Medicine. THERE is a wonderful couplet in a good old-fashioned hymn which is "Familiar in our mouths as household words." This is it: "Since all that I meet must work for my good, We have to live a great many years before the sound of "medicine" possesses any music for our ears. We have sunny memories of many a by-gone time when there existed a necessity-which, however, we never recognised -for physic. We remember the suspicious-looking spoonful of jam, which did not appear to be quite the right colour, but which we were assured by plausible lips was "so nice." We can recollect the tempting draught which half filled the glass, and which we were informed by competent authority was "rich wine," but which, though pleasing to the eye, was invariably so displeasing to the taste that we refused to be comforted in our disappointment without numerous lumps of sugar. Also we may remember the hard-hearted medical man from whom we hid under tables and behind chairs, who never came to see us without ruining our play prospects, and who told us, in answer to our pitiful entreaty not to make the medicine "too nasty," that "doctors did not sell sugarplums." "The fashion of this world passeth away," and our children are better off than we were, for the doctors have actually come round (some of them), and do sell sugarplums in the shape of tiny and sweet globules. But notwithstanding even that, it is questionable if the idea of medicine can ever by any means be made a pleasing one, and we cannot help congratulating ourselves that we are not obliged to take it unless we wish. But are we not? There are other kinds of medicines than tinctures and pills, and they are administered by other hands than those which held the nauseous draught to our childish lips. We make all sorts of wry faces, and push the cup away as petulantly as ever, but we are forced to drink it, and the only consolation for us is the very old one, that we needed it, and that it will do us good. And no doubt there is as much truth in that to-day as when measles and whooping-cough did their best to extinguish the little spark of life which gave such joy to the dear ones who cared for us. Though we have passed safely through such crises, we are not by any means perfectly sound and well, and we need our medicine as much as ever. There is many a man who would be all the better for a good dosing. We see him, with his cross face and fretful tone, snapping and snarling at everybody, and we think, "Now, if you were only a child, how much good a powder would do you." And so, no doubt, it would. And he is pretty sure to get it, too. We must have noticed how fond people generally are of prescribing for one another. If you have a cough, you will get at least fifty recipes, all different, and every one very best. And if you are troubled with some other complaints, remedies are not only suggested, but administered. the You are smitten with an attack of pride, and you are immediately dosed with disparaging estimates and slighting remarks. You have a fit of ill-temper, and you are obliged to drink (serve you right too) curative draughts of the essence of cold shoulder. You are seized with severe and prolonged attacks of indolence, and you are subjected to the necessary medicine of non-success. You are almost consumed by the fever of impatience and ambition, and with prompt attention all the inhabitants of the world seem to be transformed into armies of doctors and nurses, intent upon curing you with large doses of hindrance and disappointment and waiting. Well, the physic is very distasteful, but it is really true. that we do often need it, and that it does us good. We are not too healthy as it is, but if it were not for this, what should we be like? It will be as well to realise that the medicine has its mission, and accomplishes it. It will make us more patient, and willing to drink it. Best of all is it to remember that, though the cup is held to us by various hands, it is always mixed by our Father who is the Great Physician. When once we feel that, we shall also find that "The bitter is sweet, the medicine is food." Our Worlds. "WE live in a world of our own." And very little we know or care of the great world that surges around the inner circle in which we are confined. Grandly enough we talk of large hearts and universal sympathy; but we must admit that after all our world is a little narrow. One part of us may be able to go out to the thousands of human beings who are our brothers and sisters, though we know them not; but the best part, the warm affections, the true interest, centre about the chosen few only. And so it should be. If we do live in a little world of our own, who shall say but that it is all the dearer because of its smallness? But what different worlds they are! One finds his in his business, one in his bank, one in the public affairs, which he imagines could not possibly get on without him; one in his family, one in a narrow portion of society, one in amusement, one in a few friends, and another in one single person. And into this little world no strangers may come, no discordant voice be heard, no cold look scrutinise. For often this world is quite an invisible one to all but ourselves; only we know the deeper depths, only we can understand the wheel within the wheel. Yet, perhaps, it might be well to inquire whether we do quite wisely in our selection of this exclusiveness. It is, perhaps, well to shut ourselves up in a little world of our own, always provided that it is a worthy world, that it can really satisfy us, can meet all the requirements of our higher natures. But, alas! this is not always the case. It is in every sense a narrow world, and it is of the utmost importance that it should be widened and height ened, that our sympathies should be expanded, and our love be more generous and less selfish. We are often great losers by living in little worlds of our own. How many people miss a blessing because they have no sympathy with it. We want the worlds in which we live to be enlarged, so that we can take in all the good things that are around us. We need to be quick to see and feel with others, and to have the power to appreciate the pleasure or the work which makes life so great a thing for them. It will do us good to come out of our little worlds, and to grow clearer-sighted and larger-hearted, and more genial toward one another. If there be any brightness, any forgiveness, any service by which we can make one heart rejoice, let us not hesitate to render the blessing and perform the good while we may. If Jesus so loved us, ought not we to love one another, and not only those in our world, but the outsiders into whose cup perhaps but little joy may fall? Our Work. THOSE who make a point of learning the lessons of the day by reading newspaper accounts of its events, will have seen the sad record of a fatal torpedo explosion at Portsmouth, and must have been moved to sympathy by the following statement. "One of the witnesses stated that Lieutenant Meade said to him, 'While I am sensible, I wish it to be publicly known that it was nothing connected with my gun that caused this business. It was nothing but the heat from the melted gutta-percha that exploded some of Schultz's wood-powder.' "He seemed very anxious that that should be publicly known, as he was very much wrapped up in the gun. He also wished him to tell his friends that it did not occur through the gun.” Could anything be more pathetic than this dying man's love of his work? It was a love that had doubtless carried him through many a long day of toil and fatigue, many a night of anxiety and careful thought; a love that was painstaking, persevering, and very determined; a love that was even stronger than death. It seems sad beyond expression that, just as it was completed, when he was within sight of the goal, the life of the energetic worker should pay the cost. We do not read, however, that he— this honourable gentleman in more than the name-lost any of his precious time of consciousness in selfish regret; he expressed great anxiety about the fate of his assistant, and, not knowing that his life too would be forfeited, directed that he and his family should be provided for out of his Mr. Meade's-private means, and then, jealous for the reputation of what had probably been his life's work, said the words we have repeated respecting his gun. Is there not a lesson for all of us here? We who have other work to do, who are called to perform other offices, who have greater missions to fill, are we equally anxious and jealous about our work? It is quite a right feeling. The happiness, the ease, even the life of the worker is not as important as his work. We must grow old and feeble, our hands must forget their cunning, our eyes must lose their keenness of vision, our brains must cease to be active, and at last we must die, and be forgotten: but our work, that may live, that is not necessarily a decaying thing, that may be great, and productive, and lasting, however small we may be. If we believed this, if we knew our power, if we understood rightly the work which God has given us, and how noble a thing it might be made, should we not be more earnest, more diligent, more conscientious in its performance? Surely the dilatoriness, the carelessness, the lack of interest which we exhibit, is all because we do not know the greatness of our work. This quite holds good in regard to all the ordinary occupations of life, the daily work which we are obliged to perform in order to live. But it is even more necessary to remember the importance of work when we are reflecting upon that other kind of duty which is imposed upon every one of us, the duty of doing good to our fellows. We can understand it when we think of our teachers. It is right |