How delightful is it to him upon whose locks have fallen the snows of
many winters, and whose brow has been furrowed by the hand of time,
to look back to the home and friends of his childhood! Every thing
about the old homestead is interesting to him. Here, surrounded by
kind friends and dear relatives, he spent the happiest hours of his
life. Every spot has some attraction. In one he once was rescued from
danger; in another he used to indulge in those sportive games which
afford so much pleasure to the young beginner of life’s journey; beside
some murmuring stream he often strayed, and stole the nimble trout from
its crystal home, or rested his weary limbs beneath the wide-extending
branches of the aged oak which overhung the gushing spring.
Such, doubtless, were the feelings with which the great “Apostle of
the Gentiles,” when his mind was “burdened with the care of all the
churches,” visited his native city. And now how changed! An English
writer thus describes the present condition of that once prosperous
city: “It is now a Turkish town, greatly decayed, but still of some
relative importance, and carrying on a somewhat active commerce. The
population is about 6,000.”—However the works of _man_ may have
decayed in and around Tarsus, yet the works of _God_ remain almost
unaltered.—“The rich harvests of corn still grow luxuriantly after the
rains in spring; the same tents of goats’ hair are still seen covering
the plain in busy harvest. The same sunset lingers on the pointed
summits. The same shadows gather in the deep ravines. The water-falls
of the Cydnus still break over the same rocks.”
Who would not like to visit a city once hallowed by the presence of one
of the greatest and best of men?
* * * * *
THE WANDERER’S RETURN.
I LEFT my home in childhood,
The beautiful green spot,
Where I used to sport among the leaves,
Around my native cot.
My heart was full of happiness
Among the woods and hills,
And I heard the voice of hope and love
Sing gayly in the rills.
Each lawn and sunny meadow,
Each tree and flower was dear—
And I left them full of sadness,
With childhood’s flowing tear.
And after years of roaming
I sought again the scene—
I stood within the cottage door,
And looked upon the green;—
But my heart within me died away—
For time had trod the lawn,
And change had passed o’er field and cot,
And those I loved were gone!
The earth was full of beauty,
There was balm upon the air,
But the feelings of my childhood
I found no longer there.
C. W. THOMPSON.
HOME.
I AM not one of those who wander
Unaffection’d here and there,
But my heart must still be fonder
Of its sites of joy or care;
And I point sad memory’s finger
(Tho’ my faithless foot may roam)
Where I’ve most been made to linger,—
To the place I called _my home_.
TUPPER.
THOUGH many a long year has passed away since I mingled in the pleasant
enjoyments and childish sports of my native home, yet I look back with
feelings of the deepest sorrow, and sincerely wish that I could again
spend those hours which afforded me so much innocent delight. It is
true, that I had a home only for a very few years, for I had scarcely
learned to love my mother and feel the worth of my father, before the
clods of the valley rumbled over their coffins; yet those years were
the happiest of my life.
It is in the family circle that we are taught so many lessons of
kindness to our fellow-men, and it is there we are fitted to enter upon
the stern realities which await us in the busy world. There, and there
alone, are the seeds of truth and morality sown by the affectionate
hand of an attached mother; and a loving sister entwines her affections
around the heart of a thoughtless brother, and frequently keeps him
from houses “which are the way to hell,” and from a drunkard’s grave.
Blot out of existence the thousands of Christian homes in this land of
ours, and you will destroy the very _corner stone_ of this happy and
prosperous country.
It was around the fireside that such men as Patrick Henry, Henry Clay
and Daniel Webster first learned those lessons of wisdom and unwavering
devotion to their country.
Well has it been remarked, “There is no place like home.”
I had rather part with my right hand or my right eye, than to be
deprived of those simple truths taught me by my sainted mother when
I was scarcely old enough to lisp her name. How indelibly are they
impressed upon my mind! And those simple prayers which she taught
me—shall I ever forget them? No, never. They will go with me to my
grave. And when I was sick, how she watched over me, nursed me, and
prayed for my recovery!
My home! How thoughts of the loved and lost arise in my mind at the
mere mention of the name! That dear father, that more than sainted
mother, where are they? Gone, gone forever!
