The Deaf Shoemaker
and
OTHER STORIES
by
PHILLIP BARRETT.
[Illustration: A SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY, page 190]
M. W. DODD, 506 BROADWAY.
THE DEAF SHOEMAKER.
BY
PHILIP BARRETT,
AUTHOR OF “FLOWERS BY THE WAYSIDE.”
TO WHICH ARE ADDED
Other Stories for the Young.
’Tis RELIGION that can give
Sweetest pleasures while we live;
’Tis RELIGION must supply
Solid comfort when we die.
MRS. MASTERS.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY M. W. DODD,
No. 506 BROADWAY,
1859.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1859, by
M. W. DODD,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
EDWARD O. JENKINS,
Printer & Stereotyper,
No. 26 Frankfort Street.
TO
REV. ERSKINE M. RODMAN,
RECTOR OF CHRIST’S CHURCH, NORFOLK, VA.,
This Little Volume is
INSCRIBED,
AS AN HUMBLE TESTIMONIAL OF THE FRIENDSHIP AND ESTEEM OF
PHILIP BARRETT.
PREFACE.
MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS:
ENCOURAGED by your kind reception of my former little volume, I have
gathered together my scattered sketches with the earnest wish and
heart-felt prayer that they may be instrumental in leading you to
childhood’s best and truest friend—the blessed SAVIOUR.
Your attached Friend,
PHILIP BARRETT,
_Rural Retirement, Va._
CONTENTS.
JOHN McDONOUGH 9
MARY AND HER DRAWER 14
“IT IS I!” 18
THE ORPHAN 22
THE RECORDING ANGEL 26
THOMAS WARD 29
THE ROSE 34
THE LANTERN 38
THE DECISIVE MOMENT 43
THE ALARM WATCH 46
“CONDEMNED” 51
“I WANT TO BE A MINISTER” 55
RUFUS TAYLOR 60
JAMES JONES 63
GERTRUDE MASON 68
THE DEAF SHOEMAKER 71
NORMAN HALL 77
“DELAY NOT” 80
THE SAVIOUR 85
AUTUMN 89
NERO 94
THE RAILROAD 100
A TRUE SKETCH 104
“THE LAST NIGHT OF THE SEASON” 108
HUGH MILLER AND THE PRECIPICE 112
THE HOME OF ST. PAUL 116
HOME 121
TO MY SABBATH-SCHOOL CLASS 128
HALF AN HOUR IN BAD COMPANY 131
THE FIRST DAY OF THE NEW YEAR 134
THE YOUNG MAN WHO WENT TO SLEEP IN CHURCH 138
MARGARET WILSON 140
GILBERT HUNT 145
SKETCHES FOR YOUNG MEN 155
THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN, No. 1 157
” ” No. 2 159
” ” No. 3 164
“WHO SHALL BE THE GREATEST?” No. 1 169
” ” No. 2 172
” ” No. 3 174
THE POOR CONSUMPTIVE 181
“WHAT I LIVE FOR” 184
THE LAST SERMON OF THE SEASON 186
“WILL NOBODY SAVE ME?” 188
A SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY 190
THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN’S DEATH-CHAMBER 196
WHAT PRAYER DOES 202
“PRAY WITHOUT CEASING” 204
APPENDIX 207
JOHN McDONOUGH.
“JESUS, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the raging billows roll,
While the tempest still is high.
“Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past
Safe into the haven guide;
O receive my soul at last.”
“JOHN MCDONOUGH! who is _he?_” my young reader will doubtless exclaim.
It is true, his name is not written in golden letters on the pages of
History,—no Senate chamber has resounded with his eloquence,—the
conqueror’s wreath has never encircled his brow; but John McDonough has
performed a deed which posterity, to the remotest generation, can never
forget.
But a few weeks since, the steamer Northern Indiana was burned on one
of the Northern lakes, and then and there it was, that this noble and
gallant deed was performed.
You who have never seen a ship on fire can form no idea of the awful
horror of such a scene. All was wild excitement and mad confusion. The
flames spread like a whirlwind over the noble ship, and soon wrapt it
in their withering embrace. Every heart was lifted to God in prayer;
every voice was joined in supplication; mothers were clasping their
infants to their bosoms; husbands endeavoring to save their wives;
fathers encircling their sons in their strong and unfailing arms; the
waters were a mass of living, immortal beings, struggling for life.
Amid the hissing of the flames, the pale glare of the atmosphere,
and the wild shrieks of hopeless agony that arose from the sinking
passengers, John McDonough might have been seen, calm and composed,
struggling nobly with the swelling waves, and bearing in one hand
_life-preservers_ to the perishing souls scattered over the surface of
the lake, which, to many, was destined soon to be the winding-sheet of
Death.
How noble the action! How my heart swells within me when I think of the
gallant and fearless conduct of such a man!
When despair clothed every brow, fear paled every cheek, and the wild
cry—“Save, Lord, or I perish”—echoed in the ears of the drowning,
his lofty brow showed no signs of fear, his eye beamed with hope. He
still struggled on, and on, till many and many a soul was rescued from
a watery grave.
I had rather be the brave, the dauntless, the self-sacrificing John
McDonough—the humble laborer on the ill-fated Northern Indiana—than
Alexander the Great weeping because there were no other worlds for him
to conquer.
God bless thee, noble John McDonough!
Though no eulogy be pronounced at thy death, no booming cannon thunder
over thy grave, no proud monument mark thy resting-place, yet there
will be erected in the hearts of thy countrymen a monument more lasting
than marble, more enduring than brass. May thy name live forever!
