youth, whom I shall call James Jones, who seemed to be intently engaged
in the issue of a game. He was successful; and when he gathered up the
“stakes,” a smile of exulting joy passed over his face. I saw nothing
more of James till some eight years after the above occurrence. I was
standing in the court-room one morning, when I heard the clerk read out
a charge against James Jones for forcibly breaking into the trunk of a
certain gentleman, and stealing therefrom the sum of $500.
On examining the appearance of the young man more closely, I found him
to be the same youth whom I had seen in the “little gambling house.” A
widowed mother sat by his side, weeping most bitterly. His appearance
had altered very much. Long confinement had turned the healthy, robust
man into a mere skeleton. His countenance was haggard, his cheek
sunken, his eye dim, his step tremulous.
He was found guilty, and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment in the
State Penitentiary. When he arose to receive the sentence the most
perfect indifference was manifested by him, while his poor mother
seemed as though she would die beneath the weight of such heavy
affliction.
She informed me that James, at a very early age, became fond of bad
company, and would often steal away at night, and spend the time
allotted to rest in the most dissipated assemblies. He finally became
involved in debt, and determined to get out at all hazards. He was thus
almost forced to commit a deed which brought the grey hairs of his
mother in sorrow to the grave, and ruined him for life.
Doubtless, you would like to know what was James’ first act in his
downward career. It was betting at the “_little gambling house_.” There
he learned to do evil rather than good.
I have neglected to explain to you what the _gambling house_ was. It
was a wide-spreading elm tree, beneath the hospitable shade of which
the boys of the neighborhood were accustomed to meet and play marbles
for _have-ance_; that is, each boy kept all the marbles he knocked out
of the ring.
Have any of you ever been guilty of this? If so, then you were
gambling, and, unless you stop it at once, the gallows or the
penitentiary may be your end. Do not gamble with marbles; it may be
your ruin. Truly, “The way of the transgressor is hard.”
“Placed on the verge of youth, my mind
Life’s opening scene surveyed;
I viewed its ills of various kinds,
Afflicted and afraid.
“Oh, how shall I, with heart prepar’d,
Those terrors learn to meet?
How from the thousand snares to guard
My inexperienced feet?
“Let faith suppress each rising fear,
Each anxious doubt exclude;
My Maker’s will has placed me here,
A Maker wise and good.
“He too, my every trial knows
Its just restraint to give,
Attentive to behold my woes,
And faithful to relieve.
“Though griefs unnumbered throng thee round,
Still in thy God confide,
Whose finger marks the seas their bound,
And curbs the rolling tide.”
* * * * *
TAKE HEED.
“Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”
“LET him who thinks he stands secure,
And in self-confidence is sure
He shall unto the end endure,
‘Take heed.’
“Let him who fears not Satan’s art,
Nor dreads temptation’s fiery dart,
But says he’s safe in every part,
‘Take heed.’
“Let him who sees his neighbor wrong,
And makes those faults his daily song,
Blasting his fame with thoughtless tongue,
‘Take heed.’
“Let him whose heart is lifted high,
Who’ll pass an erring brother by,
Or bid him from his presence fly,
‘Take heed.’
“Who feels not his own strength is small,
Nor lifts to heaven an early call
For daily grace, lest he should fall,
‘Take heed.’
“By faith in ‘Christ our strength’ we stand,
He keeps by His almighty hand,
Those who obey His wise command:
‘Take heed.’”
GERTRUDE MASON.
“COME, children, come!
God bids you come!
Come and learn to sing the story
Of the Lord of life and glory;
Come, children, come!”
MRS. BROWN.
GERTRUDE MASON was a sweet little girl of about ten summers, with rosy
cheeks, and bright, sunny hair.
She did not live in the city, like a great many children, but she lived
at a quiet little cottage in the country, which she called “Rose Neath.”
Gertrude was a good child.
She loved everybody, and everybody seemed to love her.
She was meek and gentle, and was always willing to do any thing she
could to minister to the wants of the poor and needy.
