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and the wood from which our plates and cups were cut, as well as our table and seat, we owe to these little seeds. It was by laying little seeds in the earth that I obtained my apple trees, my field of corn, and all the good and beautiful things that now adorn my little home which was once a mere waste, and now abounds with everything that my life needs."

This was all very strange and wonderful to little Henry. He listened with wideopened eyes to every word his kind old friend spoke, and sat long pondering over all the marvellous things he had that day seen and heard.

And now the sun declined towards the west, and the garden with its beds of flowers lay in the cool shadow. Some flowers which Menrad specially prized looked somewhat drooping from the effect of the hot rays of the sun, and although he had hopes that refreshing rain would come ere long, he resolved meanwhile to water his choice favourites; so he fetched a small watering-can, and taking little Henry by the hand, led him to a stream of clear water which flowed plentifully from a great moss-covered rock. The child clapped his hands with delight when he perceived the stream.

"What a lot of water is here," he said, "and it is all coming out of that great stone. Every moment I think it must stop running, and yet it goes on as freely as before. Tell me who poured all this water into the heart of the stone, and where did they find enough water to fill it. Surely now you should close up the opening and save your water, else by-andby you will have none."

Father Menrad answered that this stream of water had been flowing on from the time the sun began to shine, without ever stopping, and that no man needed to fill it up. He told him that the vast lake down in the valley, which Henry had supposed was an immense mirror, was nothing else but pure water. new marvel for the child.

This was a

Carrying the water-can full of water back to his flower-beds, Menrad began to pour it gently on the drooping flowers. "Oh what are you doing there," cried Henry in a tone of dismay, "you will spoil

all your beautiful flowers; the colours will all be washed away."

Menrad, laughing, replied that flowers and herbs, blades of corn, vines, bushes, and great trees, had all a kind of life of their own, and needed water to drink as much as he did, else they would die. "But," said the child, "where can water enough be found to give drink to all these things, and who is able to get up so high as to water the tall trees that grow yonder on the mountain sides."

"That is all well-cared for," said the old man quietly, "and in a way that you yourself will soon see; sooner, perhaps, than we think of," he added, as he looked up to the clouds. And very soon a dark cloud began to gather over the mountain, and presently it rained, at first very gently and then more heavily. Henry

looked on silently for a few moments at this to him marvellous phenomenon. At last he said, "This is indeed an excellent contrivance, and spares you a great deal of labour. How beautifully the water falls down in thousand, thousand drops, as if it were poured from a great wateringcan. But tell me who made that wonderful cloud come that holds all this water? How did the water get up so very high, and how is it that I see the clouds above there moving about, and yet they do not fall down upon us ?"

"I shall tell you all that presently," said Menrad. The child gazed long upwards towards the dark clouds, watching them as they gradually dispersed, and the rain ceased, and the sky again became blue and clear.

And thus amid astonishment, bewilderment, and delight, at the many new and strange sights he saw everywhere around him, the day passed quickly away with Henry; for hundreds of things, which other children, who see them every day and hour, pass by with scarcely a look or a thought, seemed wonders of beauty and interest to the little child whose life had passed within a gloomy cave, and gave occasion to endless questions.

Presently a new delight was awakened by hearing the evening song of a little bird perched on the branch of a tree close by, and what perhaps pleased him most of

all were the flocks of goats, belonging to the cottagers, that towards evening were seen returning home from the mountains.

At last, the sun, that had gradually declined lower and lower, seemed as if sinking down on the opposite side of the lake. At this sight Henry uttered a cry of distress and alarm.

"Oh, dear me, look there, the great sun lamp is dipping down right into the big water. It will be quite put out, and all our gladness will be at an end."

"Do not be alarmed," said the good father, soothingly, " very soon you and I must go to rest, and we do not need the sun's light while we are asleep. When we have slept long enough we shall see the sun come back again at the other side, yonder between the mountains. It is thus he runs his course always round and round, and gives light and warmth everywhere."