My young friends, do you not also see, concealed as it were by the
terrible grandeur and painful horror of the scene, a beautiful and
important truth displayed in the conduct of this noble-hearted man?
We are all embarked in a ship. The destination of that ship is
_Eternity_. The voyage is tempestuous, and when we least expect it, the
fires of hell may take hold upon us. But, thanks be to God, there is a
Great Life-preserver always at hand. That Life-preserver I now extend
to you: reject it if you dare; destruction is the consequence. Accept
it; and you will soon be landed on the blissful shores of Heaven. That
Life-preserver is
CHRIST.
* * * * *
CHRIST THE ROCK OF AGES.
“ROCK OF AGES, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy wounded side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure;
Cleanse me from its guilt and power.
“Not the labor of my hands
Can fulfil the law’s demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears forever flow,
All for sin could not atone,
Thou must save, and Thou alone.
“Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to Thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Vile, I to the Fountain fly,
Wash me, Saviour, or I die.
“While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my heart-strings break in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment throne,—
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”
MARY AND HER DRAWER;
OR, NOTHING MADE BY GETTING ANGRY.
I CANNOT curb my temper,
I might as well have tried
To stop, with little pebbles,
A river’s rapid tide.
My good resolves I hardly form,
When trifles raise an angry storm.
CHILD’S CHRISTIAN YEAR.
THE church bells were sending forth their merry chimes, and hundreds of
children were wending their way to the Sabbath-school. Mary was late
that morning, and ran very quickly to her drawer, in which were kept
her gloves, hymn-book, catechism, &c., and endeavored to jerk it open
at once; but in so doing she got it crooked, and it would move neither
way.
Being in a great hurry, she began at once to fret and blame the drawer
for not coming out. She soon became quite angry; her check flushed, her
eyes sparkled, and with a violent effort she pulled the drawer out,
emptied its contents on the floor, tore her dress, disfigured her
hymn-book, and almost ruined the drawer itself.
Her father was patiently waiting in the hall for his little daughter,
when the accident occurred, and asked her what was the matter. Her
instant reply was, “Nothing, Father; you go on—I will overtake you
presently.”
Little Mary did not overtake her father, and he looked in vain for her
at the Sabbath-school.
Her dress was so badly torn that she could not go to Sabbath-school,
and with tears flowing down her cheeks, she sat down and thought
soberly over her conduct.
She doubtless felt very sorry for her anger, and the unnecessary damage
she had done.
No one, when the family returned from church, said a word to her, but
left her to her own reflections. When her father had taken off his hat
and seated himself, she modestly approached him, threw her arms around
his neck, and said,—
“Father, do you know why your little Mary was absent from
Sabbath-school this morning?”
“No, my child,” he replied.
“I was in a very great hurry, and attempted to pull my drawer out very
quickly, and got it fastened so tightly that it would move neither one
way nor the other. I tried and tried, but it would not move. I then
got angry with the drawer, pulled it very hard, and not only scattered
its contents over the floor, but hung the knob in my dress and tore it
so badly that I could not come to the Sabbath-school.”
Her father told her he willingly forgave her, and that she must also
ask God’s forgiveness, for she had committed a sin in giving way to
her anger. He also told her to remember that nothing was ever made by
getting angry. If she ever tried to do anything, and could not do it at
once, she must not get angry, but be patient and calm.
I hope this little thing taught Mary an important lesson—and may it
teach you the same, dear little reader. _Nothing was ever made by
getting angry, but something always lost._
* * * * *
AGAINST YIELDING TO TEMPTATION.
MY love, you have met with a trial to-day
Which I hoped to have seen you oppose;
But alas, in a moment your temper gave way,
And the pride of your bosom arose.
I saw the temptation, and trembled for fear
Your good resolutions should fall;
And soon, by your eye and your color, my dear,
I found you had broken them all.
Oh, why did you suffer this troublesome sin
To rise in your bosom again?
And when you perceived it already within,
Oh, why did you let it remain?
As soon as temptation is put in your way,
And passion is ready to start,
’Tis then you must try to subdue it, and pray
For courage to bid it depart.
But now you can only with sorrow implore
That Jesus would pardon your sin,
Would help you to watch for your enemy more,
And put a new temper within.
JANE TAYLOR.
“IT IS I!”
“CLAIM me, Shepherd, as Thine own,
Oh, protect me, Thou alone!
Let me hear Thy gracious voice,
Make my fainting heart rejoice.”
THERE was once a great storm on the Sea of Galilee.
The wild winds howled, and the furious waves rose almost mountain high.
There was a small vessel in the midst of this storm, and in this vessel
were some of Christ’s disciples.
When the storm had reached its utmost fury, and certain destruction
seemed to await those who were in it, a man was seen walking on the
water towards the vessel.
The disciples were at once struck with wonder and amazement. They were
doubtless somewhat superstitious, and supposed it to be a spirit;
for they were well aware that nothing having flesh and blood like
themselves could walk on the surface of the water without sinking.
But whose familiar voice is that, heard even above the roar of the sea,
and the noise of the winds? Who is He that dares approach their vessel
on such a night?
The voice is the voice of their Saviour; and He who dreads not the
rage of the billows, is He whom “the winds and the sea obey.” What are
His words? They are few and well chosen—such as were best suited to
the occasion: “It is I; be not afraid!” Oh, how welcome the visitor!
How delightful that familiar voice! How the downcast hearts of the
disciples throb with joy when they welcome their Saviour to their
bosoms! How their hearts gush forth in thanks when they see the raging
billows become, at His command, as gentle as a lamb, and the furious
winds as innocent as a little child.
