One of the wonders of China is the Bell Temple near Peking. Its great curiosity is the great bell. It was cast five centuries ago and weighs fifty-three and a half tons—the largest hanging bell in the world. It is covered all over with extracts from the Buddhist canon, in Chinese characters. It is rung by means of a huge hanging timber swung against it, calling forth tones the sweetest, most melodious, and resounding, as if echoing the chords of eternity. But the striking thing about this great bell is that its tones vary in proportion to the quality of the sounding-board receiving them.
One of the wonders of China is the Bell Temple near Peking. Its great curiosity is the great bell. It was cast five centuries ago and weighs fifty-three and a half tons—the largest hanging bell in the world. It is covered all over with extracts from the Buddhist canon, in Chinese characters. It is rung by means of a huge hanging timber swung against it, calling forth tones the sweetest, most melodious, and resounding, as if echoing the chords of eternity. But the striking thing about this great bell is that its tones vary in proportion to the quality of the sounding-board receiving them.
Does not a ringing truth or a loving deed depend upon the response it gets?
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We are told that if one were to suspend a bell weighing a hundred tons, and a little child were to stand beneath it and play upon a flute, the vibrations of the air produced by the playing of the flute would cause the bell to tremble like a living thing and resound through all its mass.
We are told that if one were to suspend a bell weighing a hundred tons, and a little child were to stand beneath it and play upon a flute, the vibrations of the air produced by the playing of the flute would cause the bell to tremble like a living thing and resound through all its mass.
As bell responds to flute, so the heart of the Christian responds to the music of the message that issues from that manger cradle of the Babe of Bethlehem. The time will come when the music from that manger shall melt into itself all earth’s Babel sounds and fill the world with harmony.—J. D. Freeman, “Concerning the Christ.”
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REST
There is no music in a rest, but there is the making of music in it. In our whole life-melody the music is broken off here and there by “rests,” and we foolishly think that we have come to the end of the time. God sends a time of forced leisure, sickness, disappointed plans, frustrated efforts, and makes a sudden pause in the choral hymn of our lives, and we lament that our voices must be silent, and our part missing in the music which ever goes up to the ear of the Creator. How does the musician read the rest? See him beat the time with unvarying counts and catch up the next note true and steady, as if no breaking place had come between. Not without design does God write the music of our lives. Be it ours to learn the time, and not be dismayed at the “rests.” They are not to be slurred over, not to be omitted, not to destroy the melody, not to change the keynote. If we look up, God Himself will beat the time for us. With the eye on Him, we shall strike the next note full and clear. If we say sadly to ourselves, “There is no music in a rest,” let us not forget “there is making of music in it.”
There is no music in a rest, but there is the making of music in it. In our whole life-melody the music is broken off here and there by “rests,” and we foolishly think that we have come to the end of the time. God sends a time of forced leisure, sickness, disappointed plans, frustrated efforts, and makes a sudden pause in the choral hymn of our lives, and we lament that our voices must be silent, and our part missing in the music which ever goes up to the ear of the Creator. How does the musician read the rest? See him beat the time with unvarying counts and catch up the next note true and steady, as if no breaking place had come between. Not without design does God write the music of our lives. Be it ours to learn the time, and not be dismayed at the “rests.” They are not to be slurred over, not to be omitted, not to destroy the melody, not to change the keynote. If we look up, God Himself will beat the time for us. With the eye on Him, we shall strike the next note full and clear. If we say sadly to ourselves, “There is no music in a rest,” let us not forget “there is making of music in it.”
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Rest-day, Weekly—SeeSunday Work Discontinued.
RESTITUTION
One of the strangest wills ever made was that of George Brown, Jr., the noted gambler and race-horse man, which was filed in the Probate Court at Kansas City, Mo., recently. “It is my desire, as far as possible,” a clause of the will reads, “to repay every person, man, woman and child, any money which I may have won from him by gambling during my lifetime; and I direct my executor to make efforts to learn their names and reimburse them to the full amount, with interest from the day the money was won.” This penitent gambler has set an example here which it would be well for those to follow who make larger pretensions to integrity. There are some wrongs to fellow men which never can be repaired, but there are others that can and should be made right. (Text.)
One of the strangest wills ever made was that of George Brown, Jr., the noted gambler and race-horse man, which was filed in the Probate Court at Kansas City, Mo., recently. “It is my desire, as far as possible,” a clause of the will reads, “to repay every person, man, woman and child, any money which I may have won from him by gambling during my lifetime; and I direct my executor to make efforts to learn their names and reimburse them to the full amount, with interest from the day the money was won.” This penitent gambler has set an example here which it would be well for those to follow who make larger pretensions to integrity. There are some wrongs to fellow men which never can be repaired, but there are others that can and should be made right. (Text.)
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General John Gibson, of Ohio, in old age was asked what he was doing. Said he: “Well, I am a very old man, and I suppose that most people would think I am not doing much of anything. But, to tell the truth, I am trying to hunt up every person whom I have wronged in life, and if I can find them, to ask their forgiveness and make atonement for all the wrongs I have done. And I am trying to be as good and kind and loving to all my neighbors as I know how. And I am becoming one of the biggest beggars for mercy at the Bank of Grace you ever saw. In short, during the little time that is left me on earth, I am fixing up for a mighty big funeral.”
General John Gibson, of Ohio, in old age was asked what he was doing. Said he: “Well, I am a very old man, and I suppose that most people would think I am not doing much of anything. But, to tell the truth, I am trying to hunt up every person whom I have wronged in life, and if I can find them, to ask their forgiveness and make atonement for all the wrongs I have done. And I am trying to be as good and kind and loving to all my neighbors as I know how. And I am becoming one of the biggest beggars for mercy at the Bank of Grace you ever saw. In short, during the little time that is left me on earth, I am fixing up for a mighty big funeral.”
It is no small duty to make amends for all the wrong-doing of a life whether long or short.
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RESTORATION
The following illustration is from a sermon by Dr. Henry Van Dyke;
The portrait of Dante is painted on the walls of the Bargello, at Florence. For many years it was supposed that the picture had utterly perished. Men had heard of it but no one living had ever seen it. But presently came an artist who was determined to find it again. He went into the place where tradition said that it had been painted. The room was used as a storeroom for lumber and straw. The walls were covered with dirty whitewash. He had the heaps of rubbish carried away, and patiently and carefully removed the whitewash from the wall. Lines and colors long hidden began to appear, and at last the grave, lofty, noble face of the great poet looked out again upon the world of light.“That was wonderful,” you say; “that was beautiful!” Not half so wonderful as the work which Christ came to do in the heart of man—to restore the forgotten image of God and bring the divine image to the light.
