Chapter C: Wardle (5)

A WORTHY Quaker thus wrote:--"I expect to pass through this world but once; if, therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again."

MR. EDISON'S PHONOGRAPH.

_To the Editor of The Times._

Sir,--At two o'clock this afternoon, at the address below, I had the honour to receive from Mr. Edison his "perfected phonograph," which, on the authority of Mr. Edison's own statement, in his own familiar voice, communicated to me by the phonograph itself, "is the first instrument of his latest model that has been seen outside of his laboratory, or has left his hands," and is consequently the first to reach this country.

At five minutes past two o'clock precisely, I and my family were enjoying the at once unprecedented and astounding experience of listening to Mr. Edison's own familiar and unmistakable tones here in England--more than three thousand miles from the place where he had spoken, and exactly ten days after, the voice having meanwhile voyaged across the Atlantic Ocean.

"His first phonogram," as Mr. Edison calls it, tells me, among other things, that this instrument contains many modifications of those which, a few weeks ago, were exhibited at the Electrical Club in New York, and so widely reported by the Press.

In the several long phonogramic communications to me (no single word of which had to be repeated in order to be clearly and easily understood by every person present, including a child of seven years old), Mr. Edison mentions that he will send me phonograms by every mail leaving New York, and requests me to correspond with him exclusively through the medium of the phonograph, humorously remarking in this connection upon the advantages he will himself derive from the substitution of phonograms for a style of writing not always too legible.

Next to the phonogram from Mr. Edison himself, and before all the remainder of the deeply interesting contents of the "phonogramic cabinet" sent me, is an exquisite poem entitled, "The Phonograph's Salutation," composed by the well-known and gifted American poet and preacher, Horatio Nelson Powers, D.D., of Piermont, on the Hudson. This poem makes the phonograph tell its own story of what it is and what it does, in a style and with a power that must add not a little to the already high reputation of its author. It was spoken by him into the phonograph, so that we cannot fail to read it as he would have it read--a privilege of no small importance to both the poet and those who hear him.

Perhaps the highest justification of the phonograph's description of its own power in its "Salutation" is found in the fact that to several members of my family who are familiar with the Doctor's style of oratory, from having sat under his preaching in former years, the voice of the author is perfectly recognizable, even by my youngest child of seven years, who had not heard the voice since he was five years old.

Besides the above, Mr. Edison has sent for our amusement numerous musical records of great interest and beauty--pianoforte, cornet, and other instruments, solos, duets, &c., many of which, he tells me, have been very frequently repeated--some, several hundred times.

Altogether, our experiences of the day have been so delightful and unusual, not to say supernatural, that it makes it difficult to realize that we have not been dreaming--so interesting withal as to make it seem a duty, as it is a pleasure, to communicate the above to your widely-read paper, which I have so frequently observed to chronicle the works of the author of this unparalleled triumph of mind over matter. All honour to Edison!

I have the honour to be, sir,

Your obedient servant,
G. E. GOURAUD.

_Little Menlo, Beulah Hill, Upper Norwood, Surrey, June 26th, 1888_.

P.S.--It may be interesting to add that the above communication was spoken by me into the phonograph, and written from the phonograph's dictation by a member of my family, who had, of course, no previous experience of the instrument.

THE HOUSE UPON THE SAND.

"Whilst we were conversing with a man named Joachim," says a missionary to Syria, "in the city of Nazareth, a sudden but violent storm arose, and terrific peals of thunder rolled over our heads. The brow of the hill whereon the city was built was every moment gleaming as the lightning flashed. The rain fell in torrents, and in the course of an hour a river flowed past the convent door, along what lately was a dry and quiet street. In the darkness of the night, we heard loud shrieks for help. The floods carried away baskets, logs of wood, tables, and fruit-stands. At length a general alarm was given. Two houses built on the sand were undermined by the water, and both fell together, while the people in them escaped with difficulty. It was impossible not to pity these poor, houseless creatures, and, at the same time, to thank God we were in a secure building."

The power and meaning of these words spoken by our Lord was thus made plain--"Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of Mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock; and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock."

UNSEEN PROTECTION.

A lady was wakened up one morning by a strange noise of pecking at the window, and when she got up, she saw a butterfly flying backwards and forwards inside the window in a great fright, because outside there was a sparrow pecking at the glass, wanting to reach the butterfly. The butterfly did not see the glass, but it saw the sparrow, and evidently expected every moment to be caught. Neither did the sparrow see the glass, though it saw the butterfly, and made sure of catching it. Yet, all the while, the butterfly, because of that thin, invisible sheet of glass, was actually as safe as if it had been miles away from the sparrow.

