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’S VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
THERE lives in the city of Richmond, Virginia, a very venerable and
highly respected negro blacksmith, named Gilbert Hunt. For more
than three-score years he has pursued his humble calling; and even
now, at the advanced age of seventy-seven years, the merry ring of
Gilbert’s anvil is among the first things that break the stillness of
the morning. His shop is situated on one of the most busy streets in
the city; and long before the stores are opened, or the busy hum of
human voices heard, the lively glow of the blacksmith’s fire and the
unceasing blowing of his bellows, whisper in the ear of many a tardy
young man—_Be diligent in business_.
Thus has he lived and labored through the weary days of many a long
year. Though time has plowed many a deep furrow across his dusky brow,
though his head is covered with the almond-tree blossoms of age,
though those that look out of the windows are darkened, though the
doors are shut in the streets, though the silver cord has been worn
almost to its last thread, yet Gilbert Hunt remains still healthy and
robust, retains the cheerfulness of youth, and seems to feel that his
work on earth is far from being accomplished.
His dark countenance, while in conversation, is lighted up with a
happy smile, and you cannot help feeling, as you look upon the old
and grey-headed man, what a precious promise that beautiful old hymn
expresses when it says,
“E’en down to old age, all my people shall prove
My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;
_And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,
Like lambs, they shall still in my bosom be borne_.”
The eventful life of this aged blacksmith, together with his vivid
remembrance of bygone days, renders an hour spent in his company very
pleasant.
’Tis true, his name is unknown both to fortune and to fame; for but few
stop, in this cold world of ours, to pay the deserved meed of praise to
humble, unpretending merit.
“Far from the madd’ning crowd’s ignoble strife,
His sober wishes never learned to stray—
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
He kept the noiseless tenor of his way.”
But to return to our first intention. Gilbert Hunt was born in the
county of King William, (Va.,) about the year 1780; came to the city
of Richmond when seventeen years of age; learned the trade of a
carriage-maker, at which he worked for a considerable length of time,
and by constant industry and close economy laid by a sufficient amount
of money to purchase his freedom of his master. In 1832, he determined
to emigrate to Liberia; and in February of that year, left Virginia.
He remained in Africa eight months, and having travelled some five
hundred miles into the interior, returned to the coast and embarked for
home. His reception, on arriving at Richmond, was one which would have
done honor to any conqueror or statesman, so highly was he respected
by the citizens. “When I reached Richmond,” to use his own language,
“the wharves were crowded with all classes and conditions of people;
I was invited to ride up town in a very fine carriage, but preferred
a plainer style, and came up in a Jersey wagon, seated on my trunk.”
Since that time, nothing of special interest has transpired in the
life of this truly remarkable man. “Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,” he
has followed with unpretending simplicity of character his accustomed
labor. Success seems not to make him proud, nor failure to discourage
him. He has made a sufficient amount of money to enable him to spend
the evening of his life in quiet retirement, but his place at his shop
is seldom, if ever, vacant.
For more than half a century he has been a consistent member of the
Baptist Church; thus teaching us, would we have the needed blessings
of life added to us, we should seek first the kingdom of God and His
righteousness.
The event which invests the name of Gilbert Hunt with more than
ordinary interest, is the active part which he took at the burning of
the Richmond theatre in 1811.
We add a brief account of this sad occurrence, as related by Gilbert
himself, feeling there are but few eyes which can read it without
moistening with tears.