The portrait of Dante is painted on the walls of the Bargello, at Florence. For many years it was supposed that the picture had utterly perished. Men had heard of it but no one living had ever seen it. But presently came an artist who was determined to find it again. He went into the place where tradition said that it had been painted. The room was used as a storeroom for lumber and straw. The walls were covered with dirty whitewash. He had the heaps of rubbish carried away, and patiently and carefully removed the whitewash from the wall. Lines and colors long hidden began to appear, and at last the grave, lofty, noble face of the great poet looked out again upon the world of light.
“That was wonderful,” you say; “that was beautiful!” Not half so wonderful as the work which Christ came to do in the heart of man—to restore the forgotten image of God and bring the divine image to the light.
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The blood of Christ is a symbol under which is often described the vitality of divine life restoring the image of God in the soul of the sinner. An illustration from nature of this process may be found in this extract:
A valuable discovery has been made whereby the faded ink on old parchments may be so restored as to render the writing perfectly legible. The process consists in moistening the paper with water, and then passing over the lines in writing a brush which has been wet in a solution of ammonia. The writing will immediately appear quite dark in color; and this color, in the case of parchment, it will preserve. On paper, however, the color gradually fades again; but it may be restored at pleasure by the application of the sulfid. The explanation of the action of this substance is very simple. The iron which enters into the composition of the ink is transformed by the reaction into black sulfid.—Electrical Review.
A valuable discovery has been made whereby the faded ink on old parchments may be so restored as to render the writing perfectly legible. The process consists in moistening the paper with water, and then passing over the lines in writing a brush which has been wet in a solution of ammonia. The writing will immediately appear quite dark in color; and this color, in the case of parchment, it will preserve. On paper, however, the color gradually fades again; but it may be restored at pleasure by the application of the sulfid. The explanation of the action of this substance is very simple. The iron which enters into the composition of the ink is transformed by the reaction into black sulfid.—Electrical Review.
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SeeNature’s Recuperative Powers.
RESTORATION IN NATURE
“It is a libel on Nature,” says Dr. Ambrose Shepherd, “to declare that it never forgives. On the contrary, Nature is ever seeking to repair injuries and to forgive errors.”
Every surgeon knows that but for nature’s restoring tendencies his skill would be applied in vain. Illustrative demonstrations of these beneficent proclivities multiply daily. When an accident happens in which a limb is broken, what follows? With surgical assistance the fracture is set and the limb is bound up and left to rest for a time. Nature instantly, delicately, but powerfully and unerringly begins the beautiful and wonderfulprocess of reparation. The cementing of the broken parts is mysteriously inaugurated. But, of course, much depends on a man’s previous life. If he has been a wise man, nature works rapidly; if a fool, more slowly; but nature always seeks to work in the direction of restoration. (Text.)
Every surgeon knows that but for nature’s restoring tendencies his skill would be applied in vain. Illustrative demonstrations of these beneficent proclivities multiply daily. When an accident happens in which a limb is broken, what follows? With surgical assistance the fracture is set and the limb is bound up and left to rest for a time. Nature instantly, delicately, but powerfully and unerringly begins the beautiful and wonderfulprocess of reparation. The cementing of the broken parts is mysteriously inaugurated. But, of course, much depends on a man’s previous life. If he has been a wise man, nature works rapidly; if a fool, more slowly; but nature always seeks to work in the direction of restoration. (Text.)
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RESTORING GOD’S IMAGE
Not long ago, a lady living in Hartford, Conn., bought at an auction in New York a painting begrimed with smoke and dirt. Her friends laughed at her for buying such a “worthless daub,” but she took the picture to a restorer of old paintings, who, after hours of patient labor in removing the dirt, brought to view a beautiful sixteenth century painting, representing a mother with her children. The painting is of almost priceless value. The penny they brought the Master was coined from base metal, but the image on it gave it value.
Not long ago, a lady living in Hartford, Conn., bought at an auction in New York a painting begrimed with smoke and dirt. Her friends laughed at her for buying such a “worthless daub,” but she took the picture to a restorer of old paintings, who, after hours of patient labor in removing the dirt, brought to view a beautiful sixteenth century painting, representing a mother with her children. The painting is of almost priceless value. The penny they brought the Master was coined from base metal, but the image on it gave it value.
We are made in the image of God, and that makes us precious in His sight. The skin may be black or yellow, or brown or white—it matters not. Sin may have obscured the image, but we are Christ’s coins; He paid a great price for us, and seeks in every possible way to restore in us the image of Himself. (Text.)
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RESTRAINT
A traveler among the Alpine heights says:
We were at the foot of Mt. Blanc, in the village of Chamouni. A sad thing had happened the day before we reached the village. A young physician, of Boston, had determined to reach the heights of Mt. Blanc. He accomplished the feat, and the little village was illuminated in his honor; the flag was flying from the little hut on the mountain side—that all who have visited Chamouni well remember—that told of his victory. But after he had ascended and descended in safety, as far as the hut, he wanted then to be relieved from his guide; he wanted to be free from the rope, and he insisted that he could go alone. The guide remonstrated with him, told him it was not safe, but he was tired of the rope and declared he would be free of it. The guide had to yield. The young man had only gone a short distance when his foot slipt on the ice and he could not stop himself from sliding down the inclined icy steeps. The rope was gone so the guide could not hold him or pull him back. And out on a shelving piece of ice lay the dead body of the young physician, as it was pointed out to me. The bells had been rung, the village illuminated in honor of his success, but, alas, in a fatal moment he refused to be guided; he was tired of the rope.
We were at the foot of Mt. Blanc, in the village of Chamouni. A sad thing had happened the day before we reached the village. A young physician, of Boston, had determined to reach the heights of Mt. Blanc. He accomplished the feat, and the little village was illuminated in his honor; the flag was flying from the little hut on the mountain side—that all who have visited Chamouni well remember—that told of his victory. But after he had ascended and descended in safety, as far as the hut, he wanted then to be relieved from his guide; he wanted to be free from the rope, and he insisted that he could go alone. The guide remonstrated with him, told him it was not safe, but he was tired of the rope and declared he would be free of it. The guide had to yield. The young man had only gone a short distance when his foot slipt on the ice and he could not stop himself from sliding down the inclined icy steeps. The rope was gone so the guide could not hold him or pull him back. And out on a shelving piece of ice lay the dead body of the young physician, as it was pointed out to me. The bells had been rung, the village illuminated in honor of his success, but, alas, in a fatal moment he refused to be guided; he was tired of the rope.
The restraints of life are usually salutary. Those of the gospel always so. (Text.)
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Wild forces may be sublime and majestic, but it is when force submits to authority that it becomes power for usefulness, for service, for benefit.
Venice lies in a lovely and gentle series of lagoons. The sea, which is terrible in storms when it is uncircumscribed, has here built barriers of sand in which it becomes self-restrained. In the lagoons the Adriatic is tamed to rest, and even in furious weather it remains tranquil. It has lost its recklessness and terror but has gained in beauty, reflecting everything in pictures of incomparable loveliness. The sea at Venice by sacrifice enters into service and ministers both utility and charm to humanity. Over the quiet lagoons are built scores of bridges, and along their borders stand lines of stately edifices, and here stands in its matchless beauty a city unique in the world. (Text.)