Children, do not we gather some important truths from this Scripture
narrative? In the storms of adversity and sadness, affliction and
bereavement, ought we not hear Christ saying to us, “It is I; be not
afraid?”
* * * * *
CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.
THE beating rain in torrents fell,
The thunder muttered loud,
And fearful men with deep grief dwell
Before their Saviour bowed.
The billows lashed the rock-bound shore,
The howling winds roared by,
While feeble cries rose on the gale,
“Christ, save us, or we die.”
Upon a bed of sweet repose
Our blessed Saviour lay,
While round Him played the lightning’s flash
From out a frowning sky.
And feeble cries of grief and woe
Were heard around His bed,—
“Oh! Jesus, wake—we perish now,
Our courage all has fled.”
The lightnings flashed, the thunder roared,
The foaming waves rolled by,
And Jesus calmly rose and said,
“Fear ye not; it is I.”
Loud roared the winds in wailing notes,
The night was cold and chill,
And to the raging storm He said,
“Hush, ye winds; peace, be still.”
The winds were stilled, the sea was calm,
The clouds soon passed away,
And sunny skies, with golden gleams,
Beamed on the face of day.
“What man is this,” the seamen cry,
“That e’en the sea ’ll obey?
He only whispered, ‘Peace, be still,’
And darkness passed away.”
WESTERN RECORDER.
THE ORPHAN.
“AN orphan in the cold wide world,
Dear Lord, I come to Thee:
Thou, Father of the fatherless,
My Friend and Father be!”
“COLD is the world without a father’s arm to shield, and a mother’s
heart to love. The sun shines but dimly on the head of the orphan,
for sorrow claims such as its own, and no earthly power can release
from its embrace. When a father dies, and she who ‘loves with a deep,
strong, fervent love,’ is laid in the grave, then is the brightness of
earthly existence extinguished.”
Children, how accurately do the above lines describe the lonely and
forsaken condition of the orphan!
Have you never felt your little hearts throb with sorrow when you saw
the children of the Orphan Asylum walk quietly down the aisle of the
church and seat themselves in regular order in the front pews? Did not
their plain dress speak to you in language which you were obliged to
hear? Did not the prayer arise from your breasts, that God would be a
Father to the fatherless, that He would watch over, guide and protect,
throughout the journey of life, that helpless little band of fatherless
and motherless children?
How lonely must their condition be. No father to counsel, no mother to
love, no home beneath whose shelter they may rest, but dependent upon
the cold charities of a colder world.
He who would treat unkindly, or wound the feelings of _an orphan_, is
worse than the brute of the field.
My young orphan friends, there is but one source to which I can direct
you; there is but one friend who will never desert you; there is but
one house whose door will never be closed against you.
That source is God; that friend is Christ; that house is one not made
with hands, eternal in the heavens. God will counsel you; upon the
bosom of Christ you may “lean for repose;” and the angels of heaven
will ever welcome you to their blest abode.
The kind father and the loving mother, from whom you have been
separated by death, you shall meet again, if you are Christians.
And to you, dear little readers, who know not the length and breadth
and depth of a Saviour’s love, let me say one word: THERE IS NO
ORPHANAGE LIKE THAT OF THE SOUL WHICH LEANS NOT UPON CHRIST AS ITS
SAVIOUR AND REDEEMER.
* * * * *
LAMENT OF AN ORPHAN.
“HOMELESS, friendless, for many years
I’ve wandered far and wide,
With none to wipe away my tears,
And none to be my guide.
“No gentle word to soothe my grief,
Words so harshly spoken;
No tender hand to give relief,
And now my heart is broken.
“I sigh to think in former days,
When by my mother’s side
I watched the sun’s last golden rays
As they sank at eventide.
“Oft I’ve played beside the brook,
My brother’s hand in hand,
As each did seek his favor’d nook,
Then we’re a merry band.
“I have no friends—my mother’s gone,
She is far, far away;
I sit beside her lowly stone,
And sing my plaintive lay.
“I pray that God will take me home
To that bright world above;
There we shall meet to part no more,
In that heaven of love.
“Death has marked me for its own,
And I no more shall rove;
God has called the orphan child
To praise with Him above.
“Can you hear my prayer, Mother,
In yonder region bright?
I’m coming to you now, Mother,
Earth’s but a dismal night.”
THE RECORDING ANGEL.
“AMONG the deepest shades of night
Can there be one who sees my way?
Yes, God is as a shining light
That turns the darkness into day.”
WE are told, that during the trial of Bishop Cranmer, in England, he
heard, as he was making his defence before the judges, the scratching
of a pen behind a screen. The thought at once arose in his mind
that they were taking down every word he uttered. “I should be very
careful,” thought he to himself, “what I say; for the whole of this
will be handed down to posterity, and exert an untold influence for
good or for evil.”
Do you know, my young friends, that there is a Recording Angel in
heaven that takes down not only every wicked word you utter, but the
very thoughts of your minds and desires of your hearts?
Remember, that though your actions are not all seen by men, nor your
thoughts known to your companions, yet every action, thought and word
is carefully recorded in the Book of God’s Remembrance.
How chaste, then, should be your conversation, how guarded your
conduct, how pure your every wish!
At the day of judgment, how full will the pages of that book be of
your unkind treatment of some poor, forsaken little wanderer; of your
revengeful feelings towards your schoolmate for his little acts of
childish thoughtlessness!