It is customary with many heathen nations, when any one of their number
is thought to be dying, to place him upon a narrow couch, set by his
side a small portion of bread and water, and permit him to draw his
last breath with no friend near to whisper words of consolation in his
dying ear, or shed a tear of regret at his departure.
How different in the Christian family! Nothing can equal the tender
care and soothing attention paid to him whose sand is well nigh run
out. And when he is gone, how fast do tears of bitterness flow from the
eyes of those who loved and watched over him even in the hour of death!
William Jay, in speaking of domestic happiness, uses the following
beautiful and touching language: “Oh! what so refreshing, so soothing,
so satisfying, as the quiet joys of home? Yonder comes the laborer;—he
has borne the burden and the heat of the day; the descending sun
has released him from his toil, and he is hastening home to enjoy
his repose. Half way down the lane, by the side of which stands his
cottage, his children run to meet him. One he carries and one he
leads. See his toil-worn countenance assume an air of cheerfulness. His
hardships are forgotten—fatigue vanishes—he eats and is satisfied.
Inhabitant of the lowly dwelling! who can be indifferent to thy
comfort? Peace to thy house!”
But, children, that pleasant home cannot always be the abode of
happiness.
Since sin entered into this world of ours, and death by sin, man can
never be perfectly happy.
Sooner or later some member of that family will be locked in the cold
embrace of Death; and sadness will follow in the footsteps of joy.
There will be a vacant chair, and a deserted hearth-stone, ere many
more days shall have passed away. That dwelling in which pleasure and
happiness now reign, shall soon echo with the sobs and lamentations of
those who have parted with perhaps a father, a mother, a fond sister,
or a loving brother. He who to-day resides in the costliest mansion,
may to-morrow be an inhabitant of a hovel. That father who to-day bowed
before the family altar, and asked a Heavenly Father’s blessing upon
his children, may be wrapped in the winding sheet of Death to-morrow.
How important then is it, that we should look forward to a home in
that house not made with hands, whose builder and maker is God. There
father and mother, husband and wife, brother and sister, shall meet to
part no more. There shall be no night there. Pain and anguish, sickness
and sorrow, affliction and disappointment, shall be feared and felt no
more for ever. How happy the scene! How joyful the meeting of friends
and relations! How delightful will it be to meet with that father and
that mother who have gone before, and feel that we shall never be
separated again!
Children, if you wish to meet your departed relations, who have died
trusting in Christ, in Heaven, beware how you trifle away your inch
of time. If you die in your sins, you can never be with them in that
“happy land;” for to a sinner _Heaven_ would be the worst _Hell_ into
which he could be placed. Then, “Seek the Lord while he is near, and
call upon Him while He may be found.”
* * * * *
MY OLD DEAR HOME.
“BETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lovely home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still:
But a stranger’s foot hath crossed the sill!
“There is the barn—and as of yore
I can smell the hay from the open door
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song:
But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof—
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof!
“There is the orchard—the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger’s children are swinging there!
[Illustration]
“There bubbles the shady spring below,
With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;
’Twas there I found the calamus root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing:
But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring!
“Oh! ye that daily cross the sill;
Step lightly, for I love it still;
And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have passed within that scented door,
To gladden the eyes that are no more.
“Deal kindly with those orchard trees,
And when your children crowd your knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart:—
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
“The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows, with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall,—
My heart still lingers with them all:—
Ye strangers on my native sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still.”
TO MY SABBATH-SCHOOL CLASS.
LEWISBURG, Va., July 31st, 1858.
MY DEAR SABBATH-SCHOOL CLASS:—I have been intending to write you a
short letter ever since leaving home, but have been so constantly
engaged that I have not found an opportunity.
A great deal of interest has transpired since the commencement of my
mountain trip, of which I should like to tell you, but must defer
doing so until we meet, which, if God spares our lives, will be in a
few weeks. I know you would like very much to leave the hot and dusty
streets of Richmond, and come out and enjoy the pure mountain air
and health-giving water. My own health has improved very much, and
I do most earnestly pray that it and my life may be precious in the
sight of God, and I may yet ere long enjoy the greatest of earthly
privileges—preaching the mystery of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I
have very often thought of and frequently remembered you at a throne
of grace. Oh! you know not how much pleasure it would afford me to see
you _all_ professors of religion. You know I told you before leaving,
if any of you should _perish_—I feel sad to think of such a thing—I
hoped it would not be my fault, for I had endeavored, feebly and
imperfectly though it was, to lead your youthful feet in the ways of
righteousness—the paths of peace.
