R ses. REV. MOSES STONE. BY LIZZIE MACE M'FARLAND. EV. MOSES STONE was born in Watertown, Massachusetts, August 10, 1777. In those days the people were farmers, though living in the shadow of Boston. Such were his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather-all of whom were living till he became old enough to be designated as "Moses Fourth," it having been the custom in his family, so far back as their genealogy can be traced, to name the oldest son MoThe old farm included the greater part of the far-famed Mount Auburn, and Moses Fourth, when a little boy, often drove his cows to the "hill-pasture," as Mount Auburn was then called by the family. From their proximity to Harvard to me this morningi was ine gehucfather to the lady took a seat near her pupil. "I had good night's rest," she continued after a pau "God sent his angel to take care of me throug the darkness, and no evil came near my be When I awoke the bright daylight was shinir into my room, and I felt refreshed in body ar mind after my pleasant sleep. Is not Emm glad to see me well?" As Miss M'Neil spoke the cloud passed aw from the little, rosy face, and a beaming lo accompanied the quick response, "Yes, indeed, I am." "Thank you, dear," and the governess to the little, soft hand and drew her now willin mained til his death-nearly sixty years-upon the farm which he first assisted in clearing. Previous to his first departure for Maine he had become engaged to a young lady of his native town, Miss Elizabeth Brown, whose ancestry, like his own, rest among the honored dead of Mount Auburn. Her grandfather Coolidge had been brought home a corpse from the battle of Lexington-one of the first martyrs of the Revolution. She and her orphan brother and sister had been carefully brought up by her grandmother, a lady of superior excellence of character and the widow of the soldier above-mentioned. Mr. and Mrs. Stone were married on fast-day, April 8, 1802, and, accompanied by a sister of the former, embarked at Boston in a vessel for Hallowell the following Monday. This voyage of two hundred miles occupied nearly a week. As no means of conveyance was procurable Mr. Stone left his wife and sister at Hallowell and walked to Jay, a distance of thirty miles, as the road then lay. Returning the next day, the party proceeded on horseback to their rural home. Mr. and Mrs. Stone having been brought up among Unitarians and Congregationalists, had never seen a Methodist minister previous to their VOL. XX.-47 settlement in Jay; but a few months after one appeared among them, and all went to the Methodist meeting. Mrs. Stone was greatly puzzled on seeing the people get down on the floor to pray, and turning to her neighbor she asked in a soft whisper, "What do they do so for?" "O, that's the way the Methodists always do!" was the reply. But though the usages of Methodism presented many novel features to their minds, they soon learned not only to appreciate the form, but to understand the spirit of this mode of worship. Both became the subjects of renewing grace, and when the first class was formed were numbered among its members. Mr. Stone early secured the confidence and esteem of his fellow-townsmen. He went as their representative to the Legislature at Boston in 1811-12, the district of Maine being then nominally a part of Massachusetts. In 1824-5-6 he was a member of the Maine Legislature. He also attained the rank of major in a regiment of militia, and this was the title by which he was most familiarly known through life. In the war of 1812 this regiment was called out by the governor and ordered to rendezvous at Portland. After a few days a draft was made and the rest sent home. He was among those who returned. But his most effective service was under the Banner of the Cross. In 1814, on the death of his first class-leader, he was appointed to that office. Soon after he commenced preachingwas ordained deacon by Bishop Roberts, at Bath, July 2, 1822; elder, by Bishop Soule, at Kent's Hill, July 26, 1840. These In the early days of Methodism itinerants made long journeys, and local preachers occupied a large place. Thus it was with him of whom we write. He scoured the country for twenty-five or thirty miles around, preaching in Livermore, Fayette, Wilton, Canton, Farmington, New Sharon, Vienna, Mount Vernon, etc. As ministers multiplied he contracted the field of his labors, yet labored no less zealously than before. Till past his seventieth year he had regular preaching appointments at the distance of two, three, and six miles from his home. were at little school-houses, in out-of-the-way districts where no one else preached. He never neglected the duties lying nearest him. If the pulpit of his own church was vacant he occupied that; if supplied, he went to those who were otherwise deprived of preaching. Although forty years were spent in effective ministerial labor, we can not learn that he ever received one cent for preaching. So far from this, when the society was weak and struggling to maintain regular monthly preaching, he paid nearly one-half the itinerant's allowance, besides preaching for them on the vacant Sabbaths. We are not censuring those among whom he labored, for pecuniary remuneration was never expected, never asked, and never needed. He worked on a farm for a living like his neighbors. When he came in to rest from the field, or was obliged to wait a few minutes for dinner or tea, he took down a number of Clarke's Commentary, which he had taken in pamphlet form as it first appeared. Three or four of these were always upon his writing-desk in the family sitting-room. We are not rash in asserting that no minister ever studied Clarke's Commentary more assiduously than he. "for some time before his death he appeared to be entirely free from pain, and sank into