Venice lies in a lovely and gentle series of lagoons. The sea, which is terrible in storms when it is uncircumscribed, has here built barriers of sand in which it becomes self-restrained. In the lagoons the Adriatic is tamed to rest, and even in furious weather it remains tranquil. It has lost its recklessness and terror but has gained in beauty, reflecting everything in pictures of incomparable loveliness. The sea at Venice by sacrifice enters into service and ministers both utility and charm to humanity. Over the quiet lagoons are built scores of bridges, and along their borders stand lines of stately edifices, and here stands in its matchless beauty a city unique in the world. (Text.)
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SeeProhibition.
RESULTS AS EVIDENCE
I get into what were once the Black Lands, of Arizona, known as the great American desert, and I find it blossoming with fertility, and I say, “How is this?” The reply is that irrigation has been established. How can you prove it? Look about you. It is interesting to know what engineers built the reservoirs on the mountain tops and how much they cost, but the evidence that they have been built are the rills of water running through the land and the crops growing there. Now I look upon the world that nineteen centuries ago was desert and I see flowers of hope and fruits of love and visions of faith springing up. That is the evidence.—Lyman Abbott.
I get into what were once the Black Lands, of Arizona, known as the great American desert, and I find it blossoming with fertility, and I say, “How is this?” The reply is that irrigation has been established. How can you prove it? Look about you. It is interesting to know what engineers built the reservoirs on the mountain tops and how much they cost, but the evidence that they have been built are the rills of water running through the land and the crops growing there. Now I look upon the world that nineteen centuries ago was desert and I see flowers of hope and fruits of love and visions of faith springing up. That is the evidence.—Lyman Abbott.
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RESULTS ENLARGED BY GOD
When David Livingstone went to Africa there was a Scottish woman by the name of Mrs. MacRobert who was quite advanced in years. As she was unable to go herself she gave Livingstone thirty pounds which she had saved and said, “When you go into Africa I want you to spare yourself unnecessary exposure and bodily toil by hiring some competent servant, who shall go with you wherever you go and share your sacrifices and your exposures.” With that money he hired the faithful Sebalwe, who saved him from death by a lion, and this added those last thirty years of wonderful service to the world.
When David Livingstone went to Africa there was a Scottish woman by the name of Mrs. MacRobert who was quite advanced in years. As she was unable to go herself she gave Livingstone thirty pounds which she had saved and said, “When you go into Africa I want you to spare yourself unnecessary exposure and bodily toil by hiring some competent servant, who shall go with you wherever you go and share your sacrifices and your exposures.” With that money he hired the faithful Sebalwe, who saved him from death by a lion, and this added those last thirty years of wonderful service to the world.
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Results not Processes—SeeSilent Processes.
RESULTS OF GOOD DEEDS
Charles Mackay writes of the good that is done by apparently insignificant services:
A little stream had lost its wayAmid the grass and fern;A passing stranger scooped a well,Where weary men might turn;He walled it in and hung with careA ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did,But judged that all might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well,By summer never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,And saved a life beside.A nameless man, amid a crowdThat thronged the daily martLet fall a word of hope and love,Unstudied from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown,A transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust,It saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love!O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first,But mighty at the last.
A little stream had lost its wayAmid the grass and fern;A passing stranger scooped a well,Where weary men might turn;He walled it in and hung with careA ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did,But judged that all might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well,By summer never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,And saved a life beside.A nameless man, amid a crowdThat thronged the daily martLet fall a word of hope and love,Unstudied from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown,A transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust,It saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love!O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first,But mighty at the last.
A little stream had lost its wayAmid the grass and fern;A passing stranger scooped a well,Where weary men might turn;He walled it in and hung with careA ladle at the brink;He thought not of the deed he did,But judged that all might drink.He passed again, and lo! the well,By summer never dried,Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,And saved a life beside.
A little stream had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well,
Where weary men might turn;
He walled it in and hung with care
A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that all might drink.
He passed again, and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues,
And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid a crowdThat thronged the daily martLet fall a word of hope and love,Unstudied from the heart;A whisper on the tumult thrown,A transitory breath—It raised a brother from the dust,It saved a soul from death.O germ! O fount! O word of love!O thought at random cast!Ye were but little at the first,But mighty at the last.
A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath—
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But mighty at the last.
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Results Unforeseen—SeeOne, Winning.
RESULTS VERSUS DISPLAY
It is not by the number of discourses that you can test the effect of the ministry of any preacher, but has it brought those who heard him nearer to the divine life, nearer to the life in God? Sir Astley Cooper, when in Paris once, met the chief surgeon in France, who told him about a difficult operation he had performed. He said: “I have performed this operation 160 times; how often have you performed it?” Sir Astley replied: “I have performed it thirteen times.” “And how many of your operations were successful?” “Eleven of my cases have lived.” said Sir Astley; “how many of yours?” The great French surgeon replied: “All my 160 cases have died, but the operation was most brilliant.”
It is not by the number of discourses that you can test the effect of the ministry of any preacher, but has it brought those who heard him nearer to the divine life, nearer to the life in God? Sir Astley Cooper, when in Paris once, met the chief surgeon in France, who told him about a difficult operation he had performed. He said: “I have performed this operation 160 times; how often have you performed it?” Sir Astley replied: “I have performed it thirteen times.” “And how many of your operations were successful?” “Eleven of my cases have lived.” said Sir Astley; “how many of yours?” The great French surgeon replied: “All my 160 cases have died, but the operation was most brilliant.”
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RESURRECTION
The following gives an idea of the strong faith of D. L. Moody; it is the law of the resurrection in operation:
“Some day,” he said, “you will read in the papers that D. L. Moody is dead. Don’t you believe a word of it. At that moment I shall be more alive than I am now. That which is born of the spirit will live forever.” (Text.)
“Some day,” he said, “you will read in the papers that D. L. Moody is dead. Don’t you believe a word of it. At that moment I shall be more alive than I am now. That which is born of the spirit will live forever.” (Text.)
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SeeJudgment Day.
RESUSCITATION
Lamar Fontaine describes his sensations when he was about to be buried alive after being desperately wounded on the battle-field:
Some time in the night I heard the approach of voices and the tramp of men. Soon I heard the sound of picks and spades and caught the gleam of lanterns, and knew a burial-party was on the field, and that surgeons, with their attendants, had come to pick up and care for the wounded. Again and again I tried to speak, but no sound came. Presently I felt the jar of the picks and spades as they dug a grave by my side, and then I felt a strong hand grasp my head and another my feet, and lift me clear of the ground. There was a sharp click, and then a loud buzzing sound in my ears, and my whole body was in an agony of pain. A fearful thirst tortured me. I spoke, and my friends let me drop suddenly to the ground. The jar awoke every faculty to life. I asked for water, and at once a strong light was flashed in my face, a rubber canteen applied to my lips, and I felt a life-giving stream of cold, refreshing water flow down my swollen throat, and seemingly into every part of my frame.—“My Life and My Lectures.”
