that she was as well instructed in the wisdom of heaven as the oldest
servant among them. The young and happy came to mingle tears of sympathy
with her, but returned to dwell upon her words as upon communications
from the spirit-land, rather than from a creature like themselves. Her
words found a way to the soul of the most thoughtless, fixing their
minds upon heaven, and revealing the unseen glories of a better home,
and the beauty of Christian faith in an earthly one.
She was a Christian mother. When she put on Christ, she was "_a new
creature_" She believed her first grief was almost a murmuring against
heaven. Surely we know she bore an equal love for all her children, but
when her last one died, she loved God and her Saviour more, believing
fully that God would not do her wrong,--that he only sought the good of
his creatures in his dispensations,--that although they seemed grievous
and inscrutable to them, he saw the end from the beginning, and
chastized whom he loved.
THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.
BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.
To become a childless mother is indeed one of the most severe
afflictions which woman can be called to endure; yet it may be, it is
often met with noble, Christian fortitude, with Christian humility and
resignation, that soothe the acute pains of the mother's heart, and
carry her thoughts away from earth and above its sorrows; so that we
feel that she can and has found a balm, and has still left her
consolation and happiness. But when we see a little child, whose mother
God has taken, as fully realizing its bereavement, its loneliness, its
absolute misfortune, as a child can do, we feel that to be a motherless
child in this unchristian world, is indeed an affliction for which there
seldom appears a balm; though we doubt not our Father hath the balm for
this as for every other wound.
A young man sat by the corpse of his faithful wife, the mother of all
his little babes. One child was gazing silently and inquiringly at her
father, as he held his head weeping and groaning in anguish of spirit.
A tender infant of a few weeks lay asleep in the cradle at his side. The
young man's mother entered the room, and with tenderness of tone and
manner, endeavored to calm his grief; with words of gospel love and
faith to comfort him.
"Abby has been to you a kind, faithful and devoted wife, David; an
agreeable companion and constant friend. Before God she was a humble
child, and before the world a worthy disciple of Christ. You doubtless
feel all this, and more. Few can speak evil of her, and very many will
sincerely mourn her early death, and sympathize with you in this
dreadful hour. But remember, David, you have, before this, professed
trust and belief in the promises and love of God. Now is the time to
make manifest your Christian faith, your hope in God, your belief in the
gospel. Try not to be utterly disconsolate in your loneliness. God is
very near to us, although this heavy cloud of sorrow lies between him
and us."
They were interrupted by the entrance of the oldest child of the
departed one, a sensitive, intelligent boy of six or seven years. Tears
were in his eyes as he opened the door, and fell fast into the lap of
his father as he tried to speak to him.
"Father," said he, "I have been down in the sitting-room, trying to read
my little books; but I think so much of my dear dead mother, I can't
read; and the tears come into my eyes so fast, that I can't see the
pictures. I went to rock in my little chair, but I saw my mother's empty
chair, and my little heart aches very much. It will be very lonesome and
sad here, if I don't see mother anywhere. And who will take care of this
little baby brother?"
No word was spoken by those present, but their tears and sobs told
plainly that they too felt how lonely and sad that home would be without
the gentle voice and cheerful song of that "dear mother." As no one
checked him, Willie again spoke, and, as well as he could amid sobs and
tears, told the bitterness of his young spirit.
"I love you some, father, but not as I did my mother; and now my mother
is in heaven, who shall I have to take care of me and kiss me, father;
who will say a prayer to me every night? Aunt Susan's prayers are not
like mother's; and your voice doesn't sound so sweet by the side of my
bed as my mother's did. Oh dear! what did my mother die for, and leave
me a poor little motherless boy?"
His father then took him upon his knee, wiped his tears, and soothed him
to sleep with gentle caresses. No word could David utter. For a long
time he sat with his sleeping boy, beside his dead. The paleness of his
cheek, and the frequent sigh, expressed his sorrow. His mother again
tried to draw from him an expression of his Christian fidelity, fearing
that he was untrue to his God and his Master under a trial so severe.
When at length he did speak, a hardened heart might have been moved by
his broken sentences and choking words, as he made an effort to assure
his anxious parent.