a quiet sleep, from which he did not awake." He died February 17, 1860, having lived a little more than eighty-two years and a half. He saw his great-grandfather and his great-grandson-seven generations of his family. Nearly fifty-eight years the head of a family, Death entered first for him. His wife and all his children survive. "He was buried in the quiet cemetery, once a part of his own farm, where he had lived and toiled for half a century. The venerable form was laid away in a spot selected by himself, under the spreading branches of a noble oak, whose last year's leaves still clinging to the tree, stirred by the south wind, rustled a sad requiem while all that was mortal sank to its last resting. place." His charitable disposition was well known and appreciated, yet so closely did he follow the injunction, “Let not thy right hand know what thy left hand doeth," that not even his most intimate friends, not even his wife, could form an estimate lane row of elm trees, which shaded the lane of what he yearly gave away. Sufficient that it through which she was passing. But as we have be said of him, he gave according to his ability. pefore hinted, Belle was cross, and so she tugged A warm friend of education, he was a member at her bonnet-strings till she had gotten them of the first Board of Trustees for the Maine Wes- into a hard knot, and after dropping her books, leyan Seminary, and ever watchful of its inter- and stooping to pick them up a few times, she ests. He was noticeable for his steadfast adher-arrived at her father's gate, with a face something ence to the path of duty. There was nothing the color of one of the scarlet peonies which spasmodic in his life or disposition. He did zrew just inside of it: endwhat he believed to be right, without regard to ease or inclination. If he was not at class or prayer meeting it was because he was sick in bed. We love to contemplate a life like this-so peaceful, so perfectly regular in its course. We know that some must arm themselves for aggressive conflict. Some must wrestle with the fiercer forms of sin. But it was his mission to call sinners to repentance. He was not thrown among controversial strifes, nor did he regard any man his enemy. He was not boisterous in his expressions of feeling. That was not his nature. Yet was he susceptible of deep emotion. He would become very happy in times of revival, and, while tears were coursing down his furrowed cheeks, express his rapturous joy that sinners were turning to Jesus; but it was at the ebb-tides of the Church that his religious character shone brightest. Then, how often in the class-room, surrounded by the persevering few, did he exclaim, "My peace flows like a river!" For mauy years before his death he professed to enjoy the blessing of holiness. And during all this period we are confident no one can bring forward a word or deed to invalidate that claim. Such a life left no necessity for a dying testimony; yet during his last, brief illness his friends were cheered by frequent expressions of confidence in his Savior. As he approached the dark river his physical sufferings for several hours were fearfully intense; but we read with gratitude that LITTLE ISADORE BY NANNIE CLARK CUNNINGHAY. SWEET as bird-notes in the spring-time CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. BY ELLEN CLEMENTINE HOWARTH. "T IS midnight, and a fragile bark The shrinking crew with terrors thrill; The waters sleep-the storm is o'er; And the frail vessel nears the shore. And marvel at His mighty will, A watcher on life's stormy sea, And in its anguish calls on thee; That soothing whisper, "Peace, be still." lady's lap, sunk on her little knees, and, clasping her hands, commenced, in trembling tones, her infant prayer. This was Emmie's first lesson in the duties of thanksgiving and prayer. By her nurse she had been taught to say her prayers, but she knew not the meaning of the form, and often it was neglected or forgotten. Now, however, she was placed under the care of a pious governess, her "Then you can go-I'll attend to the rest my-religious education commenced, and we have self." "Good morning, Emmie," said Miss M'Neil, as she entered the apartment of her little charge. But no cheerful greeting awaited her: the child stood, leaning against her bed, biting her finger nails. "Does my little girl think proper not to speak to me this morning?" was the gentle inquiry, as the lady took a seat near her pupil. “I had a good night's rest," she continued after a pause. "God sent his angel to take care of me through the darkness, and no evil came near my bed. When I awoke the bright daylight was shining into my room, and I felt refreshed in body and mind after my pleasant sleep. Is not Emmie glad to see me well?" As Miss M'Neil spoke the cloud passed away from the little, rosy face, and a beaming look accompanied the quick response, "Yes, indeed, I am." "Thank you, dear," and the governess took the little, soft hand and drew her now willing pupil toward her. "And how have you been through the night?" she asked, "and how do you feel this morning?" "Very well, ma'am." "That's good;" and, lifting the child on her knee, she added, "but there are many children who can not say so this morning. Some have spent the night on sick beds in pain and torment; some in hunger and cold; some in houses that took fire and have been burnt in their sleep; or some in traveling have been drowned in deep waters, or broken and crushed on railroads; while, more cruel still, some have been cast out and destroyed by heathen parents. I read, a few days since, of a mother who carried her child to the river-side and threw it into the jaws of a crocodile. "How different with my dear Emmie!" continued the lady, with a tender kiss on the rosy cheek of her pupil. "You spent the