Some time in the night I heard the approach of voices and the tramp of men. Soon I heard the sound of picks and spades and caught the gleam of lanterns, and knew a burial-party was on the field, and that surgeons, with their attendants, had come to pick up and care for the wounded. Again and again I tried to speak, but no sound came. Presently I felt the jar of the picks and spades as they dug a grave by my side, and then I felt a strong hand grasp my head and another my feet, and lift me clear of the ground. There was a sharp click, and then a loud buzzing sound in my ears, and my whole body was in an agony of pain. A fearful thirst tortured me. I spoke, and my friends let me drop suddenly to the ground. The jar awoke every faculty to life. I asked for water, and at once a strong light was flashed in my face, a rubber canteen applied to my lips, and I felt a life-giving stream of cold, refreshing water flow down my swollen throat, and seemingly into every part of my frame.—“My Life and My Lectures.”
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RETALIATION
During the South African War, when that country was under martial law, every letter which was sent home had to pass through the hands of the press censor.A private in the Yorkshire Volunteers had sent four or five letters home, telling his parents about the doings of the regiment, which portions had been obliterated by the censor, and were therefore unreadable on their arrival at the destination.He decided to get square with the censor, and at the foot of the next letter he wrote the following words:“Please look under the stamp.”“At the censor’s office the letter was opened and read as usual. The officer in charge spent some time in steaming the stamp from the envelop so that he could read the message which he was certain he would find there.At last his patience was rewarded; but his feelings can be better imagined than described when he read these words:“Was it hard to get off?”—Tid-Bits.
During the South African War, when that country was under martial law, every letter which was sent home had to pass through the hands of the press censor.
A private in the Yorkshire Volunteers had sent four or five letters home, telling his parents about the doings of the regiment, which portions had been obliterated by the censor, and were therefore unreadable on their arrival at the destination.
He decided to get square with the censor, and at the foot of the next letter he wrote the following words:
“Please look under the stamp.”
“At the censor’s office the letter was opened and read as usual. The officer in charge spent some time in steaming the stamp from the envelop so that he could read the message which he was certain he would find there.
At last his patience was rewarded; but his feelings can be better imagined than described when he read these words:
“Was it hard to get off?”—Tid-Bits.
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We never can tell when rudeness and ill-manners may return upon our own heads:
George Ade, in the early days of his career, before his “Fables in Slang” had brought him fame, says the New YorkTribune, called one morning in Chicago upon a Sunday editor, on a mission from a theatrical manager.“I have brought you this manuscript,” he began, but the editor, looking up at the tall, timid youth, interrupted:“Just throw the manuscript in the waste-basket, please,” he said. “I’m very busy just now, and haven’t time to do it myself.”Mr. Ade obeyed calmly. He resumed:“I have come from the —— Theater, and the manuscript I have just thrown in the waste-basket is your comic farce of ‘The Erring Son,’ which the manager asks me to return to you with thanks. He suggests that you sell it to an undertaker, to be read at funerals.”Then Mr. Ade smiled gently and withdrew.
George Ade, in the early days of his career, before his “Fables in Slang” had brought him fame, says the New YorkTribune, called one morning in Chicago upon a Sunday editor, on a mission from a theatrical manager.
“I have brought you this manuscript,” he began, but the editor, looking up at the tall, timid youth, interrupted:
“Just throw the manuscript in the waste-basket, please,” he said. “I’m very busy just now, and haven’t time to do it myself.”
Mr. Ade obeyed calmly. He resumed:
“I have come from the —— Theater, and the manuscript I have just thrown in the waste-basket is your comic farce of ‘The Erring Son,’ which the manager asks me to return to you with thanks. He suggests that you sell it to an undertaker, to be read at funerals.”
Then Mr. Ade smiled gently and withdrew.
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RETARDATION
Many Christians converted years ago show no more progress than the subject of this sketch:
“There is a young man in England,” saysThe Dietetic and Hygienic Gazette, “who at the age of twenty-four is developing at the rate of only one-sixth of that of the average human being. At present he is learning his alphabet and can count up to ten only. During the last nineteen years he has eaten but three meals a week, has slept twenty-four hours and played twenty-four hours, without the slightest variation. In spite of his twenty-four years he looks no older than a boy of four or five and is only thirty-six inches in height. For the same period his development physically and mentally has been at only one-sixth the ordinary rate, while absolutely regular and perfect in every other way. At his birth this child weighed ten pounds and in no way differed from any other child. He grew and thrived in the usual way until he attained the age of five. Then his progress was suddenly and mysteriously arrested, and since then six years have been the same to him as one year to the normal person. He has attracted the attention of many medical and scientific men, more than one of whom has exprest the conviction that this remarkable man will live to be no less than three centuries old.” (Text.)
“There is a young man in England,” saysThe Dietetic and Hygienic Gazette, “who at the age of twenty-four is developing at the rate of only one-sixth of that of the average human being. At present he is learning his alphabet and can count up to ten only. During the last nineteen years he has eaten but three meals a week, has slept twenty-four hours and played twenty-four hours, without the slightest variation. In spite of his twenty-four years he looks no older than a boy of four or five and is only thirty-six inches in height. For the same period his development physically and mentally has been at only one-sixth the ordinary rate, while absolutely regular and perfect in every other way. At his birth this child weighed ten pounds and in no way differed from any other child. He grew and thrived in the usual way until he attained the age of five. Then his progress was suddenly and mysteriously arrested, and since then six years have been the same to him as one year to the normal person. He has attracted the attention of many medical and scientific men, more than one of whom has exprest the conviction that this remarkable man will live to be no less than three centuries old.” (Text.)
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RETICENCE
There are times and circumstances in which one may well refuse to be pumped of what he knows.
A Scotch laddie was summoned to give evidence against his father. “Come, my wee mon, tell us what ye ken aboot this affair.” “Weel, ye ken Inverness Street?” “I do, laddie,” said his worship. “Weel, ye gang along and turn into the square.” “Yes, yes.” “Turn to the right up into High Street till ye come to a pump.” “I know the old pump well,” said his honor. “Weel,” added the laddie, “ye may gang and pump it, for ye’ll no pump me.”
A Scotch laddie was summoned to give evidence against his father. “Come, my wee mon, tell us what ye ken aboot this affair.” “Weel, ye ken Inverness Street?” “I do, laddie,” said his worship. “Weel, ye gang along and turn into the square.” “Yes, yes.” “Turn to the right up into High Street till ye come to a pump.” “I know the old pump well,” said his honor. “Weel,” added the laddie, “ye may gang and pump it, for ye’ll no pump me.”