But is there not some way to blot out these dark sins from the Book of
God’s Remembrance? Yes, there is. Christ has _died_, that you might
_live_. He assures you that though your sins are “as scarlet, they
shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall
be as wool.”
* * * * *
THE EVER-PRESENT GOD.
“IN all my vast concerns with Thee,
In vain my soul would try
To shun Thy presence, Lord, or flee
The notice of Thine eye.
“Thy all-surrounding sight surveys
My rising and my rest,
My public walks, my private ways,
And secrets of my breast.
“My thoughts lie open to the Lord
Before they’re formed within;
And ere my lips pronounce the word,
He knows the sense I mean.”
THOMAS WARD; OR, THE BOY WHO WAS ASHAMED TO PRAY.
“COME, my soul, thy suit prepare,
Jesus loves to answer prayer;
He Himself has bid thee pray,
Therefore will not say thee nay.”
EARLY one morning, in the month of September, 184-, Mr. Ward’s family
were assembled around the family altar for prayer, to implore the
blessing and protection of our Heavenly Father in behalf of their only
boy, who was about leaving his home for a distant school.
Thomas, a boy of about twelve summers, was deeply affected by the
solemn services, and as he arose from his knees his eyes were filled
with tears, thinking, perhaps, that he might never be permitted to
enjoy that delightful privilege again. His father prayed particularly
that God would take care of his boy during his absence from his
parents; that He would preserve him from all dangers; that He would be
near him in all his temptations; and, if they should not meet again
on earth, that they might all—father, mother and son—meet where the
“wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” He endeavored
to impress upon his mind the necessity of prayer, and that he should
never neglect it, under any circumstances. _Don’t be ashamed to pray,
my son_, said his father.
The ringing of the car-bell announced that in a short time he must
be off. The most trying point had now come,—he must bid his parents
farewell. Clasping his arms around his mother’s neck, he said: “Oh,
my Mother, my Mother, shall I ever see you again?” and with a kiss to
each, bade his affectionate parents adieu, and, valise in hand, walked
hastily to the dépôt.
Having procured his ticket, he seated himself in the cars, and in a
few moments left the home of his childhood for the P—— H—— school,
at B——. His heart was sad, as he thought of the many happy hours he
had spent “at home” with his kind parents, and a tear stole silently
down his cheek. These sad and melancholy thoughts, however, were soon
banished from his mind by the magnificent scenery of the country
through which he was passing.
He thought “the country,” as it was called in town, was the loveliest
place he had ever seen. Thomas’ mind became so much engaged with the
picturesque scenery—mountains, lakes and valleys—that he reached his
place of destination ere he supposed he had travelled half-way.
He met the principal at the dépôt, awaiting his arrival, and in a few
moments they were on their way to the school. Nothing of interest
occurred during the remainder of the day, with the exception of the
boys’ laughing at Thomas, calling him “town boy,” etc.; “initiating”
him, as they termed it. When the time for retiring to rest drew near,
and one after another of the boys fell asleep, Thomas was surprised
that not one of them offered a petition to God, asking Him to take
care of them during the silent watches of the night. He knelt beside
his bed, and attempted to offer a short prayer; but his companions
were laughing and singing, and he arose from his knees, wishing that
he was at home, where he could, in his quiet little chamber, offer up
his evening devotions. Some of the boys were actually so rude as to
call him “Parson Ward,” and ask him if he intended holding forth next
Sabbath?
The next night Thomas felt so _ashamed_, that he determined _not to
pray_, and laid his head on a prayerless pillow,—a thing he had not
done since he was able to say, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.” The last
words of his father, “_Don’t be ashamed to pray_” came to his mind; but
thinking about them as little as possible, he soon fell asleep.
In a short time Thomas became the ringleader of the gang in all that
was bad, and soon learned to curse and swear worse than any of his
companions.
On a beautiful Sabbath morning, instead of going to church, he wandered
off, and finding nothing to engage his thoughts, determined to take
a bath. He had scarcely been in the water five minutes, when he was
seized with cramp, and sunk to rise no more. The last words that
lingered on the lips of the drowning boy were, “Oh, my mother!”
The awful death of Thomas speaks for itself. May it serve as a warning
to those who violate God’s holy commandment, and are _ashamed_ to
_pray_. May it also teach us how quickly one sin leads to another.
His _first_ sin was neglecting to pray; his _second_, profanity; his
_third_, Sabbath-breaking, which terminated in his death.
* * * * *
NOT ASHAMED OF CHRIST.
“JESUS, and shall it ever be,
A mortal man ashamed of Thee?
Ashamed of Thee, whom angels praise,
Whose glories shine through endless days!
“_Ashamed of Jesus!_—Sooner far
Let evening blush to own a star;
He sheds the beams of light divine
O’er this benighted soul of mine.
“_Ashamed of Jesus!_—Just as soon
Let midnight be ashamed of noon;
’Tis midnight with my soul, till He,
Bright Morning Star, bid darkness flee.
“_Ashamed of Jesus!_ that dear friend
On whom my hopes of Heaven depend!
No, when I blush be this my shame,
That I no more revere His name.
“_Ashamed of Jesus!_—Yes, I may,
When I’ve no sins to wash away,
No tear to wipe, no good to crave,
No fears to quell, no soul to save.
“Till then—nor is my boasting vain—
Till then I boast a Saviour slain;
And oh, may this my glory be,
That Christ is not ashamed of me.”
THE ROSE.
“There is no rose without a thorn.”
THERE are few lovelier things than the rose to be met with along the
pathway of life.
There is something about it so meek and modest, that I love to look at
it; and what is sweeter than the mellow fragrance of a beautiful rose?
