MY POCKET BIBLE.

BY BISHOP MORRIS.

his vision extend to the middle of the nineteenth century? to this age of book-making mania? Did his prophetic eye light upon the massive heaps of books now displayed in stores and stalls, and still accumulating in the depots of publishing houses, where they are thrown off by steam power at the rate of a volume per minute? I wot not. It, however, requires no inspiration to discover a vast improvement since his day in the facilities for producing books, and in the style of getting them up. A printed work bound up in book form is more convenient and elegant than a huge roll of written parchment, such as were used anciently, many of which were stationary because too unwieldy to be portable. But whether there be the same amount of improvement as to the subject-matter of books since the days of the prophets is another question-one which each reader will decide for himself or herself. It is readily conceded that modern libraries present a fine appearance, arranged in extended rows of attractive volumes, tastefully done up in black and blue muslin, brown and red morocco, and calf gilt extra; and all this tinsel ornament, though it makes the contents no better, procures a more extensive sale and circulation. Some customers buy to read for mental improvement, or at least amusement, and others perhaps merely to embellish their centertables. Whatever may be the motive, to possess them indicates some taste, if nothing more, for certainly a handsome book is a beautiful ornament. Here my prolegomena must end.

From all these attractive forms of modern lore, I now turn away to pay a tribute of respect to an old familiar acquaintance, my pocket Bible. In appearance, like that of its owner, it is unpretending and rather out of fashion. It has been in the regular service over forty years, has endured some hard campaigns and rough fare in its day, and, as might be expected, its external beauty is somewhat faded. And yet I would not exchange it for one of Messrs. Harpers' finest pictorials, or for any book the world contains, having long since determined that

"My book and heart

Shall never part"

tili death severs the silvery cord of life. My partiality is not founded upon its "outward adorning," but partly upon protracted companionship,

five inches long, three and a half wide, and two thick, and is printed in double columns. On the imprint are these words: "THE HOLY BIBLE. . . First American Diamond Edition. Baltimore: Published and sold by John Hagerty, No. 12 Light-street. . . . 1812." On a blank leaf I wrote my name, and the cost price, $3, over the date "July, 1814;" and certainly I never made a better investment. A brief family register was subsequently entered on a blank page between the old and new covenants, containing a record of our marriage, names, and ages; some of which names have since been transferred to the records of the Church above-only my own and that of my son remain on the list of probationers. May we have grace afforded us to get as well through and as safely out of this world of trial, as the loved ones who have passed on before us, and are waiting to hail us on the shore of life!

This Bible came to my relief most opportunely. I had been licensed to preach a few months previous, and though I had another copy of the holy Scriptures, it was not so convenient and portable as this one. Its full marginal references afforded me much aid in tracing out corresponding texts, and explaining Scripture by Scripture, thus supplying in a good degree the place of a concordance. This little Bible became my constant companion and counselor, furnishing my daily task of reading, both stated and occasional, and, as a general rule, so continued for a long series of years, till my feeble vision could no longer conveniently trace the delicate impression of the "diamond" type, since which time it has been carefully laid up at home. When on my circuits, stations, and districts, it went with me to every appointment, into every congregation, and bore testimony to the truth of my Gospel message. If other authorities were referred to, they were used only as explanatory of this. Nothing was relied on as canonical but the Bible. To it alone I have appealed for over forty years as the standard of truth, and as the only decisive authority on all questions of doctrine, morality, experience, and practice, and still so regard it and appeal to it in the pulpit. O that I had more faithfully adhered to its precepts, and more constantly relied on its promises! then had my peace been as a river, and my righteousness as the waves of the sea. The Bible is the book which teaches us how to live and how

"It is my chart and compass, too,

Whose needle points forever true."

a creek under the ice, the weather being so cold that my coat was frozen stiff in a few minutes after my escape from the water. By this mishap the bags containing my clothes and Bible were

When I was young and my Bible was new, we had circuits that were circuits, requiring daily travel and daily preaching. Our auditors assembled in log-cabins, log school-houses, or under the forest-trees. We needed no reading-desk on which to lay our notes; for, while delivering our message, all the notes we used were in our heads and hearts, and if any new thought suggested itself as we progressed in the discourse we let it have free course from the heart to the heart. Sometimes the effect was thrilling; for while the mind is inspired with its theme, it occasionally takes both speaker and hearer by surprise with thoughts of life and words of fire. It is true that in most men, and certainly in me, it would be presumption to undertake the responsible duty of preaching without preparation; yet the best mode of preparation is not in a manuscript of measured paragraphs, but in prayerful meditation. Such at least is my experience. With a split-bottomed chair or small table before me for a desk, and this same diamond Bible open in my left hand, standing in the midst of the people, I used to feel quite as much at home as I do now in a spacious church, with a ponderous folio Bible resting on a velvet cushion; and frequently witnesssed more signal proofs of awakening power and saving mercy, for in those days the word preached was wont to be in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, and great grace came down among the people.

