THE GREAT CHANDELIER AND THE LITTLE

RUSHLIGHT.

"LET your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven."

"Oh dear me !" said a little Rushlight, that was glimmering in a cottage window, "how splendid it must be to burn with a strong, steady flame, like that great Chandelier in the grand hall of the Castle. There it is, posted on that lofty rock, overlooking the sea and the land; and if they only would not draw those crimson curtains so close, it could cast its rays all through the valley and far off upon the ocean, and guide poor tempest-tossed wanderers to safety and peace. As for me, I've only a little mite of a blaze, and can't expect to be of much use to anybody; but every little helps,' they say, so I'll do what I can. What can that noise be in the bog yonder? Some poor traveller must have lost his way in the darkness. I'll look and see."

So she sent forth her little light with all the strength that was in her, to pierce through the thick darkness.

A poor, lame man, going home from his day's labour, had lost his way and stumbled into the deep mire, where he was likely to be smothered to death. But the little glimmering light, glancing over the dark swamp, showed him a few inches of harder ground, and from that he could reach the branch of a tree, and pull himself up to firm land again.

"Ah well!" said the little Rushlight, "I'm glad I've got even a little flame, if I can't have a great one. I'm afraid there is not enough to teach men to glorify the Father in heaven, but perhaps I can do a little good to his poor children on earth."

Presently two little children came walking slowly, hand-in-hand, along the road. They were wearied with their long day's journey; the night air felt chilly and damp through their scanty covering, and the stony road was hard and cold to their little bare feet.

"Oh, brother Alf," said little Meta, as she clung closer to her brother's side, "shall we never find our home again? It is so dark and cold here, and I am tired and sleepy, and afraid besides."

"Don't be frightened, little one," said the boy, pressing bravely on, while at the same time he supported his sister's tiny form, and wrapped it closely in his own overcoat. "Our home is a great way from here if, indeed, we have any home on earth; but we will try to find some kind people who will let us stay all night with them. Look! don't you see that splendid house on the hill yonder? must be warm and light there. We will go and see."

66

It

Oh, yes, yes," said little Meta, now wide awake with delight. People must be very good and kind that live in such a splendid home. Surely they will let us stay and rest till morning; and then we can go on our journey again."

"I am not so sure," said Alfred, who was two years older, and a great deal wiser in the ways of the world than his sister. "The richest are not always the kindest, mother used to say. But it will be some rest to sit down a few minutes on the steps.'

And at this moment they arrived at the stately mansion, and dropped down quite exhausted on the marble steps that led up to the broad verandah.

"Oh, what a splendid, great lamp!" exclaimed Meta, looking towards the open window.

"That's a chandelier," said the wise Alfred. "Don't you see there are as many as a hundred burners, and every one blazing away just like the sun?

"And see," said Meta, "that great table spread with white damask, and all shining with glass, and silver, and gold. They have enough to eat and drink there, while we are cold and hungry and thirsty."

"I don't believe, after all, it is a very good place for us to stay," said Alfred, as the sounds of drunken revelry grew louder. "Those men around the table are swearing horrible oaths, such as mother never would let us hear."

"They act as if they were crazy, too," said Meta. "I thought before they seemed wonderfully happy there under the bright light; but now I'm afraid of them.'

"Ah, I see," said Alfred; "it is poison they are drinking out of those beautiful golden cups. Father told me once that wine is a sort of poison that makes demons of men. We must not stay here, little sister; it is better to be out on the dark road than in such a place as this."

"I don't thank the great Chandelier for leading us to such a horrible place," said Meta, drowsily; but the little tired feet refused to resume their burden. Her head had sunk on her brother's shoulder, and she was fast asleep before the sentence was finished.

At this moment a tall footman, in a gay livery of green and gold, appeared at the door.

"What are you doing here, you little vagabonds?" he exclaimed. "I am resting, and my sister is asleep," Alfred replied.

66

Away with you, then," said the footman; "we want no such little idle trash about the house."

He raised his cane as if to drive them away by force from the steps. Alfred rose proudly, and, lifting his sleeping sister by main strength in his arms, carried her out of the gate. Before Meta knew what had happened, both were trudging again along the same weary road which they had travelled all day.

"Don't you see that light, away down at the foot of the hill, brother?" said Meta. "Let us go and see what it is."

"It is in the window of a little mite of a house," said Alfred. "We will go and see if the people there are good enough to let us stay with them all night."

But before they had reached the door of the humble little dwelling, a voice exclaimed,

"Mother, mother, there are two poor little children out all alone this dark night."

Bring them in, my child, and make them at home," someone replied, in gentle, motherly tones.

A kindly welcome, abundant food, and a snug, warm little bed awaited the wanderers.

"How good God is !" said little Meta, "to give us such kind friends, just when we were all alone ! Won't He always take care of us,

brother?

"Yes, I am sure He will," replied Alfred. prayer to-night, Meta."

"We cannot forget our

And they glorified their Father which is in heaven!

