Prayer and Purpose

PRAYER AND PURPOSE. BY W. I. GRAY.

When a child, and under the care of a pious grandparent who like the prophet- prince Daniel devoted herself thrice each day to earnest, faithful prayer, I used often to tiptoe to her chamber door to listen, for I had learned to know that in every one of these prayers she would ask the Lord to watch over her little

grandson and lead him in the right way. When I was thirteen years of age, this good lady passed to her rest, and one year later, I went out upon the high seas to earn my bread as cabin-boy in a New England whaler. Twelve years of sea-going brought me in contact with many people of various tongues and races. Twenty years more of rov- ing about in many parts of the world have afforded me familiarity with many modes and customs of diverse humanity. Many are the forms of religious persuasion brought to my observation; many the theories to which I have listened.Of some Christian sects and theologies I have made careful study; some- times with earnest desire to know the truth; sometimes but seek- ing to clearly discern the half-evident fallacy of their claims. Is

it to be wondered at if I had grown to the belief that, after all,

religion is but an uncertain mixture of sentiment and theory; that no one persuasion could prove out higher than another: that an ethical life was man's best. The law of moral philosophy seemed the only guide to acceptable manhood, and one's opinion looked as good as another's. When doubling the "Horn," passing over the briny graves of three of my kinsmen long since sunk to rest in those heaving fathoms, I wondered why I had ever come to such a remote and cheerless quarter. Drifting into the harbor of Honolulu, with every nerve racked with the slow-torturing scurvy, I could not imagine what mad

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caprice had led me to such a welcomeless shore. Once more upon the Pacific shore of my native land, I thought only of seeing my dear old "Bay State" again. Over the Sierras and out on the desert — eagerly I pressed on until, on a beautiful Sabbath morning, as I lounged upon a pal- let of hay in a little camp-shack, on the bank of the serpentine Humboldt, trying to devise some way of shortening that protracted day, I felt a hard, unyielding something beneath my body, and thrusting my hand under the matted hay, drew out a little old volume, on the binding of which I could barely decipher the words, "Voice of Warning." "I 've had quite a lot of warnings in my time," I thought, "one more will not scare me." Anything is good enough to read on the desert where liter- ature is about as scarce as fresh violets. Of course, I read that little book — clear through — then I reflected. Next morning I rose with a new idea of curiosity. I wanted to see the "Mormons." I soon covered the distance between the Humboldt and the Weber, and found a settlement of these pecu- liar people cuddled down in a canyon of the rugged Wasatch, and then for forty days I studied the old lessons, but all new now. Then for the first time in my varied life, I saw a pure and unde- fined religion. There I learned of the true personality of my God; saw the returning light of the prophecies; heard the echo of the hopeful Psalmist. The veil of unbelief and disregard was torn away, and a clear, comprehensive view of things foretold and promised was opened up before me. The prayer of that trustful heart was answered; I had been led in "the right way." What though death did close those watching eyes? They will open again to such a realizing joy as only the redeemed of God can know. That little, old, worn volume? No, I did not keep it treas- ured up, I tucked it back under the hay where I found it, and I pray that some other wayfarer, yes, many others, may have found it to their soul's profit. May its author ever enjoy a rich reward at the hand of Him who never fails to answer unwavering prayer, is my petition. Salt Lake City, Utah.