Gertrude had a beautiful Newfoundland dog, named Rescue, and wherever
she went, her friend Rescue was always at her side. She loved him very
much, and used to give him part of her meals every day. One lovely
Sabbath morning, when the sun was shining brightly, and the little
birds singing sweetly from the boughs of the trees, Gertrude, dressed
neatly and tidily, hymn-book and catechism in hand, started off for the
Sabbath-school.
She had not gone very far, when she came to a creek.
Thrown across this creek was a log, on which persons were in the habit
of crossing.
It had rained the night before, and the log was very slippery. Gertrude
did not think of this, and was about crossing over, when her foot
slipped, and she was thrown headlong into the swollen current.
She would have been drowned, had it not been for her faithful friend
Rescue, who swam in and brought her safely to the shore.
Thus was the life of this lovely girl saved by her affectionate dog.
This little story should teach us two lessons.
_First_, if we wish persons to love us, we must be kind and attentive
to them.
_Secondly_, the pathway of life is very slippery, and many of our
companions fall into very great sins, and it is our duty, like Rescue,
to save them from destruction.
* * * * *
“REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH.”
WHILE in the tender years of youth,
In nature’s smiling bloom,
Ere age arrive and trembling wait
Its summons to the tomb,
Remember thy creator, God,
For Him thy powers employ;
Make Him thy fear, thy love, thy hope,
Thy confidence, thy joy.
He shall defend and guide thy course
Through life’s uncertain sea,
Till thou art landed on the shore
Of blest eternity.
Then seek the Lord betimes, and choose
The path of heavenly truth:
The earth affords no lovlier sight
Than a religious youth.
GIBBONS.
THE DEAF SHOEMAKER.
TOILING—rejoicing—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes,
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
LONGFELLOW.
BENEATH the scorching rays of a blistering summer’s sun, or chilled by
the piercing blast of winter, a puny, sickly youth might have been seen
daily ascending a ladder, bearing on his head a heavy weight of slate.
There is nothing about his appearance but his feeble step and emaciated
frame, calculated to attract the attention of the passer-by: a closer
observation, however, will show that he possesses an eye which bespeaks
an amount of patient perseverance but seldom known.
On one occasion, when about twelve years of age, while engaged in
his accustomed labor, his foot misses the round of the ladder which
he had so long ascended, and the infirm youth is thrown a distance
of thirty-five feet on the hard stone pavement beneath. In a state
of perfect insensibility he is taken up and borne to the arms of
his afflicted friends. For two long weeks he remains in a state of
unconsciousness, not knowing the nearest and dearest of his relatives.
At the expiration of this time his mind begins to revive, and his
feeble eye wanders about the room with listless indifference.
Recovering from his attack, he immediately inquires for a book in which
he had been deeply interested previous to the accident which came so
near terminating his earthly career.
No one seems to answer his inquiries. “Why do you not speak? _Pray let
me have my book!_” Still no one replies. At last some one takes a slate
and writes upon it that the book had been returned to its owner.
“Why do you _write_ to me?” exclaimed the sufferer—“speak, _speak_!
SPEAK!” Again was the pencil taken and the three words—_you are
deaf_—written.
How severe the affliction! No more can that ear drink in the sweet
melody of the little warblers; no more listen to those words of
affection which make home the brightest and happiest spot in the
world; no more hear the gentle notes of the “sweet singer of Israel,”
or gather the soul-stirring anthems that echo and reëcho through the
vaulted roof of God’s sanctuary.
As his father was very poor, he was placed in an almshouse to keep him
from starvation.
He was soon removed, however, from his lonely prison home, and placed
under a shoemaker, but was treated so unkindly that his friends found
it necessary to have him again put in the poorhouse.
His studious habits and intellectual qualities soon attracted the
notice of the officers of the almshouse, and he was treated with marked
kindness and attention. While others were wasting the golden moments
of youth, the _deaf shoemaker_ was busy garnering his spare minutes,
and storing his mind with information which was destined to exert an
influence throughout the world.
In a short time he was removed to the London Missionary Society, whence
he went to Malta as a printer.
Here he studied very closely, and, after returning to London,
accompanied Mr. Groves in a tour through Russia, Georgia, Armenia,
Kurdistan and Persia.