“It was the night of Christmas, 1811. I had just returned from worship
at the Baptist church, and was about sitting down to my supper, when
I was startled by the cry that the Theatre was on fire. My wife’s
mistress called me, and begged me to hasten to the Theatre, and, if
possible, save her only daughter,—a young lady who had been teaching
me my book every night, and one whom I loved very much. The wind was
quite high, and the hissing and crackling flames soon wrapt the entire
building in their embrace. The house was built of wood, and therefore
the work of destruction was very short. When I reached the building
I immediately went to the house of a colored fiddler, named Gilliat,
who lived near by, and begged him to lend me a bed on which the poor
frightened creatures might fall as they leaped from the windows. This
he positively refused to do. I then procured a step-ladder and placed
it against the wall of the burning building. The door was too small
to permit the crowd, pushed forward by the scorching flames, to get
out, and numbers of them were madly leaping from the windows only to
be crushed to death by the fall. I looked up and saw Dr. —— standing
at one of the top windows, and calling to me to catch the ladies as he
handed them down. I was then young and strong, and the poor screaming
ladies felt as light as feathers. By this means we got all the ladies
out of this portion of the house. The flames were rapidly approaching
the Doctor. They were beginning to take hold of his clothing, and, O
me! I thought that good man who had saved so many precious lives, was
going to be burned up. He jumped from the window, and when he touched
the ground I thought he was dead. He could not move an inch. No one
was near that part of the house, for the wall was tottering like a
drunken man, and I looked to see it every minute crush the Doctor to
death. I heard him scream out, ‘_Will nobody save me?_’ and at the risk
of my own life, rushed to him and bore him away to a place of safety.
The scene surpassed any thing I ever saw. The wild shriek of hopeless
agony, the piercing cry, ‘Lord, save, or I perish,’ the uplifted hands,
the earnest prayer for mercy, for pardon, for salvation. I think I see
it now—all—all just as it happened.” And the old negro stopped to
wipe away a tear which was trickling down his wrinkled cheek.
“The next day I went to the place where I had seen so much suffering.
There lay a heap of half-burnt bodies—young and old, rich and poor,
the governor and the little child—whose hearts were still fluttering
like leaves. I never found my young mistress, and suppose she perished
with the many others who were present on that mournful occasion. _I
thought there would never be any more theatres after that._” The old
man was silent; his tale was told; tear-drops were standing in his eyes.
Should any of my readers desire to learn more of the history of this
venerable old negro, the simple sign of
+———————-+
| GILBERT HUNT, |
| Blacksmith, |
+———————-+
which still hangs over his door, will direct them to his lowly shop,
and guarantee a warm welcome at his hands.
* * * * *
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat, and slow;
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like his mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
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.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught:
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
LONGFELLOW.
SKETCHES FOR YOUNG MEN.
NOTE.
FINDING in my portfolio a number of sketches not considered entirely
suited to the class for whom my little volume is intended, I have
determined to add them in the form of an appendix, with the hope that
they may prove interesting and instructive to persons of maturer years.
THE AUTHOR.
SKETCHES FOR YOUNG MEN.
* * * * *
THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.
No. 1.
IT has long been a mystery to us that the Bible is so little read,
so poorly appreciated. A few hurried snatches in the morning, the
shortest psalm in the evening, to a very great extent constitute the
Bible reading of many who even profess and call themselves Christians.
The prolific press is daily pouring forth issues of aids to Scripture
reading; the most gifted intellects, both of this and other lands,
are using all their powers to make the Bible the text-book of the
age; but in vain. There seems to have arisen, in the minds of many,
an insatiable desire for something new, something stirring, something
calculated to arouse their stupified faculties.
Persons will pore, hour after hour, over the pages of some trashy
novel, while the Bible—_its_ pages glittering with golden truths—its
chapters glowing with a Saviour’s love—lies unopened for weeks, yea,
months; its clasps blackened by canker—its cover thick with dust.
They will nestle in their bosoms the sin-stained pages of Byron—not
knowing his slime is polluting, his poison infecting, the purest
affections of their hearts, while a stream of living water is gushing
from this ever full and overflowing fountain of Truth. In the one
are found waters of Marah; in the other, sweet, soul-inspiring,
soul-cheering streams, whose supply is never wanting, whose freshness
never departs.
