The Letter Box. CALL TO THE MINISTRY. FROM time to time we are having communications of various sorts on the subject of the Ministry; but on the point of "call," the applications are very few, and they are, therefore, the more important. We find individuals, apparently persons of piety, as well as of competent intelligence, who have a dread lest they should be pronounced unworthy, which leads them to repress the utterance of their hearts to their spiritual friends, and more especially to those best able to guide them-their own pastors. It may, therefore, be of importance that we set before them a few thoughts of one who has had some experience in these matters, and whose judgment is deserving of attention. The Apostles of Christ, and the prophets who preceded them in Christ's ministry, received a "special call" to their work; by the audible voice or unmistakable vision, confirmed by mi raculous or supernatural interpositions, the prophets were instructed to convey to men the knowledge of the Divine will; and by the special appointment of Christ, his disciples went forth preaching the Gospel of the kingdom, confirmed themselves and confirming others "by signs from heaven" and miracles wrought, through power received from on high. the reason with which man is endowed, is duty to God and our generation to felt in any other department of the be learned. Nothing, "peculiar, unsoul's existence, to be experienced in order to be defined, and of higher sanctions and holier motives" than the Bible reveals, is necessary to constitute a "call" to preach the Gospel. To answer an inquirer with our "best ability and help," would require a volume, rather than a short essay; and though we fail to satisfy him, we shall best satisfy ourselves by a few very simple suggestions in relation to "a call to preach the Gospel." 1. Such a "call" supposes a heart renewed, and a sincere self-consecration to the work of the Lord. this, every Christian has. But 2. It supposes a holy, just, and blameless conversation, like that of Paul among the Thessalonians, and like that of every "brother" who walks worthy of his vocation. 3. It supposes a familiar knowledge of the great doctrines of the Gospel, a firm belief of them, and steadfast adherence to them. 4. It supposes an aptitude to teach what is thus known and surely be lieved; for knowledge that cannot be imparted to others is of no use but to its possessor; and God no more "calls" such an one to preach the Gospel, than the deaf mute. 5. It supposes good native talent; a fool may be a Christian, but he cannot be a "called" minister of God. ComSince those days long passed, we are mon sense is of some importance, not aware that intelligent and humble though sometimes little valued and believers in "the sure word" of divine less cultivated. Wit, genius, and great testimony, have claimed a "special talents may be desirable, but they are call" to the work of the ministry, or not indispensable. A ready discernany other work of God. Fanatics ment of the "fit and proper”—a mind there have been in all ages, and fana- capable of invention, of patient study, tics there doubtless are still, affirming of just reasoning-some powers of special "calls" and special revela-memory, imagination, and independent tions, with as little evidence therefore, investigation, are essential evidences as was given by Mohammed, Sweden- of a "call" to the ministry. borg, or Joe Smith. In the light of God's word, and of 6. If a man have various learning and the disposition to increase it for promoting the cause of God;-if he have acquired, or have the means of acquiring the knowledge of the Scriptures in their original languages, and of laying under contribution the wealth of science, history and philosophy, and a desire to appropriate the whole to the service of Christ, his "call" is clear; on the supposition 7. That he has no defects of person, utterance, manners, &c., that are radical and irremediable. He may be offensively disfigured or diseased, his vocal organs may be feeble, or incapable of acceptable modulation; and his manners, through inattention or culpable obstinacy, may be strange and repulsive; he may be more boorish than gentlemanly, and more conceited than modest; and should he doubt his "call to preach the Gospel," we would not contend very earnestly against the doubt. 8. If a man have little or no control of his own spirit,-if he readily give way to impatience,—if he can bear no affronts without resentment,— if he have less care to economize his time, money, and influence, than to indulge his pleasures, quite clearly, he is not called of God to preach the Gospel. 9 "A call," supposes a wholesouled devotedness to the single object of saving men from death, and perfecting that work of redemption, of which Christ is the author and finisher. Unless there be an unquenchable desire, like that of Paul, and Brainerd and Whitfield, to deliver men from going down to the pit-the same in kind and continuance, if not in degree, it is certainly questionable, or more than questionable, whether God calls a man to the great work of the ministry. Che Counsel Chamber. HISTORY OF A PRODIGAL. IN one of our little villages which stands on the sea-shore (says a pious clergyman), there lately lived a widow and her little son, a lad of about ten years of age. She had formerly seen better days. Her husband was a respectable sea captain, and supported his family in ease and affluence. But amidst his own and the hopes of his family, he was lost at sea. The widow had two little sons, one of six years old, and, the other, above mentioned, then an infant. She retired from the circle in which she had so long moved with esteem, and purchased a neat little cottage, which stands by the water side. Here she brought up her little boys, and early endeavoured to lead them "in the way they should go." She felt herself to be a pilgrim below, and taught her sons that this world was never designed for our house. In this manner this family lived, retired, beloved, and respected. The mother would often lead her children on the hard sandy beach, just