ment and growth in the impudent assumptions of a Victor I., and a Stephen I., both of whom boldly excommunicated all the Eastern churches at a stroke, for presuming to differ with the Roman in some points of discipline: and we see it yet more offensively in the cringing suppleness to worldly power of Sylvester I., who readily assented to the new laws and regulations which Constantine the Great imposed upon the church, and basely overlooked the rude intrusion of imperial authority on a province not its own, for the sake of the dignity and wealth he acquired in becoming a patriarch instead of a simple bishop, and gaining a territory for his jurisdiction instead of a single city. We have, indeed, been far too apt to blame the emperor himself for these acts of his, forgetting that he, a warrior, a politician, and a heathen, would never have taken such steps but for the consent, and, probably, the solicitations, of the priesthood itself. But of these early pontiffs the biographical remains are too meagre to tempt us to linger with them long. The first really memorable name on the list of popes is that of Leo I., who sat in the papal chair from the year 440 to 461. To that extraordinary man we purpose, in another paper, to direct the reader's attention. Tales and Sketches. THE PASTOR OF RESOLIS; OR, SEED SOWN BY THE WAYSIDE. About a century ago, in one of the remotest districts of Scotland, there lived a pious clergyman, whose memory is still revered in the spot which witnessed his labours, and retains his grave. Often, in the wild forests and glens of Badenoch, was the pastor of Resolis seen pursuing his solitary way to minister to the sick and dying of his scattered flock-a shaggy white pony the only companion of his wanderings. On the occasion to which this story refers, this faithful animal had a more arduous journey to perform than crossing the defiles and mountain passes of its native Ross. It was near the end of the month of May, when the good pastor was called to proceed to Edinburgh to attend the General Assembly (the yearly meeting of the clergy of the Church of Scotland). And as, in these days, both public conveyances and roads in the Highlands were few and bad, and the expense of traveling considerable, he selected his trusty little steed to convey him to the Scottish capital. Traveling at the rate of from thirty to forty miles a-day, his journey would occupy a full week, and would frequently oblige him to pass the night in the then by no means comfortable inns upon the Highland road. It will not surprise any of my readers to be told that it was the invariable practice of that man of God to hold family worship in these houses, and to insist upon the attendance of every individual inmate. Resting one night at a little inn amid the wild hills of Inverness-shire, he summoned, as usual, the family together for devotional purposes. When all had been seated, the Bibles produced, and the group were waiting the commencement of the devotions, the pastor of Resolis looked round him, and asked whether every inmate of the house were present. The landlord replied in the affirmative. "All?" again enquired the minister. "Yes," answered the host, "we are all here; there is a little girl in the kitchen, but we never think of asking her in, for she is so dirty that she is not fit to be seen." "Then call in the girl," said the good man, laying down the Bible, which he had opened; "we will wait till she comes." The landlord apologized. The minister was peremptory. "The scullery-maid had a soul, and a very precious one," he said; "if she was not in the habit of being summoned to family worship, all the greater was her need of joining them now. one word would he utter until she came. Let her, then, be called in." Not The host at length consented; the kitchen-girl was taken in to join the circle, and the evening worship proceeded. After the devotions were concluded, the pastor called the little girl aside, and began to question her about her soul and its eternal interests. He found her in a state of the most deplorable ignorance. "Who made you ?" he asked, putting the usual introductory question to a child. The girl did not know. "Do you know that you have a soul ?" "No; I never heard that I had one. What is a soul?" "Do you ever pray ?" "I don't know what you mean." "Well, I am going to Edinburgh, and I will bring you a neckerchief if you promise to say a prayer that I will teach you. It is very short; there are only four words in it: 'Lord, shew me myself;' and if you repeat this night and morning, I will not forget to bring you what I have promised." The little kitchen-maid was delighted; a new piece of dress was a thing she had rarely witnessed. The idea was enchanting; the condition was easy; the promise was given with all the energy of young hope; and the pious traveler, after explaining, no doubt, the meaning and force of the prayer, retired to rest, and the next morning resumed his way. We need not follow him in the rest of his journey. On reaching Edinburgh, his thoughts and time were fully occupied with the duties which had taken him there. Nevertheless, he did not forget the Highland inn and its little menial, but, relying upon the fulfilment of her promise, purchased the trifling present that was to make her happy. Again, then, we accompany the devoted minister to the wild mountains of