they were intended by God to teach you many important truths? Does not
the barren field remind you of that soul from which the light of God’s
countenance has been withdrawn? The gathered harvest of that great
harvest of mankind which shall take place at the judgment day? Does not
the oak teach you, if you wish to encounter the trials and tempests of
the world, that you must lay aside everything, however small it may
seem, which will enable those trying tempests better to uproot your
faith and cast you headlong into destruction? May you, like it, the
more violent the storm, the deeper penetrate the roots of your trust
into the soil Christ Jesus.
“The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,
_I will not_—_I will not_ desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
_I’ll never_—no, _never_—no, _never forsake_.”
When we look upon the fading leaf and the withering flower, may we feel
that “We all do fade as a leaf,” and that “All flesh is grass, and the
goodness thereof is as the flower of the field: the grass withereth,
the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.” How
frequently do we see it the case, that those whom we consider friends,
when the sun of prosperity shines brightly upon us, cannot be drawn
away; but, like the leaves of the forest, as soon as the pinching
frosts of adversity begin to wither our hopes and blast our cherished
expectations, they can nowhere be found, but have left us to struggle
against difficulties, when we most needed their advice and counsel.
Let us not, then, put too much trust in an arm of flesh, but always
rely upon God, who will never desert us or leave us to the mercy of our
enemies. As the leaf falleth to the ground, and moulders into dust, so
does the body of man; but his spirit returneth to God who gave it, and
shall spend an eternity amid the joys of Heaven or the woes of Hell.
* * * * *
THE VOICE OF AUTUMN.
THERE comes, from yonder height,
A soft repining sound,
Where forest leaves are bright,
And fall like flakes of light
To the ground.
It is the autumn breeze,
That, lightly floating on,
Just skims the weedy leas,
Just stirs the glowing trees,
And is gone.
He moans by sedgy brook,
And visits with a sigh,
The last pale flowers that look
From out their sunny nook
At the sky.
O’er shouting children flies
That light October wind;
And, kissing cheeks and eyes,
He leaves their merry cries
Far behind,
And wanders on to make
That soft uneasy sound
By distant wood and lake,
Where distant fountains break
From the ground.
No bower where maidens dwell
Can win a moment’s stay;
Nor fair untrodden dell;
He sweeps the upland swell,
And away!
Mourn’st thou thy homeless state,
O soft, repining wind!
That early seek’st, and late,
The rest it is thy fate
Not to find?
Not on the mountain’s breast,
Not on the ocean’s shore,
In all the East and West;
The wind that stops to rest
Is no more.
By valleys, woods, and springs,
No wonder thou shouldst grieve
For all the glorious things
Thou touchest with thy wings
And must leave.
W. C. BRYANT.
NERO; OR, CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.
I WOULD not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility,) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
COWPER’S TASK.
ABOUT fifty years after the birth of Christ there lived a Roman
Emperor whose name was Nero. He was one of the most cruel and
unmerciful men whose lives are recorded in history. He put to death
many of the noblest citizens of Rome upon the very slightest and most
unfounded charges. The most bloody and brutal act of his life was the
persecution of the Christians in and about the city of Rome. He set
fire to the city in order that he might enjoy the pleasure of seeing a
conflagration similar to that of a great city which had been destroyed
many years before. To silence the report of his having set fire to
the city, the base Nero laid the guilt of it upon the new sect of
Christians, whose numbers were rapidly increasing in every part of the
empire. The death of these poor harmless Christians was aggravated with
sport; “for they were either covered with the skins of wild beasts,
and torn to pieces by devouring dogs, or fastened to crosses, or
wrapped up in combustible garments, that when the daylight failed they
might serve, like torches, to illuminate the darkness of the night.”
He not only inflicted upon them every manner of torture and suffering
which his wicked and depraved mind could invent, but he also took a
great delight in seeing the poor innocent creatures suffer. Sometimes
he drove a chariot among the sufferers, and at others he stood among
them as a spectator of scenes which would make the coldest heart melt
with sympathy, and the eye of the most unfeeling shed tears of sorrow.
Such was the character of one of the most cruel and merciless wretches
that ever lived. And to what thing do you suppose, dear reader, his
cruelty may be attributed? To the great delight which he took, when
a child, in inflicting pain on the harmless and inoffensive little
insect. It was his delight to extract from it cries of sorrow, and
to tread upon the worm in order that he might witness its painful
writhings. As he was in childhood, so was he when he became a man.
