finished, I asked anybody who wanted to be prayed for to stand up. The
same little rascal popped out into the aisle, as he had done the night
before, and stood looking at me until I saw him and said, ‘God bless
you.’ I thought I’d vary the thing a little, so I asked if anybody
present was willing to come forward and give me his hand as an
indication that he would accept Jesus. That same boy came shuffling out
of his seat, straight down the aisle and gave me his hand. I saw smiles
on the faces of some in the congregation. Nobody but the boy showed any
interest, and I went off somewhat disheartened. The third night I
preached, and when I asked all who wanted prayer to rise, that boy
popped out into the aisle. The people had begun to regard it as a joke,
and they nudged each other with their elbows, while a broad smile flared
from one side of the house to the other. When I asked anybody who was
willing to accept Jesus to come and give me his hand, that boy came, and
the congregation smiled broader than before. After the meeting the
deacons came to me and told me that the boy must be stopped, as he was a
half-idiot, and was throwing a damper on the meeting. I said: ‘Stop
nothing! How are you going to throw a damper on an ice-house?’
“For the whole of that week that boy was the only person in the house
who showed any interest in the meeting. Then he wanted to join the
church. The pastor was absent, and I was to open the doors of the
church. The deacons came to me and said I must not receive that boy, as
he didn’t have sense enough to join the church. I said: ‘Look here,
brethren, I won’t take this responsibility on my hands. I’m going to put
that boy on you, and if you choose to reject him, his blood be upon your
hands.’ At the conclusion of the morning service, I invited all who
wanted to unite with the church to come forward. That boy came. I asked
him if he had accepted Christ for his personal Saviour. That’s all I
ever ask. He said he had. ‘Brethren,’ I said, ‘you hear what this boy
has to say. What will you do with him?’ An ominous silence fell on the
congregation. After a time, from ’way back by the door, I heard a
muffled and rather surly, ‘I move he be received.’ Another painful
silence followed, and then, from the middle of the church, I heard a
muffled, ‘I second the motion.’ When I put the motion, about a half
dozen members voted ‘aye’ in a tone so low that it seemed as if they
were scared. I gave the boy the right hand of Christian welcome awaiting
baptism, and then dismissed the congregation.
“The next day the boy went out to see his old grandfather, a man whose
whitened head was blossoming for the grave, and whose feet were taking
hold upon the shifting sands of eternity. ‘Grandfather,’ said he, ‘won’t
you go to church with me to-night and hear that preacher?’ We always
feel kindly towards those who are afflicted, you know, and are willing
to please them; so the old man agreed to go.
“That night I saw the boy and the old man sitting away back by the door.
When the sermon was finished, one of the members of the church arose and
said: ‘I have a request to make. We have with us to-night, Mr. Blank,
one of our oldest and most respected citizens, but he is out of Christ.
I want special prayer offered for this my special friend.’ With that he
laid his hand upon the head of the old man, down whose furrowed cheeks
the tears were streaming. The next night I saw the old man sitting about
half-way down the aisle. When all who wanted to accept Jesus were
invited to come forward and give me their hands, I saw the half-idiot
boy coming down the aisle leading the old man by the hand.
“That little boy’s father kept a saloon. The following day the child
went there, and climbing up over the high counter, he peeped down upon
his father and said: ‘Papa, won’t you go to church with me to-night to
hear that preacher?’ ‘You get out of here, child,’ said the father; ‘go
out of here; don’t you know you mustn’t come in here?’ Strange, strange,
how fathers will keep places where their children cannot go! ‘But,
papa,’ continued the boy, ‘won’t you go to church with me to-night?’
‘Yes; I’ll go, but you get out of here.’
“That night the man came with the half-idiot boy, and sat about where
the old man had sat the night before. When I asked all who would accept
Jesus to come forward, he walked down the aisle and gave me his hand. He
asked if he could make a statement, and when I said ‘Yes,’ he faced the
congregation and said: ‘My friends, you all know me, and I want to say
that so long as I live I will never sell another drop of whiskey, for I
have given my heart to God to-night, and from this day forward I propose
to serve him.’