Badenoch, and at the close of a mild June evening, reach the lonely Highland inn. The white pony, now sleek and shining with better fare and a whole fortnight's idleness, is safely housed, and the minister, ere he permits supper to touch his lips, summons the household to the worship of God. Again, however, the little kitchen-maid is absent, and again he enquires the cause. But it is now a different reason that withholds her. "Indeed, Sir," replied the hostess to the pastor's enquiry, "she has been of little use since you were here; she has done nothing but sit and cry night and day, and now she is so weak and exhausted that she cannot rise from her bed." "Oh, my good woman, let me see the girl immediately," exclaimed the minister, instantly suspecting the reason of her grief. He was conducted to a hole beneath the "Well, my child," said the amiable man, affectionately addressing her, "here is the neckerchief I have brought you from Edinburgh. I hope you have done what you promised, and said the prayer that I taught you." "Oh, no, Sir, no; I can never take your present; a dear gift it has been to me! You taught me a prayer that God has answered in an awful way. He HAS shewn me myself: and oh, what a sight that is! Minister, minister, what shall I do?" I need not say how rejoiced the faithful man of God was to see that the Spirit of Jehovah had been dealing with this young soul, and that, although still operating as a "spirit of bondage" in the production of a true though partial and imperfect faith, there were yet such hopeful signs that, ere long, He would exhibit himself "as the Spirit of adoption," leading her to cry; "Abba, Father." But whence had this child derived, in the course of little more than a fortnight, and through the use of such a prayer, this acquaintance with her own heart? Read the Bible she could not; her lot was cast in a careless household. Whence, then, that mysterious ray which all at once shone into her once darkened heart, and exposed in all its barrenness the deformity of SELF? It was the "Spirit of Truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it seeth him not, neither knoweth him;" but she knew him, for he dwelt with her, and was in her. In no other way can we account for the fact that one, but a few weeks ago so totally ignorant that she had asked, "What is a soul?" should now have been able to pursue that most difficult of all tasks-to know her own heart. (Psa. cxxxix.) Who, that reads this simple narrative, can deny the absolute necessity of the special work of the blessed Spirit, sent forth into the soul in answer to the prayer: "Lord, shew me myself"? After some further conversation, the pastor of Resolis opened up to the distressed girl the great gospel method of salvation, and closed the interview by recommending the use of another, and equally short prayer, "Lord, shew me thyself." Next morning the minister was once again on his way to his still distant home. But he had "cast his bread upon the waters;" did he ever "find it again after many days"? Many years had passed since this memorable journey, and the vigorous man of God, who could ride forty miles a day for a week, without fatigue, was now become an old and feeble man, worn out in his Master's service, scarcely any longer "spending," because already "spent," for Christ. One day his servant intimated that a stranger was desirous to speak with him. Permission being given, a respectable matronly woman was ushered into the study, carrying a large parcel in her hand. "You will scarcely know me, Sir," said the person, with a modest, deferential air. The minister replied that he certainly did not recognize her. at "Do you remember a little scullery-maid inn, in whose soul you once took a deep interest, upon your journey to Edinburgh ?" The aged clergyman had a perfect recol•lection of the events. "I was that little girl. You taught me two short, but most expressive prayers. By the first I was brought to feel my need of a Saviour; by the second, I was led to behold that Saviour himself, and to view Jehovah in the character of a reconciled God and Father in Christ. I am now respectably married, and comfortably settled in life; and, although the mother of a numerous family, have traveled far to see your face, and to cheer you, by telling, with my own lips, the glorious things which, by your means, the Lord has been pleased to do for my soul." Before parting with the good pastor, she entreated his acceptance of the parcel she carried, which contained a large web of linen of her own spinning, made long before, for the purpose of being presented to the blessed and beloved old man, should she ever be permitted to see his face in the flesh once more. She lived for many years, not only a consistent character, but an eminently holy christian. Reader! I have one short question for thee ere I close. Hast thou ever seen THYSELF? Has the hideous pollution of thy inner SELF ever been disclosed to thee in any of its real intensity and guilt? If not, thou hast never felt thy need of a Saviour from sin, and we have yet to begin with thee at the very starting-point of experience, and to teach thee the prayer, "Lord, shew me myself." Reader! I have one closing request to thee. Try the power of the shortest prayer. In the case of this poor Highland girl, how beautifully did God fulfil his own promise, and the promise remains for thee also: "He shall deliver the needy when he crieth; the poor also, and him that hath no helper." (Psa. lxxii. 