Still the little rushlight blazed away at the window, while the tired children were sleeping sweetly in their bed. Late in the night one of the guests from the castle passed along the darkened road on his way to his home. He was a poet, and richly endowed by nature: but his days had been spent in idleness, and his nights in dissipation. Yet in the midst of the uproar of the feast, a voice had spoken in his inmost soul, "Child of genius, what dost thou here? Wilt thou quench in earthly indulgence the spark of heavenly fire which God has placed within thee? Rouse thee, and live to some noble end. Fulfil the purpose of thy being, in awaking man to a love of the true, the beautiful, the good." And as he passed, the little taper repeated to him the same message.

"Brave little monitress," said the poet," thou art more worthy than I. Thou sheddest thy little light in a dark place-thy gentle, constant light of love, and joy, and peace, and comfort, and kindliness. I will rekindle at thy tiny spark the lamp which God has given me. I will cheer the weary sons of toil with my ray of cheerfulness and hope, and lift them towards happiness and love. I, too, in my appointed sphere, will glorify my Father which is in heaven!"

THE DEATH OF STEPHEN.

THE long ordeal was drawing to a close;
And calmly, still, the saintly Stephen stood,
While all around him raged the stormy seas
Of Jewish hate and malice, he had lashed
To furious turmoil by his stern reproofs.
"Ye stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart,
Ye ever do resist the Holy Ghost,

As did your fathers who have gone," he cried:
"Of all the prophets who with heavenly voice
Foretold the coming of the Holy Christ;
Which did they not both persecute and slay?
And ye have now become His murderers."

Thus fast the arrows of the truth which flew
With piercing force from that undaunted man
Fell on their hearts; but, ah! 'twas not with power,
To conquer and subdue their stubborn souls,
But as a poisoned dart that fiercely stings
To rankle in their breasts: with blinded rage
They gnashed upon him with their teeth, and soon
With headlong speed rushed down the dread abyss
Of cruelty and murder. But as

When in the midst of some tempestuous storm,
A passing lull occurs, the clouds divide,

The sun shines forth; so for a moment's space
The rabble paused, and on the martyr's soul
The light of heaven streamed down; for lo! as up
His rapturous gaze was turned, the azure screen
Which hides from mortal sight the blest abodes
Was drawn aside, and through the heavenly window
He beheld the glory of the Lord,

And Jesus standing there:

As some worn pilgrim from a distant height
Viewing the goal of all his hopes stretched out,——
A bright and glorious prospect to his view,

Exclaims with joy, so the enravished saint:

"I see," he cried, "the heavens above me opened!

And standing up, on God's right hand, the Son of Man!"

But now the calm was o'er;

For like some pent-up flood that bursts its bounds

And with impetuous dash sweeps all away,
They rushed upon their victim, and with hands
They oft had lifted up to God in prayer,
Dragged him without the city's sheltering gates.
Then did the cruel stones like blinding hail
Fall thick upon his unprotected head,

Scarce one of which but made a gaping wound
And sent a thrill of anguish through his frame;
But he the object of their murderous rage-

Stood undismayed; that sight which thrilled his soul-
That human form which stood to his relief,

Was present still to his adoring eyes,
And as he felt his spirit's eager wings
All restless from the earth to soar away,
Cried out to Jesus to receive his soul.

Then down he knelt in prayer, while on his face
The halo of that glory he beheld,

Was playing, like some gorgeous sunset tint;
And wondrous were the words that as a stream
Of healing waters issued from his lips—
They seemed to be so like a melting strain,
Once heard on Calvary's Mount: aloud he cried,
"Lay not, O Lord, this sin unto their charge."

And then, calmly and peacefully,

As babe upon a mother's breast,
He fell asleep.

H. ROBSON.

NOTICE.

THE annual volumes of "THE CHURCH" and "THE APPEAL" for 1877 are now ready. They will be found to be full of interesting and attractive reading for family and home use. It is hoped that they will have a wide circulation in their more permanent form. They may be had by order of any bookseller.

We wish also to announce that the number of “THE APPEAL" for January, 1878, is a Special New Year's Number, containing Narratives, Sketches, and Addresses, specially adapted to the season. It is a most useful New Year's Tract for circulation in Sunday Schools, and for general distribution by Tract Distributors, District Visitors, and others who are engaged in visiting the poor and circulating Gospel Literature. Our Readers are invited to send in early orders for the extra copies they require, as the demand for this number is expected to be very great.

May we express the hope that our Readers will avail themselves of the opportunity which the commencement of a New Year gives to recommend both our Magazines, wherever they can do so, with a view to an enlarged circulation? Several new and able writers have promised their help for the New Year; and it is believed that the new volumes of both "THE CHURCH" and "THE APPEAL" will be quite as attractive, and as much adapted for usefulness, as any that have gone before them. No effort on the part of the conductors will be wanting to make both the Magazines as worthy as ever of the large circulation in the Churches which they have had now for so many years.

In consequence of the necessity of going early to press, "News of the Churches" is deferred till next month.