THE LESSONS OF THE LATE FLOOD. PROSPERITY has its privileges and obligations. To be joyful ourselves and to make others joyful are clearly the privilege and duty of those on whom Providence smiles and into whose laps the gifts of Providence are bountifully poured. But if prosperity has its distinctive uses, so has adversity. From the banks of every condition Wisdom may gather fruits if not flowers, and from none may this be more extensively done than from the rugged bank of adversity. Poets have tuned their harps to celebrate the uses of adversity, dramatists have constructed dramas to represent them, novelists have spun fictions to record them, and inspired moralists urge them by precept and example. Adversity is proverbially a theme for the pulpit. Divines have ever felt it their duty to point out the "sentiments proper to the crises" through which individuals and communities pass. Sometimes this is difficult and even perilous to do, from the opposite feelings with which great changes or remarkable events are regarded. It is difficult to improve some events from the pulpit, in consequence of the necessary collision with party feelings which such improvement involves. But no such difficulty occurs in connection with our present theme. The dreadful calamity which has befallen our prosperous town is regarded with lamentation by men of all political and other creeds; and it is no small consolation, under the recent stroke of this calamity, to see men forgetting their differences in an harmonious effort to relieve sufferings. The Tory and the Radical, the High Churchman and the Low, the Rationalist and the Orthodox, the Conformist and the Nonconformist-all are showing that they possess a human heart in common, and are displaying that common "nature which makes the whole world kin." In dwelling, then, upon the recent flood, there is no danger of offending the sentiments or party sympathies of those we address. Perhaps we could not have chosen a text that would have left us more at liberty than the one we have read to consider the moral lessons taught us by the bursting of the Bradfield dam and its consequences. To attempt any narrative of this sad catastrophe is superfluous, si all my hearers have no doubt read harrowing details which have crowded late the columns of all our local paper To attempt any description of the scene awful desolation presented by the vall along which the majestic but destructi torrent pursued its proud and defia course, is also unnecessary, as almo every eye has seen it; to speculate as to t cause of the catastrophe, whether invol ing criminality or not, does not become position. I shall presume upon my heare general acquaintance with the facts of t case, and from these facts deduce su lessons as it becomes a Christian minist to enforce. "In this day of adversity co sider" these lessons; and may the Lo give us understanding and feeling hearts. I. The insecurity of human life, a consequently of all the advantages depe dent upon it, is a lesson too clearly taug by the recent catastrophe to be mistake by any of us. The loss of life is the mo deplorable feature of the catastrophe. T mills, the cottages, the farms, and terrac swept away, may be replaced by capita skill, and labour, and even the giganti reservoir may be so rebuilt as to be a sa and useful monument of human scien and art; but who shall restore the dwelle of the hillside, the village, the hamlet, ar solitary farm, who have been swallowed u in this terrific calamity? Echo answer Who? Restoration is out of the questio and even the mortal remains of some of t dead are denied to survivors for quiet a decent interment. They are carried know not whither, they are buried know not where. They are somewher alike unknowing and unknown, but n forgotten; and to each of these life a fe weeks ago was of as much importance as li is to the living now, had as much respo sibility attached to it, as much happine springing from it. They laid themselv down on the fatal Friday evening, lookin forward to Saturday's toil as closing t weary week, to Saturday's purchases as p viding necessaries for the week approachin and to the Sabbath's calm and holy re linking the week departing and the we approaching together. But Saturday's * A sermon preached in Cemetery Road Chapel, Sheffield, on Sunday evening, March 27th. never came, Saturday's purchases were never made, and the only rest they found on the Sabbath was not found in the sanctuary but in the grave! They had homes as dear as ours, children as precious as ours, friends as loving as ours, energies as strong as ours, hopes as bright as ours. But a single night wrought the destruction of all these advantages; and now we find where the industrious artisan plied his trade, where the father gathered to his knee his prattling little ones, where the young man and maiden besported themselves in gleesome frolic, a scene of unmitigated desolation. Death and destruction have supplanted life and prosperity in the picturesque valley of the Loxley and Don. Then, boast not of thy trade, thy connections, thy hopes, thy energies, thy life itself, for a solitary night may destroy them all. Death knows no distinctions. For a time he may show a special forbearance towards some-he may permit some to evade his sweep-but, just as in the late catastrophe he carried away child and sire, the youthful maiden and the aged mother, so will he sooner or later bear away all who live. Nothing is so certain as death, nothing so uncertain as the mode and time of his approach to each one of us. We may well say of this world of mortality and graves, where all our most precious things are "frail as delicate flowers," Vanity of vanities; all is vanity." 