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RETORT, A
President Taft was hissed by a number of women when he was courageous enough to confess at the convention of the National American Woman Suffrage Association that he was not altogether in favor of women having the right to vote. President Taft was welcoming the delegates to Washington, but told them frankly that he was not altogether in sympathy with the suffrage movement. He said he thought one of the dangers in granting suffrage to women is thatwomen as a whole are not interested in it, and that the power of the ballot, so far as women are concerned, would be controlled “by the least desirable citizens.” When these words fell from the President’s lips the walls of the convention hall echoed a chorus of feminine hisses. It was no feeble demonstration of protest. The combined hisses sounded as if a valve on a steam-engine had broken, according to one correspondent. President Taft stood unmoved during the demonstration of hostilities, for the hisses lasted only a moment, and then smiling as he spoke he answered the unfavorable greeting with this retort: “Now, my dear ladies, you must show yourself capable of suffrage by exercising that degree of restraint which is necessary in the conduct of government affairs, by not hissing.” The women who had made the demonstration were duly rebuked. The suffrage cause was undoubtedly hurt by the demonstration, as the President, regardless of his personal views, is entitled to consideration and respectful attention.—Wisconsin Farmer.
President Taft was hissed by a number of women when he was courageous enough to confess at the convention of the National American Woman Suffrage Association that he was not altogether in favor of women having the right to vote. President Taft was welcoming the delegates to Washington, but told them frankly that he was not altogether in sympathy with the suffrage movement. He said he thought one of the dangers in granting suffrage to women is thatwomen as a whole are not interested in it, and that the power of the ballot, so far as women are concerned, would be controlled “by the least desirable citizens.” When these words fell from the President’s lips the walls of the convention hall echoed a chorus of feminine hisses. It was no feeble demonstration of protest. The combined hisses sounded as if a valve on a steam-engine had broken, according to one correspondent. President Taft stood unmoved during the demonstration of hostilities, for the hisses lasted only a moment, and then smiling as he spoke he answered the unfavorable greeting with this retort: “Now, my dear ladies, you must show yourself capable of suffrage by exercising that degree of restraint which is necessary in the conduct of government affairs, by not hissing.” The women who had made the demonstration were duly rebuked. The suffrage cause was undoubtedly hurt by the demonstration, as the President, regardless of his personal views, is entitled to consideration and respectful attention.—Wisconsin Farmer.
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Retort Effecting a Change—SeeEccentricity.
RETORT, PERSONAL
Victor Hugo did not love the brilliant son of Alexander Dumas, and when the latter was a boy the poet was very fond of snubbing him. It is on record that one day young Dumas asked Victor Hugo why he did not allow his children to take walks and have talks with him. “It is,” answered the poet, “because Mme. Hugo is alarmed about your morals. She is afraid you will lead away the boys; in short, you pass for having violent passions.” “Monsieur,” said the young Dumas, looking the poet in the eye, “if one has no passions at twenty he is likely to have vices at forty.” A day or two afterward the elder Dumas, meeting with Hugo, said: “How do you like my son? Do you not think he is witty?” “Yes,” said Hugo, “but he makes very bad use of his wit.”—PhiladelphiaPress.
Victor Hugo did not love the brilliant son of Alexander Dumas, and when the latter was a boy the poet was very fond of snubbing him. It is on record that one day young Dumas asked Victor Hugo why he did not allow his children to take walks and have talks with him. “It is,” answered the poet, “because Mme. Hugo is alarmed about your morals. She is afraid you will lead away the boys; in short, you pass for having violent passions.” “Monsieur,” said the young Dumas, looking the poet in the eye, “if one has no passions at twenty he is likely to have vices at forty.” A day or two afterward the elder Dumas, meeting with Hugo, said: “How do you like my son? Do you not think he is witty?” “Yes,” said Hugo, “but he makes very bad use of his wit.”—PhiladelphiaPress.
(2764)
Retracing Steps—SeeBarriers.
RETREAT DISCOURAGED
The battle of the Cowpens, altho hardly more than a skirmish when tried by modern standards, was in its day, according to the British historian Stedman, “a very principal link in the chain of circumstances which led to the independence of America.” To draw up an inferior force for a pitched battle directly in front of a broad river has always seemed to the military critics very imprudent. But this very act showed the daring and the foresight of Morgan. When blamed he afterward answered: “I would not have had a swamp in view of my militia on any consideration; they would have made for it, and nothing could have detained them from it.... As to retreat, it was the very thing I wished to cut off all hope of. I would have thanked Tarleton had he surrounded me with his cavalry.” Braver and shrewder words never were spoken by a military commander.—Thomas W. Higginson.
The battle of the Cowpens, altho hardly more than a skirmish when tried by modern standards, was in its day, according to the British historian Stedman, “a very principal link in the chain of circumstances which led to the independence of America.” To draw up an inferior force for a pitched battle directly in front of a broad river has always seemed to the military critics very imprudent. But this very act showed the daring and the foresight of Morgan. When blamed he afterward answered: “I would not have had a swamp in view of my militia on any consideration; they would have made for it, and nothing could have detained them from it.... As to retreat, it was the very thing I wished to cut off all hope of. I would have thanked Tarleton had he surrounded me with his cavalry.” Braver and shrewder words never were spoken by a military commander.—Thomas W. Higginson.
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RETRIBUTION IN THE INDIVIDUAL
What is true of the mass is first true of the atom; what is true of the ocean is first true of the drop. It is easy to see the law of retribution when it is exemplified in the broad effects of national calamity, but not so easy to apprehend its action in the individual fortune. We stand in awe over the shattered greatness and buried splendor of Egypt, Babylon, Judea, Phoenicia, Greece; but the ruin that sin works in the individual destiny is just as certain, and infinitely more awful. If we could once see a soul in ruins, we should never speak again of Nineveh, Memphis, Jerusalem, Tyre, Athens. “Deceive not yourselves.” (Text.)—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
What is true of the mass is first true of the atom; what is true of the ocean is first true of the drop. It is easy to see the law of retribution when it is exemplified in the broad effects of national calamity, but not so easy to apprehend its action in the individual fortune. We stand in awe over the shattered greatness and buried splendor of Egypt, Babylon, Judea, Phoenicia, Greece; but the ruin that sin works in the individual destiny is just as certain, and infinitely more awful. If we could once see a soul in ruins, we should never speak again of Nineveh, Memphis, Jerusalem, Tyre, Athens. “Deceive not yourselves.” (Text.)—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
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RETRIBUTION INEVITABLE
With great injustice and cruelty the French drove out the Huguenots, but in expelling these sons of faith, genius, industry, virtue, the French fatally impoverished their national life, and they are suffering to-day from these missing elements which none may restore. It is impossible for a people to increase in material wealth and political consideration while its true grandeur, its greatness of soul, is gradually passing away. Very strange and subtle are the causes of the decay of nations, and little by little, quite unconsciously, does a people lose the great qualities which made it. Poets lose their fire, artists their imagination, merchants their enterprise, statesmen their sagacity, soldiers their heroism, the people their self-control; literature becomes commonplace, art lifeless, great men dwindle into mediocrities, good men perish from the land, and the glory of a nation departs, leaving only a shell, ashadow, a memory. Retribution may not come suddenly, but it will come.—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
With great injustice and cruelty the French drove out the Huguenots, but in expelling these sons of faith, genius, industry, virtue, the French fatally impoverished their national life, and they are suffering to-day from these missing elements which none may restore. It is impossible for a people to increase in material wealth and political consideration while its true grandeur, its greatness of soul, is gradually passing away. Very strange and subtle are the causes of the decay of nations, and little by little, quite unconsciously, does a people lose the great qualities which made it. Poets lose their fire, artists their imagination, merchants their enterprise, statesmen their sagacity, soldiers their heroism, the people their self-control; literature becomes commonplace, art lifeless, great men dwindle into mediocrities, good men perish from the land, and the glory of a nation departs, leaving only a shell, ashadow, a memory. Retribution may not come suddenly, but it will come.—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
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Retribution, Just—SeeResponsibility Evaded.