When mounted on horseback-the usual mode of travel in days of yore-this little Bible was uniformly a part of my Gospel armor; if not open before me, yet in the pocket or portmanteau, whence it could be reached as readily as a warrior could draw his sword; and David had scarcely more confidence in his shepherd sling and brook stones going out to meet Goliath, than I had in this well-tempered Jerusalem blade, "the sword of the Spirit"-a confidence not in myself, but in the truth and in Him that sent me to "preach the word." My Bible, always in the service, winter and summer, spring and autumn, was necessarily exposed to many storms of snow, sleet, and rain. The stains upon it indicate that it was saturated with water driven through the leathern cover inclosing it. Once in the winter

recovered my horse, from which I got separated in the water, and traveled in this condition over two miles to the nearest cabin, and carefully drying it leaf by leaf, I saved the whole, except the cover, which finally came off. The second binding in black leather, done in Zanesville in 1819 or 1820, is only slightly broken at the corners, and that not with ordinary use, but by violence inflicted by strong-armed "sons of thunder" at camp meeting, using it as a mallet, and pounding the ends on the naked wooden stand. Many times I rescued it from such abuse by withdrawing it from before the zealous preacher while he faced in another direction; for, although he was welcome to pound the board with his fist, I was not willing to see my unoffending Bible battered to pieces. That is a mode of handling the word of life not congenial to my taste. Expounding the Bible enlightens many; but beating it on a hard board enlightens no one, though it may possibly serve to frighten some hearers of weak nerves. Yet, after all, it is in a tolerable state of preservation-not a leaf is lost, only one or two slightly marred, and every word of the book is readable.

Since my relation to the work has required me to visit all the conferences, this same Bible has accompanied me through all the states and territories of the Union, except very few of the most recently organized. Day and night, whether in the city or frontier settlement, by land or by water, on horseback or in buggy, in stages or canal-boats, in steam-boats or railcars, it was with me as long as I could see to read it. Sometimes it has been my pillow on a hard bench, or on the ground under the forest-trees. Frequently its words of truth and peace have gladdened my eyes and heart in the lonely desert, as well as in the populous city. And considering the great variety of scenes through which I have passed, and the numerous perils to which I have been exposed for forty years, it is marvelous that I never lost it; but here it is close by me.

On a review of the past history of my pocket Bible, I am forcibly reminded of many things which to me at least are interesting. The date of the memorandum on the blank leaf-“July, 1814"-reminds me that Time has shaken me by the hand, and sprinkled my head with his

and then to rest satisfied, that all my interests for both worlds were safe in the hands of Him who deigns to be our heavenly Father. Thus I am calmly passing the afternoon of life in hope of an everlasting home in heaven, through the

us and gave himself for us, and all this as instructed by my pocket Bible.

Another item of history suggested by this review respects the great change which has taken place in the Methodist family since I owned this Bible. In 1814 the whole number of Methodists in the United States was about 211,000, and the present aggregate is over 1,300,000, showing a net increase in forty years of more than one million, while their advance in church extension, missions, education, and general influence is fully equal to their numerical increase. Surely this is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes. Many truths learned from this Bible have been beneficial to me, and deserve to be acknowledged with gratitude, a few of which I here briefly allude to. It taught me in early life that "wine is a mocker," and that "strong drink is raging." I have abstained from both. It also taught me to "let my moderation be known to all men." This, too, I have endeavored to observe. And by the blessing of God on my regular way of living and laboring, my health, though poor in the first years of my ministry, has been wonderfully preserved. I have not been confined to bed by any kind of affliction three days in thirty years, and am now as free from sickness and pain as I was forty years ago, though not able to endure the same amount of effort I was then.

Another and still more important lesson derived from the same source, is to "rejoice in Christ Jesus, and have no confidence in the flesh," and that "he that trusteth in his own heart is a fool;" but that "blessed is he that maketh the Lord his trust." Now, in view of these wholesome instructions, I have for a long time endeavored to renounce all reliance on an arm of flesh, and, in the use of the appointed means, look to God through Christ for all needed blessings, temporal and spiritual, for life and godliness here, and for endless life hereafter;

L

LIFE.

BY MARY E. FRY.