As in childhood he caught the fly and pierced its body through with
pointed instruments, so in manhood did he cause his fellow-man to
suffer every pain which his corrupt heart could wish, or his sinful
mind invent.
Whenever I see a little boy or a little girl catching flies and pulling
their legs and wings off, or piercing their bodies, I always think
_there_ will be a _second Nero_, if that disposition is not changed by
God, or a check put upon it by some kind friend.
Children, be kind to every thing around you, particularly the dumb
brute. Do not throw stones at the harmless little sparrow, or the
pretty little snow-bird. Life is as precious to them as it is to you.
Doubtless they have feelings of love and tenderness for each other,
and why do you wish to destroy their happiness? Even if they had ever
wronged you, it would be your duty to return good for evil; and how
much more is it your duty _not_ to _injure_ them, since they have never
harmed you in the least. It always pains me very much to see a little
boy throwing stones at every cow, horse, or hog that passes along
within striking distance of him. Oh how unkind! How unlike Him who went
about doing good!
I once saw a boy throw a stone at a beautiful young horse. He did it
thoughtlessly, and did not intend hurting the animal; but the stone
struck it in the eye and destroyed its sight forever.
Dear reader, if you had seen the agony and heard the screams of
suffering which that _one_ stone caused that harmless horse, I am sure
you would never throw another stone at a bird or beast as long as you
live. The boy, when he saw the pain which he had caused the innocent
colt, went off and wept most bitterly; and I am certain, learned a most
instructive lesson. Children,
“Let love through all your actions run,
And all your _deeds_ be _kind_.”
* * * * *
“SWEET it is to see a child
Tender, merciful, and mild;
Ever ready to perform
Acts of mercy to a worm;
Grieving that the world should be
Thus a scene of misery;
Scene in which the creatures groan
For transgressions not their own.
“If the creatures must be slain
Thankless sinners to sustain;
Such a child, methinks, will cry,
‘Treat them gently when they die;
Spare them while they yield their breath;
Double not the pains of death;
Strike them not at such a time,
God accounts the stroke a crime.’
“God is love, and never can
Love or bless a cruel man;
Mercy rules in every breast
Where His Spirit deigns to rest;
We ourselves to mercy owe
Our escape from endless woe;
And the merciless in mind
Shall themselves no mercy find.”
* * * * *
SPARE THE INSECT.
“OH, turn that little foot aside,
Nor crush beneath its tread
The smallest insect of the earth,
That looks to God for bread.
“If He who made the universe
Looks down in kindest love,
To shape an humble thing like this,
From His high throne above—
“Why shouldst thou, then, in wantonness,
That creature’s life destroy?
Or give a pang to any thing
That He has made for joy?
“My child, begin in little things
To act the gentle part;
For God will turn His love away
From every cruel heart.”
THE RAILROAD.
“For we are sojourners, as were all our fathers.”—BIBLE.
THE cars were crowded. In one corner sat the grey-haired grandfather;
by his side, the gay, thoughtless maiden; farther on, the youthful
aspirant after the world’s honors; and at his elbow, the stern,
thinking business man, intently engaged in reading the morning’s Prices
Current, thinking only of Profit and Loss, and the rise and fall
of articles for which he trafficked, forgetting, not the _almighty
dollar_, but his _immortal soul_.
We started. On and on the fire-breathing iron horse drew us along:—now
hurrying around the sweeping curves; now ascending some steep
acclivity; now rattling through dark, dungeon-like tunnels; anon
speeding with almost lightning rapidity over the smoothly laid track.
None seemed to fear. All was happiness and joy. One was thinking of
the joyful welcome that awaited him at his happy home; another of the
pleasure he expected to meet with from the friends of his childhood,
from whom he had been separated many a long year; others were perfectly
indifferent—no trouble to cloud their brows, no care to harass their
hearts—gazing, with countenances of delight, on the fair fields of
nature which stretched out before them, the mirror-like lake, or the
cloud-capped mountain that lifted its proud head far above the bustle
and confusion of the world.
None thought of danger. None thought that the next moment might find
them a mass of bruised and mangled corpses, or struggling for life amid
the waves of some roaring river. The engineer was at his post; the
conductor would see that no harm should befall them.