Then Henry fell back on his old question, which the old man had purposely put off answering, because he desired more fully to awaken his mind and stir up his curiosity. "Now, do tell me," said the child, "for surely you know, who it is that has made the sun to go on in this wonderful way, and who has built the great wide arch up there, and painted it with such beautiful colours; who shut up all that water in the rock yonder, and makes it flow without ever stopping; who makes the clouds that sail about in the air and then water all the flowers and trees with thousand sparkling drops; and who taught that little bird, that has no flute to play, such beautiful songs; and who hid all the flowers and the great trees in the tiny seeds, and makes them come up everywhere just where you want them, so that the ground is covered with a carpet of grass and flowers, and gives us fruit and bread and many more things besides ? Now, do tell me who it can be, for I want so very much to know."

"So you really think," slowly replied the old man, "that there must be some one who made and has arranged, and manages all these things."

"Oh, to be sure," said the child, impatiently, "I should have no sense at all if I did not believe that. I know the men in our cave had to work very hard indeed

when they wanted to make it only a little bit bigger. Once the roof of the cave seemed as if it was going to fall in, and they had to work very hard to prop it up, but in all this great beautiful arch above our heads here, I cannot see one pillar. Our lamp never lighted of itself, and we should have had to sit in the dark if we had not cleaned it, and every day poured in some fresh oil. And we had often to fill up our great water cask, else we might have died of thirst. I know, too, what labour it cost me to cut out and paint a single flower, and how long it was before I learned how to do it. Yes, I feel quite sure that none of these wonderful things I see here could have been made by you, or by men like those that lived in our cave, and now do tell me who it is that has done all these things."

As the child spoke he laid his little hand on the arm of the old man, who seemed lost in thought, and looked up in his face with wistful eagerness waiting for an answer to his question. The good old man felt that he could keep silent no longer. He lifted the little boy tenderly in his arms, and lowering his voice while his eyes filled with tears of gratitude and love, he began in tones of the deepest reverence to answer his questions.

"You are very right, my dear, dear child, in believing that there must be some one who has made all these things. There is one very great, very wise, very good Being, whose name is God, who has made all the wonderful and beautiful things you have seen to-day, and more than I can tell you besides. He it is who has made me, and you also, and all creatures, and who keeps us alive day by day, and gives us all we need. He is God, our loving Father in heaven."

The child gazed with solemn wonder in the face of the old man as he spoke these words, and as it had been with him in the morning when the sun for the first time gilded with his glorious beams all the world of beauty before his eyes, so was it now with his soul. The great thought of God entered his soul like another sun, making all things light and warm within, and turning his wonder into gratitude, reverence, and love.

"Yes, dear Henry," continued the old man, "it is our wise and loving Father above, that has made all you see. He built that beautiful blue arch we call heaven. He kindled the glorious light of the sun, and guides him in his course. He caused the clear fresh water to stream from the earth, and to drop down from the clouds, that it may give drink and refreshment to all things that live. He it is who spread beneath our feet this carpet of soft grass and lovely flowers. He gave their glowing colours and sweet scents to every flower of the field. He provides us delicious food out of the rough clods of earth. He gives us everything that we need to form our dwellings, that we may have warmth and shelter by night and day. He has made everything beautiful and glorious, that our hearts may be glad and rejoice in His works; and although now we cannot see Him, He yet sees us at all times, hears every word that we speak, and knows every thought of our hearts. Every moment of our lives he permits us to speak to Him, and to tell Him all our wants. He guides all our steps. He showed you the path out of the dark cave and brought you to me. He is our wisest guide, our best friend, our most loving Father."

While the old man spoke in this way in gentle, solemn tones, the child listened with earnest gaze and without uttering a word. Night came on while they sat together, but the child did not notice its approach. The moon, which had been floating in the east like a tiny white cloud, now shone forth in mild radiance, and, surrounded by countless glittering stars, rose high above the lake, whose waters, like the clearest mirror, reflected in its bosom a second heaven, with moon and stars, through which it seemed as if one could gaze down into infinity. Not a leaf was stirring all around, and solemn stillness reigned over all nature. A feeling he had never known before stirred in the heart of the child, the feeling of worship, of adoration, of the near presence of God. And now the old man, folding his hands together and looking upwards, began to speak to God, and the little child clasped his own hands in prayer for

the first time, and repeated the words after him. When the old man had ended his prayer, the child, of his own accord, added these words:-"I also, thank thee, dear good God, that thou hast brought me out of the dark cave into Thy beautiful sunshine, and led me to this kind father who has told me about Thee."

