"I NEVER HAD A DOLL." IRCUMSTANCES once placed me for a short time at the head of a large and promiscuous school. The room was lighted by the smiling faces of a crowd of happy little urchins, and made merry by their busy hum. As my relation to them was but temporary, I could not become personally acquainted with them all. But among that cluster of happy, joyous little beings, there was one whose countenance impressed me with peculiar force-little Isabel-a sad, thoughtful child. Never shall I forget her melancholy face, as day after day, she slowly and silently entered the hall and took her accustomed seat. From the glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes of the other children, I would often turn to gaze in pity and bewilderment upon that pale, pensive face, as with motionless lips and drooping lids, she sat with her large dark eyes fixed upon the page before her. To her my feelings were particularly drawn out. She seemed to touch the finest chords of my heart, and I eagerly availed myself of every occasion to show her little acts of kindness. But no favours or soothing words ever forced a smile from Isabel, or gave to her voice a tone of cheerfulness; but a word of censure always cast a deeper shade over her mournful face. There was an air of melancholy about her which was exceedingly touching. She seemed to have no spring of cheerfulness in her nature, or if she had, I was ignorant of the means of reaching it. The child was an enigma to me. I longed to know her history, but she was never communicative. A natural reserve and timidity seemed ever to seal her lips. Yet I am sure she was not insensible to kindness, and my tender manner touched her feelings, for I noticed that when school was dismissed, Isabel joined not the laughing, frolicsome crowd that eagerly rushed from the confines of the schoolroom, but with a few others of the pupils she lingered till I was ready to leave, and she always managed to walk close by my side, always quietly resisting any child who in sport might contend for the place. Thus weeks passed away, and my interest in this melancholy child meanwhile was increasing, though still ignorant of the cause of her premature pensiveness. I was at last satisfied. One evening, as we walked from school, the other children were entertaining me with a description of their dolls and the fine dresses they had made for them. Isabel listened in silence to the merry prattle for some time, then in a sorrowful tone said, "I never had a doll-I never was allowed to play." Those simple words spoke volumes. There was the whole history and mystery of poor Isabel's sadness. She was an orphan, and had fallen into the hands of heartless wretches, who had no sympathy with children, no tolerance for their playfulness. Her very childishness had been pressed out of her little heart. She knew not the feeling of childhood. Youth had no charms for her. She was old, quite old, even in the spring-time of life. All her days were dark and dreary. Years have passed away, yet still in my heart is the echo of those mournful words, " I never had a doll-I never was allowed to play." And often have I wondered how many Isabels there are in this wide, wide world. How many, many children, who should have been light-hearted and playful, have had their little spirits broken by the stern treatment of those who seem to think children should be men and women, and seem to regard the time as wasted which is spent in frolic and merriment. Parents, guardians, and teachers, let the little ones be children while they are children, and let us no more hear in plaintive tones, "I never had a doll-I never was allowed to play." CHRIST IS ALL. ENTERED once a home of care, I stood beside a dying bed, Where a sweet infant drooped his head, I marked his smile, 'twas sweet as May; He whispered," Christ is all.” I saw the martyr at the stake, And not fierce flames his faith could shake, I asked him whence such strength was given, And answered," Christ is all." I saw the Gospel-herald go To Afric's sand and Greenland's snow, To save from Satan's thrall; Nor hope, nor life he counted dear ; I dreamt that hoary time had fled, I saw the Church's ransomed throng, Then, come to Jesus,- -come to day; Come, He has blood for all your stains; THE BROKEN CRUCIFIX. POOR ignorant woman of the Roman Catholic Church, had the misfortune to break her china crucifix, and immediately ran to her priest to inform him, being overwhelmed with terror and grief on account of her loss, and crying out, "Oh, I have broken my crucifix, I have broken my crucifix, and now I have nothing to trust in but the great God! Nothing to trust in but the great God!" The great God was with her a far-off imagination, an abstraction without reality, and the crucifix had been her real, present god, the idol of her fears and superstitions. The crucifix had been the object of her worship, and had stood between her and God, in the place of God, so that any knowledge of God, any right thought concerning Him, any true confidence in Him, was impossible, and it was utter and frightful desolation to be left with nothing but the great God to trust in. Now, whatever our hearts rest upon as an idol, in the place of God, is no better than a china crucifix. Whatever we rely upon in such a way that it comes between us and God, and is coveted and embraced as a source of independence apart from Him, or an alleviation of our sorrows, a comfort to our hearts, and a source of strength without Him, becomes, so far, an idol, and prevents the possibility of that affectionate, entire, sincere, and fearless trust in God,-that simple, childlike confidence, which would make us happy. We may have a great many china crucifixes ;it was well for that old woman if she had but one. "THE GREAT GOD TO TRUST IN!" We want no crucifix if we have Him. Every idol will be thrown down, every Dagon of our worship cast out, if He reigns. The great God to trust in! If we do trust in Him it is strength; the faith is our strength, and God is our strength, and in Him we are impregnable. "Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches; but let him that glorieth, glory