My young friends, as I sat in that crowded car, many were the thoughts
that rose in my mind. I thought this life was but a railroad; we the
passengers. Some of us are thoughtful and considerate; many gay and
inconsiderate. The railroad of life has many curves, to avoid the
current of sin, or the pit of destruction; many a high acclivity of
difficulty; many a dark, lonely tunnel of doubt and uncertainty; many a
deep cut of affliction, from which the light of God’s countenance seems
entirely withdrawn. The route lies along the flower-dressed meadows of
happiness, and through the dark, dismal morasses of poverty and want.
At one moment all is beauty, loveliness and grandeur; at another, the
clouds of God’s wrath gather thick and heavy around us. Some of us are
journeying to our heavenly home; others, far from that home, in search
of what the world calls enjoyment, but, like the apples of Sodom,
bitterness and remorse.
My young friends, if Christ be our engineer and God our conductor, we
need fear no evil. All will be well; our journey safe and pleasant:
and we shall safely reach a glorious home in Heaven, and there spend
an eternity of blissful happiness in the company of the loved and lost
who have traveled this road, and reached, without any collision or
accident, its termination.
* * * * *
THE SPIRITUAL RAILWAY.
“THE line to heaven by Christ was made;
With heavenly truths the rails are laid;
From earth to heaven the line extends;
To life eternal—there it ends.
“Repentance is the station then,
Where passengers are taken in;
No fees for them are there to pay,
For _Jesus_ is Himself the way.
“The Bible is the engineer,
It points the way to heaven so clear;
Through tunnels dark and dreary here,
It does the way to glory steer.
“God’s love—the fire, His truth the steam
Which drives the engine and the train;
All you who would to glory ride,
Must come to Christ—in Him abide.
“In the first, second, and third class,
Repentance, faith, and holiness,
You must the way to glory gain,
Or you with Christ can never reign.
“Come, then, poor sinners, now’s the time,
At any place along the line;
If you repent and turn from sin,
The train will stop and take you in.”
A TRUE SKETCH
“LET us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.”
LONGFELLOW.
A VENERABLE minister of Christ left his home one bright, beautiful
Sabbath morning, for the house of God. He was riding a restless, fiery
mountain colt, but had no fears of his ability to manage him, as he had
been raised from early childhood, as it were, on a horse’s back, and
feared the wildest animal as little as he did a playful kitten.
He had gone but a short distance on his way, when the horse, becoming
frightened, made a sudden leap, and threw his rider headlong against
the projecting points of a large rock lying near the roadside. The
rock entered his skull, and in a few moments that aged father in
Israel breathed his last, with no kind friend near to whisper words
of consolation in his dying ear, or wipe the sweat of death from his
patriarchal brow.
The anxious congregation waited long and impatiently for the appearance
of their much-loved pastor, but he came not. His spirit had winged its
way to that bright, happy land,
“Where congregations ne’er break up,
And Sabbaths have no end.”
A portion of the congregation determined to find out the cause of his
long, unusual delay, and accordingly set out along his accustomed road.
After travelling several miles, what was their surprise and sorrow to
find their grey-haired shepherd, who had so long and so cheerfully led
them “beside the still waters, and through the green pastures,” who had
taken the lambs of the flock in his bosom, and protected their tender
little feet from the thorns which strew the pathway of childhood, lying
stretched on the cold ground, a lifeless corpse. Many were the tears
that moistened the noble brow of this man of God; bitter were the
throbbings of stricken hearts that stood around the body of him who,
Sabbath after Sabbath, had broken to them the Bread of Life.
There anxiously kneels at the side of her sainted father a little girl,
whom they have failed to notice. What is she doing there? Come, gather
closely around this scene, children, and look at one of your number.
She heard the clattering of the horse’s feet as he hurried wildly from
the spot where lay his lifeless corpse; she hastened quickly towards
the church and reached her father only in time to hear the death-rattle
in his throat, and see his brains all scattered over the ground. What
does she do? She gathers them up, places them once more in his skull,
and with her little hands endeavors to hold the shattered fragments
together. But it is too late now. Dear, loving little Mary can’t recall
the spirit of her departed parent back to earth; and the sorrowing
members of that shepherdless flock bear her away to a home, around
whose bright fireside and at whose morning and evening altar shall
never again be heard the voice of one whom none knew but to love.