Poor, fearful child of God, it is when our Protector is out of sight that our hearts fail us. Elisha's servant was in great fear when he awoke in the morning, and saw the city of Dothan encompassed with horses, and chariots, and a great host; but when his eyes were opened, at the prayer of the prophet, his fears vanished, for he beheld the mountain full of horses and chariots of fire. "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee." "The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth and even for evermore."

"Though now unseen by outward sense,
Faith sees Him always near;
A Guide, a glory, a defence:
Then what have you to fear?"

--_Waymarks for Pilgrims._

ANSWER TO BIBLE ENIGMA.

(_Page 130._)

The omnipotence of God is, in some measure, made known to the heart of every individual on the face of the earth. We cannot cast our eyes around us without seeing, in some way or other, the wonderful power of God in the creating and ordering of all things. Only what God has purposed to do will take place; and, on the other hand, whatever God has ordered He has power to bring to pass, although to us such things may seem utterly impossible, "but with God all things are possible" (Matt. xix. 26). If we look through the Bible, the power of God prevails in every book, chapter, and verse. Was it not with a mighty hand that He brought the Israelites up out of Egypt? and their enemies, who were much stronger than they, when they knew the Lord was on Israel's side, feared greatly, and were all overthrown and destroyed (Exod. xii. 33; Joshua x. 2). David, too, realized that wonderful power. He says, "But I will sing of Thy power; yea, I will sing aloud of Thy mercy in the morning: for Thou hast been my defence and refuge in the day of my trouble" (Psa. lix. 16). David was often brought very low (Psa. xviii. 4, 5; cxvi. 3), but the Lord did not suffer him to despair, for he was one of His most precious jewels. Job, too, felt, in a remarkable way, during his affliction, the power of the Lord, and he endeavoured to show and explain it to his friends, but he had to finish up by saying, "Lo, these are parts of His ways, but how little a portion is heard of Him!"

The omnipotence of God is so vast that it is quite impossible for us to fathom it. Look at the history of Jehoshaphat. He heard that a great army was coming to fight against them, and the army of Jehoshaphat, being so small, he knew they must be defeated and slain. But, in his extremity, he cried unto the Lord, saying, "O Lord God of our fathers, art not Thou God in heaven? and rulest not Thou over all the kingdoms of the heathen? and in Thine hand is there not power and might, so that none is able to withstand Thee?" (2 Chron. xx. 6.) Was any able to withstand the Lord? No! Read the twenty-seventh verse--"Then they returned, every man of Judah and Jerusalem, and Jehoshaphat in the forefront of them, to go again to Jerusalem with joy; for the Lord had made them to rejoice over their enemies." Before, they felt condemned to die, but now they were released, and filled with joy.

Such are the numerous instances in which the Lord, in His power, has raised up the cast down, relieved the oppressed, and comforted mourners, and such as are of a sad heart.

AGNES WILLERTON.

_Corby, Grantham._

[This is the best answer we have received, therefore we give it as embodying the secret of the Enigma.--ED.]

BIBLE ENIGMA.

A giant.

One of David's wives.

A disease.

A piece of money.

A prophetess.

A garment worn by the priests.

A judge.

A brother of David.

A king of Judah.

A brook.

A colour.

The name by which the penitent Israelites were to address God.

A son of Jacob.

The mother of a friend of Paul's.

The initials form something which the Saviour said.

HARRY F. FORFEITT
(Aged 10 years).

ONE "WHOSE HEART THE LORD OPENED."

Carrie Foord, the subject of this memoir, was born at Tunbridge, in Kent, on 27th September, 1867. At the age of six years she lost her mother, and at eight her father, leaving her sister Kate and herself to the care of their stepmother, who was in every way most kind to them, which kindness they returned with much affection. It was Mrs. Foord's wish to keep a home for them to grow up together. Man proposes and God disposes. The home had to be given up, Kate going to her grandfather's, and Carrie, in the providence of God, brought to live with us at Hailsham, much against her inclination, as she neither liked us nor our religion. This continued for some time, but

"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform."

She was brought, through divine grace, to see her state as a sinner in the sight of God by hearing the third verse of the 666th hymn of Gadsby's Selection given out one evening, as she took her seat in the chapel. The arrow of conviction went home to her heart. Well do I remember, on her return, finding her alone, and crying. Putting her arms round my neck, she said, "What shall I do? I am such a sinner! I'm so wicked!" although at the time I did not know what had caused her distress.