RETRIBUTION, THE LAW OF
For centuries did the kings and nobles of France oppress the peasantry. It is impossible for us to think adequately of the vast, hopeless wretchedness of the people from the cradle to the grave. When Louis XVI came to the throne it seemed incredible that the long-suffering people would ever avenge themselves upon the powerful classes by whom they were ground to the dust, and yet by a marvelous series of events the “wounded men” arose in awful wrath, burning palaces with fire and trampling greatness under foot. “Pierced through” were those hungry, hopeless millions; but the day of doom came, and every bleeding wretch arose invincible with torch and sword.—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
For centuries did the kings and nobles of France oppress the peasantry. It is impossible for us to think adequately of the vast, hopeless wretchedness of the people from the cradle to the grave. When Louis XVI came to the throne it seemed incredible that the long-suffering people would ever avenge themselves upon the powerful classes by whom they were ground to the dust, and yet by a marvelous series of events the “wounded men” arose in awful wrath, burning palaces with fire and trampling greatness under foot. “Pierced through” were those hungry, hopeless millions; but the day of doom came, and every bleeding wretch arose invincible with torch and sword.—W. L. Watkinson, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
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RETRIEVED SITUATION, A
When Senator Hanna was walking through his factory in Cleveland some years ago, saysThe National Magazine, on the lookout for new ideas, or anything which would aid the progress of business, he overheard a little red-headed lad remark:“Wish I had old Hanna’s money, and he was in the poorhouse.”The Senator returned to his office and rang to have the boy sent to him. The boy came to the office timidly, just a bit conscience-stricken, wondering if his remark had been overheard and ready for the penalty. As the lad twisted his hands and nervously stood on one foot before the gaze of those twinkling dark eyes fixt on him by the man at the desk, he felt the hand of Uncle Mark on his shoulder.“So you wish you had old Hanna’s money, and he was in the poorhouse, eh? Suppose your wish should be granted, what would you do?”“Why,” stammered the lad, “the first thing I would do, sir, would be to get you out of the poorhouse.”The Senator laughed and sent the boy back to his work. To-day he is one of the managers of a large factory, but he never tires of telling the story that held his first job.
When Senator Hanna was walking through his factory in Cleveland some years ago, saysThe National Magazine, on the lookout for new ideas, or anything which would aid the progress of business, he overheard a little red-headed lad remark:
“Wish I had old Hanna’s money, and he was in the poorhouse.”
The Senator returned to his office and rang to have the boy sent to him. The boy came to the office timidly, just a bit conscience-stricken, wondering if his remark had been overheard and ready for the penalty. As the lad twisted his hands and nervously stood on one foot before the gaze of those twinkling dark eyes fixt on him by the man at the desk, he felt the hand of Uncle Mark on his shoulder.
“So you wish you had old Hanna’s money, and he was in the poorhouse, eh? Suppose your wish should be granted, what would you do?”
“Why,” stammered the lad, “the first thing I would do, sir, would be to get you out of the poorhouse.”
The Senator laughed and sent the boy back to his work. To-day he is one of the managers of a large factory, but he never tires of telling the story that held his first job.
(2769)
Retrogression—SeeDown Grade, The.
RETROSPECT
We all know what distance does. Standing on the floor of a cathedral in St. Petersburg, the loud conversation of the multitudes surging in and out seems to roar in the ear. But standing in the tiny dome, three hundred feet above, all the harshness is strained out and the sounds become song. Those who dwell inland know how the trees strain out the roughness, and the surge and the roar of the waves turn to music, falling on the fluted tree-tops. Near at hand the frescoes in the cathedral dome are blotches of blue and red; from the floor beneath they melt into the most exquisite tints, and shaded lines proclaim the genius of an artist. For the architect planned that dome to be seen from afar, and God plans the events of childhood and youth to be surveyed from the summit of maturity.—N. D. Hillis.
We all know what distance does. Standing on the floor of a cathedral in St. Petersburg, the loud conversation of the multitudes surging in and out seems to roar in the ear. But standing in the tiny dome, three hundred feet above, all the harshness is strained out and the sounds become song. Those who dwell inland know how the trees strain out the roughness, and the surge and the roar of the waves turn to music, falling on the fluted tree-tops. Near at hand the frescoes in the cathedral dome are blotches of blue and red; from the floor beneath they melt into the most exquisite tints, and shaded lines proclaim the genius of an artist. For the architect planned that dome to be seen from afar, and God plans the events of childhood and youth to be surveyed from the summit of maturity.—N. D. Hillis.
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Reunion—SeeFuture Reunion.
Revealing Stolen Property—SeeExposure.
Revelation—SeeUtterance.
Revenge—SeeAnger, Futile.
REVENGE, A CHRISTIAN’S
A bed in the Bannu mission hospital in India is known as “The Christian’s Revenge.” It is supported by a sister of Captain Conolly, who was cruelly murdered by order of the Ameer of Bokhara after long incarceration and many tortures, because he refused to become a Mussulman. She endowed this bed twenty-one years after the captain’s death, when a full account of his sufferings, written by his own hand in prison, came unexpectedly to light, a little prayer-book containing the record coming into the hands of his relatives.
A bed in the Bannu mission hospital in India is known as “The Christian’s Revenge.” It is supported by a sister of Captain Conolly, who was cruelly murdered by order of the Ameer of Bokhara after long incarceration and many tortures, because he refused to become a Mussulman. She endowed this bed twenty-one years after the captain’s death, when a full account of his sufferings, written by his own hand in prison, came unexpectedly to light, a little prayer-book containing the record coming into the hands of his relatives.
That bed is an object-lesson to the inmates and visitors of the hospital, teaching the gentle and forgiving spirit that the gospel of Jesus ever breathes and inculcates.