During this tour he gathered a vast amount of information relative
to Eastern manners and customs, which rendered him one of the most
instructive and interesting writers in the world.
He published, as the fruit of his arduous toil during this journey,
quite a number of books, which have been greatly sought after both in
Europe and America, and have made him a welcome guest at thousands of
happy firesides.
His toilsome and unceasing labors for the cause of truth and religion
were too severe for so feeble a frame, and at an early age, not fifty
years old, JOHN KITTO—the deaf shoemaker of Plymouth—gently fell
asleep in the arms of his Saviour—beloved and respected by all who
knew him, and honored by those who had become familiar with him from
his deeply interesting and invaluable productions.
In speaking of Kitto, a clergyman of considerable distinction uses the
following beautiful language:—
“Rarely have we read a more touching record of heroic struggle than
the toilsome ascent of the deaf boy of Plymouth to the lofty position
of the world-famed Editor of the Biblical Encyclopædia, the Pictorial
Bible, the Daily Bible Illustrations. He reached, through incredible
difficulties, a position that few attain under the most favorable
circumstances, and has left behind him nearly fifty volumes, some of
which take high rank as works of critical authority. Truly the heroic
ages have not yet ceased, and there is a heroism of the solitary
student that is a nobler thing than that of the warrior on the field of
battle; and such heroism is seen in the life of Kitto.”
My young friends, how touchingly beautiful and highly instructive is
the brief but brilliant life of John Kitto! Do not
“Lives of _such_ men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time—
“Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again?”
* * * * *
THE CHILD OF POVERTY.
LORD, I am poor, yet hear my call;
Afford me daily bread;
Give me at least the crumbs that fall
From tables richly spread.
Thou canst for all my wants provide,
And bless my homely crust;
The ravens cry, and are supplied,
And ought I not to trust?
Behold the lilies, how they grow,
Though they can nothing do;
And will not God who clothes them so,
Afford me raiment too?
O may I heavenly treasures find,
And choose the better part:
Give me an humble, pious mind,
A meek and lowly heart.
JANE TAYLOR.
NORMAN HALL;
OR, THE BOY AND THE ROCK.
“BLESSINGS, Lord, vouchsafe to give
On the teaching I receive.”
NORMAN HALL was what most of us would call a “dull boy;” that is,
though he studied hard, yet he was never ahead in his classes, and
could not master his lessons as easily as a great many other boys. He
was respected and beloved not only by his teacher, but also by the
scholars. His father and mother both felt very sad because their only
boy did not rank among the first in his class, and knew not how to
account for it.
One Friday, Norman missed nearly all of his lessons, and was so much
discouraged that he almost determined to quit studying entirely and go
to some honest trade. He left the school-room with tears in his eyes,
thinking that he had entered it for the last time. As he was going
home, he saw a large and deep hole in a rock, which a small stream, by
continually falling in the same place, had worn. It was the very thing
he needed, and suited him exactly. The thought at once arose in his
mind, if a little stream, so soft in itself, can make such a deep and
lasting impression on this hard and flinty rock, I am sure, by hard
studying and close application, I can make an impression on my mind,
which certainly is not as hard as this rock.
He returned to school on Monday, and studied more diligently than
he had ever done before; and as he grew in years, he grew in
understanding, and at length became a learned man.
Remember, “That a drop hollows out the stone not by force, but by
falling often; so you will become learned, not by a violent effort, but
by frequent reading.”
* * * * *
THE SLUGGARD.
’TIS the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
‘You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.’
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;”
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number;
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher:
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
He had took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talk’d of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me,”
This man’s but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to _love working and reading_.
WATTS.
“DELAY NOT.”
“DELAY not, delay not, O sinner, draw near;
The waters of life are now flowing for thee;
No price is demanded, the Saviour is here,
Salvation is purchased, redemption is free.”
THE sun was hanging low in the West; dark and threatening banks of
lead-colored clouds were moving slowly across the heavens; the distant
muttering of thunder, and quick and piercing flashes of lightning, bade
me prepare for the approaching storm. In circumstances like these, I
was riding slowly along the banks of a canal, when my attention was
attracted by the appearance of a small house, which sat just above my
head, on a little eminence. Seeing the storm was rapidly approaching, I
thought it would be a good shelter from the rain.