At another time she was much impressed by a sermon our dear Pastor, Mr. Nunn, preached from Hebrews xiii. 14--"For here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come." From this time she became an earnest seeker, very regular in her attendance at the house of God, nothing but duty keeping her away. Ultimately she was baptized, and became a very useful teacher in the Sabbath School, where she was much loved.

Early in 1886 she caught a severe cold, which settled on her lungs, causing the rupture of a blood-vessel. Some scattered sayings, spoken at different times during her illness, were recorded, of which the following are a few:--

"Oh, I do wish he did not think so well of me, and call me good!" alluding to a remark of a very dear friend. "He does not know how wicked I am, or he would never say I was good. What a mercy I was ever brought here, under the sound of the Gospel! But then, God is not confined to places, is He, auntie? If I am His child, He would be sure to reveal Himself to me, in His own good time; but I do thank Him for bringing me here. My dear uncle, how kind he is! How earnestly he has prayed for me, and our dear Pastor too! I believe their prayers have been answered. What a mercy!"

After a bad fit of bleeding, I said, "Did you think, dear, you should die, when bringing up the blood?" She said, "No, auntie; I never once thought I should." Our hopes were raised as she got better so quickly, and we thought it might have been only a lodgment. She frequently said, "I don't mind if it is not my lungs." But when she grew rapidly worse, and we called in another doctor, he only confirmed what our own doctor had said--that her case was hopeless. After they were gone, she said, "What did they say, auntie?" I told her it was the lung. She very quietly remarked, "People often live a long time with their right lung gone, don't they?" I said, "Yes," not having the heart to tell her, in her case, it would not be long.

One day, turning over the leaves of a hymn-book, I came to the one on the safety of believers, which I read. The first verse is--

"There is a safe and secret place,
Beneath the wings divine,
Reserved for all the heirs of grace;
Oh, be that refuge mine!"

She said, "I do like that hymn so much, auntie. I have had such sweet times in my little room. Often when you have sent me up to study for my class, I have had such sweet enjoyment that I could not study."

On awaking one night, she said, "Oh, auntie, I have had some beautiful words come with such power, and I keep saying them--'Thou art Mine, as the apple of Mine eye.'" I said, "You could not have a more precious portion. That will do to go to sleep on, won't it?" She said, "Oh, yes!" and soon fell into a peaceful slumber.

One night she said, "Auntie, do you ever feel your prayers to be very formal, as if it was merely a habit, and no heart in it?" I said, "Yes, dear; too often." She said, "Do you?" "Oh, yes," I said; "I wish I did not."

One morning, going into her room, she said to me, "I have had a nice time. The sun shone brightly in at the window, and those words came, 'So shall the Sun of Righteousness arise with healing in His wings.'"

One day she said, "I used to cry so when I was at Gravesend. Do you know what for?" I said, "No; why did you?" She said, "Because I was coming here. I did dislike coming so, and for a long time after I was here I would go and pray, as I thought, very earnestly that mother would send a letter to fetch me away; but that letter never came. No, it never came; and what a mercy it did not! God knew what was best for me. How we can look back and say, 'All was for the best.'"

We felt that we should like her to know the state of health she was in, but felt quite unfit to tell her. During a visit, a friend asked her if she wished to get better? On referring to me, after they were gone, she said, "Is it wrong, auntie? Don't you think it is natural for me to wish so, who am young?" I said, "Yes, dear, quite natural." She said, "But I know the Lord will do what He thinks best."

Previous to her nineteenth birthday (September 27th) she had a return of the bleeding, which again confined her to her bed for a time. We all felt her end might be very near, and would perhaps come suddenly by the rupture of another blood-vessel; therefore we were very anxious she should know what a precarious state she was in. It was, therefore, quite a relief when she said one day, "Auntie, I did not think at one time I should be alive now. I did not think I should live to see my birthday." I said, "I am very glad to hear you say this. I quite thought you were under the impression you would get better. What were your feelings when you thought this?" "Oh," she said, "I felt I could leave it all in the Lord's hands. He would do what was best." There was a sweet resignation to His will at this time; but, after a little while, her bodily strength increasing, she was gradually buoyed up with a hope that she might get better. Knowing from the faithfulness of our doctor that her case was hopeless, we could not participate in that hope. She was most honest in her principles, and could not bear to deceive any one.

One day, as we were sitting alone, she said, "Oh, auntie, you never thought I could deceive you or uncle, did you? But I did." I said, "I am glad you have spoken of this, dear, although I think in your case it was different from many" (knowing that what she alluded to was a private matter). "At any rate, you have our pardon." She said, "What stings of conscience I have had through it! It has quite taken away any feeling of pleasure I may have had; and yet my will was so strong to have my own way, I could not give it up.[10] I have not deceived you in anything else, auntie. You believe me, don't you?" I said, "Indeed I do."