I feel constrained to urge you once more to _come to Jesus_. We may
never meet again on earth, and I do so sincerely desire to meet my
Sabbath-school class in heaven. Suppose _one_ of you should be missing,
which will it be? May each one of you ask himself the question, “_Lord,
is it I?_”
And then, my dear young friends, we want ministers so badly. Where
shall we get them? Do I not hear at least _one_ of you say, “_Here am
I; Lord, send me?_” Think of that shepherdless and sorrowing flock,
that vacant pulpit, that newly made grave, in Amelia county! think how
fearlessly and faithfully the lamented S. HAMNER DAVIS stood up for
Jesus, and how triumphantly he died! My dear scholars, will not _some_
of you, would it be too much to say _all_ of you, dedicate yourselves
to the work of the blessed ministry? I know it has not a great many
earthly attractions, but there is something cheering in the thought of
living for the benefit of your fellow-men. I had rather be the humble
instrument, in the hands of God, of saving one soul, than be worth all
the riches or obtain all the honors which the world can furnish.
May the Lord abundantly bless and preserve you all, while we are absent
from each other, is the prayer of
Your affectionate Teacher,
PHILIP BARRETT.
HALF AN HOUR IN BAD COMPANY.
“Separate from sinners and unspotted from the world.”—BIBLE.
A YOUTH was once unintentionally thrown into the company of some half
dozen young men of very immoral character. Their language, their jests,
were of the lowest order. Indecent expressions, vulgar anecdotes,
heart-defiling oaths, characterized their conversation. It was evident
there was no thought of God in all their hearts.
He left them and went to his room. It was time for retiring to rest.
He opened his Bible and attempted to read its sacred pages; but he
could not confine his thoughts. The low, vulgar anecdotes of that
godless party were continually flitting across his mind. Their hollow
mockery of God still rung in his ear; the thought that perhaps there
was no God, no heaven, no hell, disturbed his hitherto pleasant
evening meditations; but that kind, friendly voice within, the lives
and death-beds of parents whom he had loved only to lose, told him
too plainly there was a God above, of tender and forgiving mercy,
there was a heaven of bliss and joy, there was a lake whose waves of
fire and brimstone were never quiet. He knelt down to pray, and the
profane jests of that God-rejecting company intruded themselves upon
his thoughts; he retired to rest—they haunted his slumbers; he awoke
in the morning—they still lingered in his mind. Year after year has
passed away, but that half an hour in the company of the profane, the
wicked, still exerts its injurious influence upon the heart of that
young man. It will never leave him. Wherever he goes, whatever he
does, it will remain in his mind to the last day of his life. It may
be forgotten for a time, but, like the serpent concealed in a bed of
violets, it will again and again come up to pollute his best and purest
thoughts, to poison his sweetest affections.
My dear young friends, particularly boys, write this as your motto
upon the fly-leaves of your books—write it on the walls of your
rooms—write it in your copy books—write it on your hearts—KEEP OUT
OF BAD COMPANY.
* * * * *
THE BIBLE A GUIDE TO THE YOUNG.
HOW shall the young secure their hearts
And guard their lives from sin?
Thy word the choicest rules imparts
To keep the conscience clean.
When once it enters to the mind,
It spreads such light abroad,
The meanest souls instruction find,
And raise their thoughts to God.
’Tis like the sun, a heavenly light,
That guides us all the day,
And through the dangers of the night
A lamp to lead our way.
Thy word is everlasting truth;
How pure is ev’ry page!
WATTS.
THE FIRST DAY OF THE NEW YEAR.
’TIS greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to heaven,
And how they might have borne more welcome news.
YOUNG.
ANOTHER year, with its fond anticipations and blasted hopes, its scenes
of joy and its seasons of sorrow, its days of rejoicing and its nights
of weeping, has been laid in the grave of the past.
