped, and then all was lost. Many too have been saved by one loving heart, whose gentleness no wrong, no unreasonableness, no outrage could alienate. Some souls there are who receive from God that divine gift of infinite, unconquerable love; and in this love lies salvation. Bear up, therefore, father, mother, friend-enter into the sanctuary of God's gentleness, seek to be made immoveable in love, and welcome the sharp trial that gives the opportunity of patience. To thee, oh, patient heart, shall be given both the beauty and the victory of gentleness; a golden cord from thy heart shall draw round the wayward heart of child or friend, bringing both them and thee to the bosom of Eternal Love. "I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAYS." "I would not live alway," though fortune should smile, "I would not live alway," though glory and fame "I would not live alway;" no, fain would I soar, To that bright land where farewells are spoken no more; And love sheds a halo of peace o'er the soul. THE TRIUMPH. The bitterness is past, The last fond earth-tie long ago was riven, Eternity hangs o'er me, solemn, vast, The waves are stilled to peace, the anchor cast; My God, I thank thee now For all that chafed my wild, rebellious heart, The bow of promise pales, Heaven's radiance flashes on my eager gaze, The Saviour's beauty, the celestial choir, The throne, the golden harps-Awake, my lyre! Earth, where's thy boasted gain ? Thanks, thanks, my God, for all its fetters riven ! Tales and Sketches. THE POOR IN SPIRIT. A LESSON FROM LIFE. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." "There, I have been doing good to-day," cried the widow Matson, as she threw off her velvet cloak and hat, and sank into a costly arm-chair. "Where have you been, mamma ?" asked her handsome daughter, gliding up with rustling silks. "Why, down to little Mrs. Lawrence. I've noticed that she's looked rather sad lately, and I knew that she must be feeling poor in spirits, for she don't take hold at our meetings. Really, we could get along very well without her, for it depresses me to see her pale little face coming in at the prayer-meeting. I'm sure she don't take up her cross, and I told her so. I told her her heavenly Father demanded work of her in his vineyard, and when I got her to crying, I knew I had done good, and so I came away satisfied." "Why, mamma, you know that very few people have gifts like yours. You say you never found it difficult to pray or speak in meeting; that the words flowed easily as soon as you opened your lips. It may not be so with little Mrs. Lawrence. Mr. Stilyard was in this morning, and he spoke of your prayer last night; he says he don't know when anything of the kind has so lifted his spirits up, and that you were very rich in gifts." "Did he?" exclaimed the widow, a flush of gratification suffusing her features; "and he is such a particular man, a very particular man. Well, I'm sure, I'm glad he was pleased; I love to have the christian graces popular. It is a good thing to have all fear removed from the heart-the tongue finds ready utterance then. Well, I've done my duty by little Mrs. Lawrence, and I hope I shall always have pleasure in working in my Master's cause." Change we the scene to a little homestead, not beautiful, but neat and cleanly. In one of the little rooms of this little house sat a meek little woman, sewing very busily. A door opened from this into another room, occupied by two aged people, both in their second childhood, one of them confined constantly to the bed, the other 66 'Mary, Mary!" cried a piping voice. Down went the work, and the little woman hurried into the adjoining room. "See to your mother, Mary," cried the weak treble. "I don't understand how you can neglect us, your husband's own parents, and let us suffer this way;" and the old man shook his trembling head. "What do you want, mother ?" asked Mrs. Lawrence, cheerfully and patiently. "My cap's fell off," cried the old lady, querulously; " I wish you'd make me caps that'd stay on." "No, mother, your cap isn't off; but it's uncomfortable, may be,-yes, the string is too tight; there! doesn't that feel better?" "I don't know," muttered the poor old woman; "I suppose you think anything's comfortable enough for me." With this ungracious speech she closed her eyes, and relapsed into stolidity. The little woman, with something like a sigh, resumed her sewing. She had worked steadily all day, doing her own humble house-work, constantly attending to two infirm old people, whose wants, as trivial and more numerous than those of children, kept her worried and incessantly on her feet. Her husband's meals must be attended to, and a little sewing she had taken in to add something to their daily income, too trifling to give them many of the comforts of life. "Mary, Mary!" cried the shrill voice again. Without a single sign of impatience, only