12.) THE POOR ORPHAN GIRL. It was a beautiful moonlight evening in the month of September, and being a stranger in the village, I approached the church, which stood upon the hill at some distance from the houses, proposing to myself the pleasure of a lonely walk among the graves of the departed. I had scarcely arrived at the gate, which stood opposite to the church porch, when the following verses were softly sung by some person not in sight: "Where shall the child of sorrow find Pity the orphan's woes. What friend have I in heaven or earth? Thy gracious promise now fulfil, And bid my troubles cease; Both mercy, grace, and peace. But He that secret knows: Pity an orphan's woes." Fearful of interrupting this artless hymn, which was evidently accompanied by broken sighs as of one weeping not afar off, I stood still to listen. At that moment a poor girl, apparently about fifteen or sixteen years of age, came from behind a projecting part of the church, and soon returned again, without discovering that she was observed or overheard. I could not help fearing lest my approach might terrify, or at least disturb, the feeling of the distressed girl, who seemed to be overcome with much affliction of heart. Whilst I was gently opening the gate, she again sung the two last lines as before: "Thou Father of the fatherless, Pity an orphan's woes." At that moment the noise of the gate shutting after I had passed through, caught her ear. She came forward somewhat startled, and said, "Who is there?" "One," replied I, "that can feel for the fatherless, and pity the orphan's woes. Do not be afraid, but tell me whether the words you have been singing apply to your own case? Are you deprived, by the providence of God, of your own parents ?" Bursting into tears, she said, "Indeed, Sir, I have lost them both, and am left without a friend on earth." "But I trust," added I, "not without a Friend in heaven ?" "I hope not, Sir," said the girl; "but my heart is very heavy. It is not a fortnight since my poor mother was laid in that grave beside my father, who died last year." "And what brings you here to-night?" said I. "Sir, I come here as often as I can in the evening, when my day's work is over, to look at these two graves, and think about my dear father and mother. They were the best that any poor child ever had; and my greatest comfort now is to come here by myself, and think over all their kindness and love to me whilst they lived." Tears again prevented her saying more. "And where did you learn that hymn which I heard just now ?" "Sir," said she, "it is one that the minister made for some children in the Sunday-school, who lost their father and mother a few years ago. He called it The Orphan's Hymn,' and we sometimes used to sing it at church, and in school. But I did not know then how soon it would be my own turn to feel the same loss, and sing it for myself. But it is the Lord that hath done it, and I desire to submit to his will." "Did your parents bring you up in the fear of God, and the knowledge of his blessed gospel?" "Oh, yes, Sir, it was all their wish and pains to do so. They loved and feared God themselves, and they did all that lay in their power to teach me to do so too." "And I hope, from what you say," added I, "that their instructions have not been in vain. You can read, and know the value of God's word?" "I hope I do, Sir. I have learned from it how good Jesus Christ has been to sinners. Poor, friendless, distressed, as I am, I would not part with the hope which the word of God gives me for all the world. My mother told me"- Here, being much affected, she with difficulty went on. "My mother told me, a little before she died, that she had nothing to leave me but a blessing, a Bible, and the prayers which she had been offering up for me ever since I was born. 'But,' she said, 'that is enough, if God is but pleased to accept them.' Indeed, Sir, you cannot think what a dear, good mother I have lost. I have now no father or mother to take care of me, and teach me the ways of God, as they used to do. I am young and inexperienced; and I am afraid lest, without a guide, I may fall into temptations, which their kind care might have prevented." "Let this be your comfort," I replied; "when your father and mother forsake you, then the Lord will take you up. For God is the helper of the fatherless, and hath given cheering promises to the believing parent that he máy leave his fatherless children, and God will preserve them alive." "Those," said the girl, looking up with great earnestness, "were the last words my dear mother spoke to me; I can never forget them." "And do you not believe," replied I, "that in God the fatherless find mercy?" "I do, Sir, answered she; "and am sure that he will never leave me nor forsake me. I know I am a sinner, and as such deserve only his displeasure; but, through his grace, I can trust his word. Weak, helpless, and sinful as I feel myself to be, I nevertheless desire to cast my burden upon him, and believe that he will sustain me." "And is it your heart's desire to be a follower of those good parents, who, through faith, inherit the promises, and are now at rest with God?" "Sir," replied the girl, with an affectionate earnestness of