"Mother, I have the utmost confidence in the mercy and goodness of
God--even now that he has taken to himself one so very dear. I feel sure
there is some great and important lesson which he would have me learn
from this sorrowful event. I have all faith that Abby is at rest, and
will still love those of us who are left on the earth to mourn. I
believe we shall meet each other in the future, that we shall recognize
and love each other, with a far more perfect and a purer love than we
have cherished here. I shall be lonely, and miss from my hours at home
the counsel, the aid, the cheerfulness, sympathy and attentive love of
one of the best of women. Her beautiful example in the service of her
Master will often be remembered with deep and sincere grief.
"All this I could bear calmly; if it were more bitter, I could bear it
and not weep. But to think of my children--as motherless babes; to hear
Willie tell his sorrow, and mourn so bitterly in his tender years for a
mother--so dear; to feel that with his susceptibility and keen
sensitiveness he realizes so fully his loss; to hear him sob on his
pillow at night, and, when alone, call himself 'little motherless
Willie;'--oh, mother! what man or Christian would not bow beneath a
burden like this?--It is the contemplation of _four motherless children_
that wounds me most. It seems to me Abby herself would not reprove me,
could those cold lips now bring me a message from her spirit in heaven."
* * * * *
With expressions like those in the chamber of the dead was every hour in
the home of David embittered, for weeks and months, by the little
mourning child. He gathered flowers and laid them before his father,
saying, "I don't suppose you care about them, father; but my mother
isn't here to take them. I pick them because they look up into my face
as if mother was somewhere near them. But they wither on my hand, and
hold down their heads, just as I want to do now my mother is dead."
Every object at home seemed to remind Willie of his mother, and keep his
bereavement uppermost in his thoughts. He did not weep as much after a
few weeks, but through all his boyhood there rested a sadness on his
countenance, that indicated a mournful recollection of that dear mother.
Through his whole life he felt that he was like a tender branch lopped
from the parent-tree; like a lamb sent out from the fold while too young
to meet the storms and travel the dangerous paths of which he often
heard from his mother. This idea seemed ever present, and served many
times to hold him back from adventurous pursuits and untried schemes. "I
don't know--but I should have known had my dear mother lived," was the
expression of his general course in life.
As long as he was a child he spoke often and tenderly of his mother. He
cherished a remembrance of her faithful admonitions and precepts, as
vivid as might have been expected from a child bereaved at the age of
eight or ten. When older, he realized more fully his loss, especially
when he met one whom he believed to be _a good mother._ He then seldom
spoke of his mother; but his visits to the grave-yard, his sadness on
the anniversary of the day of her death, his conversations about her
with his brothers and sister, the value he attached to every token of
her love to him, convinced us that he remembered her with deep
affection.
When a young man, he was several times beguiled by the tempter into
forbidden paths, and his eyes were not opened to behold the danger
until the fangs of the serpent pierced deeply into his heart. Then most
fully did he realize that he was _poor motherless William_; that he was
abroad in the world without those most effectual safeguards against sin,
a good mother's counsels and a mother's daily prayers; that while others
could express unreservedly to their mothers their hopes or fears, their
success or misfortune, their faithfulness in the hour of temptation or
weakness under its power, and be counselled, encouraged, urged or
entreated anew,--he could only go to his mother's grave and shed bitter
tears of repentance in loneliness, or withdraw himself from all around
him, and, _a poor motherless child,_ call up the dim remembrance of that
young and cheerful being who once called him her precious son, her
treasured child,--and weep the more bitterly that no answering voice or
smile, or look of encouragement or hope, met _him_ in this sinful world!
Oh ye who have hearts to feel, who profess Christian principles to guide
you, and the holy love of our Master for your example, seek out the
_motherless child_ of the poor, the ignorant, the vicious, and by the
power of Christ which is within you, according to the measure of that
power, strive to be like fond mothers to the thousands who cry "We have
no dear mother--our mother is in heaven--is dead--and we know not what
is right or what is wrong!" Help and pity them. Rescue them from that
heart-breaking loneliness and sorrow that prey incessantly on the
feelings of a sensitive, intelligent, _motherless child_.