with a care-worn face, the little woman resumed her place in the sick room. "I should think you might sit here and talk with us," said the old man. "I will, cheerfully, father; let me go get my work," replied Mrs. Lawrence. "She don't care for us," muttered the old woman. "Oh, yes, mother!" rejoined Mrs. Law rence, catching up her sewing, and taking a seat at her father's feet; and she began to beguile the time with pleasant words, though she was so tired, and her eyes and heart both ached so that she could hardly speak. When Mr. Lawrence returned, the kettle sang on the stove; the two aged people had been attended to, and were sleeping quietly, but Mrs Lawrence, albeit everything looked cheerful in the light of the evening lamp, that stood on the neatly set table, could not repress the tears; she was weeping as her husband came in. "Why, Mary!" he exclaimed, surprise in his voice," my little cheerful wife weeping what is the matter? You work too hard; you are wearing yourself out over my parents; what shall I do for you, Mary!" "Oh, it isn't that!" replied the little woman, still sobbing; "and I suppose I am foolish to cry, still I am tired, and a little worn down." "I know you are; and I am unhappy on your account almost every day. It is a hard world for those who are poor." "Don't think that I complain, husband; it is not that; I am happy about my work, and bear with father and mother as cheerfully as I possibly can; I suppose I took sister Matson's visit a little too hard." "Sister Matson,-the rich sister Matson!" Yes, rich, elegant, accomplished, everything; she came here to do her duty by me, she said; and she spoke so strongly, so strangely, that I could not overcome my timidity sufficiently to tell her all my trials. And I know she is partly right. I love my Saviour; but I have no confidence in myself. To Him alone I can unbosom my thoughts; but before my church,-never. I have no gifts, only my poor, unworthy self; I don't see as I do any good in the church or the world." "My kind, good wife!" exclaimed Mr. Lawrence, "you cannot speak for yourself, hut your works speak for you. What, if you cannot summon courage to speak in your social meetings? God knows your faith, your hope, your true piety. I know it; I, who have imposed upon you this great trial of taking the sole care of my father and mother. You bear with me like an angel; and I know, and I can tell, that your patience and sweet temper, under these combined difficulties, were the means of leading me to Jesus. Mrs. Matson did not, I think, contrast your circumstances with her own, as she should have done. She has plenty of this world's goods; a carriage at her beck and call, servants, and money; no great cares at home; a good education, and a fluent tongue. You, on the contrary, are poor, with no servants, obliged to sew all your leisure time, and two querulous, childish old people to wait upon from hour to hour." "I feared, when she talked to me, I was not a christian," said the little woman, comforted and reassured. "I felt so utterly unworthy, so contemptible for my mean service, that I almost despaired of happiness. My spirit sank utterly, and I had no more heart in me. I am an unprofitable servant; but, oh," and she raised her eyes, "I would not miss heaven, for there my stammering tongue shall speak, and I shall know no lack of courage. There the eyes of my Saviour will see my soul, and he will know how much I love him, for whom I can seldom lift my voice." Her husband smiled as he pressed back the smooth, soft hair from her forehead, and held her to his heart. "I know what a treasure you are, for, next to God, you make my happiness on earth. You are a better christian than I am, or ever hope to be-my exemplar, my guide to duty; come, tea is waiting; let us forget our trouble for a little while, and enjoy our supper. Think no more about Mrs. Matson, to whom much is given, of them much is required,and for your especial consolation, let me repeat the words of the Lord Jesus Christ: 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'" "Amen," murmured both husband and wife. "Amen!" say we. We trust none of our readers will fail to learn the lesson from this Picture of Life! "THY WILL BE DONE." A SKETCH. There was a little Sabbath evening gathering in the basement of the house of God. They were a small, feeble band, who were wont to worship there. Now there was special darkness upon their prospects, for there seemed reason to fear that, because of their poverty, they were to be left as sheep without a shepherd. That day they had listened to the ministrations of the pastor of another flock, a flock larger and stronger than they, and called by another But his was a large and warm heart, unfettered by the bonds of sect. He loved them as followers of his Master; he sympathized with their trials; and he sought to strengthen their faith in God's name. |