Many a bounding heart that welcomed us a year ago, now lies beneath
the clods of the valley: many a cloudless brow which then met our eye,
now meets it no more for ever; many a manly form which then walked the
streets of our city, now walks the golden streets of the New Jerusalem.
The young man, before whom the future stretched in scenes of brightness
and beauty; the young lady, whose glowing cheek and brilliant eye
bespoke a long life of joy and happiness; the father, whose presence
cheered and whose counsel guided his little flock; the mother, whose
yearning heart seemed to throb only for the dear little one whose
cherub arms clung so lovingly around her neck; the young minister,
whose hopes of wide-spread usefulness gladdened his lonely hours of
toil; the venerable man of God, whose golden virtues, mingled with his
silver locks, won the love and admiration of all who knew him;—these,
all of these, have been laid in the cold and silent grave, during the
year that is past and gone.
Over some of their graves the green grass is not yet growing, and
stricken hearts are now bleeding for loved ones, with whom we had
expected to walk hand in hand during the year which has so beautifully
dawned upon us.
During the past year we have permitted many a golden opportunity for
doing good to pass away unimproved; we have failed properly to use
many a precious privilege; and does it not then become us, to-day,
to implore forgiveness for the past, and unreservedly to dedicate
ourselves and all we have and are, to the service of our blessed
Redeemer?
Let us determine that this year shall be a year of entire consecration
to God’s service; that our places at the Sabbath-school, in the house
of God, at the Wednesday evening lecture, at the prayer-meeting, shall
be less frequently vacant than they were during the past year.
That this shall be a year of prayer—earnest, importunate prayer.
That we will especially pray for those who are bound to us by ties of
affection and love, but who know nothing of the warm affection and
tender love of a Saviour’s heart.
That it shall be a year of heart-searching.
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts:
and see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way
everlasting.”
That it shall be a year of unremitting prayer for the outpouring of
God’s spirit, not only upon the church with which we are connected, but
throughout the length and breadth of His vineyard.
And, in conclusion, that we will endeavor so to live and act, that
whenever the summons comes to call us hence, our lights shall be
burning, our lamps trimmed, and we shall hear the welcome invitation,
“Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you
from the foundation of the world.”
* * * * *
THE SWIFTNESS OF TIME.
“SWIFT as the wingèd arrow flies,
My time is hast’ning on;
Quick as the lightning from the skies
My wasting moments run.
“My follies past, O God, forgive;
My ev’ry sin subdue;
And teach me henceforth how to live,
With glory full in view.
“Thanks, Lord, to Thine unbounded grace,
That in my early youth
I have been taught to seek Thy face,
And know the way of truth.
“Oh! let Thy Spirit lead me still
Along the happy road;
Conform me to Thy holy will,
My Father and my God.”
THE YOUNG MAN WHO WENT TO SLEEP IN CHURCH.
“WHEN to the house of God we go
To hear His word and sing His love,
We ought to worship Him below
As saints and angels do above.”
THERE is but one instance mentioned in the Bible in which a person went
to sleep during religious service. It was at night. Paul, the eloquent
preacher, with his usual burning zeal and strong enthusiasm, had
enchained the attention of his audience till a late hour—12 o’clock.
On the morning he was to leave them, His hearers were hanging with deep
sorrow on his parting words, for they felt “they should see his face no
more.” There was, doubtless, many a quivering lip, many a tearful eye,
many a throbbing heart.
In the midst of such a scene, beneath the preaching of so gifted, so
talented a man as Saul of Tarsus, there sat a young man unmoved by the
tears of the listeners, unaffected by the sermon of the minister. Deep
sleep fell heavily upon his slumbering eye-lids; his dull ear was
closed against the touching appeals of the fervent speaker.
The house was no doubt crowded; for the young man was sitting in a
window; “and as Paul was long preaching, he sunk down with sleep, and
fell down from the third loft, and _was taken up dead_.” (Acts xx. 19.)
Sleeping, slumbering souls in the church of God, beware least you fall
asleep and _be taken up dead!_
* * * * *
SLOTHFULNESS LAMENTED.
“MY drowsy powers, why sleep ye so?