“The meeting warmed up at last, the town was set on fire for God. Every
saloon keeper was converted and every saloon was closed. The feeling
spread and a saloon seven miles in the country was closed and the keeper
was converted to God.
“At the close of the meeting I sat on the front seat and saw the pastor
lead three generations into the baptismal waters, the old man in front,
his son behind him, and last in line the little half-idiot boy. The only
mistake that was made, to my mind, was that the boy who had led the
others to Christ should not have been first in line. Where is the little
half-idiot boy now? He has grown much brighter within the last few
years, and is now going to school. He says he wants to be and will be a
missionary.
“What a lesson for the young to-day. Persistent self-surrender, ever
doing the best we can, is a never failing way that leads to victory.”
LXXVI.
DIRECTIONS FOR LITTLE LADIES.
1. A little lady always says, “I thank you” whenever anybody assists her
in any way, and always says, “If you please,” whenever she makes any
kind of request.
2. A little lady is never loud and boisterous on the streets, in public
places, or at home. Sometimes girls are so rough that they are called
“Tom-Boys.” No Tom-Boy ever was a true little lady.
3. A true little lady will always see that her linen is clean and
spotless—collars and cuffs, aprons and dresses, handkerchiefs, and all
articles of clothing. Every true little lady hates dirt.
4. A little lady will not be guilty of idle gossip. She will not tattle;
will not go around hunting all the evil things that are said or known
about other little ladies. She closes her ears tight against the
slanderers of the town.
5. A little lady will love the Sunday-school and the church. She will
love the society of good people and the society of good books. She will
have higher notions of life than that life is something to be spent in a
merry round of pleasure.
6. A true little lady loves her mother, and she will show that she loves
her mother in various ways. She will help her about the housework. She
will be fond of going out in company with her mother often. She will not
think, that anybody else’s mother is or can be better than her own
mother.
[Illustration: DIRECTIONS FOR LITTLE GIRLS.]
7. Every true little lady will be a Christian. She will early give
herself to Jesus. She will delight to help the poor; to visit the sick,
carrying the cheer and comfort and something good to eat and flowers and
many other things. She will love everybody. Do you?
LXXVII.
THREE WORDS TO YOUNG PEOPLE.
The first word is, Be true. The second word is, Be trustworthy. The
third word is, Dare to do right.
First: Be true! Be what you seem to be or what you pretend to be; do not
be a hypocrite; be firm and steady in adhering to friends, promises or
principles. Be a true boy; be a true girl.
Secondly: Be trustworthy! Be worthy of trust; be reliable; make your
word your bond. Conduct yourself in such a way that people can depend on
you.
Thirdly: Dare to do right! Whatever comes or doesn’t come, stand by what
you believe to be right, even if you have to stand alone. Be honest,
upright, faithful, sincere, abhor that which is evil, cleave to that
which is good.
True boys and girls are scarce; they are not easily found; they do not
grow on trees. But, to tell you the truth, we need good boys and girls,
true boys and girls, much more than we do educated boys and girls. All
education without character is a dead weight!
Let me give you one or two reasons why you should be true, trustworthy,
and brave for the right. In the first place, for the sake of your
influence. Every boy and girl in this world has some influence. Every
boy in this world, white or black, rich or poor, high or low, is helping
his friends and playmates to grow better or worse, higher or lower in
the scale of being. Every girl in this world is likewise helping or
hindering others. If we are harsh and unkind, cruel and unjust—in every
wrong, every baseness, meanness, selfishness, we are harming not
ourselves alone but the whole great family of man. On the other hand,
when we speak fearlessly a brave, true word, when we perform cheerfully
a hard and trying task, whenever we are faithful, honest, earnest,
patient, pure, trustworthy, whether we know it or not, we are
strengthening the unseen impulses which make for nobility and higher
manhood and womanhood throughout the world. In the economy of God, by
his infinite wisdom, the humblest life reaches forward to the highest
and the highest life reaches backward to the lowest.
But perhaps you are saying that I am taking too much for granted.