The unhinged shutters, the broken panes of glass whose places were
supplied by dirty rags, the large cracks between the logs, all told
too plainly that withering poverty had there an abode. After repeated
knocks at the door, a woman made her appearance. Such a human being I
had never seen. She looked more like a fiend from the regions of the
damned, than a living and immortal soul. Her cheek was sunken; her
eye dim and staring wildly about; her hair thrown loosely over her
shoulders; her feet uncovered; and her person clad in the most filthy
and disgusting manner.
She did not seem accustomed to seeing strange faces, and gave me such a
wild stare that my very blood chilled in my veins. There we both stood.
For some moments not a word was uttered by either. I was waiting to see
if she would ask me to take a seat. This she did not do; and feeling
that I had a matter of more importance than politeness to attend
to—_her soul’s welfare_—I sat down on the remains of what was once a
chair, and commenced the following conversation:
“Are you a Christian?” “No.” “Do you ever expect or hope to be a
_Christian_?” “No.” “Have you ever felt the workings of God’s Spirit
upon your heart?” “Never, since a child.” “Have you at any period
in your past life ever read your Bible?” “Yes, I read it when a
school-girl.” “Did you not see a peculiar beauty and simplicity in
it?” “I did not.” “Do you believe in the Bible?” “Yes,” she angrily
replied, “_I believe it to be a lie from beginning to end_.” “Have you
ever read any other books besides the Bible?” “I have read Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress, and believe that he was as complete a liar as ever
lived, and never experienced one feeling described in that book, but
wrote it only to deceive the foolish common people.” “Are you, in your
present situation, willing to die?” “_Yes, and willing to go to hell,
and stay there forever and ever!_”
Giving her several tracts on infidelity, which she contemptuously threw
on the floor, I invoked a Father’s blessing on her, and departed—never
to meet again till we stand around the judgment-seat of Christ.
The clouds which were wandering over the heavens when I entered the
house, had collected in a mass, and produced one of the most awful
storms I ever witnessed in my life. The wind blew most furiously; the
rain poured in torrents; peal after peal of the most deafening thunder
echoed and reëchoed among the mountain crags; and flash after flash
of piercing lightning darted across the heavens. But, my dear young
friends, this storm did not compare, in its madness and fury, with that
still more awful storm of despair and hopeless agony which was raging
in the breast of her from whom I had just parted.
Dear young friends, do not put off till to-morrow the eternal interests
of your immortal souls. Remember—oh, remember the terrible condition
of the woman about whom I have been telling you.
* * * * *
THE DANGER OF DELAY.
WHY should I say, “’Tis yet too soon
To seek for Heaven or think of death?”
A flower may fade before ’tis noon,
And I this day may lose my breath.
If this rebellious heart of mine
Despise the gracious calls of Heaven,
I may be harden’d in my sin,
And never have repentance given.
What if the Lord grow wroth and swear,
While I refuse to read and pray,
That He’ll refuse to lend an ear
To all my groans another day!
What if His dreadful anger burn,
While I refuse His offer’d grace,
And all His love to fury turn,
And strike me dead upon the place!
’Tis dangerous to provoke a God!
His power and vengeance none can tell:
One stroke of His almighty rod
Shall send young sinners quick to Hell!
Then ’twill forever be in vain
To cry for pardon and for grace;
To wish I had my time again,
Or hope to see my Maker’s face.
WATTS.
THE SAVIOUR.
ONE there is, above all others,
Who deserves the name of Friend.
His is love beyond a brother’s,
Costly, free, and knows no end.
NEWTON.
A MOTHER with three children was once returning home, at a late hour of
the night, through one of those dark and lonely passes which abound in
the Alps mountains.
The night was so very cold that she drew two of her children close to
her side, and clasped the youngest to her breast, in order to keep them
from freezing.
They thus journeyed on, drawn rapidly over the smoothly beaten road by
their faithful horse, dreaming only of the warm fire and affectionate
welcome which awaited them at their mountain home, little thinking of
the danger which lurked so short a distance behind them.