It always reminds me of that beautiful country where, we are told,
never-fading flowers continue to bloom forever.
The Church of Christ is compared, in the Bible, to the Rose of Sharon;
and it seems to me that the inspired penman could not have found,
throughout the length and breadth of the world, anything better suited
to convey the idea of gentle lowliness and meek humility, than the rose.
Its fragrance can be enjoyed by all. It is not sweeter to the king than
to the peasant. So with religion. It is a fountain from which all can
drink.
There is another thing about the rose which should teach us a lesson.
As there is no rose without a thorn, so there is no enjoyment without
some pain connected with it. There are many children who are always
discontented; they are never pleased with any thing, but are always
looking out for what is disagreeable, and not for what is pleasant.
What is this, but forgetting the delightful fragrance of the rose,
and piercing our fingers with the few thorns which are about it. Our
blessings are much more numerous than our cares and troubles. Why not,
then, clip off the thorns, and keep merely the fully opened rose?
As the leaves of the rose wither and die, so must we.
Let us always remember this, and also live in such a way, by shedding a
sweet fragrance about our pathway, that all who know us will love us,
and forget the few thorns of evil which may be found in our characters.
“How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower,
The glory of April and May;
And the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
“Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:
When its leaves are all dead and fine colors lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
“So frail is the youth and the beauty of man,
Though they bloom and look gay like a rose:
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,—
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
“Then I’ll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade,
But gain a good name by well doing my duty;
This will scent like a rose when I’m dead.”
[Illustration]
* * * * *
CHILDREN AND THE FLOWERS.
“‘FLOWERS, sweet and lowly flowers,
Gems of earth so bright and gay,
Is there nothing you can teach us,
Nothing you to us can say?
“‘List, and ye shall hear our voices
Speaking to you from the sod;
List, for we would lead you gently
Upwards from the earth to God.
“‘Children, as ye gaze upon us,
Think of Him who, when below,
Told you well to mark the flowers,
How without a care they grow.
“‘Children, know that like the flowers
You must quickly fade away:
Life is short; improve the hours—
You may only have to-day.
“‘We were once but seeds, dear children—
We were placed in earth, and died;
You must die; but trust in Jesus—
Fear not, but in _Him_ abide.
“‘We proclaim the resurrection,
How the dead in Christ shall rise;
Incorruptible, immortal,
They shall reign above the skies.
“‘Farewell, children, and remember,
When our forms shall meet your view,
That the Lord, who clothes each flower,
Will much more provide for you.’”
THE LANTERN.
GENTLY, Lord, O gently lead us
Through this lonely vale of tears—
Through the changes here decreed us,
Till our last great change appears.
When temptation’s darts assail us,
When in devious paths we stray,
Let Thy goodness never fail us—
Lead us in Thy perfect way.
SP. SONGS.
THE sun had disappeared behind the western hills, and darkness was
fast covering the face of nature, when a little girl, who had been to
a distant city, commenced retracing her steps homeward. A kind friend
handed her a lantern, and told her if she followed the road on which
the lantern shone, it would certainly direct her home. She started
with a light heart and joyous spirits, much delighted with her journey
beside the still waters, and through the green pastures.
By and by she came to a certain place where two roads branched off. She
did not know which one to take; but soon found that her lantern shone
very plainly on the one beset with thorns and briers. She concluded to
disregard the advice of her friend, and took the opposite road, as it
seemed so much more pleasant than the one on which her lantern shone.
At first her pathway was bordered with roses of the sweetest fragrance,
and with everything calculated to make a young person happy. Finally
she reached a point in her journey where she knew not what to do. She
had no lamp to direct her; no kind friend to whom she might look for
directions; all around her was dark and dismal. Wherever she trod, her
steps seemed beset with troubles of every kind.
At last a friendly voice whispered in her ear, and said: “Stop, my dear
child—stop and think. You know not whither you are going. You are in
the road to death. Stop, before you further go.”
She determined to turn her course, and retraced her steps with a
heavy heart, determined thereafter always to follow the road on which
her lantern shone. She soon reached the place where she had left her
lantern, and found its rays still brightly shining on the same road.
She continued her journey onward, and found, though it was rough at
first, the farther she proceeded, the better was she pleased. When
she reached her home, she found her friends anxiously awaiting her
arrival. They all greeted her with a kiss, and welcomed her back again.
Children, the little girl about whom I have been telling you is the
young Christian, commencing her journey from the city of Destruction
to the New Jerusalem. The journey is her Christian life; the two roads
are the long and narrow road to Heaven, and the broad road to Hell; the
kind friend is some fellow Christian, and the lantern is God’s Holy
Word. The thorns in the one road are the trials of a Christian; while
the roses in the other are the allurements placed there by the Wicked
One, to ensnare the careless and inconsiderate. Her _home_ is _Heaven_.
Young Christian, learn a lesson from the conduct of this little girl:
Never pursue the course which seems most pleasant, but the one laid
down in the Bible.
“Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”
“‘Whither goest thou, pilgrim stranger
Wand’ring through this lonely vale?
Know’st thou not ’tis full of danger,
And will not thy courage fail?’
“‘Pilgrim thou hast justly call’d me,
Passing through a waste so wide;
But no harm will e’er befall me
While I’m blessed with such a guide.’
“‘Such a guide!—no guide attends thee,
Hence for thee my fears arise:
If some guardian power befriends thee,
’Tis unseen by mortal eyes.’
“‘Yes, unseen, but still believe me,
I have near me such a friend;
He’ll in every strait relieve me,
He will guide me to the end.’”