Perhaps you think that it is not true that there is not one of the very
least of the great human family who is not every day exercising some
personal influence for good or evil upon the world. If you think so,
boys and girls, or older people, you are mistaken. No human being can
escape from the world’s atmosphere. Though you fly to the uttermost
parts of the sea or hide in the depths of the dense city, some life is
affected by your life. Not only some life is affected by your life, but
many lives are affected by your life. It is a thought of this kind that
Charles Dickens beautifully expresses in his story called “David
Copperfield.” He says:
“There is nothing—no, nothing—beautiful and good that dies and is
forgotten. An infant, a prattling child, dying in his cradle, will live
again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and plays its part,
though its body be burned to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea. There
is not an angel added to the hosts of heaven but does its blessed work
on earth in those who loved it here. Dead! Oh, if the good deeds of
human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautiful would
even death appear. For how much charity, mercy, and purified affection
would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves!”
No, children, it is no idle dream, no fancy story that I tell when I say
that the humblest member of the human family, as well as the highest, is
exercising daily, whether he is conscious of it or not, some influence
for good or evil upon the world. Viewed in this light who can measure
the possibilities—the divine possibilities—that are wrapped up in little
boys and girls? Viewed in this light, how the slightest action, the
smallest of our little duties, takes on new importance! It was with this
thought in mind that James A. Garfield said: “I feel a profounder
reverence for a boy than a man. I never meet a ragged boy on the street
without feeling that I owe him a salute, for I know not what
possibilities may be buttoned up under his shabby coat.” Yes, boys and
girls, by every brave and cheerful effort that we put forth we are
reforming, uplifting, renewing, inspiring, hearts and souls we never
heard of, never knew, the whole world becoming stronger for every bit of
moral courage we create, sweeter for every kindly look we give, and
holier for every good deed we do. And, of course, the contrary is true.
When we fail, when we come short, when we sin, the consequences are not
ours alone—they extend to all humanity. We are all, white and black,
rich and poor, old and young, male and female, children of one family.
Just as the quivering circles from a pebble thrown into a lake stretch
on and on from shore to shore, so the silent impulse of a single life
thrills from heart to heart until the very edges of humanity are
touched.
There is another reason still why we should be true, trustworthy, brave.
That reason is that somebody else takes us as his ideal—his standard.
Poor as we are, weak as we are, as unworthy as we are, somebody else is
looking up to us—especially those of us who have been favored with
educational advantages and opportunities. And you know that the failure
of one who is invested in another’s mind with ideal qualities is a
failure beyond the actual. That is one reason why people say that, as a
rule, a preacher’s children are the worst children in the world. As a
matter of fact, they are not the worst children in the world; but, being
the children of preachers, everybody expects more of them than of
others,—they are taken as ideals, as standards—that’s all. And what
might be excused in others will not be excused in one who is taken as an
ideal. Nathaniel Hawthorne, one of America’s greatest writers, in
speaking of this truth says in his story called “The Marble Faun:”
“The character of an individual beloved one having invested itself with
all the attributes of right—that one friend being to us the symbol and
representative of whatever is good and true,—when he falls, the effect
is almost as if the sky fell with him, bringing down in chaotic ruin the
columns that upheld our faith. We struggle forth again, no doubt bruised
and bewildered. We stare wildly about us, and discover—or it may be we
never make the discovery—that it was not actually the sky that has
tumbled down but merely a frail structure of our own rearing, which
never rose higher than the housetops, and has fallen because we founded
it on nothing. But the crash, and the affright and trouble are as
overwhelming, for the time, as if the catastrophe involved the whole
moral world. Remembering these things, let them suggest one generous
motive for walking heedfully amid the defilement of earthly ways. Let us
reflect that the highest path is pointed out by the pure ideal of those
who look up to us, and who, if we tread less loftily, may never look so
high again.”
Now, I have said my three words. You see they have stretched themselves
out to a great length, but I hope the boys and girls who read this book
may profit by them. Strive to be true, strive to be trustworthy, strive
to be brave. In the long run the prizes of this world, and of that which
is to come, are won by boys and girls of strong moral character, not by
those who are merely learned or rich. But, of course, I believe in
education and I believe in money. I think you ought to strive to obtain
both—both are useful, and both are necessary; but, with all your
getting, boys and girls, be sure to get those things which will reach
beyond this world and which will count for more than money or good looks
or education or any such thing when the world is on fire, when the moon
shall be turned into blood, when the trumpet sounds, and all must go to
stand before the Great King to give an account of the deeds done in the
body.