"I pledge you in this cup of grief,
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf!
The battle of our life is brief,

The alarm-the struggle-the relief— Then sleep we side by side." IFE-thou mysterious mystery! too often looming in darkness over our devoted heads, again beaming like an angel of light; now rushing by in tumultuous waves, then beckoning us on in a voice soft as the dying zephyr of a summer day. With the faint light of our feeble dawn began thy existence; in the chamber of death ends thy fitful reign; farther thou art powerless, and to the sleeping millions can never again give what thou hast once bestowed. A moment ushers us on thy awful stage; no sooner are we there than thou hurriest us on to Death, who, more gentle, leadest us to a banquet prepared for the soul-to a house not built by mortal hands-to a city whose maker is God! Verily, thou art a solemn enigma never yet solved by mortal. The light and shade, cloud and sunshine, joy and sorrow, that constitute thy being, envelop thee in a mystic cloud of darkness; our eyes are too dim to pierce within, and to approach the penalty is death.

But the Christian heedeth not thy mystery, for he looketh to a life that is beyond; he scorneth thy pleasures, seeking pleasures that never die; he courts not thy favor, living a life hid with Christ in God; and longing to depart, he grieves not at thy shortness. Thou exultest in triumph over the multitude, but the Christian triumphs over thee; thou pointest to the grave― he sings of a never-fading crown; thou whisperest of the dark shades of oblivion-he shouts of a book of life wherein his name is written forever. He, assured of thy uncertainty, knoweth enough, knowing he must be up and doing while it is day; and when the night cometh, his lamp is trimmed, his wedding garments are on, "Beand he waiteth in patience to hear the cry, hold the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him."

THE PASTOR'S FAREWELL.

BY MRS. F. M. TAYLOR.

He spoke to his own little flock, the members of his Church; he urged them to press onward undaunted over the hills of trial and difficulty,

the half-shut blinds, and the soft breeze fanned each cheek with its mild breath, while the perfume of the budding trees told that the long-wished-for spring had come, bringing with it its sorrows and joys for every heart.

This beautiful day was the last Sabbath our pastor was to be with us; the afternoon sermon his last for many years, perhaps forever; and he who for two years had labored among us, and won the hearts of all his people, was in a few hours to leave these loving hearts for a new home and a new people.

At an early hour the church was filled to overflowing, and a deep silence reigned among the crowd. As the last peal of the deep-toned bell died away, our pastor passed up the aisle, and ascended the pulpit steps; every eye followed him with a tearful glance, for full well did all know this was the last time that loved one would fill his accustomed place; and as he kneeled in prayer there was scarcely a head that was not bowed, or an ear that caught not every word as it fell from those trembling lips.

Long will that prayer be remembered, and long after the words are erased from memory's pure tablets will its impression remain stamped on the heart. With his hands clasped on his Bible, and his glowing face upturned, he pleaded for sins that were never his; he spoke of his people, and bore them before his God; he pleaded that once again he might meet them in that bright land where partings never come.

His prayer ended, he commenced his theme. He spoke of his first Sabbath with us-of his hopes and fears; he spoke of times when discouraged, and when he almost walked in the dark; he told of hours when it seemed as if God had forsaken him, and he felt that his labors were all in vain; he mentioned the joyful day when that little band of young people came forward, and, standing before the altar, openly confessed their love to God, and made their renunciation of the world with all its follies.

He told his people that he had not aimed at preaching great and learned sermons, that they might please the ear and not reach the heart, but he had endeavored to preach Christ, and him crucified; and as the words fell from his lips, it almost seemed as if a Deity spoke through a human form.

He addressed the impenitent; he invited them to come and drink from the wells of salvation.

great white throne.

To the members of his own weekly class, those who had joined the little flock since it had been under his care, he spoke words of sweet consolation and kind encouragement, telling them that he wished to have them as bright stars in his crown of rejoicing.

He closed by telling his people of his deep love for them, and his never-dying interest in their welfare. He told them that were he ever permitted to have another charge, none would be so dear to him as these his first people. With quivering lip and moistened eye, he raised his hands over his people to pronounce his last benediction; and as the sound of his voice died away and his hands were dropped, the multitude moved not, but wept, for they knew that their earthly shepherd was about to leave them-he who so long had guided the sheep of his flock, and cherished the lambs in his bosom.

He descended from the pulpit, and all met him to say their last farewell. For each one he had a kind and loving word; and there was not one who wept not his loss as that of a dear friend; the orphans wept the loss of a father; the widows a consoler; the young their guide and example.

He left us. The old parsonage was closed; the vines clambered untrained over the windows; the sweet-singing birds no longer wove their nests in the old trees; the garden beds were overgrown with tangled weeds, and the downy thistle bloomed where so lately sweet flowers upheld their lovely heads, weeping tears of early morning dew.

