lages have been burnt, and bodies buried by thousands, what is there but heart-sickness and grief as relics of this most unholy and absurd war?

Let us talk no more about the "sad necessity." It is idle to speak thus at such times as these. Are not the people greater than kings and stronger than governments? If they say, "We will not fight," who is to make them? Let them obey all righteous laws right loyally; but when God says, "Thou shalt not kill," shall they obey man, who bids them take mitrailleuses and chassepots that they may do the more murder?

War is a terribly guilty thing; and though almost always a few persons are the most to blame, yet there are very many others who are not guiltless. Those who, either by spoken orations or written words, stir up the people to strife and hatred until they forget that they are brothers, and think only that they are enemies, are not guiltless. Those who fan the flame of ambition or jealousy in the breasts of monarchs are not guiltless. Those who write war songs strong with subtle passion are not guiltless. And the men themselves who, though they are men. and can be brave as heroes, yet allow themselves to be slaughtered by thousands, instead of banding together in peaceful resistance, are not guiltless.

And surely we

How long is it to continue? Surely there will be better times when swords shall be beaten into ploughshares and spears into pruning-hooks, for the Lord hath spoken it. But cannot we hasten it on? Cannot we at least help to make the next generation a peace-loving one? We are teaching our children not to be cruel. shall soon also teach them that it must be in the sight of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, a most sinful thing to take away human life. But let us exercise a little common sense about it. Let us not talk to them of glorious victories, and say nothing of suffering and dying men. us not provide them with mimic swords and guns for toys, nor solicit their admiration for red coats. Let us teach

Let

them that the pomp of war is the pomp of death. If they grow up, hating wrong but loving their fellows; if they are trained to be soldiers of Him who said, "Blessed are the peace makers," we shall soon have heard the last about "the sad necessity of war."

The Fruit of a Lesson.

SOME years ago, a mother spent a Sunday evening in giving a lesson to her little boy on these four words :—

"THOU SHALT NOT KILL."

It was so plain and forcible that it impressed him very strongly; and she afterwards overheard him say, in his prattling way," Paul will never kill anything again; for mamma said that only God could make life, and only He should take it away."

And so the lesson bore its first fruits even while childhood lasted; for Paul, different from many boys who seem to be inherently cruel to weak and defenceless things, never took away the life of fly or spider, or anything that the great God had made..

As he grew older, life became even more a sacred thing to him. He was a brave lad, and belonged to that noble corps whose duty it is to hasten to the rescue of houses and men threatened by fire. He feared no flames; he would scorn danger if a little child were to be saved, or an old woman helped. But he could never read a newspaper account of a murder, or of the death-punishment inflicted upon any fellow-creature, without enduring positive suffering and shedding bitter tears.

One day, not so very long ago, this Sunday-school boy, grown now to a young man, came to his mother, who sat at home, in fear and trembling.

A look into his face assured her that something had happened.

“My son, tell me."

"It is all settled, mother. We are ordered to the war at once."

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Well, Paul?"

Well, mother, you know without my telling you that I will never fire a shot, and no power on earth shall make me."

"But you must go, Paul; they will force you."

"I shall go, mother, because, as you say, I am obliged;

but be very sure of this, no one will be wounded or slain by my hands."

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'But," said the mother, secretly rejoiced, but more than half frightened, "you should try to beat the enemy; your country demands it."

He smiled at her.

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'I cannot believe that my country would be any the gainer for my having committed a murder," said he. "I love my countrymen, but I do not hate my enemies. How can I, when I am the servant of Christ, who has taught me the blessedness of peace? I must go into this horrible battle, but I am sure that the old command, 'Thou shalt not kill,' will sound louder in my ears than any general's orders."

Only a day or two afterwards Paul held his mother to his heart and kissed her for the last time.

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" she said brokenly; "why should this cruel strife rob me of you? What would be the good of victory to me if my son should be killed? Paul, do you know that you may be slain upon that terrible battle-field?"