* * * * *
HEAVEN IS MY HOME.
“I’M but a stranger here;
Heaven is my home:
Earth is a desert drear;
Heaven is my home:
Danger and sorrow stand
Round me on every hand
Heaven is my fatherland,
Heaven is my home.
“What though the tempests rage?
Heaven is my home:
Short is my pilgrimage;
Heaven is my home:
And time’s wild wintry blast
Soon will be overpast;
I shall reach home at last.
Heaven is my home.
“Therefore I murmur not;
Heaven is my home:
Whate’er my earthly lot,
Heaven is my home:
And I shall surely stand
There at my Lord’s right hand:
Heaven is my fatherland,
Heaven is my home.”
THE DECISIVE MOMENT.
“THERE is a time, we know not when,—
A point, we know not where,—
That marks the destiny of men
To glory or despair.”
NOT many years ago, when the H—— river was very much swollen by the
spring rains, and the water had nearly reached its highest point, a
lumberman was seen in the midst of the stream, attempting to secure a
lot of timber which had broken loose from its fastening.
In his deep interest to secure the timber, he went too far out into the
current. His little bark was caught by the rapid tide, and borne along
with almost lightning rapidity.
There he sat, motionless as a pillar, not knowing at what moment he
should be swallowed up by the roaring and foaming stream. A friend
on shore sees his critical situation, mounts his horse, and rides,
courier-like, to a neighboring bridge which spans the river. On and
on he speeds; now the rider and the boat are side by side; anon the
boat passes him, but he spurs his noble animal onward, reaches the
bridge in time, seizes a rope and throws it over the arch, awaiting
with breathless suspense the approach of the pale and fear-stricken
lumberman.
The boat passes immediately under the arch, the boatman grasps the rope
with death-like earnestness, and is _saved_.
One moment’s delay of the rider, or his failure to grasp the rope,
would have sealed his doom forever, and the noble H—— been his grave.
My dear young friends, how often do we see persons, in their mad
attempts to procure the filthy lucre of this world, go too far into the
current of Sin, and are swept wildly over the cataract of Destruction,
not knowing, or not desiring to see, that the rope of Salvation is
within their grasp! Children, Christ bids you come, _now_. If you delay
another moment, your destiny for despair may be sealed.
How bitter will the thought be, when you come to die,—“I might have
been saved, but I neglected the golden offering of mercy, and therefore
must be consigned to a never-ending eternity of misery and suffering!”
* * * * *
THE VALUE OF TIME.
IF idly spent, no art or care
Time’s blessing can restore;
And God requires a strict account
For every misspent hour.
Short is our longest day of life,
And soon the prospect ends;
Yet on that day’s uncertain date
Eternity depends.
POEMS FOR THE YOUNG.
THE ALARM WATCH.
BUT if we should disregard
While this friendly voice doth call,
Conscience soon will grow so hard,
That it will not speak at all.
JANE TAYLOR.
A YOUNG lady, who was very much given to the habit of sleeping late in
the morning, purchased a small alarm watch, hoping that it would be
the means of breaking her of a practice not only troublesome to those
around her, but really a sinful waste of time. At night, on retiring
to rest, she so adjusted the watch that it would awaken her at five
o’clock the next morning. The watch, with a punctuality worthy to be
imitated by all of us, not only at the appointed hour, but at the _very
minute itself_, commenced such a whirring noise, that the sleeper was
immediately awakened, arose at once, and prepared herself for the
duties of the day.
The day passed away very pleasantly. She was at prayers and breakfast
at the appointed hour, and everything moved quietly and pleasantly on
throughout the entire day; and when the shadows of evening darkened the
face of nature, she felt that it was the most pleasant day she had ever
spent.
She retired to rest, the next night, with the same resolutions; but
when the morning came and her watch commenced its rattling noise, she
thought it was not worth while to get up then, but would lie in bed
only fifteen minutes longer. The expiration of the fifteen minutes
found her sleeping soundly, and she did not awake till the sun had
risen far above the tree-tops, and the laborers were busy at their work.
The next morning she heard her watch at its accustomed noise, but came
to the conclusion that getting up ahead of the sun was all a humbug.
The next morning she slept so soundly that she scarcely heard the watch
at all; and that night concluded not to wind it up, as she had no idea
of having her morning’s nap disturbed by such a disagreeable noise as
that. Thus did she return to her former bad habit, and “her last state
was worse than the first.”
Each of you, my dear young friends, has an alarm watch in your breast.
The moment you disobey your parents, utter an untruth, use a profane
expression, or break God’s Holy Day, you hear the busy fluttering of
that watch whispering in your ear, “_you have done wrong_, YOU HAVE
DONE WRONG.” The first time you did wrong how loudly did that little
watch whir and buzz! You turned pale, and your heart throbbed so
violently that you could almost hear it.
The next time its noise was fainter and fainter; and at last it grew so
feeble that you could not hear it all.
Then it was that you could swear so boldly, utter an untruth without
your cheek coloring, and break the Sabbath without one painful thought.
My young reader, you know too well what that alarm watch is, whose
ticking you so frequently hear in your breast. It is your CONSCIENCE.
And oh, how I tremble when I think of what an awful thing it is to
endeavor to drown the voice of that conscience!
Day after day, since your early infancy, your conscience has been
begging, entreating you to come to Christ and be saved. Its voice has
been unheeded. Beware, O young man or young woman, how you trifle with
your conscience! Its voice, once stifled, will be hushed forever.