Then father Menrad carried the boy into his cell, and laid him on a little couch of dry moss, and covering him with his own cloak, left him to his happy sleep.

It would make my story too long were I to tell you all that happened to little Henry while he remained with the kind old man, and how much more he taught him out of the Bible, but you will be glad to know that the end of it all was that he was at last restored to his own dear father and mother, who night and day had not ceased to pray to God for him since they lost him, asking God first of all to keep their darling from evil ways; and who now, to their unspeakable joy, received back their boy, not only alive and well, but with his mind not corrupted by the strange life he had led among wild men, a loving, truthful child, with a heart full of grateful reverence and love towards that great and good Being whom he had so suddenly learned to know in the way have told you.

This story, dear children, may help you to think more of the beautiful and glorious things in God's world which we are all too ready not to think of at all, just because we see them every day; and may help you to thank your Father in heaven from your hearts, as little Henry did, for the sun and the moon and the blue sky, the clouds and the rain, the green grass and the flowers, and all the wonderful arrangements which God has made for our happiness and comfort in this world. It may help you to think, too, that if there is so much that is beautiful and glorious even in this world, where sin and disorder have entered, what will the better country, the new heavens and the new earth be, where sin shall no longer pollute and destroy, but where every dweller therein will be obedient, loving, and holy, all united under their divine king, Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.

OBITUARY: REV THOMAS E.

This excellent minister of the gospel departed this life Dec. 21st, 1867, at his residence, Bryncastle, Gobowen, near Oswestry. He was born at Glynneath, Glamorganshire, in the year 1831. He enjoyed early the advantages of Christian instruction, and joined the Church worshipping in the Congregational chapel, at his native place, while quite a youth. It was soon observed that he possessed the gifts considered necessary to adapt one to the Christian ministry, and was therefore urged by the Church and its pastor, the Rev. John Thomas, now of Liverpool, to exercise them in the service of the Saviour. Having spent about two years in the Normal College, Swansea, under the tuition of Dr. Evan Davies, he was admitted in the year 1852 into the Independent College, Brecon. A combination of good qualities secured him soon not only the respect, but also the affection of both professors and students. He was almost the idol of his classmates, and highly esteemed and loved by his juniors and seniors during his collegiate career.

After going through the regular course of learning attained in Brecon College, he received and accepted an invitation from the Congregational Churches of Rhos, Ruabon, and Rhosymedre, to become their pastor, and was publicly recognized as their minister in July, 1856. He laboured hard, in that extensive field of usefulness-took an active part in the erection of the Congregational chapel at Ruabon, obtained the confidence of the people of his care, and became higher day by day in the estimation of the Christian community in the district. Feeling unable to attend to the various demands of such a wide sphere, he resigned his charge over the Churches at Ruabon and Rhosymedre. The Church at Rhos, during the six years of his earnest ministry, nearly doubled in number,

EVANS, FORMERLY OF RHOS. and the power of his preaching over the large congregation that came to hear him was considered second only to that of the first minister of the place, the celebrated William Williams, of Wern. His physical strength and declining health, being inadequate to the requirements of the spacious chapel, and the many hundreds attending it, he became convinced that it was his duty to look for a sphere better adapted to the resources of his weak constitution, though he felt it difficult to part with the "noble and open kind-hearted people of Rhos," as he used to call them.