Months passed quickly by, and then came the sad yet joyful news, that our beloved pastor was now a bright angel, singing the sweet songs of heaven. O, how we wept when they told us that a strange hand wiped the death-damp from his brow; that no dear friend was with him to receive his last good-by; that the wide ocean was his grave; that the cold, dark wave was his pillow, and all that was earthly was gone forever!

We have had other pastors, and listened to other voices; but no voice was so sweet, and no heart has won our love, like that heart that is cold, and the voice that is silent in a watery grave.

We remembered the last words he spoke to us; and though our eyes would fill with tears, yet our hearts rejoiced; for as the sun shining

on the falling rain-drops forms the bright rainbow, so the Sun of righteousness shed its rays on our tears of sorrow, and formed the brighter rainbow of hope.

HEARTS OF OAK.

GENEROSITY OF SAILORS.

F be the offspring of sympathy and

he found a boy, whom he had lately entered, clinging in despair to part of the wreck, without strength or energy to attempt his own deliverance. Captain Lydiard did not hesitate, for he was resolved that none should perish whom he could preserve. With one arm he held the boy, with the other he endeavored to support himself over the slippery and dangerous bridge by which he hoped to reach the shore. But his bodily strength, worn as it

strongly developed in the character of a seaman; for he is almost proverbially regardless of his own interests and full of consideration for the calamities of others.

Perhaps his intimacy with danger and want of forethought may render him forgetful of himself; perhaps his isolation from general society may make him ready to commiserate all the distressed. Of the propensity there can be no doubt.

"Why what's that to you if my eyes I'm wiping? A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way; 'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping, But they that han't pity, why, I pities they. Says the captain, says he-I shall never forget itIf of courage you'd know, lads, the true from the sham, "Tis a furious lion in battle, so let it,

But, duty appeased, 'tis in mercy a lamb."

There never yet was a true sailor in whose career we might not find some illustration of a virtue so characteristic of the profession, and so honorable to humanity. A few instances may be profitable and interesting to all of us.

On the 29th of December, 1807, the Anson, Captain Lydiard, was wrecked on the coast of Cornwall, about three miles from Helstone, and the Captain's generous self-devotion was seen to be equal to the valor which he had lately displayed in the reduction of Curacoa.

When the ship first struck all was confusion, and the roar of the tempest only mocked the noise of the falling masts and the shrieks of the women. But the voice of the Captain, as, selfpossessed and undaunted, he issued his orders to the panic-struck crew, restored hope and created confidence. When the mainmast went overboard it formed, very providentially, a communication with the shore, by which Captain Lydiard encouraged his people to save themselves. Holding on by the wheel, he continued to cheer and direct them as they, one by one, essayed the dangerous passage; and anxiously he watched their happy success or their miserable failure. At last he was about to cross himself, when he was arrested by the cries of some one in the extremity of terror, and, proceeding to ascertain their origin,

mast escaped from his hold, and the gallant and brave-hearted Lydiard shared a watery grave with the poor child he had so nobly attempted to

rescue.

Many such examples of heroic self-sacrifice must occur to the minds of our readers; but among them, perhaps, none has surpassed the noble and determined devotion of Captain Charles Baker and the crew of his Majesty's brig Drake.

This ship was wrecked in a fog on the coast of Newfoundland, on the 20th of June, 1822. Scarcely was she aground before her condition was hopeless. The sea was so heavy that her boats were successively swamped or stove; and the best swimmer of the crew, who endeavored to take a line to the shore, was dragged back to the ship, exhausted by the violence of the waves; but Captain Baker and his men remained undaunted, and were, each one, ready to attempt any desperate enterprise for the safety of their companions. At length the boatswain succeeded in reaching the shore in the dingy—the only boat that would swim-which was, however, crushed against the rocks as he landed. While he was doing so, the wreck was driven near to a dry rock, and Captain Baker ordered the crew to take refuge on it, but he was obliged to reiterate his resolution of being the last to leave before he could induce any of these brave fellows to precede him. When they had all gained this temporary refuge they found themselves but a few yards from the mainland; but they also made the terrible discovery that their asylum would be covered at high water, and the waves were so boisterous that no man could hope to cross the narrow channel.

Still none showed a sign of fear or impatience; but the commander and his gallant band waited calmly for what seemed to them inevitable death. The boatswain now threw across to his comrades the rope which he had taken on shore, and there was another struggle among them, every man refusing to be saved till he had been commanded to go by the Captain. Forty-four thus landed; six remained on the rock, but one of these was a woman whose hardships had taken away all her