[10] We hope all our young readers will mark this honest confession,
which was produced by the fear of God, and ever remember that deception
is mean and sinful.--ED.

A very dear friend calling to see her one afternoon, who had not seen her since she was called by divine grace, said in the course of conversation, "Well, my dear, there are times and seasons, I have no doubt, when you can say you would not have it otherwise, but that it was good for you to be afflicted?" She turned very red, paused, then said with her usual candour, "I cannot say that, Miss G----." After her departure, she said, "Auntie, I wish to be submissive to the will of the Lord, but I felt I could not say that I have ever had a time when I would not have it otherwise."

A friend calling one evening, spoke in a very solemn manner of those who had a false enjoyment, and put some close questions to her. She said little, but after he was gone seemed much put out, and said, "I know I cannot talk like those he visits. I expect he thinks there is nothing in me. What do you say, auntie?" I said, "He was certainly very searching, my dear, but I don't think you understood him. He is so afraid of any one resting on a wrong foundation, and knowing what a very delicate state of health you were in, he was anxious to know if you were resting on Christ, and Christ alone, for salvation." "Well," she said, "I felt dumb. I expect he thinks very badly of me."

Her strength seemed to go daily. As Christmas drew near, she said, "Auntie, let everything go on the same as it has done other years. Make no difference for me. Invite your friends for the day as usual." But we felt it a very solemn time, and hard work to put on the appearance of cheerfulness, feeling sure, ere another Christmas came, her place would be vacant, and she in eternity.

Her dear little cousin was a great sufferer at times all through her illness, and it became apparent that she, too, was fast hastening home. I said to Carrie one day, "I used to feel, dear, that I should have you to leave to see after our dear Flo, if we were taken, but it seems the Lord's will to take you, and I sometimes think she won't be long." She answered, "No, I don't think she will; but she will be safe whenever she goes."

We could have but few quiet times together after this, through the serious illness and death of her dear cousin, but she was wonderfully buoyed up at this time with the assurance that nothing was too hard for the Lord, and apparently rested upon it, for when I was alluding to her sad state of health, she said, "I know I am beyond the power of earthly physicians to cure, auntie; but, you know, nothing is too hard for the Lord."

After the death of her cousin, she was most anxious to have her mourning made, which we felt sorry for, as it seemed such a clinging to life; but we found it was only a natural desire to show her love for her dear little cousin. At any rate, the wish gradually left her, and all things of an earthly nature lost their charm.

One day she said, "I have no wish to join in anything now. I don't feel to want to go and witness anything. That is a blessing the Lord only can give, isn't it?" I said, "Yes," knowing what great delight she used to take in many things, and how active she had been, especially in anything connected with the chapel or Sabbath School.

After this darkness set in. The Word of God was as a sealed Book, and she had no spiritual enjoyment, which she much deplored; also, the visits of our dear Pastor and her uncle failed to give any comfort.

One day, after a doze in the easy chair, she said, "Was it not strange? It seemed as if, when I was sleeping, a little boy came to me, and said, 'The Lord hath not forgotten thee, so live in peace.' It did seem so strange to see the little boy come up and say this. What do you think of it?" I said, "I cannot tell."

She grew rapidly worse, and our dear nurse thought it advisable to ask the doctor to call, as he had not been for a few days. He came, and said she might be gone in twenty-four hours, or might linger a few days, but the beginning of the end had taken place. Our dear Pastor went and spoke a few words to her ere he left, and said, "Ah! dear, it is well with you," and other words of comfort. But after he was gone she was much cast down, and said, "Oh, why did he say that? I don't feel it will be well." Then, after a little while, she said, "Do you think I am much worse?" "Yes, dear," I replied. "Do you think I shall die?" I said, "I fear you will." Then she said, "Oh, auntie, what trouble I am in! I fear I have deceived you and myself, and that I shall go to hell." I replied, "But, my dear, you have had some sweet promises applied with power, haven't you?" "Oh, I've thought so, but if I have been deceiving myself?" I said, "You have had a desire after these things, have you not?" "Oh, yes!" she replied. "Then," I said, "I feel assured, my dear, you would not have had a real desire if you were a deceiver." She said, "Auntie, what shall I do? I feel I can't die like this; but I can't do anything, can I?" Wringing her hands in agony of mind, she cried, "Do, please, Lord, come! Do come! Oh, dear Lord Jesus, do please come!" She continued in much distress, until I felt quite unequal to talk to her, and said, "My dear, shall I send for some one?" She replied, "Oh, no, auntie; don't send for any one. The Lord must do it all" (laying great stress on the _all_); "but do pray for me, that He will appear." Her distress of mind was very great. No words or texts of Scripture named gave her any comfort. I left the room for a short time, leaving her in the care of our dear nurse (of whom she was very fond), and on my return, found she had had a nice sleep. Going up to her, she said, "How can I thank you enough?" I said, "Don't say a word about that, dear. My earnest desire is, that you may get a word from the Lord." Her countenance looked so placid, and she said, "I have, auntie." I said, "Is Jesus precious to you as your Saviour? Can you trust Him?" She replied, "Yes. These words came--'Fear not; I will be with you,' and I think He will. Yes, His promises stand good. 'He'll never, no, never, no, never forsake.'" She then dozed again. I saw her lips moving, and caught the words, "With Christ in the vessel I smile at the storm," having evidently been repeating that beautiful hymn of Newton's, "Begone unbelief, my Saviour is near."

