But I shall print here some of Gordon's own words about the Christian life—and this is much more likely to be interesting to those who read this page. These simple words, which have their special weight from the life, of which they are the honest expression, may help some who are in need of their outspoken encouragement. It may cheer some one who has fear of the future—which most of us unfortunately cannot get over--to hear Gordon saying, when starting on one of his journeys—“I go up alone with an infinite Almighty God to protect and guide me. I am glad so to trust Him, as to fear nothing; and indeed to feel sure of success." "I have really no troops with me, but I have the Shekinah, and I do like trusting to Him and not to men. Remember, unless He gave me the confidence, and encouraged me to trust Him, I could not have it, and so I consider I have the earnest of success in His confidence.” And it may rebuke some of those sorrowful Christians who seem to have forgotten that rejoicing is one of their duties, and who are constantly forboding misery, to read cheery doctrine like this--" If we could take all things as ordained for the best, we should indeed be conquerors of the world. Nothing has ever happened to men so bad as he has anticipated it to be. If we would be quiet under our troubles, they would not be so painful to bear. I cannot separate the existence of God from His preordination and direction of all things -good and evil. The latter He permits, but still controls.”

Or this: "I have become what people call a great fatalist—that is, I trust God will pull me through every difficulty. The solitary grandeur of the desert makes one feel how vain the help of man. It is only my firm conviction that I am only an instrument put in use for a time, that enables me to bear up; and in my present state, during my long but weary rides, I think my thoughts better and clearer than I should with a companion."

And this: "It is a delightful thing to accept that when things happen, and not before, God has for some wise reason ordained them to happen :—all things, not only the

great things, but all the circumstances of life :-that is what is meant to me by the words "Ye are dead" in St. Paul to the Colossians." "Amidst troubles and worries, no one can have peace till he stays on his God-it gives a man superhuman strength."

A sacred and serene light falls across the story of the endless Egyptian troubles, as we read a sentence like this— one of the never-to-be-ended testimonies to the reality of prayer: "Praying for the people ahead of me, whom I am about to visit, gives me much strength, and it is wonderful how something seems always to have passed between us when I meet a chief for the first time. On this I base my hope of a triumphant march to Faschar. I do not care what men may say I do what I think is pleasing to my God; and, as far as man goes, I need nothing from any one. The work is great; but it does not weigh me down; I go on as straight as I can. I feel my own weakness, and look to Him who is Almighty, and I leave the issue without inordinate care to Him."

And, partly sad and partly bright, but all, I fear, true, is this last extract, in which so much of Gordon's brave heart speaks. "There could be no one so unwelcome to come and reside in the world as Christ, while the world is in the state it now is. He would be dead against nearly all our pursuits, and be altogether outré. I give you 'Watson on Contentment'; it is the true exposition of how happiness is to be obtained-that is, submission to the will of God whatever that will may be; he who can say he realises this has overcome the world and its trials. Everything that has happened to-day-good and evil-is settled and fixed, and it is no use fretting over it. The great peaceful life of our Lord was due to His submission to God's will. There will be times when a strain will come on one, and as the strain, so will the strength be." God grant that for the strain General Gordon, or any Christian, may be called to suffer, strength may be his, and victory.

GEO. WILSON, M.A., F.L.S.

Briny Breezes.

No. V.

LET THE LITTLE BIRD SING SWEETLY IN THE BOSOM.

LITTLE bird." What can be prettier or more winsome? We cordially thank good Matthew Henry for here giving us a homily in a nutshell. A long dissertation on sweetness of temper and the duty of unruffled cheerfulness would not stir our hearts with half the potency of these few pleasant words. We seem at once to see the charming songster, with his merry eye and graceful plumage, keeping watch and ward over the secret recesses of our bosom, and cheering us with his blithe chirp, throughout the busy hours. Let us try and keep our home-bird happy. Let us listen as he sings away of the silver lining to every dark cloud, of the light that is sown for the righteous, of the gladness that always comes to the upright. If we allow faithless depression to steal over our souls' landscape, the feathered favourite will hide his pretty head under his wing, and cease to sing his dainty love-songs for us. Possibly this quaint conceit may help some of us along, when it is difficult to look cheery upon things. A poetic maxim, garnered in loving memory, will prove of practical utility in clearing away the dust and cobwebs which are too apt to obscure the windows of the Heaven-seeking soul. How delightful to scatter words of truth which have been tested and found rich in benediction! And now, dropping our metaphor, let us think for a few moments on the frame of mind and habitual disposition which the thought of a "little bird" conveys. Let us obey our dear Saviour's injunction to "behold the fowls of the air," and learn of them. And the first lesson they instil is trustfulness. Up with the dawn, they quit their downy nests, glad that the night has brought them rest, and the glorious day renewed activity. At once they

begin to sing with heart and voice the praises of their great Creator. No brooding over the mishaps of yesterday, no sad foreboding concerning the drear possibilities of tomorrow, comes to mar their free, unstinted joyousness. He who has cared for them so far, will care unto the end. Ah, happy birds! would we were more like you! The next lesson they unobtrusively convey is care for personal neatness and grace. If we have ever watched the busy movements of a little bird performing its morning toilet beside some sunny brook, we shall have been struck with its energy and thoroughness. Not a feather out of place, not a duty omitted, not a moment wasted. Hours are speeding, and there is much to be done before sunset; off and away, thou bright-eyed messenger! Only to think of thee lightens care and shames unbelief. Lastly, we may gain from the birds something of their own cheery content. Just where Providence has placed them, they seem to "find, or make, the best," and even when caged they will still sing. The idea of a little bird within the bosom does not, somehow, convey anything of restraint or confinement. The soul is free and fetterless, and it can fly on pinions of faith and fancy throughout the airy realms of earth and sea and sky. The day of its complete emancipation hastens on. Meanwhile let us cherish our immortal portion, the hidden man of the heart. Let us keep jealous watch over our silent thoughts, for they are vocal to the ear of the Almighty. Let us be cheerful, trustful, light-hearted, thus shall we honour the Master we love, and prove His service to be perfect freedom! And all within us will, serene as a morning without clouds, echo the sympathetic gladness of flowers and streams and song-birds never weary.

A. M. V.

A

Our Lark.

SWEET little pet, our Enie!

With his eyes so bright and so dark,
With a hop and a trill

To his song so shrill,

'Tis Enie, the nut-brown lark.

Is there anything nice for supper?
Then Enie is soon wide awake,
At the front of his cage

Will he dance in a rage,

Till we give him his share of the cake.

Do the organs play in the evening,
Or the children sing at our door,
'Tis his great delight,

In the fading light,

To whistle a loud encore.

No bushes or meadows for Enie,
No flights 'neath the sunny blue sky,
Yet as sweet is his song,

All the summer day long,

As if soaring in freedom on high.
When fretful or sad, my birdie,
I'll think of your glad little lays,
A prisoner forlorn,

Yet as bright as the morn,
Uplifting your carols of praise.

J. L. W.

wo gentlemen were standing in the counting-house of a large mercantile establishment in London. They were engaged in earnest conversation. One was the manager of the establishment, the other was the father of a lad who had been for some time in the service of the firm, and who had recently been dismissed. The father was anxious that the boy should regain his