You cannot inflict greater punishment on some persons than force them
daily to read a portion of God’s word. To them it is as a root out of
dry ground, having no form or comeliness. Notwithstanding this, we
find in the Bible every thing that is attractive and lovely. Viewed
as a literary production, _aside from_ its inspiration, there is no
work, ancient or modern, which is marked by such variety of style—such
beauty of diction—such sublimity of sentiment. Its writers are taken
from all classes and conditions of life—from the shepherd boy that
watches his father’s flocks on the grassy hill-sides of Judea, to the
king, the golden magnificence of whose court, and unerring wisdom,
attracted the notice of Arabia’s queen—from the humble fisherman who
mends his nets on the shores of “deep Galilee,” to the talented scholar
of the learned Gamaliel.
The rich and the poor, the aged and the young, the wise and the
ignorant, the pastor and his people, can all discover in its pages
something to suit their respective situations. In fact, from Genesis to
Revelation, it is filled with truths simple enough for the prattling
child—deep enough for the profoundest scholar.
What sublime simplicity characterizes the Pentateuch! what melodious
notes fall upon the ear, like “sweet music from some far-off isle
enchanted,” as the sweet Psalmist of Israel sweeps the chords of his
thrilling harp! what rapt, impassioned eloquence bursts from prophetic
souls as they picture the future glory of Immanuel’s kingdom, or paint
the awful scenes of that wrathful day,
“When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!”
RURAL RETIREMENT, Va.
* * * * *
THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.
No. 2.
TURN to the New Testament. How touching those simple narratives! Hard
indeed must be the heart of him who can read without deep emotion,
that truly affecting account of the return of the prodigal son to the
father of his early love, the home and scenes of his childhood.
Behold that aged man, as with tottering step, forgetful of the pressing
weight of his many years, he _runs_ to meet his poor wayward boy,
clasps him to his yearning bosom, falls on his neck and kisses him.
Stand beside the grave of Lazarus; look at those loving sisters of
Bethany, as with throbbing hearts and swollen eyes they gather around
the last resting-place of that much-loved and only brother. Is your
heart more unfeeling than the heart of Him of whom it was said, “Behold
how he loved him?” If not, then moisten his grave with a tear of
sympathy for those heart-stricken sisters; for it is not unmanly to
weep,—
“That noble gift! that privilege of man.”
Let us leave these scenes, so well calculated to sadden the heart and
moisten the eye, and turn to others of a far different nature.
Look at that stranger standing on Mars Hill. ’Tis true he is not
commanding in person; neither is his speech in itself eloquent; but
there is an electric current which continually passes from his soul to
his eye, making it to flash with dazzling brilliancy.
With the deep blue sky as his canopy, and standing where Socrates once
stood, he begins one of the most highly finished and closely argued
orations on record.
With kindling features and burning ardor, he enters at once into the
mysteries of his subject,—_The nature of God_. What eloquence!
“It wields at will that fierce democracy.”
John Milton has truly remarked: “There are no songs comparable to the
songs of Zion; no orations equal to those of the prophets; no politics
like those which the Scriptures teach.”
But there is another feature in this precious Book to which we would
briefly direct your attention.
THE CHARACTERS.—A young man, dressed in the plain garb of a
husbandman, is wandering over the rugged sides of mount Ephraim in
search of his father’s cattle. Exposure to wind and storm has rendered
his frame robust, his tread firm and steady. Fearless courage sits
enthroned on his peerless brow; stubborn resolution, untiring energy,
prompt decision, all beam from a countenance, which, though bronzed by
the ardent frown of the summer’s sun, yet is none the less attractive
for the noble qualities which it so plainly displays. But it is the
commanding appearance of his person, the symmetry of his form, which
first unconsciously draws the attention. As the oak of the forest lifts
its head far above the surrounding trees, so does the dauntless crest
of this choice young man rise head and shoulders above his companions.