My young friends, I have witnessed and heard of many touching scenes,
but for child-like innocence, and tender, loving affection, this
surpasses them all.
I now leave you to learn the many lessons of affection and love this
hasty sketch teaches, and hope you will not throw the book carelessly
aside, and forget all about it; but think if you love your parents as
fatherless little Mary loved hers.
* * * * *
THE SPIRIT OF THE DEPARTED.
I KNOW thou art gone to thy home of rest;
Then why should my soul be sad?
I know thou art gone where the weary are blest,
And the mourner looks up and is glad;
Where Love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stain it had gathered in this,
And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth,
Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss.
HERVEY.
“THE LAST NIGHT OF THE SEASON.”
“HASTEN, O sinner, to return,
And stay not for to-morrow’s sun,
For fear thy lamp should cease to burn
Before the needful work is done.”
“THE LAST NIGHT OF THE SEASON,” stood forth in bold prominence from
mammoth posters at every prominent place in the city.
“_The Last Night of the Season_” headed an advertisement in every daily
paper.
“The Last Night of the Season,” was echoed by thousands of handbills.
“The Last Night of the Season,” lingered on the lips of nearly every
passer-by.
At night, thronging crowds, with hurried step and anxious heart,
pressed earnestly into the accustomed entrance—then too narrow to
admit the greatly increased numbers—of a large and brilliantly
illumined building.
Do you know, breathed in quick succession from one to another, it is
“The Last Night of the Season?”
Fellow traveller to the bar of God, “I have somewhat to say unto
_thee_.”
Has not this sentence already gone, like an arrow, to your heart? Do
you not feel that perhaps you have seen the last night of the season of
salvation?
Oh! it is an awful thought. Yet, thanks be to God, there is still
another opportunity of being saved. I now present you that opportunity.
Will you, can you, refuse? It may be the last night of the season. God
only knows.
“Delay not, delay not, O sinner, to come,
For mercy still lingers and calls thee to-day,
Her voice is not heard in the vale of the tomb;
Her message unheeded will soon pass away.”
Fathers, mothers, friends, relatives, brothers, sisters, those that
love you tenderly, dearly, Christian ministers, the writer of this
little article, all join in the earnest entreaty, “COME TO JESUS!”
He is a precious Saviour.
He is a loving Saviour.
He is a willing Saviour.
He is an able Saviour.
Then, will you not come and cast your burden upon _Him?_
He has never turned away _one_ soul.
The thief on the cross,—poor, weeping Peter—Mary Magdalene, with her
seven devils,—all found Him such a Saviour as I have described.
Young man, in the morning of life, you whose brow no cloud of sorrow
has ever darkened, will _you_ not come to that Saviour?
Young lady, will _you_ not come to that Saviour? Will _you_, whose sex
was the last at the cross, the first at the sepulchre, stay away from
that Saviour? The daughters of Jerusalem found Him an all-sufficient
Saviour, and will _you_ not come, like Mary, and
“——fall at His feet,
And the story repeat,
And the lover of sinners adore?”
* * * * *
MARY AT JESUS’ FEET.
TO hear the Saviour’s word
The gentle Mary came;
Low at His feet she sat and heard
Sweet mention of her name.
She chose the better part,
The one bright pearl she found:
May we, with Mary’s constant heart,
In Mary’s grace abound.
Like her, we look above,
To learn our Saviour’s will;
The droppings of His lips we love,
And would His word fulfil.
Speak, as to Mary Thou
Didst speak in Galilee;
Call us by name, our hearts shall bow,
And melting, flow to Thee.
E. M. C.
HUGH MILLER AND THE PRECIPICE.
“HEAVEN above and hell below,
Pleasure, pain, and joy and woe,
Repeat the words in accents slow,
_Stop and think!_”
THE celebrated Hugh Miller, when a boy, was in the habit of scaling
giddy precipices, either in search of some peculiar specimen of rock,
or some unknown species of bird.
On one occasion he saw a raven’s nest far above the ground, snugly
fixed on a very high cliff, which had never been scaled by the foot of
man. From below it was a matter of impossibility to reach it, for it
was more than a hundred feet above the level of the sea. He therefore
determined to make an attempt from above. Creeping carefully along, now
holding by some protruding rock, now clinging to some slender shrub, he
at last found himself within six or eight feet of the desired prize.