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REVERENCE FOR PARENTS
The family of Jonathan Edwards consisted of three sons and eight daughters. It is said that when Mr. Edwards and his wifeentered the room the children rose and remained standing until father and mother were seated. (Text.)
The family of Jonathan Edwards consisted of three sons and eight daughters. It is said that when Mr. Edwards and his wifeentered the room the children rose and remained standing until father and mother were seated. (Text.)
(2772)
REVERSED ATTITUDE
The moral health of some could be restored only by turning their thoughts and inclinations upside down, as patients are treated according to this description:
In France, when a patient is under chloroform, on the slightest symptom appearing of failure of the heart, they turn him nearly upside down—that is, with his head downward and his heels in the air. This, they say, always restores him; and such is their faith in the efficacy of this method that the operating tables in the Paris hospitals are made so that in an instant they can be elevated with one end in the air, so as to bring the patient into a position resembling that of standing on the head.—Scientific American.
In France, when a patient is under chloroform, on the slightest symptom appearing of failure of the heart, they turn him nearly upside down—that is, with his head downward and his heels in the air. This, they say, always restores him; and such is their faith in the efficacy of this method that the operating tables in the Paris hospitals are made so that in an instant they can be elevated with one end in the air, so as to bring the patient into a position resembling that of standing on the head.—Scientific American.
(2773)
Reversion of Nature—SeeCirculation Impeded.
REVIVAL
In some neglected church-yards there are old inscriptions so moss-grown and weather-beaten that they can no longer be easily deciphered. So there are men who in early life were marked by high and noble principles, which the wear of the world has almost destroyed in them. They need a thorough regeneration to revive the old lines and ideals of duty and character.
In some neglected church-yards there are old inscriptions so moss-grown and weather-beaten that they can no longer be easily deciphered. So there are men who in early life were marked by high and noble principles, which the wear of the world has almost destroyed in them. They need a thorough regeneration to revive the old lines and ideals of duty and character.
(2774)
Like pneumatic tires, the Church needs to be “pumped up” by special efforts from time to time. The same is true of the individual.
Pneumatic tires, whether on a bicycle or an automobile, always become more or less deflated in the course of time, even when there is no puncture and the valves are perfectly tight. All cyclists and chauffeurs know that a tire needs pumping up, from time to time, to keep it hard and rigid. This is because the enclosed air constantly tends to escape through the envelop; the phenomenon, which is due to what chemists call osmose, is quite complex and is worth attention. (Text.)—Cosmos.
Pneumatic tires, whether on a bicycle or an automobile, always become more or less deflated in the course of time, even when there is no puncture and the valves are perfectly tight. All cyclists and chauffeurs know that a tire needs pumping up, from time to time, to keep it hard and rigid. This is because the enclosed air constantly tends to escape through the envelop; the phenomenon, which is due to what chemists call osmose, is quite complex and is worth attention. (Text.)—Cosmos.
(2775)
Reviving the Forgotten—SeeMemory Renewed.
REVOLUTION, CAUSES OF
It becomes us to watch carefully against crowding society to that point of compression where the mass of men have nothing to lose and little to live for, with the balance rather in favor of dying. Then the last argument, the bayonet, fails against a people whom it is of no use to kill. They are the innumerable majority. A citizen soldiery sickens at the work of slaughter, and like the soldiers of France in the Revolution, will walk over to the mob, guns and all. Then, what are you going to do? How far are our great cities from that condition? Go through the “slums” and see. Look at the wan faces leaning from high windows for a breath of what is not the air of heaven. See the pallid little children in broken rocking-chairs sitting out on the balconies of the fire-escapes, or the five-year-old holding the two-year-old from falling out as they lean over the window-sill. Coming on the elevated road through such a scene one sultry evening lately, the writer saw a woman sitting near a window with a look of unutterable sadness; and, while we looked, a stout man in shirt sleeves came across the room, stooped down and kissed her. She looked up at him pitifully but despairingly, shook her head, and began wiping away the tears. Then the swift train whirled us from where hearts were breaking. It is ill for such men to reach the point where they know that no toil, no frugality, no self-denial can make things any better to-morrow, or next year, or ten years hence—that no work of arm or brain can lift his face from the grindstone, and that this—or worse—is all the inheritance he can leave his children. Then the sight of a carriage with gold-caparisoned horses, a flash of a diamond, or the sweep of a silk dress will make that man clench his fist. Thousands of such will pull down a Bastile with their bare hands. And in the midst of all this, social leaders withdraw into a little clique and parade and proclaim their fewness—they are “the Four Hundred.”—J. C. Fernald,The Statesman.
It becomes us to watch carefully against crowding society to that point of compression where the mass of men have nothing to lose and little to live for, with the balance rather in favor of dying. Then the last argument, the bayonet, fails against a people whom it is of no use to kill. They are the innumerable majority. A citizen soldiery sickens at the work of slaughter, and like the soldiers of France in the Revolution, will walk over to the mob, guns and all. Then, what are you going to do? How far are our great cities from that condition? Go through the “slums” and see. Look at the wan faces leaning from high windows for a breath of what is not the air of heaven. See the pallid little children in broken rocking-chairs sitting out on the balconies of the fire-escapes, or the five-year-old holding the two-year-old from falling out as they lean over the window-sill. Coming on the elevated road through such a scene one sultry evening lately, the writer saw a woman sitting near a window with a look of unutterable sadness; and, while we looked, a stout man in shirt sleeves came across the room, stooped down and kissed her. She looked up at him pitifully but despairingly, shook her head, and began wiping away the tears. Then the swift train whirled us from where hearts were breaking. It is ill for such men to reach the point where they know that no toil, no frugality, no self-denial can make things any better to-morrow, or next year, or ten years hence—that no work of arm or brain can lift his face from the grindstone, and that this—or worse—is all the inheritance he can leave his children. Then the sight of a carriage with gold-caparisoned horses, a flash of a diamond, or the sweep of a silk dress will make that man clench his fist. Thousands of such will pull down a Bastile with their bare hands. And in the midst of all this, social leaders withdraw into a little clique and parade and proclaim their fewness—they are “the Four Hundred.”—J. C. Fernald,The Statesman.
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Reward for Service—SeeCourage, Moral.
REWARD, RIDICULOUS
During the heavy rains and floods in the cantons of Geneva and Vaud at the end of January (1910), a Swiss railway gatekeeper at level crossing named Allaman, hearing an unusual hissing sound, walkedalong the lines, having a presentiment that there was something wrong. He found that a stream flowing from the Jura mountains into Lake Geneva had become a torrent, and overflowing its banks had swept away about thirty yards of the permanent way, leaving the rails suspended in the air.As the Geneva-Lausanne express traveling at sixty miles an hour was due in a few minutes and would be precipitated into the torrent with its sixty passengers, Allaman ran to his little house for a red flag and stopt the express fifty yards from the suspended rails, and then returned home pleased with the fact that he had prevented a terrible accident. Some days ago the news of the affair arrived at the Bern headquarters of the Federal Railway Company, and the Swiss managers thought that such an act on the part of a gatekeeper should be rewarded.Allaman received his reward this morning for saving the express and its sixty travelers from destruction. The reward was 8s., which works out at 1½d. a life.If the accident had occurred the Federal Railway Company would have been obliged to pay between £8,000 and £10,000 damages.—PittsburgSun.