After this she had a little time of peace. The next morning, on being asked if the Lord had again given her comfort, "Yes," she said; "He has promised that, when through fiery trials He'll cause me to go, He will be with me."

Darkness again took possession of her mind, and she was often saying, "Oh, to be a castaway!" She said she would like her uncle to come, which he did. On his approaching the bed, she said, "Oh, uncle, what will become of me if I am a deceiver? I shall be lost!" He took her hand, and said, "Jesus came to save the lost, so you see, dear, you are one. 'The whole need not a physician, but those who are sick.'" After a few words, he engaged in prayer. She then dozed, and was never again so harassed by the enemy of souls.

On Friday morning she was much favoured with the Lord's presence, and longed to "depart and be with Christ," saying repeatedly, "Do, dear Lord Jesus, take me to-day! I do so want to go!" I said, "We must wait His time." "Yes," she replied--

"Till He bids, I cannot die;
Not a single shaft can hit
Till the God of love sees fit."

Her throat and breathing at this time were very bad, and she asked the doctor when he came if he could relieve her at all. He said he was afraid he could not, but it would not be long. After he was gone she again said, "I do so hope the Lord will take me to-day. Do come, Lord Jesus; do come! Oh, how I long to go! What a glorious meeting it will be for me, if I am right!" Then clasping her dear hands together, she said, with such a sweet smile as nurse and I shall never forget, "Oh, blissful home! What a glorious meeting! I shall see Christ in all His beauty!"

In the afternoon her breathing altered, and she seemed gently passing away. Looking up so sweetly, she said, "Am I dying, auntie?" I answered, "Yes, dear; it won't be long now. You want to go, don't you?" "Oh, yes," she replied. Her difficulty of breathing returned, and she suffered much through the night. In the morning she said, "You thought me dying yesterday, and the doctor too; but the dear Lord did not, did He? It was not His time." She continued very ill through the day--scarcely able to speak. Towards night she slightly rallied, and looking up at the clock, said, "Oh, the night!" She had often during her illness dreaded the nights. I said, "You know that beautiful hymn, dear--'Sun of my soul'?" She took it up, and said--

"Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near;
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise,
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes,"

after which she did not say any more about the night.

Her dear Pastor and others bade her "good-bye," but her breathing was too bad for her to speak, until about two o'clock, when she startled the dear friend who was sitting up and myself by turning round, calmly putting her hand in mine, and, with a kiss, said, "Good-bye." Then turning to Mrs. T----, she did the same to her, and then very quietly remarked, "You don't hear it now, auntie?"--alluding to the rattles. I said, "No; the conflict will soon be over, darling." Still, it was not yet ended--not until a quarter to four on the 8th of May, 1887, was her soul permitted to "depart and be with Christ," whom she had longed to see in all His beauty.

LITTLE BY LITTLE.

One step and then another,
And the longest walk is ended;
One stitch and then another,
And the largest rent is mended;
One brick upon another,
And the highest wall is made;
One flake upon another,
And the deepest snow is laid.

So the little coral-workers,
By their slow but constant motion,
Have built those pretty islands
In the distant, dark blue ocean;
And the noblest undertakings
Man's wisdom hath conceived,
By oft-repeated efforts
Have been patiently achieved.

Then do not look disheartened
O'er the work you have to do,
And say that such a mighty task
You never can get through;
But just endeavour, day by day,
Another point to gain,
And soon the mountain which you feared
Will prove to be a plain.

"Rome was not builded in a day,"
The ancient proverb teaches;
And Nature, by her trees and flowers,
The same sweet sermon preaches.
Think not of far-off duties,
But of duties which are near;
And having once begun to work,
Resolve to persevere.