Like the young lady about whom I have been telling you, if you do not
obey its summons at once, but keep on putting it off and off, it will
leave you in the awful embrace of that sleep “which knows no waking” in
this world, and you will only be aroused by the piercing notes of the
Archangel’s trump,—“Come to judgment.”
Conscience, my young friends, is “the fire that is not quenched,”
and “the worm that dieth not,” which shall continue to burn, yet not
consume, to gnaw and not diminish your immortal soul, if you do not
obey its whisperings by coming to your Saviour, now, in the morning of
life.
How awful! oh, how awful will it be, to hear the voice of your
disregarded conscience ringing throughout the dark, deep caverns of
hell:—
“Because I have called, and ye refused; I have stretched out my hand,
and no man regarded: I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock
when your fear cometh; when _your fear cometh as a desolation_, and
your _destruction cometh as a whirlwind_; when distress and anguish
cometh upon you.”
* * * * *
CONSCIENCE.
WHEN a foolish thought within
Tries to take us in a snare,
Conscience tells us “It is sin,”
And entreats us to beware.
If in something we transgress,
And are tempted to deny,
Conscience says, “Your faults confess;
Do not dare to tell a lie.”
In the morning, when we rise,
And would fain omit to pray,
“Child, consider,” Conscience cries;
“Should not God be sought to-day?”
When within His holy walls,
Far abroad our thoughts we send,
Conscience often loudly calls,
And entreats us to attend.
When our angry passions rise,
Tempting to revenge an ill,
“Now subdue it,” Conscience cries;
“Do command your temper still.”
Thus, without our will or choice,
This good monitor within,
With a secret, gentle voice,
Warns us to beware of sin.
But if we should disregard
While this friendly voice doth call,
Conscience soon will grow so hard
That it will not speak at all.
JANE TAYLOR.
“CONDEMNED.”
“NOW, despisers, look and wonder;
Hope and sinners here must part:
Louder than a peal of thunder,
Hear the dreadful sound—‘Depart!’
Lost forever!
Hear the dreadful sound—‘Depart!’”
I SAW, not long since, a man busily engaged in branding, with a red-hot
iron, the word
“CONDEMNED,”
on a large number of barrels of flour.
On asking him what it meant, he informed me that the flour was not
sound, and he was instructed to brand all such “_Condemned_.”
How forcibly, my dear young friends, did it remind me of the situation
of sinful persons—those who have no part nor lot in Christ’s kingdom!
What a melancholy spectacle would your Sabbath-school present, if
your Superintendent were instructed by a Divine command to brand all
the bad boys, and girls too—for we often find little girls as bad as
boys—“_Condemned!_” What would be their feelings while undergoing
such a painful and disgraceful operation? Yet God says those who
believe not on Christ are condemned already, and you know “His Word
is truth.” There is one, and only one, way by which this word can be
effaced from your guilty and sin-defiled hearts; and that is by the
purifying and sin-cleansing blood of Christ.
Then pray that He will “Create in you clean hearts, and renew right
spirits within you;” so that you may love Him better and serve Him more
faithfully in the future than you have done in the past.
* * * * *
THE SPIRIT QUENCHED.
THERE is a line, by us unseen,
That crosses every path;
The hidden boundary between
God’s patience and his wrath.
To pass that limit is to die,
To die as if by stealth;
It does not quench the beaming eye,
Or pale the glow of health.
The conscience may be still at ease,
The spirits light and gay;
That which is pleasing still may please,
And care be thrust away.
But on that forehead God has set
Indelibly a mark,
Unseen by man, for man as yet
Is blind and in the dark.
And yet the doomed man’s path below
May bloom, as Eden bloomed;
He did not, does not, will not know,
Or feel that he is doomed.
He knows, he feels that all is well,
And every fear is calmed;
He lives, he dies, he wakes in hell,
Not only doomed, but damned.
O where is this mysterious bourne,
By which our path is crossed?
Beyond which God Himself hath sworn,
That he who goes is lost!
How far may we go on in sin?
How long will God forbear?
Where does hope end, and where begin
The confines of despair?
An answer from the skies is sent:
“Ye that from God depart,
While it is called TO-DAY, repent,
And harden not your heart.”
DR. J. ADDISON ALEXANDER.
“I WANT TO BE A MINISTER.”
LIVES of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime;
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time.
LONGFELLOW.
MORE than a century ago there lived in England an orphan boy of no
ordinary promise. From his early childhood, “I want to be a minister,”
was his chief desire. Being deprived not only of the counsel of a
father and the affection of a mother, but also of the necessary amount
of money to carry out his cherished desire, his youthful spirit was
bowed to the earth, and his noble heart throbbed only with feelings of
bitter disappointment and despair.
But a brighter day dawns. There is a prospect for his ardent desire
to be gratified. A wealthy lady kindly volunteers to pay all of his
expenses at the University of Oxford, if he will become a minister of
the Church of England.
But he is a Dissenter, and his noble spirit refuses to sell the
religion of his father and mother for the perishable riches of this
world, and he most respectfully declines the proffered kindness. God
bless thee, noble youth! Wait patiently—don’t despair—_never give
up_. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” The path of Duty is always
the path of Right.
Not long after this occurrence, a poor boy, dressed in the garb of
poverty, presented himself at the door of a celebrated minister, and
asked to have a private interview with him relative to studying for
the ministry. The minister listened patiently to the recital of his
many difficulties and numerous trials, but told him that he thought it
entirely unheard of, for a youth like himself to think about entering
upon so high and responsible a calling. He advised him to think no more
of preaching, but to choose some other calling.