in this; that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the Lord" (Jer. ix. 23). To have this knowledge of God as a living experience, this understanding of Him by the teachings of His Spirit, this confidence in His loving-kindness by participation of it in the soul, by the earnest of the Spirit in the heart, is better than all riches, and makes you superior to all trials and distresses, because they themselves are a part of God's loving-kindness, and are known and felt to be so by the heart that knoweth Him. There is nothing to be desired in comparison with this confidence. It makes the soul cheerful and submissive beneath all the burdens of our pilgrimage, because the inmost heart is sweetly talking with God all the way, and hears His voice saying, "My child, the burden is good for you, and is laid upon you for your good, and in a little while will be removed for ever, and will be changed into a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." Now such talk may be going on in the believer's heart, and while he is thus musing the fire may burn, and he may answer God in the flames of his affections kindling up toward heaven,-may come to God with the spirit of adoption, crying, "Abba, Father!"-and yet he may seem to others, and may be known to himself, to be walking in darkness as to this world, passing through the very valley of the shadow of death, buffeted with the billows of adversity, and rising between them, only long enough to take breath, and be kept from sinking. There may be, even under such circumstances, the peace of God that passeth all understanding, keeping both heart and mind in Christ Jesus. And ordinarily, such trust and peace are not procured, at least are not sealed, but by means of some such process. It is easy to put precious preserves into a vessel; you have only to pluck the ripe fruit, and add your sugar; but when you would hermetically seal them, to keep them, you must use the melted lead and the hot iron. And confidence in God is not to be kept up, by any possibility, without much earnest seeking of God in prayer. The lessons of His word alone will not keep it up, though ever so rich and encouraging, ever so searching and refining; the promises will not keep it up, though ever so precious and immutable; the providences of God will not keep it up, though ever so gentle or chastising; nothing but communion with God will; for it is the gift and creation of His grace, and that only. Prayer, and faith exercised in prayer, is the only handle by which you can lay hold on the promises; and if you attempt to grasp them, and hold by them otherwise, they are just like a sword without the handle, which, if you seize it by the blade, only cuts you, and is good for nothing to fight with. So the lessons of God's word, especially in a season of conviction and trial, just only cut you, and pierce you, if you come to them without prayer. Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw. Jacob only beheld it in a vision, in a sweet entrancing dream; but you by prayer may climb it, Jacob saw the angels in his sleep; but by prayer you may ascend in company with them, and stand on the topmost round, and look into heaven. You may climb to any height by prayer, farther up than ever eye hath seen, or dream hath followed, or heart untaught by grace, unexercised in prayer, can possibly conceive, Everything is possible, every enemy and evil conquerable, by the word of God and prayer. C. GEORGE MÜLLER. HE promise, "Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it " (Ps. lxxxi. 10), has seldom been more remarkably fulfilled than in the case of George Müller. The Orphan Houses of Bristol, where more than twenty-four hundred orphans have been fed, clothed, educated, and at the proper age started in life, are now well known throughout the world. Mr. Müller was born at Kroppenstadt, in Prussia, in 1805, and does not seem to have enjoyed the blessing of a religious parentage. His mother died when he was about fourteen, and his father, from worldly motives, intended him for the ministry. From his own most humble and affecting narrative, we learn that his youthful years were characterised by much sin. He confesses that he was in the habit of appropriating his father's money, and though repeatedly discovered and severely punished, yet continued the practice. His father, who seems to have held a good situation as collector of excise, sent him, when about sixteen, to a seminary at some distance from home. Here he seems to have been under no control, and on one occasion, without funds, went away on a pleasure excursion to the neighbourhood of the city of Brunswick. He took up his residence at a hotel, and having no means of defraying his bill, was thrown into prison, where, amidst the worst of characters, he remained for more than three weeks. His father having paid the debt, he was released; but the event made no lasting impression on his mind. În his twentieth year, he proceeded to the university of Halle. "Here," he says, "I continued my profligate life afresh, though now a student of divinity. When my money was spent, I pawned my watch, and part of my linen and clothes, or borrowed in other ways. Yet in the midst of it all, I had a desire to renounce this wretched life, for I had no enjoyment in it, and I had sense enough left to see that the end one day or other would be miserable, for I would never get a living. But I had no sorrow of heart on account of offending God." About this time he renewed his acquaintance with a former schoolfellow, and this apparently trifling circumstance. was the means of leading to an event of the greatest importance in Müller's history. This young man, whose name was Beta, when a boy, had been shunned by Müller on account of his serious and correct deportment. But this had passed away, and the once serious boy had become a gay and careless youth, ready to join in every sin and folly. However, it soon appeared that his early impressions had been connected with a saving change of heart, for, after joining Müller and other companions in an excursion characterised by much that was evil, his long slumbering con |