FAITH.
BY MRS. E.R.B. WALDO.
Upon the peaceful breast of Faith
My troubled soul hath found repose,
Free from the sad and starless gloom
That doubting scepticism knows.
Though disappointment, care, and pain,
Have bent my heart to their decree,
One thought hath ever led me on,
It is, _that it was so to be_.
Oft would my weary spirit faint,
My heart yield almost to despair,
Did not "a still small voice" exclaim,
"There is no change, but God is there."
That mighty power which points the shaft,
And forms the spirit to endure,
Will, in its own peculiar way
And time, perform the wondrous cure.
Still may my soul, through faith, rely
Upon the promises of God;
His mercy see in every change,
And learn to bless his chastening rod.
THE SNOW-BIRDS.
A DIALOGUE.
BY MRS. C. HIGHBORN.
_Clarissa_. Pray, Mary, what are you going to do with those crumbs which
you hold in your hand?
_Mary_. I am going to feed my snow-birds with them; and I should be very
happy to have you go with me. I know you will enjoy seeing how merrily
they hop about and flutter their wings, and seem to chirp out their
thanks as they pick up the food I throw them.
_C_. Thank you for your invitation; but I beg you will excuse me; it may
be pretty sport for you, but, for my part, I can enjoy myself much
better to stay here and arrange my baby-things, for I expect some girls
to see me this afternoon. I cannot conceive what there is in those
ugly-looking snow-birds to interest you; they are not handsome, surely;
they have not a single bright feather; and, as for their songs, they
sound like the squeak of a sick chicken.
_M_. I am sorry to hear you speak so of my favorites; for, though they
are not so brilliant in their colors as many that flutter around us in
the summer, yet to me they tire dearer than any others, and far more
beautiful than those of a gaudier hue.
_C_. Well, you have a queer taste, I must confess; you remind me of the
philosopher I read of in the story-book, who thought a toad the most
beautiful of God's creatures. Come, perhaps you can show me why they are
entitled to your regard, and point out their beauties.
_M_. I will cheerfully comply with your request, for nothing gives me
more pleasure than to speak of the good qualities of my friends. Examine
them for a moment and see how exquisitely they are formed, and, though
not gaudy in their colors, yet their feathers are soft and glossy. But
these are trifles comparatively; what most endears them to me is their
constancy.
_C._ That is a new idea, indeed. Constancy in snow-birds! Please explain
yourself, Mary.
_M_. Well, they seem to me like those rare friends that love us best in
adversity, when the bright summer of prosperity, with its attendant
joys, has fled, and the winter of sorrow and misfortune shuts out, with
its dark clouds, the light of life, and withers, with its frosts, the
few flowers which bloom along its pathway. There are summer friends,
Clara, as well as summer birds, and they both wear brilliant colors, and
sing enchanting songs, but they depart with the sunshine; the first
leave us to battle the storms of adversity, and the others, the cold and
barren prospect of winter; these little snow-birds, however, remain, and
through all its dark hours they cheer us by their presence. They seem to
tell us that we are not entirely destitute of pleasure, but that the
darkest hours have something of beauty; and, while they serve to awaken
in our minds a remembrance of the bright days that have gone, they bid
us look forward to the end of our sorrows, and welcome the bright spring
days, which shall return to us the joys that departed.
_C._ I declare! you have preached quite a sermon, and from a funny text;
I confess there is both truth and poetry in what you say. I do not
wonder that you love the snow-birds, if they awaken such pleasant and
pretty thoughts in your mind. Henceforth I will love them myself, for
the good lesson that, through you, they have imparted. I trust you will
forgive me the rudeness of laughing at you.
_M_. Cheerfully, Clara; but learn from this never to despise any of
God's creatures; they can all teach us some important and beautiful
lesson which we should be happy to heed. And now, if you please, we will
go and feed the snow-birds.
_C_. With all my heart!
[Illustration: MOUNT CARMEL.]
MOUNT CARMEL.
SELECTED.