He looked down at her with his steadfast, undimmed eyes.

If my country

“I am not afraid to die, my mother. wants my life she can have it; but if they come to you after the battle with news that I am among the dead, you may know that I have no man's blood upon my soul, but that God has in mercy taken me out of the strife into His peace. If it were not for you, mother, I should be glad to think that it would be soon; for indeed "—and here the brave young voice faltered-"I do not know how I shall bear the sights of suffering and death."

And so this boy went away to the war.

It was noticed that before he was engaged he was able to render assistance to the wounded, and that he was among the most active in the burial of the dead.

He was never heard to complain, although he must have been as hungry as the rest, and although he slept for several nights upon the wet ground, with the rain pouring upon him, after enduring the toilsome and fatiguing march which must have told upon a frame never robust and strong.

He had no fear. When at last the enemy's fire opened upon them, and his regiment was foremost in the fight, he was cheerful and courageous, and those next to him declared afterwards that they heard him softly singing, as if to himself.

He was almost the first to fall, mortally wounded.

As they came trampling over him in the eagerness of the battle, they heard him speak twice.

The first was that cry heard the most frequently in all battle-fields where the wounded and dying lie—

"Mother!"

The next was a sentence full of wonderful power

"I know that my Redeemer liveth.'

And then the Christian soldier died.

He had fought a good fight, had he not? Surely he has received the conqueror's crown, although he only obeyed the King of kings, and refused to take away human life at the bidding of any earthly monarch.

Mothers, have you no power in your hands to help on the time when God shall "scatter the nations that delight in war?"

Surprises.

ONE of the many maxims of the world is this, guard against surprises. And people try their best to do so. Much thought is expended, and many pains are taken that they may not be startled by unexpected events. We forewarn ourselves and each other, and prepare for what is coming, exercising all possible ingenuity with regard to the future. Changes, losses, sicknesses, even these things scarcely take some people by surprise, for they have always known that they were possible and even probable, and have therefore not forgotten to make arrangements for meeting them. It is scarcely possible for these people to be very much thrown off their guard. They are not to be taken at a disadvantage by a tidal wave; they had better even be disappointed than surprised. They are not to be

astonished by the sudden appearance of a fiery messenger in the clouds; they are to know beforehand that a comet is expected. No thought or trouble is too much to prevent their being surprised.

And yet we like surprises, and it is of no use to pretend that we don't. We have always liked both to give and to receive them that is supposing they are pleasant ones. What makes a child's birthday so happy but the surprise of a new toy, which he finds beside him on the pillow as soon as he awakes on the eventful morning? If he knew what was coming, would it be half as delightful? And would not a pleasure which comes to him later lose both for himself and his friends at least half its delight if he expected it? Everybody knows that when a man's services are suitably acknowledged, whether the testimonial consist of an address beautifully written on vellum, or an addition to his household treasures, or a well-filled purse, he must on no account be able to omit the important words, "I am so entirely taken by surprise, that I—excuse me," &c. It is true, indeed, of a great many things that they would lose half their value if they did not come unexpectedly. Well-merited praise is sweet, but anticipated praise is almost certain to prove a failure. Success, joy, love that is counted upon has not such power over us as that which flashes upon us unexpectedly.

And so, notwithstanding all our preparations and efforts at guarding against surprises, we often get them. Sometimes they are very startling, and we cannot be otherwise than alarmed at the grim and threatening apparition that suddenly appears before us. But far oftener, even as we love best to astonish our children with pleasant surprises, so does our Father deal with us. We have the full-blown joy without waiting while it buds and opens; we have the broad noon-tide of delight without the grey preparatory dawn.

And may we not hope that at the end of the life which is tended by such inexhaustible love and care we shall find many more happy surprises? It would be hard to say what we really do expect. We cannot but look forward, and, looking forward, we cannot but speculate a little. But it is not likely that we shall find all our surmises very incorrect? May it not be that the pale face which will