46 II. The necessity of an immediate preparation for death is impressed upon us by the event which has proved fatal to so many of our fellow-townsmen and neighbours. God forbid that I should say one word that would imply the certain perdition of those who were carried away with the flood-of any one of them. Nothing can be more false than the notion that calamity in this world is indicative of ruin in the next. But there is no uncharitableness in saying, that if amongst the sufferers who have lost their lives so suddenly any were unprepared, their fate and folly are fearful to contemplate. What would they not now give for one of the many hours they wasted in the pursuit of pleasure and gain to the neglect of their precious and immortal souls? All they once possessed for one short hour! But that one short hour is to them as impossible as a life of a thousand centuries is to us. And would we avoid all remorse for lost opportunities, and vain wishes for their return, let us improve the time now present-this accepted time, and day of salvation. III. The liability of human plans and efforts to defeat is illustrated by the recent catastrophe. Whatever may be the opinion formed as to the cause of the catastrophe, it will be agreed on all hands that the catastrophe was not long foreseen, and was not deliberately anticipated. Whether the flood has occurred from a land-slip, or from a want of possible stability in the artificial construction of the dam, we shall all be of opinion that such arrangements were adopted as were deemed requisite to the safety and permanence of the works. A want of engineering skill, or a lack of attention, there may have been-it is not for us to decide-but of one thing we shall all be convinced, that it was the intention and expectation of both the Water Company and their servants that no such calamity as has happened should occur. Therefore one lesson is fairly deduced from the case-we do see the liableness of our most expensive schemes to utter failure. Here we see a great work, costing thousands of pounds, intended to promote the comfort of a great town and the interests of a thriving company, brought in a few hours to utter ruin; hundreds of those whose comfort it was to promote destroyed, and the company to whom it belonged reduced to probable bankruptcy and ruin. Is nothing to be learnt from all this? Do we not see in this a type of what may happen to all those schemes upon which we expend our ingenuity and wealth-those schemes upon which we bestow our admiration and confidence? In our proudest structures there may be a hidden crack, the foretoken of utter ruin ; a spark may reduce our noblest fabrics to the ground; or a flood, which we as little expect as the extinction of the sun, may sweep them away. This ought to make us cautious. The possibility of failure to our best constructed schemes ought not to suppress all enterprise and effort; but it ought to make us count the cost before we build our towers or go forth to wage our wars: it ought to make us wary. We ought, moreover, to be humble, for there is one perfection, essential to the absolute certainty of success in any case, that we lack-foreknowledge of all the possibilities that may affect us fatally. How few we are acquainted with! and though we knew all but one, the one we did not know might be the one to work our ruin! Does it not become us, then, in all our doings, to ask counsel of God, that we may be prosperous, and that we may have success ? "In the day of adversity let us consider" that the conditions of prosperity are only partially ours. And as all earthly schemes, even those most wisely conceived and most energetically executed, are uncertain in their issues, is it not the part of wisdom to fix our affections upon heaven as the one thing certain of attainment, if we use the appointed and well understood means? About the promise of eternal life made to faith and patience there is no uncertainty. Let an earthly catastrophe render more precious our heavenly hopes. IV. From the recent calamity we learn how needful effort is in the day of adversity. In some cases the great duty which should be almost exclusively pressed upon us is submission to the will of an overruling Providence; we can do nothing but quietly wait for the help of God, quietly and unquestioningly submitting to his appointments, communing with our own hearts, and being still. But the present is not one of those cases. Submission is proper in this case; but more than this has been and is requisite. The first feelings that took possession of the minds of our townsmen when the tidings of the catastrophe reached them was this-something must be done, and done without delay. The sufferers must be relieved, the houseless sheltered, the foodless fed. The dead must be collected and decently interred. The carcases of animals and the débris filling our streets and courts must be removed and buried. All minds and all hands were set to immediate work. Councillors and guardians, relief committees and sanitary committees, public men and private, secmed at once to rival each other in their efforts to mitigate as much as possible the calamity which had fallen like a thunderbolt upon the town. And but for their efforts how much more gigantic would have been the proportions of the calamity! Had all settled down in effortless grief, we should have soon had in the wake of the flood famine, pillage, and pestilence. "In the day of adversity we must not consider only, but consider