Mount Carmel is a high promontory, forming the termination of a range of
hills running northwest from the plain of Esdraelon. Mount Carmel is the
southern boundary of the Bay of Acre, on Acca, as it is called by the
Turks; its height is about fifteen hundred feet, and at its foot, north,
runs the brook Kishon, and a little further north the river Belus.
Mount Carmel is celebrated in Scripture history as the place where
Elijah went up when he told his servant to look forth to the sea yet
seven times, and the seventh time he saw a little cloud coming up from
the sea "like a man's hand," when the prophet knew that the promised
rain was at hand, and girded up his loins, and ran before Ahab's chariot
even to the gates of Jezreel. (1 Kings xviii. 44-46.)
Towards the sea is a cave, where it has been supposed that Elijah
desired Ahab to bring Baal's false prophets, and where fire from heaven
descended on the altar he erected. The present appearance of Carmel is
thus described by Dr. Hogg, who visited it in 1833. "The convent on
Mount Carmel was destroyed by the Turks in the early part of the Greek
revolution. Abdallah, the Turkish pasha, who commanded the district in
which Carmel is situated, not only razed their convent to the ground,
but blew up the foundations, and carried the materials to Acre for his
own use. The convent is now being rebuilt, or probably is now completely
finished, the funds having been supplied by subscriptions solicited all
over Europe, and a great part of the East, by one of the brethren,
Giovanni Battista, who has travelled far and wide for that purpose." Dr.
Hogg gives the following account of the condition of the place at the
time of his visit.
"The whole fabric is of stone, and, when completed, will possess the
solidity of a fortress. The first story only is at present finished, and
hereafter will be solely appropriated to the accommodation of
travellers, when another, to be raised above, will be exclusively
devoted to permanent inmates. In the centre a spacious church has been
commenced, and already promises to be a fine building. The principal
altar will be placed over the cave so long held sacred as the retreat of
the prophet. This natural cavern exhibits at its farther extremity some
signs of having been enlarged by art. When the edifice above is
complete, it will be converted into a chapel; and a projecting ledge of
rock, believed to have been the sleeping-place of the prophet, will then
be the altar. The superior himself kindly conducted me to see one of the
celebrated caves which everywhere abound in the district of Mount
Carmel. Descending two thirds of the mountain by a narrow path, scooped
in the rock, we entered an enclosure of fig-trees and vines, where
several caverns, that of old belonged to the Carmelites, are now
inhabited by a Mohammedan saint and his numerous progeny. We first
entered a lofty excavation of beautiful proportions, at least fifty feet
long, with a large recess on one side,--every part chiselled with the
nicest care, and inscribed with numerous Greek initials, names, and
sentences. Here Elijah is believed to have taught his disciples, and
hence its name, 'the school of the prophets.' Some smaller adjoining
caverns, fronted with masonry, now form the residence of the saint and
his family. A deep cistern for the preservation of water has been hewn
in the rock, and the entrance is closed by a gate shaded inside by
vines.
"The memory of Elijah is equally venerated by Christians and Moslems;
and the votaries of each faith are liberally allowed access to the
several caves. At the time of our visit the general appearance of Mount
Carmel was dry and sterile; but the superior assured us that in spring
it was clothed in verdure and beauty."
THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE.
BY MISS ELIZABETH DOTEN
"Daily striving, though so lonely,
Every day reward shall give,
Thou shalt find by striving only,
And in loving, thou canst live."
Miss Edwards.
"On dear!" said Annie Burton, as she sat down under the old apple-tree
by the spring; "I wonder what ails me; there's been such a choking
feeling in my throat all this afternoon, and though I winked and
swallowed with all my might, the tears would come in spite of myself.
Here I've been wandering for more than three hours, up hill and down,
through brambles and brier-bushes; my hands are scratched and bloody,
and the sun has burnt me as brown as a berry. Three long precious hours
in the sunny month of August! and what does it all amount to? Why, I
have picked a basket of berries that can be eaten in half an hour; and
here is a bunch of flowers for little Katie, that she will take and
admire, and then tear to pieces; that will be the end of them. But that
isn't the worst of all; no, not by a great deal; there is a great rent
in my frock, gaping and staring at me, waiting to be mended; and nobody
knows how long 't will take me to do that. Oh dear! how I hate to work!
