"When I was fifteen years old I went to sea. My mother reluctantly gave her consent, only because she knew that I would go without it if she did not. My father was dead, and I was her only son. I had no idea then what my mother's feelings must have been; now I realize what she must have suffered in parting with me.
"When I went to sea I swore in the worst manner. In fact, I scarcely spoke a word that was not accompanied by an oath. After a three years' voyage I came home. My mother met me with great kindness and affection. She had prepared a most tempting supper for me. My trunk was being brought into the door, when a misunderstanding between myself and the man who had brought it, about the pay, aroused my anger, and, forgetting where I was, I swore as only a rough seaman can swear. When oath after oath had passed my lips, I chanced to look at my mother, who stood near me in the hall. Her face was as white as the face of the dead, and an indescribable expression upon it that I can never, never forget. I saw that she was falling, and I put my arm around her to support her. She shrank away from my touch, and fell senseless to the floor. I paid the man the price he demanded, closed the door, lifted my mother up, and laid her on the lounge. I thought I had killed her. Oh, the feelings of remorse that filled my heart at that moment! But she opened her eyes, and seeing me standing before her, said, 'Oh, my son, you have broken my heart!' I assured her with tears and kisses that I would never swear again, but the habit had taken such strong hold on me that I found myself swearing unconsciously many times a day. My mother did not enjoy the long-anticipated visit of her only son. Her spirit seemed crushed, and I know she felt that she had lost her boy, and a reckless, wicked man had come home in his stead. With many tears and kind words of pleading she bade me 'good-bye' when, in a few weeks after, I started on my second sea voyage. At the first port at which we stopped after leaving home, I received a letter from my aunt, containing the sad news of my dear mother's death. Instantly that mother's face, as it appeared to me on the evening I returned home, was before me. I threw myself on my knees in my cabin, and pleaded for forgiveness. I resolved with God's help to lead a different life. But habits of sin, that begin in cobwebs, end in iron chains. It was not easy to break away from them. But every time I began to use an oath, my mother's face, as it looked that night, came before me. I shall never forget it to my dying day. With God's help, I have overcome that terrible sin. I would give everything I possess could I only speak to her once more, and tell her my sorrow and remorse. But she is silent in the grave."
When the gentleman had finished his sad story, he said, "When you are writing something for the children, tell the boys this story I have told you, and tell them always to remember that a sinful habit may begin as a cobweb, but it will end as an iron chain about their souls."—Baptist.
THE WORD WITH POWER.
"Jesus, who lived above the sky,
Came down to be a man and die.
And those kind hands that did such good,
They nailed them to a cross of wood.
And, out of pity, Jesus said,
He'd bear the punishment instead."
An aged woman sat alone by the fireside, when Mr. —— came in, and simply exclaimed, as he looked out at the window, "The Lord said, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance' (Mark ii. 17). 'Not the righteous.' What a mercy that is." No more was said, and Mr. —— left the room, but at night, when in bed, the aged one said to her sister, who occupied the same room with her, "Mr. —— came into the room below, and, as if speaking to himself, uttered these words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. Not the righteous. What a mercy that is!' and he went out, and said no more, but they made the tears roll down my face. There is hope for me."
"A word in season" the Lord alone can give to be effectual. Then, "how good it is." Bless His holy name, He shall have all the praise, for ever and ever.
D. F.
August, 1888.