dark hours of the night in sweet sleep, on your nice, soft bed, surrounded by loving friends, and would it be well to neglect returning thanks to God for his great kindness, and asking him to continue his goodness to you through the day?" seen how her young spirit hearkened to the wise and gentle teaching. Miss M'Neil had prayed earnestly for understanding to guide her little pupil aright, for patience and diligence to fulfill her solemn trust faithfully and well; and now she lifted up her heart in devout thanksgiving that her simple effort had been assisted, by the operation of the Holy Spirit, on the little girl's mind. Children are not aware how much anxiety they cost to those who have the rule over them; how many prayers are offered up in their behalf. They do not consider that good conduct, on their part, is cause of the greatest joy and thankfulness to the hearts which love them; as also their wrongdoing is cause of the greatest grief. Many a fond parent and conscientious teacher has bent over a wayward child in tearful prayer while that child has slept, not even dreaming of the tender, watchful love that never wearied of its task. Emmie now perceived that the old custom of saying her prayers was not exactly praying. Her governess, glad to observe her little mind awake upon the subject, encouraged her to ask questions, and she soon learned much about the goodness of God. Miss M'Neil opened her Bible and read for the child. For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy, I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones." And also: "The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him, to all that call upon him in truth." Again: "Then shalt thou call, and the Lord shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am." And this beautiful promise: "By prayer and supplication let your request be made known unto God. "And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." Hitherto Emmie had known but little of the Bible. She had heard it was the word of God, There was no reply; but the child slid off the and had looked upon it with awe, as a book far beyond her childish comprehension; but now, as she sat by her governess, her eyes fixed, her lips apart, and her attention all alive, she found its doctrines simple and its holy precepts easy to be understood. Prayer she saw to be an immeasurable privilege; the fact of her young spirit being granted audience with the Majesty of heaven was new and amazing; and as she still listened to the words of Scripture, wherein she was invited to approach God as a loving father, who graciously bent his ear to her weakest prayer, her heart swelled with wonder and praise, while her best affections gushed out to the faithful teacher who had shown her the precious truth. Emmie no more said her prayers to Susan, but each morning, as soon as dressed, she entered Miss M'Neil's room, and guided by that beloved friend pursued her devotions. Prayer soon became her delight, and her little, grateful heart poured forth songs of praise every hour of the day. No matter what she wanted, she asked God for it. No matter what she received, to God she returned thanks. In the little girl's outward conduct also a change was quite apparent. Naughty tempers were no longer indulged in; and if she was overtaken in a fault it was quickly acknowledged and repented of. Yet Emmie was not free from the failings of childhood. She was naturally willful and impetuous, and had hitherto been entirely undisciplined; it would, therefore, be vain to suppose that old habits and tendencies should be destroyed at once. As much as could be expected took place; she was steadily and surely improving. One evening Emmie's cousin Bel came to play with her. It had rained very hard that day, and," though the sun was now shining brightly, the grass was quite wet. Miss M'Neil, therefore, forbid Emmie to run on the lawn. "You may play all round the piazza," she said, "but do n't go on the grass, or you will get your feet wet and take cold." For a while the children played very happily, till Bel had seen all Emmie's toys, and ran over the house and round the piazza to her heart's content; she then began to wish for something new. "Come, Emmie!" she exclaimed, "let us go out under the trees and look for chestnuts" "O, no!" said Emmie, "Miss M'Neil told me not to go on the grass for fear of getting my feet wet." "Pshaw! the grass is not wet, the sun has dried up all the rain-drops. See! the gravel on the paths and every thing is dry.” Emmie thought so too, yet she did not like to disobey. Bel, however, coaxed, argued, and persuaded till her cousin ran with her through the grass from one chestnut-tree to another, and having found as many nuts as they desired ran back to the house. But Bel's theory had not held good: the blades of grass which were exposed to the sun were certainly dry; but the earth beneath, which had been saturated by the late heavy rain, was soft and moist, and the children's thin shoes were soaked through. Miss M'Neil met them as they entered the hall, and a glance at their feet told the tale. Emmie's evening shoes were of white kid, intended only for the parlor; still a little outdoor play would not injure them in perfectly dry weather; but now they were damp and mud-soiled, and the tender, little feet within them chilly and uncomfortable. The lady looked sad and grieved, and the tears rose to Emmie's eyes. "We only just ran out to get a few chestnuts, ma'am," said Bel, "and we're going now to have our shoes wiped." "Wiping won't remove the damp," said Miss M'Neil mildly. She then dispatched a servant to Bel's home for clean shoes and stockings for the little visitor, and had Emmie carried to her room and her feet stripped and rubbed dry. The maid was about to put another pair of pretty evening