Such is the person and character of him who was chosen as the first
king of Israel; and as Pallas, “over the head and shoulders broad” of
Ulysses,
“Diffused grace celestial, his whole form
Dilated, and to statelier height advanced,
That worthier of all reverence he might seem
To the Phæacians,”
so God endowed the son of Kish, in order that he might better
command the respect of those over whom he was called to preside.
Time does not suffice to notice in detail his anointing by the
venerable Samuel, nor the swelling tide of human beings which rolled
along the streets of Mizpah, on the day of his proclamation, nor how
the enemies of Israel were swept before his stalwart arm, like chaff
before the whirlwind.
Thus far Saul presents one of the noblest specimens of filial
obedience, of daring bravery, of unreserved submission to the will of
God, to be found in sacred history.
But his heart becomes elated at his unparalleled success, and the
remainder of his life is a series of heaven-daring presumption,
of flagrant disobedience, of detestable faithlessness, of unmanly
cowardice; his bosom swells with arrogant pride—that invariable
precursor of destruction—which paves his way to the most ignominious
of deaths—that of a cowardly suicide.
“Then wish not o’er his earthly tomb
The baneful night-shades’ lurid bloom
To drop its deadly dew;
Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn,
That rudely binds his turf forlorn,
With spring’s green swelling buds to vegetate anew.”
But only remember that _one_ act of indiscretion will blast a lifetime
of virtue and usefulness; and remember also how essential it is that we
be true to our God, true to our country, true to ourselves.
RURAL RETIREMENT, Va.
* * * * *
THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.
No. 3.
THERE is one other character, noticeable for none of those traits which
mark the life of Saul; yet of an order to which no one, we think, will
be unwilling to pay deserved tribute,—which next claims our attention.
Two men—the one in the prime of manly vigor, the other has passed
the ordinary limits of human life—are standing on the banks of the
Jordan. The one is arrayed in royal garments, the other in a pastoral
garb,—for during many a long year has he led his flocks beside the
still waters, and made them to lie down in the green pastures of Gilead.
The snows of four-score years have fallen softly upon his head, and his
“brow has grown wrinkled like the brown sea sand from which the tide
of life is ebbing.” The friends of his youth are _asleep with their
fathers_; the playmates of his childhood have also been laid in the
cold and silent sepulchres of Nebo or Pisgah. With the Poet he exclaims,
“They are all dead now:
I’m old and lonely.”
_He is blind._
“Thus with the year
Seasons return. But not to him returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev’n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom or summer’s rose,
Or flocks or herds, or human face divine.”
To him taste has lost its sweetness; music, its melody.
David—for it is he who wears the robes of royalty,—insists on his
aged friend accompanying him to Jerusalem.
Noble-hearted old Barzillai replies, that he will go a little way with
him beyond Jordan, but adds, “Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn back
again, that I may die in mine own city, and be buried in the grave of
my father and my mother.”
How beautiful! how touching! how true to nature!
The winter of age is not severe enough to wither the blossoms of
youth!——
A storm is raging on the sea of Galilee; the heavens are black with
clouds; the moaning of the billows, as they dash against the sides of
the vessel, falls on the ear with a peculiar loneliness; the winds
are howling fearfully through the rigging; an occasional flash of
lightning, as it darts athwart the waters, reveals to the eye many a
face pale with fear, and many a form struggling nobly with the furious
elements.
There is on that vessel an old weather-beaten sailor, whose home is the
bosom of the lake. Hardship and exposure have rendered him perfectly
reckless as to danger. His brow shows no signs of fear; his noble heart
throbs only with emotions of fearless daring.
A familiar voice is heard above the fury of the winds, the roar of the
waves.
The practiced ear of the sturdy old sailor quickly catches the sound,
recognizes it as his Master’s voice, and with impetuous zeal and
unshaken confidence, makes an attempt to rush into his embrace.
Though this Galilean fisherman doubtless possessed a rough exterior,
yet his heart was easily warmed into expressions of the deepest love,
and quickly melted to tears.