LXXVIII.
“A LAMP UNTO MY FEET.”
Once upon a time, so it is said, a little ragged boy was carefully
printing these words with a stick upon the ground, “Thy word is a lamp
unto my feet.”
On looking up from his work, the little fellow was surprised to find a
kind-looking old man watching him.
“Where did you learn that, my boy?” asked the man.
“At Sunday-school, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Crawford.”
“So, Crawford, you learned that text at Sunday-school. Do you know what
it means?”
“No, sir.”
“What is a lamp?”
“A lamp? Why, sir, a lamp is a thing that gives light!”
“That’s correct. Well, what is the word that the text speaks of?”
“The Bible, sir.”
“That’s right. Now, how can the Bible be a lamp and give light?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy, “unless you light it and set it on fire.”
“There’s a better way than that, my lad. Suppose you were going down
some lonely lane on a dark night with an unlighted lantern in your hand,
and a box of matches in your pocket, what would you do?”
“Why, I’d light the lantern.”
“Why would you light it?”
“To show me the road, sir.”
“Very well. Now, suppose you were walking behind me some day, and saw me
drop a quarter; what would you do?”
[Illustration: “A LAMP UNTO MY FEET.”]
“Pick it up and give it to you, sir.”
“Wouldn’t you want to keep it yourself?”
Crawford hesitated; but he saw a smile on the old gentleman’s face, and,
smiling himself, he finally said:
“I should want to, sir; but I shouldn’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be stealing.”
“How do you know?”
“It would be taking what wasn’t my own, and the Bible says we are not to
steal.”
“Ah!” said the old man, “so it’s the Bible that makes you honest, is
it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you had not heard of the Bible you would steal, I suppose?”
“Lots of boys do,” said Crawford, hanging his head.
“The Bible, then,” continued the old man, “shows you the right and safe
path—the path of honesty, does it?”
“Like the lamp!” exclaimed Crawford, seeing now what all the old man’s
questions meant. “Is that what the text means?”
“Yes, my boy,” the man answered, “there is always light in the Bible to
show us where to go and what to do. Don’t you think it would be a good
thing to take the Bible, the good old lamp, and let it light you right
through life?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think you will be safer with it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m honest I will never go to prison.”
“And what else?” asked the man.
Crawford thought awhile. By-and-by he said,—
“If I mind the Bible I shall go to heaven when I die.”
“Yes, and that’s the best reason for taking the lamp. It will light you
right into heaven.”
LXXIX.
THREE BRIGADES.
There are three brigades, or three little companies, which I think ought
to be organized among the boys and girls in every Sunday-school in
America. Can’t you form them in your Sunday-school? It is a very simple
matter. It will not cost any money: only a little time and forethought,
and a will to do. One brigade is called the Rainy-Weather Brigade, and
all the little boys and girls who join this company pledge themselves to
go to Sunday-school every Sunday, when they are not sick, even if it is
raining. The second brigade is called the Front Seat Brigade, and all
the members of this company pledge themselves to occupy front seats in
the Sunday school during the opening exercises before they pass to their
classes. The third brigade is called the On-Timers’ Brigade, and the
children in this brigade pledge themselves to be present on time at the
opening hour.
[Illustration: MEMBERS OF THE RAINY-WEATHER BRIGADE.]
You can see at once how helpful these little brigades are in every
Sunday school (where they exist) to the officers and teachers. Some
children will not go to Sunday school when it is raining or when it
threatens to rain; some will not go forward and occupy front seats when
they do go; and there are others who are always tardy. What a blessing
it would be if all the little children would organize these brigades at
once in their schools, and try to get every scholar to join each one of
them.
LXXX.
“HOME, SWEET HOME.”
Go with me, boys and girls, to the gay streets and gilded saloons of the
great city of Paris far across the sea. Here is said to be the centre of
all the world’s follies and pleasures. It is at night.