as the sun was tipping the smooth blue waters with his last yellow tints. She would then think of their father who was gone, and with her finger would often write his name upon the sand, and as the next wave obliterated every trace of the writing, would tell them that the hopes and joys of this world are equally transient. When the eldest son had arrived at the age of twelve, he was seized with an incurable desire of going to sea. He had heard sailors talk of their voyages, of visiting other climes, and other countries, and his imagination threw before him a thousand pleasures, could he visit them. The remonstrances and entreaties of a tender parent, and an affectionate little brother, were all in vain. He at length wrung a reluctant consent from his mother, and receiving from her a Bible, a mother's blessing and prayers, he embarked on board a large brig. He promised his mother, as he gave a last parting hand, that he would daily read his Bible, and as often commit himself to God in prayer. A few tears and a few sighs escaped him, as he saw the last blue tints of his native land fade from his sight, for there were the cottage of his mother, and all the joys of his childhood; but all was novelty around him, and he soon forgot these pangs, amidst other cares and other scenes. For some time he remembered his promise to his mother, and daily read his Bible; but the sneers of the wicked crew recalled his mind from reviewing the instructions of his pious mother, and he placed his Bible in the bottom of his chest, to slumber with his conscience. During a severe storm, indeed, which seemed as if destruction was yawning to receive every soul on board, he thought of his mother, his home, and his promises; and in the anguish of his heart, resolved to amend, should his life be spared. But when the storm had subsided, the seas were smooth, and the clear sun brought joy and gladness over the great waters, he forgot all his promises, and it now seemed as if the last throb of conscience was stifled. No one of the crew could be more profane-no one more ready to scoff at that religion, which in his childhood and innocence he had been taught to love and re vere. the rising hills over which he had so often roamed -the grove through which he had so often wandered, while it echoed with the music of the feathered tribe-the gentle stream on whose banks he had so often sportedand the tall spire of the temple of Jehovah-all tended to inspire the most interesting sensations. He drew near the cottage of his mother, and there all was stillness. Nothing was to be heard save the gentlest murmurs of the unruffled waves, or the distant barking of a village dog. A solemnity seemed to be breathed around him, and, as he stopped at his mother's door, his heart misgave him, though he knew not why. He knocked, but no one bade him enter. He called, but no answer was returned, save the echo of his own voice. It seemed like knocking at the door of a tomb. The nearest neighbour, hearing the noise, came and found the youth sitting and sobbing on the steps of the door. "Where," cried he, with eagerness, "where are my mother and brother? Oh, I hope they are not—” "If," said the stranger, "you inquire for widow, I can only pity you. I have known her but a short time; but she was the best woman I ever knew. Her little boy died of a fever about a year ago, and, in consequence of fatigue in taking care of him, and anxiety for a long absent son at sea, the good widow herself was buried yesterday." "Oh, heavens," cried the youth, "have I stayed just long enough to kill my mother! Wretch that I am! show me the grave After an absence of several years, he found himself once more drawing near his native land. He had tra versed the globe over, but during all this time he had neither written to his mother, nor heard from her. Though he had thrown off restraint, and blunted the finer feelings of his nature, yet his bosom thrilled with pleasure at the thought of once more meeting his parent and brother. It was in the fall of the year that he returned, and, on a lovely eve in Sep--I have a dagger in my bundle- let tember, walked towards his long deserted home. Those only are acquainted with the pleasures of the country, who have spent their early days in youthful retirement. As the young sailor drew near the spot where he spent his early days,-as he ascended the last sloping hill which hid from his sight the little stage on which he had acted the first scenes in the drama of life, his memory recalled to his mind all the scenes of his "happier days," while fancy whispered deceit fully that hours equally agreeable would again be realized. He now saw me die with my mother-my poor, broken-hearted parent!" "Hold, friend," said the astonished neighbour; "if you are this woman's eldest son, I have a letter for you, which she wrote a few days before she died, and desired that you might receive it, should you ever return." They both turned from the cottage, and went to the house of the neighbour. A light being procured, the young man threw down his bundle and hat, and read the following short letter, while his cheeks were covered with tears: "My dearest, only son.-When this reaches you, I shall be no more. Your little brother has gone before me, and I cannot but hope and believe that he was prepared. I had fondly hoped that I should once more have seen you on the shores of mortality; but this hope is now relinquished. I have followed you by my prayers through all your wanderings. Often, while you little suspected it, even in the dark cold nights of winter, have I knelt for my lost son. There is but one thing which gives me pain at dying, and that is, my dear William, that I must leave you in this wicked world, as I fear, unreconciled to your Maker! I am too feeble to say more. As you visit the sods which cover my dust, oh, remember that you, too, must soon fol low. Farewell, the last breath of your mother will be spent in praying for you that we may meet above." The young man's heart was melted on reading these few words from the parent whom he so tenderly loved; and we