At one time we behold him, with that quick impetuosity which so
peculiarly distinguished him, cutting off the ear of a high priest’s
servant; at another, going out into retirement, and weeping with
intense bitterness.
In no instance is his ardent temperament more plainly shown, than
the one in which Christ appears to His disciples by the dim twilight
of morning on the shores of Galilee. It is he who hastily girds his
fisher’s coat about him, casts himself into the sea and swims with
longing earnestness to the shore.
It is true there are some acts in this noble apostle’s life over which
we should like to throw the mantle of forgetfulness; yet there is much
worthy of admiration and imitation.
No one ever suffered more than he on account of his errors; no one
of the apostles labored with more self-denying application for his
Master’s cause; and we are sure no one received a richer reward.
We know not with any degree of certainty how he died, though tradition
informs us that he was crucified, with his head towards the earth, thus
showing he never forgot, to the last hour of his life, that one act of
denial which caused him so many bitter tears, such intense anguish of
spirit.
There are many other lovely characters which, did time permit, we
should love to dwell upon.
Let us read God’s word with more diligence and greater earnestness in
the future than we have in the past: let us lay its sacred truths up in
our hearts, and practice them in our lives.
Oh! let us rejoice, that this lamp does not shed its light on a
chosen few, but that its rays have penetrated many a land of darkened
ignorance and fiendish cruelty, scattering joy and happiness in
habitations where sorrow and misery once had their abode.
Let us thank God, that leaves from this Tree of Life have been wafted
by propitious breezes throughout the length and breadth of the world.
They are to be found in the hut of the Esquimaux, the hovel of the
African, the wigwam of the Indian, in the cottage of the laborer, in
the palace of the lord, floating on the surface of the Ganges, fringing
the borders of the Nile.
’Tis a fountain ever bursting,
Whence the weary may obtain
Water for the soul that’s thirsting,
And shall never thirst again.
’Tis a lamp forever burning,
By whose never-dying light,
Sinners, from their errors turning,
Are directed through the night.
’Tis a mine of richest treasure,
Laden with the purest ore;
And its contents, without measure,
You can never well explore.
’Tis a chart that never fails you,
Which God to man has given,
And, though rudest storms assail you,
Will guide you safe to heaven.
’Tis a tree whose fruits unfailing,
Cheer and stay the fainting soul,
And whose leaves, the nations healing,
Scatter joy from pole to pole.
’Tis a pearl of price exceeding
All the gems in ocean found;—
_To its precepts ever listening,
In its truths may I abound_.
RURAL RETIREMENT, Va.
* * * * *
“WHO SHALL BE THE GREATEST?”
No. 1.
A TEACHER of great wisdom is seated in the midst of a class of
students, who long have hung with breathless silence on the wonderful
words which fall from his lips. His class is composed of persons from
nearly all conditions and callings of life. Some have been nurtured
on the bosom of the deep; some dwelt from early childhood under the
shadows of venerable mountains, and caught from them true nobility
and loftiness of soul; others, doubtless, spent their days in the
peaceful pursuits of husbandry; while one, at least, has lived amid
the active duties of public life, demanding, perhaps, with Shylock
relentlessness, the uttermost farthing from the hand of his debtor.
As they sit at the feet of their instructor, what diversity of
disposition meets our eye. One is impulsive, ardent, passionate; by
his side sits another, of fervent love, gentle mildness, unshaken
confidence; another is evidently very skeptical—sometimes doubting the
truthfulness of his own vision; by his side is one whose heart is as
guileless as that of a little child; while not far off, is another, of
calculating mind and heart, as black as night with vile hypocrisy.
What is the question which has so deeply absorbed their thoughts?—It
is one which they have been discussing by the wayside—for their cheeks
would burn with shame did they think their Master suspected such
feelings ever throbbed in their bosoms. It is this:—