During the heavy rains and floods in the cantons of Geneva and Vaud at the end of January (1910), a Swiss railway gatekeeper at level crossing named Allaman, hearing an unusual hissing sound, walkedalong the lines, having a presentiment that there was something wrong. He found that a stream flowing from the Jura mountains into Lake Geneva had become a torrent, and overflowing its banks had swept away about thirty yards of the permanent way, leaving the rails suspended in the air.
As the Geneva-Lausanne express traveling at sixty miles an hour was due in a few minutes and would be precipitated into the torrent with its sixty passengers, Allaman ran to his little house for a red flag and stopt the express fifty yards from the suspended rails, and then returned home pleased with the fact that he had prevented a terrible accident. Some days ago the news of the affair arrived at the Bern headquarters of the Federal Railway Company, and the Swiss managers thought that such an act on the part of a gatekeeper should be rewarded.
Allaman received his reward this morning for saving the express and its sixty travelers from destruction. The reward was 8s., which works out at 1½d. a life.
If the accident had occurred the Federal Railway Company would have been obliged to pay between £8,000 and £10,000 damages.—PittsburgSun.
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REWARD, THOUSANDFOLD
In India a number of years ago there lived a good Christian English judge who was a warm supporter of missions. It came to his ears that a certain rich native, possessor of an indigo farm, had been cast out of his home and had lost everything because of acknowledging Christ as Lord. “Let him come to me,” said the judge, “I will employ him as a household servant.” So Norbuder came and was child’s attendant in the judge’s family. Every evening after dinner the judge assembled the household for family prayers, and read the Scripture from the native version. One day he came to the verse, “There is no man that hath left home or parents or brethren or wife or children for the kingdom of God’s sake who shall not receive an hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting life.” The judge paused and looked at the dark eyes fixt on him, and said, “None of us have left houses or lands or wife or children for Christ’s sake but you, Norbuder. Will you tell us, is it true what this verse says?” Quietly Norbuder took up the Mahratti Testament and read the verse through. Then he raised his hand and said, “He says He gives a hundredfold; I know He gives a thousandfold.”
In India a number of years ago there lived a good Christian English judge who was a warm supporter of missions. It came to his ears that a certain rich native, possessor of an indigo farm, had been cast out of his home and had lost everything because of acknowledging Christ as Lord. “Let him come to me,” said the judge, “I will employ him as a household servant.” So Norbuder came and was child’s attendant in the judge’s family. Every evening after dinner the judge assembled the household for family prayers, and read the Scripture from the native version. One day he came to the verse, “There is no man that hath left home or parents or brethren or wife or children for the kingdom of God’s sake who shall not receive an hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting life.” The judge paused and looked at the dark eyes fixt on him, and said, “None of us have left houses or lands or wife or children for Christ’s sake but you, Norbuder. Will you tell us, is it true what this verse says?” Quietly Norbuder took up the Mahratti Testament and read the verse through. Then he raised his hand and said, “He says He gives a hundredfold; I know He gives a thousandfold.”
(2778)
Rewards, Pecuniary—SeeMotive, Mercenary.
REWARDS, SPIRITUAL
Here is a boy, who, in sweeping out the shop to-morrow morning, finds sixpence lying among the orange-boxes. Well, nobody has missed it. He puts it in his pocket, and it begins to burn a hole there. By breakfast-time he wishes that sixpence were in his master’s pocket. And by and by he goes to his master. He says (to himself, and not to his master), “I was at the Boys’ Brigade yesterday, and I was to seek first that which was right.” Then he says to his master, “Please, sir, here is sixpence that I found upon the floor.” The master puts it in the till. What has the boy got in his pocket? Nothing; but he has got the kingdom of God in his heart. He has laid up treasure in heaven, which is of infinitely more worth than sixpence. Now, that boy does not find a shilling on his way home. I have known that to happen, but that is not what is meant by “adding.” It does not mean that God is going to pay him in his own coin, for He pays in better coin. (Text.)—Henry Drummond.
Here is a boy, who, in sweeping out the shop to-morrow morning, finds sixpence lying among the orange-boxes. Well, nobody has missed it. He puts it in his pocket, and it begins to burn a hole there. By breakfast-time he wishes that sixpence were in his master’s pocket. And by and by he goes to his master. He says (to himself, and not to his master), “I was at the Boys’ Brigade yesterday, and I was to seek first that which was right.” Then he says to his master, “Please, sir, here is sixpence that I found upon the floor.” The master puts it in the till. What has the boy got in his pocket? Nothing; but he has got the kingdom of God in his heart. He has laid up treasure in heaven, which is of infinitely more worth than sixpence. Now, that boy does not find a shilling on his way home. I have known that to happen, but that is not what is meant by “adding.” It does not mean that God is going to pay him in his own coin, for He pays in better coin. (Text.)—Henry Drummond.
(2779)
Rhythm—SeeMusic, Good Cheer in.
Riches—SeeWealth, Comparative.
RICHES, IMAGINARY
A Russian folk-story tells of a man who entered a diamond-mine in quest of riches. He filled his pockets with precious stones, and forthwith flung them all away to make room for larger ones. Thirst coming on, he was dismayed to find that there was no water. In his delirium he imagined he could hear the flow of water, which proved, however, to be the flow of gems and jewels running in rivers and falling in cascades.
A Russian folk-story tells of a man who entered a diamond-mine in quest of riches. He filled his pockets with precious stones, and forthwith flung them all away to make room for larger ones. Thirst coming on, he was dismayed to find that there was no water. In his delirium he imagined he could hear the flow of water, which proved, however, to be the flow of gems and jewels running in rivers and falling in cascades.
Only one thing could meet his need in his dire distress, and that was, not imaginary wealth, but real water. So it is with the soul. (Text.)
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RICHES UNREALIZED
George MacDonald, in one of his stories, tells of a father and his daughter who lived in an old Scotch castle in poverty, while all the time in a secret cupboard were masses of jewels which had been put there by an ancestor long years before.
George MacDonald, in one of his stories, tells of a father and his daughter who lived in an old Scotch castle in poverty, while all the time in a secret cupboard were masses of jewels which had been put there by an ancestor long years before.
Many a soul is living in poverty of life and experience equally ignorant ofthe wealth of joy and service that has been laid up for him in the purpose of God. (Text.)
(2781)
Riddles of Life—SeeSphinx, The.
RIDICULE, APT