I don't see how it is; there's mother takes care of the children, sews,
makes bread and washes the dishes, just as willingly and cheerfully as
if she were playing on the piano or reading a pleasant book. They say
that good people are always happy; but I _never_ am. Oh, I believe I am
the worst creature that ever lived!" and she bent her head upon her lap
and burst into tears.
It was not long before she was roused by the sound of footsteps; she
raised her head, and saw an old woman coming down the road with a large
basket on her arm. She looked tired and weary, as well she might be, for
she had travelled a long distance; it was a hot, sultry afternoon, and
every footstep stirred a cloud of dust. She came towards the spring; but
before she reached it, she struck her foot against a stone and fell.
"Have you hurt you?" exclaimed Annie, as she sprung to her side.
"Not a bit, not a bit," she replied, as she shook the dust from her
apron, and replaced the things that had fallen from her basket.
"Oh, yes, you have!" said Annie; "see, the blood is streaming down your
arm!"
"Oh that's nothing; only a scratch. Blessings on the good Father that
watches over me! I might have broken my arm, and that would have been a
deal worse! How fortunate I happened to fall just by the spring here!
I've been longing for a drink of cold water, and I sha'n't need it any
the less for getting such a mouthful of this hot dust."
"Heart's dearest!" she exclaimed, as she put down the iron dipper that
always hung by the spring, after having satisfied her thirst, "what is
it troubles you? Such sorrowful eyes and a tearful face belong only to
older heads and more sinful hearts; and God forbid it even to them,
unless it is wrung out of the agony of their very souls; for though his
providences are just and wise, yet nature must have its way sometimes."
"Oh," she replied, as the tears filled her eyes again, "I have been
crying to think how wicked I am."
"Well-a-day!" said the old woman, looking rather droll; "it's very
strange such a young creature as you should come down here to weep on
account of great wickedness. You don't look much like a Salem witch, or
a runaway from the house of correction."
Annie could not help laughing at such an idea; but as the smile passed
away, the troubled waters of her heart seemed to burst forth in a
flood, and she wept violently.
"Ah," said the old woman, shaking her head sorrowfully: "I ought not to
have spoken thus; I see how it is. Poor lamb! she hears the voice of the
Shepherd calling her, but she is bewildered and knows not the way to the
fold; and may the Lord Jesus look upon me, as he did upon his sinful
servant Peter when he denied him, if I fail to point out to this dear
child the path wherein he himself has taught me to tread."
She sat down beside Annie and laid her arm gently around her. "There's a
dear girl," said she, raising her head, and putting back the locks of
moist hair; "listen to me a little while, and I will tell you what will
make you happier." She took the cool waters of the spring, and bathed
her burning forehead, and washed away all traces of dust and tears. The
water had a cooling and soothing effect upon Annie's troubled brain.
"There now," said the good dame; "don't you feel better?"
"Yes," said Annie, almost cheerfully.
"Well," she continued, "God's love is just like this spring; it is full
and free to all. Now don't you suppose, if you could cleanse and purify
your heart from all traces of sin and sorrow in its blessed waters, just
as you bathe your face in this spring, that you would feel happier and
better."
"Yes," said Annie, slowly and thoughtfully, as if a new idea was passing
through her mind.
"Well then, I will tell you how. I have felt just as you do now. When I
was a girl I was a restless, idle creature; useless to others, and a
burden to myself. Of course I was unhappy, miserable. It was in vain
that I went to school with such a discontented mind. I had a harder
lesson to learn than any that my teacher could learn me. God grant you
may not have to learn it in the same way that I did! I learned it by
experience; a sorrowful way that is to learn anything, although it is
slow and sure; you may be pretty certain that you never will forget it.
I have found out, by experience, that the only way that we can live and
be happy, is by loving and serving others, just as the blessed Jesus
did; and if you will try it you will find it so."
"Oh," said Annie, "I am a little girl. What good can I do? If I was the
Lord Jesus, I would go about doing good; then I would cast out devils,
and heal the sick, and raise the dead."