manner, "to live as they lived, and to die as they died, is the first wish I have in this world." Highly pleased with the strong marks of filial piety and dutiful affection which this interesting young person shewed, I asked her what prospect she had for her livelihood. She said her wish was to enter into the service of some pious family, if the goodness of God should lead her into such a situation. I was strongly taken with her simple, unaffected language, and thought my accidental meeting with her was a providential opportunity of rendering a service to a young, unprotected girl. I therefore offered her a servant's place in my own family, to assist in the nursery, being convinced that a child so dutiful as she had been to her own parents, was the most suitable companion and attendant whom I could have for my own little ones. I assured her of the friendship and parental protection which her circumstances and conduct so justly entitled her to. She expressed her gratitude in the most becoming manner, and referred me to the clergyman of the parish for any enquiries I might wish to make respecting her. Instead of returning home, I took up my lodging for that night at the little inn, and the next morning obtained the most satisfactory accounts of the girl. She has now lived three years in my family, and conducted herself as a most faithful, affectionate, and grateful servant. Twice in the year I have indulged her with the desired and most acceptable permission of going to her native place to visit the graves of her parents; and I am persuaded it has been attended with the happiest effect on her disposition and conduct. She honoured them when living, and when dead she reveres their memory. The principles of true religion have taken deep root in her heart, and she is a living witness to the power and grace of Christ. In him alone she evidently rests her whole hope, and accompanies it with an humble, modest, and grateful behaviour. I often reflect on the interesting scene which the village churchyard first presented, and as often rejoice in thinking that the fatherless has found a father, and the orphan's woes have been pitied and relieved. -American Episcopal Recorder. TOO ACTIVE TO FREEZE. I looked to nature. It was a clear, cold, bright winter's day. The crisp, untrodden snow which covered the landscape, sparkled in the sunlight, as if with millions of gems. The little stream, that in summer was always dancing and singing by the wayside, was now completely frozen over, silent and still under its icy covering; but as we approached the mill, where a little fall was visible in its channel, there it was leaping and sparkling as merrily as in the midst of a summer's day. Cold as it was on every side, and frost-bound as the stream was above and below, here it was too active and busy to freeze! From nature, I turn to history. It is sunset on the Alps. A traveler is descending from the summit, when a storm arises, and the winds blow and the snow, filling the air, rapidly buries all traces of his path. He struggles on till his way is lost, and night sets in in its horrors, when, bewildered, discouraged, exhausted, he sinks down to die. The last thought has been given to home, and kindred, and friends, and his soul commended to his Redeemer, and the numbness is already stealing on his senses and limbs, when a sound of distress is borne on the tempest to his ears. It is an appeal to his humanity, that rouses him even from the stupor of death itself. With an effort he rises and follows the sound as it is repeated, and soon finds a fellow-traveler like himself benighted and exhausted, and lying down to be wrapped in the windingsheet spread by the tempest. Earnest for his brother's safety, he puts forth every effort to rouse, and animate, and aid him; and his exertions are crowned with success. His activity has kept himself from freezing, and saved a fellow-being from death! From nature and history, I turn to the church. A disciple, who has every motive to faithfulness, is getting cold, indifferent, unspiritual. He has entered the backslider's path, and is making rapid progress in it, when, by the providence of God, and a word from his pastor, he is led to become a tract distributor, and a teacher in the Sabbath-school. Before, he was in danger of freezing-of becoming cold himself, and, like a mass of ice, diffusing a chilling influence around him. But now, he is too busy to freeze! Activity is giving him a glow; motion is developing heat; and already others are gathering warmth from his example, and led by it to effort in the cause of Christ, and for the souls of men. The water, the traveler, the disciple, each has a voice for us. We must be diligent, devoted, earnest in our Master's service, if we would be kept from being cold, and lifeless, and useless. We should aim to be too active to stagnate, too busy to freeze. We should endeavour to be like Cromwell, "who not only struck while the iron was hot, but made it hot by striking," -like the missionary who said, “If there be happiness on earth, it is in labouring in the service of Christ,"—like the blessed Redeemer, whose meat and drink it was to do the will of God. The vineyard must be cultivated; and the command is, that we enter in and work. There is work enough to be done, and the injunction is, that we do with our might what our hands find to do. |