in order to act. The greatest temptation which comes with adversity is to indolence. Men shelter themselves under the iron proverb, "What can't be cured must be endured," and forget that what cannot be cured may be mitigated. The voice of this great flood is, Work! work! and the lesson ought to be profitable in all the calamities which befall us in our per sonal and social capacities. Let us not rest in adversity unless compelled to do so; but let us, with God's help, work ourselves ou of it-then shall we not only triumph over it but be stronger and thankful for it. V. "In this day of adversity consider the claim which such adversity gives to your benevolent sympathy. All adversity calls for sympathy, and such sympathy must be shown if we would vindicate our Christian profession. And surely the calamity to which our thoughts are now directed is not an exception to it, but a striking illustration of the rule. What sad tales could we tell you with which to harrow up your feelings; but our object is not to har row your feelings but excite your sympathy We can surely pity the poor man who, coming from his cottage, was abruptly told that his mother and all the family were gone. We are thrilled by the agony of a heart-broken creature who stood, with her only two children clinging to her dress, while a number of men were removing rubbish that covered her husband. We can almost hear her piercing scream and the murmur of her fatherless children, as the face of her hus band is discovered to her view. We can sympathise with those who have lost many relatives by the flood, and such there are in this congregation; we can sympathize with the orphans and the homeless-our hearts are sad as we think of them; and we are willing, I trust, as we have opportunity, to do good to all who need our aid. Much has been done, but much more, in all proba bility, will be required. In a circular jus issued by our active Mayor, under th auspices of the Relief Committee, it i observed, "The Committee are not even a this moment able to say what amount wil be required in order to extend immediat relief to all who cannot afford to wait fo it. But, as far as they can at present calcu late, they sincerely believe that the amoun already subscribed will very far from suffic to enable them to give full relief to all whe come fairly within that description." Now all can help this noble band of workers to accomplish their grand object-to relieve t the full all the victims of distress by th flood. Much have we to be thankful for Not a single member of this congregatio has perished in the late catastrophe, thoug several esteemed friends have lost man relatives. With spared lives surely w shall have thankful and tender heart May God give us such hearts! Amen. JENNY GRAY. Tales and Sketches. A PASTOR'S STORY. "I SHOULD really like to know who that irl is." It was not the first time my wife had poken of the same thing. To-night there was an added anxiety in her voice, that attracted me from my book. I call her Birdie. She has answered to that name from infancy; and surely nothing could be more characteristic of the cheery little woman who sits beside the window in my tudy so silently while I am writing. For when employed about her household avocations she chirrups, and sings, and flutters about with motions as airy as the little feathered people themselves. She is a wise little woman, too, who has helped me out of more than one pecuniary difficulty. But that is neither here nor there. My wife's tender voice appealed to my sympa thy. "See, Henry!" I looked far down the street, in the direction her finger pointed, and saw a slight womanly figure, moving with quick footsteps. "Well, dear, and what is there about that girl that so interests you?" "I really don't know, unless I am attracted by her pure, pale face," replied my wife. "And the manner of the girl is so modest! Her clothes are old and patched; the shawl is of ancient pattern; the bonnet bleached out with many a winter's wear; but with all, there is such a sweet, holy look about that young face that I can't help wishing to know her." "How long have you noticed her, Birdie?" "Every day this week, just about this ime, and I feel as if she needed help. I lo, indeed. How ever shall I get to speak with her?" "There, there, don't give yourself needless anxiety," I said. "There will probably be a chance yet if she needs you. I will make inquiries." "But she haunts me," cried Birdie persistently. "For two days I haven't sat down to a meal without thinking of her; and it seems to me she must want for food." "Oh, there you are carrying sympathy to the extreme verge of sensitiveness. She may not, after all, be worth one of your thoughts. At any rate, don't make yourself nhappy about it, or I shall take my hat and go search the town for an unknown and nameless girl. How will that do?" "We'll wait, I think," said my wife; and as she looked up, smiling, I saw her eyes were full of tears. The next day was the Sabbath. How happy I was, refreshed by the night's rest, but more than all because I knew my people were united, and that I should not miss one familiar face whose absence could not be accounted for! There is nothing that so sustains a pastor, next to the grace of God, as the consciousness that the people of his charge are able and willing to hold up his hands, meeting him with cordial smiles, looking after his comforts, giving him now and then trifling tokens of their regard, in the shape of only perhaps a heartfelt commendation, but oh, how good it is! The minister, like the author, like men in the other