MISSIONS. THERE can be no doubt in any Christian man's mind as to our general duty respecting missions. That point was on one occasion clearly settled by that great man, the Duke of Wellington. An argument arose at a dinner table at which he was present, and a man was laughing in an ungodly and worldly way at the employment of missions abroad, when there were so many persons little better than heathens at home. Thinking the great, strong, masculine mind of the old duke would be on his side, he said, “Is not that so, sir?" When the oracle spoke, to the great horror of the inquirer, the answer was,-" Well, here, sir, are your marching orders-Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.' Does not that settle it for you?" It is quite clear to every one who admits the truth of the Scriptures that the general duty cannot be evaded. The miserable and perilous condition of the heathen should excite our pity, and stir us up to zealous efforts to impart to them "the light of life" as quickly and as extensively as possible. While we are deliberating they are perishing for lack of knowledge. "Well do I remember," says the Rev. John Shaw, "when in South Africa, in a remote part of Kaffraria, once preaching, and at the close of the sermon, one of the principal men stepped forward and said, 'Teacher, these are good things you have been telling us; they make my heart warm and glad; but why did you not come sooner and tell us? Why did not the good people send some one to us long ago? Where are our fathers? Where are our grandfathers, and great grand fathers gone, if these things you tell us are all true?' It was a difficult thing to answer that question, and a difficult thing to excuse their neglect. The Kaffir closed by a figurative remark, 'When you had the honey,' said he, 'why did you sit down and say, "Oh, how good this honey! how sweet!" and keep it all to yourselves, when God showed that there was plenty for us all ?'” We have here an important lesson. What we intend to do for the heathen must be done at once, or it may be for ever too late. MONEY. THERE are some things which money cannot do. Whatever wealth such a man may possess, it cannot satisfy him. The spirit of accumulation becomes more grasping, or more raging, as riches increase. "He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver, nor he that loveth abundance with increase." There is no end of his “labour, neither is his eye satisfied with riches." The more a man has, the more he wants. A man, in writing to a friend of his past history, said, that by his thirty-sixth year he had realised a handsome competency; "but," he then added, "I began to say to myself, I will be rich!"" With every fresh accession of property, he grew more covetous. The more he got, the more he would have, as the drunkard's thirst increases by drinking, and so he persevered until he had heaped up nearly £200,000, and in his last years every thought and word and action spoke of one thing, "Money, money, money!" Money cannot purchase happiness. Often are the rich and great as far from being happy as the poorest and meanest. "In the fulness of their sufficiency they are in straits." "I have a rich neighbour," says Izaak Walton, "who is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh; and the whole business of his life is to get money. For cares are the keys that keep riches, and hang often so heavily at the rich man's girdle that they clog him with weary days and restless nights." M. Girand, a man of immense wealth in the city of Paris, once said, "As to myself, I live like a galley-slave, constantly occupied, and often passing the night without sleep. I am wrapped in a labyrinth of affairs, and worn out with care." Men whose successes have exceeded their most sanguine expectations have still found that, with all their wealth, they were restless and unhappy. It is said that when J. C. Astor was once congratulated by a certain person for his wealth, he replied by pointing to his pile of bonds and maps of property, at the same time inquiring, "Would you like to manage these matters for your board and clothes?" The man demurred. Sir," continued the rich man, "it is all that I get." The best enjoyments of life are not dependent on wealth. They are cheap, and are equally the property of the poor. "Think not the rich man happiest of his kind, Man sleeps securely on a bed of straw, But, stretched on roses, he must heed the thorns. Sir Charles Flower spoke for many a wealthy man like himself when, to the beggar who asked him for alms, he replied "I would give you a guinea if you could let me have your appetite." Sleep is the wealth of the poor as it is of the rich man, and the "tired sea-boy on the mast" sleeps better than many a "head that wears a crown." The tranquil sleep which the poor enjoy, many of the rich and powerful would give thousands to purchase. The renowned French financier once said, "Alas! why is there no sleep to be sold?" Sleep was not in the market, at any quotations. Wealth will not buy health, or prolong life, or bring back youth. Turner, the distinguished painter, had amassed a great fortune, and passionately loved it. When advanced in years his friend Carew remarked, "Turner, they tell me you are very rich." "Am I?" asked the wealthy barber's son. "Yes," was the answer, "everybody says so." Turner rejoined, "Ah, I would give it all up to be twenty years of age again!" But neither wishes nor gold can "renew our youth." While riches have never given true happiness, they have often produced real misery. The dread of losing what he has is one way in which the love of money makes its possessor miserable. Possession naturally brings apprehension as to the power of retaining it. There were periods in the career of Rothschild, the millionaire, when his gigantic capital seemed likely to be scattered to the four quarters of the globe. The rich often make themselves miserable by the fear of poverty. One said in his heart, "I will get rich," and so he did. His wealth could be estimated by millions; yet so wretched was he in his latter days, that he constantly feared a pauper's end. To dispel the illusion, a sovereign was paid to him every week out of his immense riches. A great shipowner - in the North, a few years ago, put himself to death because he was afraid he should come to die in the workhouse. Nicholas Longworth, who died in 1862, the richest man in Western America-"rich beyond the dreams of avarice," was yet haunted at times with the fear of poverty, and the dread of dying in the poor-house, when he was worth nearly two millions of pounds sterling in productive real estate and other solid investments. Riches cannot ward off any trouble, or suffering, or death; nor purchase any portion in the blessed inheritance of the just. What is the world's boundless wealth worth in the prospect of death and eternity? Money is of no use then. "A world for five minutes!" was the agonising cry of a drowning young man, who had neglected his soul; but his prayer was not answered, for in a few moments he sank to rise no more. A wealthy merchant, a few years ago, having lived merely in looking to the world, was suddenly called to die. The physician visited him, and found him sick unto death. When he entered the room, the merchant, fixing his eyes upon him, said, "I am very sick, can I recover?" The physician felt his pulse, examined him, and then shook his head. "I'll give you a thousand pounds," gasped the dying man, "if you will prolong my life a week."—"I could not do it, my dear sir," said the physician, "for one hour." Not all his immense wealth could either give him life, or continue it one moment. "I well remember," writes Mr Sortain in his diary, "one young man ; he was near his last gasp; a man of wealth. He looked at me, and asked if all his wealth would redeem him for only a quarter of an hour? That quarter of an hour was not given." Queen Elizabeth, as she lay dying, cried out, "Millions of money for an inch of time !" but the piercing |