Disheartened at himself, discouraged by his friends, poor, penniless
and forsaken, he knew not whither to go. No smile of encouragement met
his eye; no voice of approval sanctioned his noble endeavor. There was
one Friend, however, who had never forsaken him; who had never turned
a deaf ear even to his smallest desire; who had ever loved him with
fatherly affection and motherly tenderness. To that friend he then
betook himself, and when engaged in fervent prayer, a postman knocked
at the door, and handed him a letter from an old friend of his father,
informing him of his willingness to take him under his care and assist
him in his studies, if he was still intent upon studying for the
ministry. “This,” he exclaimed, “I look upon almost as an answer from
Heaven, and while I live I shall always adore so seasonable an opening
of divine Providence.”
The wishes of the poor orphan boy were thus gratified; and before
many years had passed away, under the guidance and instruction of his
friend, he became a bright and shining light on the walls of Zion.
Youthful reader, this orphan boy was PHILIP DODDRIDGE—the pious and
devoted minister of Christ, the beautiful writer, the faithful pastor,
the brilliant Christian.
If there be any one into whose hands this little article may fall,
who, like Doddridge, “wants to be a minister,” and is prevented from
accomplishing his desire on account of want of means, let me say one
word—_never despair!_ If God wants you to be a minister, He will
provide the means. Wait patiently, and pray earnestly.
“Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.”
* * * * *
TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.
“ON a bridge I was standing one morning,
And watching the current roll by,
When suddenly into the water
There fell an unfortunate fly.
“The fishes that swam to the surface
Were looking for something to eat,
And I thought that the hapless young insect
Would surely afford them a treat.
“‘Poor thing!’ I exclaimed with compassion,
‘Thy trials and dangers abound,
For if thou escap’st being eaten,
Thou canst not escape being drowned.
“No sooner the sentence was spoken,
Than lo! like an angel of love,
I saw to the waters beneath me
A leaflet descend from above.
“It glided serene on the streamlet,
’Twas an ark to the poor little fly;
Which soon, to the land reäscending,
Spread its wings in the breezes to dry.
“Oh, sweet was the truth that was whispered,
That mortals should _never_ despair;
For He who takes care of an insect,
Much more for His _children_ will care.
“And though to our short-sighted vision
No way of escape may appear,
Let us _trust_, for when least we expect it,
The help of ‘_our Father_’ is near.”
RUFUS TAYLOR.
Children, obey your parents in all things; for this is
well-pleasing unto the Lord.—BIBLE.
ON an evening in July, 18-, as several youths, from twelve to eighteen
years of age, were standing at the corner of a street in the little
village of B——, Rufus Taylor, one of their companions, came up
to them and said, “Come, boys, let’s go and take a cool bath—’tis
terribly warm.”
Rufus had been positively forbidden by his parents to go bathing
without their consent; but, thinking they would never know anything
about it, he came up to the group of boys and made the preceding
proposition.
They all, with one consent, agreed to it, and soon were on their way to
the bay.
Arriving at their famous bathing spot, and undressing in a few moments,
they soon plunged into the cooling water, and swam to an island, a few
hundred yards distant.
Rufus alone remained on the shore.
He was afraid to attempt swimming such a long distance, as he had
but recently learned to swim. But, collecting all his courage, he
followed his comrades, and cried out that he would overtake them or be
_damned!_ What an awful word to proceed from the lips of a boy twelve
years old! He had not swum more than fifty yards, when his strength
failed, and he sank beneath the blue waves of the roaring ocean. Every
effort was made by his friends to save him, but they were all in vain.
Let his untimely end be a solemn warning to boys who are in the habit
of disobeying their parents.
May it teach a lesson, also, to those who indulge in the use of profane
language. Rufus did not think that his _damnation_ was so near at hand,
when he uttered that awful curse.
He was hurried into the presence of his Maker without one moment’s
warning, and with the profane expression still lingering on his lips.
Who can tell the unutterable anguish of his parents when the
intelligence of the death of their only son—their disobedient
boy—reached their ears? His father, on being told that his son was
drowned, exclaimed, “_Oh, my disobedient son! I told him not to go
bathing without my consent. Would to God I had died for him!_”
* * * * *
OBEDIENCE TO PARENTS.
“LET children that would fear the Lord,
Hear what their teachers say;
With reverence mark their parents’ word,
And with delight obey.
“Have you not heard what dreadful plagues
Are threaten’d by the Lord
To him that breaks his father’s laws,
Or mocks his mother’s word?
“What heavy guilt upon him lies!
How cursed is his name!
The ravens shall pick out his eyes,
And eagles eat the same.
“But those that worship God, and give
Their parents honor due,
Here on this earth they long shall live,
And live hereafter too.”
JAMES JONES;
OR, THE LITTLE GAMBLER.
“MAKE us unguarded youth
The objects of Thy care;
Help us to choose the way of truth,
And fly from every snare.”
“WHAT can be meant by ‘the little gambler?’ I never heard of a boy’s
gambling in my life!” my little reader will, no doubt, exclaim. Though
it may seem very strange, yet such things often occur. I will relate to
you an incident that occurred in my school-boy days, which, perhaps,
may bring to your recollection the fact that you have indulged in it
yourself. Boys as well as men are frequently found to be gamblers,
though, of course, on a much smaller scale.
At the corner of a street in the city of —— was a gaming house,
kept by a boy not more than twelve years old. It was one of the most
beautiful and pleasant places I ever saw, well calculated to entice
within its polluted walls the heedless and inconsiderate youth. Here,
after school hours, quite a number of boys were accustomed to assemble
and spend their evenings.