professions, needs stimulants now and then, even of human praise. It will not hurt him to be grateful and to let him know you are. It will not hurt him if he is sometimes asked whether he has any little needs; even if he is a proud man, who will not confess to such weaknesses, his heart will throb at the touch and tone of kindness. It will not hurt him to add something over the stipulated sum on quarter-day; and I know of nothing more beautiful than the custom in our parish. The children are taught to put their little offerings together and present them on payday. Thus they feel that they too have an interest in the minister, who ought to love little children, and be very, very tender towards them. But I did not think to wander from my subject in this manner. My sermon, that lovely Sabbath morning, was a plain practical illustration of faith. At the close my wife came towards me, her cheeks blooming like two roses. ' Henry, did you see her?" she asked. "See who, dear? What are you thinking of?" I responded. "I really must speak of it, even here," she said, fearing that I meant reproof; "that poor girl was at chapel in her old L faded shawl and bonnet, and I am sure, Henry, I am sure she is suffering. Besides, she must be a good girl, or she would never come to chapel in such shabby clothes, and I know I shall be unhappy till I find out who she is." "Well, my dear, I am afraid you will," I returned, a little annoyed at Birdie's persistency. "But we will see this afternoon if we can detain her." "If she is only here," said my wife; " but I so fear she will not come again. She hurried out at the close of the service as if she were afraid of being spoken to, but if she comes this afternoon I will certainly find a way to get at her." That afternoon my wife astonished the congregation by sitting some distance from her usual place, in a pew that had neither carpet, cushion, footstool, nor hymn-book; but as she is one of those thoroughly independent little people, always ready with a reason, and a good one too, it is to be presumed that the sisters thought little of the matter afterwards. Birdie gained her point. The poor girl with the faded shawl, and irresolute, timid, careworn manner, was shown again in the afternoon to the same pew. At first she started and drew back, but as she could not leave with politeness, she entered and sat down in the farthest corner. Then my wife, with a critical observation which was not seen by its object, took in every item of her scanty wardrobe, and came to the conclusion that here was a case not only of poverty, but of suffering, acute and helpless. After the sermon I found my wife talking with and gently detaining her. The girl timidly shrank from notice, and her pale, quiet lips worked at times almost convulsively, as she strove to speak. has not been in "My dear," said my wife, turning to me, "this is a young stranger, it seems. She long. Did you not tell me you were born in- -?" she continued, turning to the girl. "Yes, madam," replied the other. "And you love to come where God's people are; you put your faith in that good Being?" said Birdie, so tenderly that I felt my own heart melting. "Oh, if I didn't, madam, where should I be now? What should I do? I've been praying-I've-been-pray"the tears and the sobs burst forth, having their unrestrained will. The congregation had quietly gone out, and only the sexton stood impatiently in the vestibule. "I hope you'll forgive me, madam," sobbed the girl at last, wiping her tears with a very clean, but well-worn handker chief. "I haven't had anybody speak so kind to me for a year. I'd almost given up hearing a kind word any more from a lady like you. Yes, madam," she continued, more quietly, as the excitement subsided, "I know God cares for me; and, O sir! what you said this morning did so strengthen me, that "--she paused, while a quick blush overspread her sensitive features. "I'm sure, I thank you, sir, for every word; it seemed as if I could take them all." "Will you come and see me to-morrow, or shall I call on you ?" asked my wife. The girl glanced down at her dress. "Indeed, it's too poor a place to ask you to, madam. I'm ashamed of it, but I couldn't do any better. If you please, I'll come and see you." "Very well," said Birdie cheerfully. "Then I will expect you early in the morning." Monday brought the poor child not long after the breakfast dishes were cleared away. She was very pale, and such a look of exhaustion crossed her face when she sat down that Birdie was seriously frightened. Are you sick, my dear ?" she asked, bustling up ready for her medicine chest. "Oh no, madam," replied the girl. "If you would please give me-a-a little water." Some good angel whispered to that little wife of mine. I should never have thought of it, but she can read every thing, I believe. In a moment she had gone out, and entered with a shining little tray, on which stood a cup of coffee, bit of steak, and rolls and butter. The girl burst into tears as it was set on the table. She cast towards it at first such a ravenous look-famished, starving—that was frightened. "O madam!" she cried, "how did you know I was hungry? Oh, I will tell you. I've only had a bit of bread a day for a week. Oh, I'm so hungry! God will bless you. He has heard my prayers. knew he would at last." I "Never mind about thanks," said that little household angel of mine, seating her at the table in a twinkling, the tears dropping from her own eyes while they were filling mine. "There is not enough there to hurt you, so eat it all;" and she untied the poor bonnet and took it off, unpinned |