To the intense regret of Christian friends at Rhos, of all denominations, he removed from their midst and settled in Manchester, in March, 1862, to take the overcharge of the congregation now worshipping in Booth-street chapel. His settlement in Manchester formed a new era in the history of the Welsh Churches in that city. His Christian manliness and meek and heavenly spirit proved the means of reuniting old friends who had been long at variance, and restoring perfect unanimity between them. He contemplated what he was instrumental to effect in Manchester, for the peace of the churches, with greater satisfaction than anything else he had ever done, and regarded it as a special favour conferred upon him by his Divine Master. Good men, on that account, will not cease to hold his name in sacred remembrance. But the air of Manchester proved fatal to his already shattered constitution; and after a prosperous ministry of three years and a half, he was compelled, owing to great weakness and debility, to give up not only the charge of his attached friends in Booth-street, but the ministry altogether, on the last Sabbath in September, 1865. In five months after his removal to Manchester, he married Miss Hughes, of Offa Cottage, Ruabon,

daughter of the late Rev. J. E. Hughes, incumbent of Llangwestenin and Llanrhos.

The kindness of friends in Manchester and at Rhos enabled him to adopt the advice of his medical advisers, viz.-to seek a warmer climate in the south of England. He spent the winter of 1865-66 at Ventnor, in the Isle of Wight, and a few weeks at Stonehouse, Gloucestershire, on his way thither, where he found kind sympathizing friends. The Christian society he met at Ventnor solaced many a weary hour, and cheered him much. He entertained the most heartfelt gratitude for the sympathy and kindness shown him during his sojourn of five months there. He returned to North Wales in the ensuing summer, and spent the last four months of the year 1866 in the neighbourhood of Domgay, near Welshpool, and endeared himself greatly to the religious people of that locality.

Earnest Christians around his new abode became soon sensible of his not

being an ordinary man. He engaged

to preach at Preeshenlle Chapel as often as his remaining strength would allow : and his solemn appeals made his hearers feel as though he had come to them with a direct message from the unseen world, and the attention of every one seemed to be so fixed as if he thought himself personally addressed by the preacher. But, alas! his precious life, though long ailing, was at last unexpectedly cut short on the shortest day of the year 1867. A sudden change came over him on the morning of Friday, the 20th of December, and on the following Saturday, at 11.50 p.m., he calmly fell asleep in the arms of his beloved and devoted young wife, who clung to him with ever increasing attachment at the approach of death.

With many tears, his remains were laid in the burial-ground adjoining the Independent Chapel, Llanfyllin, Montgomeryshire, a spot hallowed by many sacred associations connected with Congregational history for upwards of 200 years. D. MILTON DAVIES.

NOTICES OF NEW BOOKS.

English Monasticism; its Rise and Influence. By ODELL TRAVERS HILL, F.R.G.S. London: Jackson, Walford, & Hodder. "THIS work is not an endeavour (the author says) to delineate the history of Monasticism in England, but to examine it under its two great phases, the Benedictine and Franciscan, and to trace the influence it exerted upon the art, literature, and social life of the country during its development. The career of Glastonbury Abbey, the oldest Monastery in England, is selected to be described collaterally with this investigation, in order that a picture may be given of the interior life of the cloister, with its glories and its sorrows, as it was played out in that celebrated institution." The task which our author thus undertakes is one of exceeding interest, and of no small difficulty. It involves an inquiry into a large portion of English History, and a discussion of some of the most perplexed and perplexing questions in philosophy, religion, and morals. We cannot say that Mr.

Travers Hill's treatment of. this theme comes up to our idea of what it ought to be. But his work, notwithstanding, is one of considerable value, and of no small interest. "Our objection to the Monastic life generally," he pleads, "ought not to hinder us from awarding to it the meed of praise justly due to it, not only as a social institution, admirably adapted to the wants of the period in which it existed, but due also to the work which it silently accomplished during that long syncope of European History, the Dark Ages." Conceding the truth, to a certain extent, of this now common plea, it must not be forgotten that asceticism did not originate in the necessities of the Middle Ages, and therefore cannot find its apology in those necessities. It began to manifest itself even in Apostolic times, and grew both in intensity and in breadth, till, along with other corruptions, it deprived Christianity of much of that "saltness" which would have preserved the nations from the extreme degeneracy of the Middle Ages.

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