There he stopped and hesitated. Beneath, the raging surf roamed and
boiled. One misstep would launch him into eternity.
His foot was stretched out to take the first step, when he observed,
as the sun burst suddenly from behind a cloud, the light glisten on
a smooth surface of chlorite, slippery as glass. He at once saw the
consequences of such an attempt, retraced his steps, and was, in God’s
providence, spared to exert an influence for good, the extent of which
will never be fully known.
Reader, have you ever attempted to perform some act which no one else
was able to accomplish, and been on the very brink of destruction, when
the Sun of Righteousness shone on your pathway and revealed to your
darkened understanding the imminent danger of your position?
Young man, you that are anxious to write your name high above that
of your fellow-man, beware how you step. The ocean of a never-ending
eternity is roaring beneath you. You, perhaps, do not see your danger,
yet it is there. If you are seeking only the riches of this world,
which perish with their using, and endeavoring to do what no one else
has done, pray that God will show you the peril of your position,
retrace your steps, and remember the sad end of him “who layeth up
treasure for himself and is not rich toward God.” Luke 12: 21.
The sequel to this little sketch is very, very heart-rending.
Not long after the above occurrence a youth named Mackay made a similar
attempt; paused even for a longer time; then trusting himself to the
treacherous chlorite, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong over the
precipice. His head striking violently against a projecting rock, his
brains were scattered over a space of ten or twelve square yards in
extent.
The rock doubtless yet remains—a lasting monument of the sinful folly
of man.
* * * * *
A FEW SHORT YEARS—AND THEN.—
“A FEW short years—and then
Our young hearts may be reft
Of every hope, and find no gleam
Of childhood’s sunshine left!
“A few short years—and then,
Impatient of its bliss,
The weary soul shall seek on high
A better home than this!
“A few short years—and then
The dream of life will be
Like shadows of a morning cloud,
In its reality!
“A few short years—and then
The idols loved the best
Will pass in all their pride away,
As sinks the sun to rest!”
THE HOME OF ST. PAUL.
I NEVER left the place that knew me,
And may never know me more,
Where the cords of kindness drew me,
And gladdened me of yore,—
But my secret soul has smarted,
With a feeling full of gloom,
For the days that are departed,
And the place I called my home.
TUPPER.
WHO is there that can stand beside the simple stone which marks the
birthplace of GEORGE WASHINGTON, or enter that plain cottage in the
slashes of Hanover, or walk the halls of Monticello, and not feel
arising in his bosom feelings of pleasure and delight? Such feelings
are natural; and I hope, dear reader, you will ever cherish them for
the memory of such men as Washington, Jefferson, Clay, and the host
of others who have done so much for our common country. If we love to
visit the birthplaces and homes of men who have preferred death to
bondage, how much greater must be the love with which we look upon the
home of him who suffered and bled and died for the liberty of the soul
from the powerful bondage of sin and Satan—the home of Saul of Tarsus,
the scholar of Gamaliel.
That Tarsus was the birthplace of Saul is not very certain, as no one
informs us of the fact; but one thing is certain, it was there he spent
the hours of his childhood, there he was taught to reverence God’s
Word, and there his tender mind received those impressions of love to
God and his fellow-man, which followed him throughout his interesting
and eventful life.
Tarsus, at the time of Saul’s residence, was one of the largest cities
in Asia Minor. It was beautifully situated on the river Cydnus, in the
midst of a most fertile and picturesque valley, and was the capital of
Cilicia. On the one side a lofty peak of the Taurus mountains lifted
its hoary head, and stood like a sentinel, to watch over and protect
the city which lay in such calm quietude at its base; on the other lay
the lovely valley of the Cydnus, interspersed with beautiful groves
of palm trees and luxuriant gardens, through the midst of which the
silver stream wound its way till it was lost in the Mediterranean sea.
Over this plain, happy cottages were scattered like stars in the blue
canopy of heaven. Above the city, about a mile distant, were the falls
of the Cydnus, whose sullen roar added no little to the grandeur of
the scenery. Such was the nature of the country in which the youthful
Saul spent the days of his childhood and youth. Tarsus, as Saul himself
says, was “no mean city.” It was no less remarkable for the beauty of
its situation, than as a seat of learning and wide-spread commerce.