shoes on the child when the governess interfered. "No, Susan," she said, "get her morocco slippers that she wore this morning." "What! my old black ones, with the toes rubbed?" exclaimed Emmie. "Yes," said Miss M'Neil firmly, and it was done. The worn, black slippers did not seem in keeping with the embroidered frock and pantalets, the sash, sleeve-knots, and necklace; and tears gathered in Emmie's eyes as she looked from her feet to those of her cousin, again clad in suitable elegance. "I would n't wear them," whispered Bel, when the children were again alone. "I'd be ashamed to go in the parlor in those old things, every one will think you have no others." Bel must have thought poverty more disgraceful than naughty conduct. "I can't help it," sobbed Emmie. "Yes, you can," persisted her tempter. "I'll tell you what I'd do--I'd steal up stairs and put on another pair, and Miss M'Neil would never know." "Would n't she see them on me when I came down?" "O no! She'd never think to look; even if she did, I would n't care. Come along, I'll help you to put them on-that pair that Susan took out first." Emmie yielded, and with her cousin's help the change was soon made. But did her little feet feel more comfortable in the forbidden shoes? Not so! All evening as she played in the parlor she was tormented by the constant endeavor to avoid the gentle eye of her governess. Her careless freedom was at an end, and, shrinking into corners and behind backs, feeling mean and guilty in her efforts to escape observation, all her pleasure was spoiled. She was glad when the servant came for Bel, and Susan appeared to take herself to bed, and not daring to go to Miss M'Neil for her usual good-night kiss she hastened to her room. An hour later, when the governess paid her accustomed visit to the bedside of her pupil, she found a half-dried tear upon the sleeper's cheek, and as she stooped to kiss it away she prayed that He who giveth repentance would also speak peace to the little contrite heart. The next morning Emmie was awake long before Susan came to dress her, and when Miss M'Neil opened the door which communicated with her room she eagerly sprung forward, and, confessing the naughty act of the previous evening, pleaded for forgiveness. This was willingly granted, the kiss of reconciliation bestowed, and the little girl was again happy in her kind teacher's loving favor. "I hope I shall never displease you again, Miss M'Neil," said Emmie, now seated in the lady's lap and circled by her arm, "but it was all Bel. First she made me go to the chestnut-trees, and then she made me change the shoes. I would n't have deceived you if it had n't been for her." "Yes, my love," was the soft reply, "you were tempted and you fell. You remember my reading to you about Adam and Eve in Paradise? Their only sin was disobedience; and the weak desire of each to cast the blame upon the tempter has been followed by their children ever since. Had your virtue been strong, dear, you would not only have resisted Bel, but you would have set her an example by which she might have profited." "O, Miss M'Neil, how very, very sorry I am!" exclaimed the child. "I must pray to God to make me strong to resist temptation, and do you think he will?" "Certainly, my love. God will do any thing for us if we ask him in faith. Hear what our Savior said when he was on earth," and the lady opened the Testament and read these blessed words: "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it you." "Faith, my dear," she continued, “is believing that God will do what we ask of him; but we must believe this firmly." She then turned to the epistle of James and read, "Ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive any thing of the Lord." "But can we be sure," inquired the child, "that God will do just what we wish?" "Yes, if our wishes accord with his will. He has told us so in many places of the Scripture, and we insult him by doubting it." "But must n't people be very good-just as good as they can be-before God will do all they want?" "No; because God does not bless us for the sake of our goodness, but for the sake of Christ. You know I explained to you before how we deserved to die, but Jesus Christ died in our stead. He took upon himself the chastisement of our sins; therefore it is through him we approach God, in his name we offer up our prayers, and it is only for his sake that God hears and answers us. So you see it is not our goodness, but the righteousness of Christ that God looks at and rewards. "This is why our faith need never falter on account of our unworthiness: the greatest sinner, if penitent, may ask forgiveness of God with the most perfect confidence through the blood of the atonement; and the most perfect Christian can obtain answers to prayer only through the same medium and on the same grounds." Emmie had listened to her teacher with fixed attention; what was so plainly told was not difficult to understand, and the child's clear reason took in the simple truth. That morning's conversation was not the only one on the subject of faith. Again and again was it brought forward; pupil and preceptress alike took pleasure in communing upon God's precious dealings with the children of men. Emmie no longer prayed with her heart alone, but with her spirit and her understanding. Her confidence was established, and many an advanced Christian might have learned of this lit tle child the important lesson of believing God and trusting in him. Her faith was in daily exercise; she believed for every blessing she desired and obtained it. "Your papa is very sick," said the nurse one night as she undressed little Emmie for bed. "O never mind," replied the child, "I'll pray for him, and God will make him well." Emmie's papa recovered. Shortly after papa went a long journey, and |