will only add, that this letter was the means, in the hands of God, of bringing this youth to a saving knowledge of the truth, and that he is now a highly esteemed and truly pious man. Such is the history of a wandering prodigal, from the home of a fond Christian parent; but if his risk was so great, what hope can there be for those who never knew such lessons, but whose homes are associated only with remembrance of misery, and of instruction in vice and crime. Che Fragment Basket. THE DRUNKARD'S HOUSE. That is the home of a drunkard! Did you ever consider what is to be seen, almost every night, inside that house? Come with me and see. The door, hanging by a single hinge, opens creakingly, and the cold, empty, miserable room looks even more wretched than could have been expected. The sickly, worn-out wife is trying in vain, from former remnants, to make out some food for herself and her halfstarved children. They sit around the room, or hover over the embers, in a half stupor. They do not cry; the extreme of misery is silence: and these wretched ones are beyond tears. The mother is hurrying through her work, to get them away from an approaching danger. What is that danger which she does not dare they should meet? Why, their father is coming home! If it were a storm of thunder and lightning, or if it were a midnight thief, she, would gather her children around her, and they would feel safer and happier together. But their father is coming home, and she sends her children away! She hides her babe in the most secret place she can find; a thin, shivering boy spreads over himself the scanty covering, which is all that is left, and draws himself up, as if he were trying to shrink away from the cold; and perhaps a girl, by a choice of miseries, has pleaded for permission to stay with her mother. All this is, however, the mere beginning,-the preparation for the scene of real misery which the return of this abandoned father and husband is to But here bring. He is a drunkard! I must stop; for if I were to describe the scene just as it is actually exhibited in thousands of families every night, my reader would lay down the book sick at heart, at the contemplation of the guilt and misery of man.—Abbott's Corner-Stone. MECHANICS' WIVES. Speaking of the middle ranks of life, a good writer observes, "There we behold woman in all her glory,—not a doll, to carry silk and jewels; not a puppet, to be dandled and flattered by fops; an idol for profane adoration, yet reverenced by none; always jostled out of the path which nature and society would assign her, by sociality or by contempt; desired, but not esteemed; ruling by passion, not affection; imparting her weakness, not her constancy, to the sex which she should exalt; the source and mirror of vanity. We see her as a wife, partaking the cares and cheering the anxiety of a husband; dividing the labours of her domestic diligence; spreading cheerfulness around her; for his sake sharing the decent refinements of the world without being vain of them; placing all pride, all her joy, all her happiness, in the merited approbation of the man she loves. As a mother, we find the affectionate, the ardent instructress of the children she has tended from their infancy; training them up to thought and virtue, to meditation and benevolence; addressing them as rational beings, and preparing them to become men and women in their turn. Mechanics' daughters make the best wives in the world." "CONSIDER ONE ANOTHER." Love is the very life and soul of genuine Christianity; it is that bond of perfectness without which the Church of God could not exist in the world. True Christians are called "the body of Christ," and "members one of another." Now, in the human body, which is the Divine illustration of this mystery, every member serves its fellow. The eye sees, the ears hear, the mouth tastes, the hands handle, and the feet walk, not for themselves, but for the body. Aim a blow at the eye, and the hand, with instinctive courtesy, is lifted up in an instant to shield it. Were it otherwise, were these members to live and act for themselves only, the human body could not continue to exist, for dissolution would necessarily saved from a hazardous meeting with idle company, by some engagement of which their sisters were the charm; they have refrained from mixing with the impure, because they would not bring home thoughts and feelings which they could not share with those trusting and loving friends; they have adhered to habits of temperance, because they would not profane with gross fumes the holy kiss with which they were accustomed to bid their sisters good night. FOLLY OF ATHEISM. They that deny a God destroy man's nobility; for certainly man is of kin to the beasts by his body, and if he be not of kin to God by his spirit, he is a base and ignoble creature. It destroys, likewise, magnanimity and the raising of human nature: for take an example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by man, who to him is instead of a god, or better nature; which courage is manifestly such in that creature as, without that confidence in a better nature than his own, he could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and fear, gathereth a force and faith which human nature in itself could not obtain. Therefore is Atheism, in all respects hateful, so in this, that it depriveth human nature of the means to exalt itself above human frailty.-Bacon. RESIGNATION. There is a resignation with which, it may be feared, most of us deceive ourselves. To bear what must be borne, and submit to what cannot be resisted, is no more than what the unregenerate heart is taught by the instinct of animal nature. But to acquiesce in the afflictive dispensations of Providenceto bring our own will in all things to that of our heavenly Father-to say to him in the sincerity of faith, when we drink of the bitter cup, 'Thy will be done!"-to bless the name of the Lord as much from the heart when he takes away, as when he gives-this is the resignation which religion teaches ; this the sacrifice which it requires.— Southey. 66 |