Presently she heard in the far-off distance the faint howl of a wolf.
In a few seconds that of another, and another, fell upon her ear.
The sound grew louder and louder, and the number seemed to increase
every moment.
The thought at once flashed across her mind, that a pack of
half-starved wolves was in hot pursuit of herself and darling little
ones.
The noble horse knew too well the danger that awaited himself and his
precious burden, and with renewed speed hastened rapidly onward.
But his strength was not sufficient to rescue his mistress and her
little ones from the jaws of twenty hungry wolves; for their fearful
yell rang louder and louder on the midnight air, till, on looking
behind her, the affrighted mother beheld them within a hundred yards of
the precious laden sleigh.
Their blood-shot eyes glared fiercely, and their tongues hung far out
of their mouths.
There was no escape—destruction was certain. Yes, there was one means
of escape, and only one; that was, to throw one of her children to the
wolves, and while they were satisfying their hunger on its body, she
and the other two might safely reach their home. Awful thought! She
looked into their cherub faces, kissed by the soft rays of the silver
moon, with that tenderness which a mother only can feel, and her loving
heart shrank back with horror from such a fiendish deed.
Not a moment was to be lost. The yelling wolves were within a few
steps of the sleigh—she felt their heated breath warming her cheek.
One minute more, and herself and children would be devoured by the
bloodthirsty beasts. Love for her children prevails, she throws herself
a sacrifice to the hungry pack, and soon breathes her last, surrounded
by the growls of devouring wolves, and the mournful dirge of the
mountain winds.
Children, was not that loving mother the SAVIOUR of her tender
offspring?
And now I ask you,—Will you, can you, reject that dear Saviour
who suffered, and bled, and died on Calvary, to save you from a
never-ending destruction?
“Oh! that all might believe,
And salvation receive,
And their song and their joy be the same.”
* * * * *
THE STRAYED LAMB.
Matt. xviii. 12, 13.
“A GIDDY lamb, one afternoon,
Had from the fold departed;
The tender shepherd missed it soon,
And sought it, broken-hearted;
Not all the flock, that shared his love,
Could from the search delay him:
Nor clouds of midnight darkness move,
Nor fear of suffering stay him.
“But, night and day, he went his way
In sorrow, till he found it;
And when he saw it fainting lie,
He clasp’d his arms around it;
And, closely shelter’d in his breast,
From every ill to save it,
He brought it to his home of rest,
And pitied, and forgave it.
“And so the Saviour will receive
The little ones that fear Him;
Their pains remove, their sins forgive,
And draw them gently near Him;
Bless, while they live—and when they die,
When soul and body sever,
Conduct them to His home on high,
To dwell with Him forever.”
AUTUMN.
SEE the leaves around us falling,
Dry and wither’d to the ground;
Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,
In a sad and solemn sound.
On the tree of life eternal,
O let all our hopes be laid;
This alone, for ever vernal,
Bears a leaf that shall not fade.
HORNE.
TO me, no season of the year brings with it so many solemn and
instructive reflections as Autumn. When I look around me and see
everything looking so barren and desolate, I cannot help feeling sad.
The fields which a few months since looked so gay and beautiful, with
their flower-dressed meadows and waving grain, are now parched and
dead. The busy scythe of the reaper has laid many a proud stalk level
with the ground, and the frugal husbandman has gathered his abundant
harvest into his garner, or left it carefully stacked in the field to
breast the storms of the approaching Winter. The variegated blossoms of
the apple-tree have matured, ripened, and fallen to the ground. The
garden which, a short time since, sent forth such delightful fragrance,
now lies barren and bare. The leaves have fallen one by one from the
sturdy oak, and left it in its lonely barrenness to battle with the
piercing winds and howling tempests of the winter king. I have sat by
my window and seen the green leaf of Summer first fade into a pale
amber color, grow darker and darker by degrees, till it finally turned
to a beautiful russet, and then flutter to the ground. When I first
noticed the tree, it was covered with a heavy foliage. In a few days it
became thinner and thinner; in a few more days a few leaves lingered on
its topmost boughs, and at last they, too, fell to the ground, and left
it perfectly solitary.