Awake, my sluggish soul;
Nothing has half thy work to do,
Yet nothing’s half so dull.
“We, for whom God the Son came down
And labored for our good,
How careless to secure that crown
He purchased with His blood!
“Lord, shall we lie so sluggish still
And never act our parts?
Come, Holy Spirit, come and fill
And wake and warm our hearts.”
MARGARET WILSON.
A COVENANTER SKETCH.
O FEAR not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
LONGFELLOW.
ALMOST two hundred years ago there lived in Scotland a girl whose
name was MARGARET WILSON. She was a covenanter; that is, she belonged
to that noble band of Scotch Christians who claimed the right of
worshiping God according to the teachings of their own consciences.
About this time a violent persecution was commenced against these
quiet, inoffensive and pious covenanters. The officer who commanded the
King’s (James II.) forces in Scotland was named CLAVERHOUSE. He was a
man of violent temper, and possessed a heart as hard as adamant. The
mere mention of his name would cast a gloom over many a happy home,
and mothers would clasp their children closer to their bosoms whenever
the news of his approach reached their ears. He drank in iniquity like
water, and breathed out bitter persecution and death against God’s
servants. The poor covenanters were driven from their peaceful homes
by his troopers, and forced to seek shelter in the rugged sides of the
mountains. There they were hunted and shot down like wild beasts of the
forest. Homeless, poor, despised, forsaken of man, day after day, and
night after night, they wandered through the pathless woods without
clothing to protect or food to nourish them. From many a mountain top,
from many a barren heath, in the silence of the night, the fervent
prayer and the wild warbling notes of some simple Scotch hymn went up
like incense before the face of Jehovah. It is true “they were stoned,
they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword;
they wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins; being destitute,
afflicted, tormented; they wandered in deserts and mountains, and in
dens and caves of the earth.” (Acts xi. 37, 38.) They were imprisoned
by hundreds, and hung by scores. Corpses were seen dangling from trees,
and the atmosphere itself was tainted with death. The blood-thirsty
troopers spared neither age nor sex. The prattling babe and the hoary
head were alike disregarded.
The severity of the persecution only made them cling more closely to
their religion, and a mighty army of martyrs went up from Scotland to
join the ranks of the great captain of their salvation—Jesus Christ.
The noble courage with which MARGARET WILSON suffered death rather
than forsake the religion of her childhood, has made her name to be
held in lasting remembrance. She was quite young, but showed a degree
of calm composure and unshaken faith worthy of much riper years. On
being seized by the troopers, she was told that her life would be
spared if she would give up her religion. This she positively refused
to do, and was sentenced to be drowned. She was alike unmoved by the
fierce countenances of the brutal soldiery and their horrible threats.
Her heart was fixed. She was as firm as a rock. Finding her still
unyielding, she was taken to a place where the Solway overflows twice
a day, and securely fastened to a stake fixed in the sand between high
and low water mark. Presently the tide commenced coming in. At first
it played around her feet; by and by it rose higher and higher; at
last the waves approached within a few inches of her lips. Still she
remained unmoved. Her unclouded brow looked serene and happy. Her cheek
was pale, but not with fear. Her thoughts were wandering by the banks
of the river of the Water of Life; she seemed to be listening to the
angelic notes of the heavenly choir.
“Will you deny now your religion?” demanded the cruel soldiery.
“No, never; I am Christ’s; let me go,” she gasped out, her voice choked
by the gurgling water, and the waves closed over her for the last time.
* * * * *
“THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS.”
THEIR blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim—
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth;
To walk with God; to be divinely free.
Yet few remember them. They lived unknown
Till persecution dragged them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew
——No marble tells us whither.
COWPER.
* * * * *
THE DAY OF LIFE.
THE morning hours of cheerful light,
Of all the day are best;
But as they speed their hasty flight,
If every hour is spent aright,
We sweetly sink to sleep at night,
And pleasant is our rest.
And life is like a summer day,
It seems so quickly past;
Youth is the morning bright and gay,
And if ’tis spent in wisdom’s way,
We meet old age without dismay,
And death is sweet at last.
JANE TAYLOR.
GILBERT HUNT.