An American, who has left his home and native land to view the splendors
of the wicked city, is passing along the street. He has beheld with
delight its paintings, its sculpture, and the grand and graceful
proportions of its buildings. In the midst of his keenest happiness,
when he was rejoicing most over the privileges which he possessed,
temptation assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of its most
bewitching garbs, and he yielded to the voice of the siren. He drank
wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought
madness. Reason was overthrown and he rushed out, all his scruples
overcome, careless of what he did or how deeply he became immersed in
the hitherto unknown sea of guilt.
The cool night air settled damp and heavy upon his heated brow. Walking
on and on, not knowing or caring where he went, by-and-by strains of
music from a distance met his ear. Pretty soon, following in the
direction from which the sounds came, he was able to distinguish the
words and air of the piece. The song was well remembered. It was “Home,
Sweet Home.” Clear and sweet the voice of some singer, using his native
tongue, rose and fell on the air; and the poor wild man stopped and
listened to the soft cadences of that beloved melody.
[Illustration: HOME, SWEET HOME.]
Motionless he stood until the last note floated away, and he could hear
nothing but the ceaseless murmur of the great city. Then he turned away
slowly, with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the tear which
fell as a bright evidence of the power of song, and also as an evidence
that he, the guilty sinner, was not yet absolutely lost beyond recall.
The demon of the wine cup had fled, and reason once more asserted her
right to control. As the soft strains of “Home, Sweet Home” had floated
to his ear, memory brought up before him the picture of his own “sweet
home.” He saw his gentle mother and heard her speak, while honest pride
beamed from her eye; she seemed to speak again of her son, in whose
nobleness and honor she could always trust. His heart smote him as he
thought how little he deserved such confidence. He remembered her last
words of love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those dear
ones who gladdened that far-away home with their presence. The tide of
remorse swept over his soul as he thought of what the sorrow of those at
home would have been could they have seen him but an hour before.
Subdued and penitent he retraced his steps, and with his vow never to
taste of the terrible stuff that could so excite him to madness there
was mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape from further
degradation. The influence of home had protected and shielded him,
although the sea rolled between.
How strong such memories are to prevent the commission of crime! How
powerful is the spell of home! How important, then, is it to make home
pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful home and smiling face will
do more to make good men and good women than all the learning and
eloquence that can be used. It has been said that the sweetest words in
our language are “Mother, Home and Heaven”; and one might almost say
that the word “Home” included the others. Who can think of home without
remembering the gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence? And is
not “Home” the dearest name for heaven? Oh, then, may our homes on earth
be as green spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary of
the cares of life and drink the clear waters of a love which we know to
be sincere and always unfailing.
LXXXI.
EDMUND ASA WARE.
In another chapter of this book I have told you, boys and girls,
something of the story of General S. C. Armstrong, the founder of
Hampton Institute. I am now going to tell something about another white
man, who was the founder of another great school for colored people. His
name is Edmund Asa Ware, and he was the founder of Atlanta University.
Of course you know that I must love Atlanta University because I was
graduated there myself a long time ago; but I think that Atlanta
University should have a warm place in the heart of every black boy and
girl in America. It has done and is doing a great work for the higher
training of our men and women.
Mr. Ware was born in North Wrentham (now Norfolk), Mass., December 22,
1837. When fifteen years old he removed with his father’s family to
Norwich, Conn., where he entered the Norwich Free Academy. In 1859 he
entered Yale University, from which institution he was graduated four
years later. In 1865 he went to Nashville, Tenn., where he served for a
year as principal of one of the newly organized public schools of that
city. In 1866 he came to Atlanta, Ga., and under the auspices of the
American Missionary Association began the educational work to which he
devoted the rest of his life. In 1867 he was appointed superintendent of
schools for the state of Georgia under the Freedmen’s Bureau, and
traveled widely in the prosecution of that work. The same year a charter
was obtained for Atlanta University, which institution was not opened,
however, until 1869, and Mr. Ware became its first president and
continued as president until his death. He died suddenly of heart
disease September 25, 1885, in Atlanta, and was buried September 29th in
Westview Cemetery in the suburbs of the same city.
A few years later his body was removed to the campus of Atlanta
University, where it now sleeps. A huge granite bowlder was brought from
Massachusetts, his native state, by funds contributed by the graduates
of Atlanta University, and this bowlder, suitably inscribed, marks his
last resting place on earth.