Jesus, and knowing that his infant prayer was answered, and great indeed
was the joy of this young saint, as well as that of the rest of the
household as they saw these two of their precious flock going off to
pray together, not only for themselves, but for an older brother, who
seemed to have no sympathy with them."
"Well," said my friend, "this is indeed as remarkable as any thing I
ever read, and I must say, hearing it from your own lips, has a
tendency to remove that prejudice I have felt toward reading children's
conversion. Did this child live?"
"O, yes, and remains a consistent follower of Jesus; he is now twelve
years old."
"This is a very remarkable case," continued my friend; "very rare
precocity. I have never met with any thing of the kind in my life."
"Yet, I have known several such instances in my short life, one more of
which I must detain you to relate."
TO BE CONTINUED.
* * * * *
Original.
REPORT OF THE MATERNAL ASSOCIATION, PUTNAM, OHIO.
Time, in its rapid flight, my dear sisters, has again brought us to
another anniversary of our Association. It seems but yesterday since we
held our last annual meeting, but while we have been busy here and
there, the fugitive moments have hurried us along almost with the
celerity of thought through another year. Were it not an established
usage of our society, that something like a report be rendered of the
past, the pen of your secretary would have remained silent. The thought
has often arisen, what foundation have I for giving that which will be
of any interest to those who may come together? It is true that each
month has witnessed the quiet assembling of a little band in this
consecrated place, but how small the number! Have we _all_ been here,
with united hearts, glowing with love for the souls of our children, and
feeling that we had power with God, that we had in our possession that
key which is said to unlock heaven, and bring down precious blessings
upon those committed to our charge? Have not family cares been suffered,
too often, to detain some from the place of meeting? and their absence
has thrown the chill air of despondency over those who _were_ here. The
average attendance during the year has been but five, while fourteen
names are upon the record as members. Are we manifesting that interest
in this important cause which those did who were the original founders
of this society? Almost all of those are now absent, several have
removed to other places; two, we trust, have long since been joining in
the praises, and participating in the enjoyments, of heaven; and others,
by reason of illness or the infirmities of age, are usually detained
from the place of prayer. But we trust their hearts are with us; and
shall we not endeavor to be faithful representatives of those whose
places we now occupy? Have we not motives sufficient to stimulate us to
a more diligent discharge of duty? God has given to us jewels of rare
beauty, no gem from mountain or mine, no coral from the ocean's flow,
can compare with them. And they are of priceless value too; Christ's
blood alone could purchase them, and this He gave, gave freely too, that
they might be fitted to deck His diadem of glory. He has encased these
gems in caskets of exquisite workmanship, and given them to us, that we
may keep them safely, and return them to Him when He shall ask them of
us. Shall we be negligent of this trust? Shall we be busy, here and
there, and suffer the adversary of souls to secure them to himself? We
know that God is pleased to accept the efforts of the faithful mother;
his language to us is, "Take this child and nurse it for _me_, and I
will give thee thy wages." But on this condition alone, are we to
receive the reward promised that they be trained for His service. And
have we not the evidence, even now, before us of the fulfillment of His
precious promise? Those of us who were privileged on the last Sabbath to
witness the consecration of that band of youthful disciples to the
Savior, felt that the efforts of faithful mothers _had_ been blessed,
their prayers _had_ been answered, and when we remembered that six of
those loved ones were the children of our little circle, and others were
intimately connected with some of our number, we felt our confidence in
God strengthened, and I trust all gained new encouragement to labor for
those who were yet out of the ark of safety. There are others of our
number with whom God's Spirit has been striving, and even now His
influences are being felt. Shall they be resisted, and those thus
influenced go farther from Him who has died that they might live?
Not many years since I was permitted to stand by the death-bed of a
mother in Israel. Her sons were there, and as she looked at them with
eyes in which we might almost see reflected the bright glories of the
New Jerusalem, she exclaimed, "Dear sons, I shall meet you all in
heaven." Why, we were led to ask, does she say this? Two of them had
already reached the age of manhood, and had as yet refused to yield
obedience to their Heavenly Father. But she trusted in her
covenant-keeping God, she had given them to Him; for them she had
labored and prayed, and she _knew_ that God delighted to answer prayer.
We realized the ground of her confidence, when tidings came to us, ere
that year had expired, that one of those sons, far away upon the ocean,
with no Sabbath or sanctuary privileges within his reach, had found the
Savior precious to his soul. The other, ere long, became an active
member of the church on earth. Is not our God the same in whom she so
implicitly trusted, and will He not as readily bless our efforts as
hers, if we are truly faithful?
We are all, I trust, prepared to-day to render a tribute of praise to
our Heavenly Father, who has so kindly preserved us during the year now
passed. As we look around our little circle we find no place made vacant
by death, I mean of those who have been the attendants upon our meeting.
We do not forget that the messenger has been sent to the family of our
eldest sister, and removed that son upon whom she so confidently leaned
for support. He who so assiduously improved every opportunity to
minister to her comfort and happiness, has been taken, and not only
mother and sisters have been bereaved, but children, too, of this
association have, by this providence, been made orphans. We trust _they_
have already realized that precious promise, "When my father and mother
forsake me, then the Lord will take me up;" and may He whose judgments
are unsearchable, and His ways past finding out, enable that sorely
afflicted mother to say, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."
What the events of the coming year are to be, as it regards ourselves,
we know not. We would not lift the curtain to gaze into futurity; but
may we each have strength and wisdom given us to discharge faithfully
every duty, that whether living or dying we may be accepted of God!
SARAH A. GUTHRIE, _Secretary._
* * * * *
THE EDITOR'S TABLE.
The steamer _Humboldt_, after a long passage, having encountered heavy
seas, and been obliged to put into port for repairs, has just arrived.
She has proved herself a stanch vessel, thoroughly tested her sea-going
qualities, and escaped dangers which would have wrecked an ordinary
steamer. Her passengers express the utmost confidence in the vessel and
her officers, and advise travelers to take passage in her.
_Our_ bark has now accomplished a voyage, during which it met many
dangers and delays which as thoroughly tested its power and capacity;
and we too meet with expressions of kindness and confidence, some of
which we venture to extract from letters which the postman has just laid
on our table.
A lady, residing near Boston, writes thus: "Permit me to assure you, my
dear Madam, of my warmest interest in you and your work, and of my
earnest desire that your enterprise may prove a successful one. Your
work certainly deserves a wide circulation, and has in my opinion a
stronger claim upon the patronage of the Christian public than any other
with which I am acquainted. You must have met with embarrassments in
commencing a new work, and hence, I suppose, the occasional delays in
the issuing of your numbers."
A lady from Michigan writes: "My dear Mrs. W., we rejoice in the success
which has thus far attended your efforts in the great work of your
life. May their results, as manifested in the lives and characters of
the children of the land, for many many years, prove that your labors
were not in vain, in the Lord. We were beginning to have some anxiety as
to the success of your Magazine from not receiving it as early as we
expected; no other periodical could fill its place. May you, dear Madam,
long be spared to edit it, and may you have all the co-operation and
patronage you need."
A friend says: "Our pleasant interview, after a lapse of years, and
those years marked by many vicissitudes, has caused the tide of feelings
to ebb and flow till the current of my thoughts is swollen into such a
stream of intensity as to lead me, through this channel of
communication, to assure you of my warmest sympathy and my deep interest
in the important work in which you have been so long engaged. It was
gratifying to learn from your lips that amid the varied trials which
have been scattered in your pathway God has been your refuge and
strength--a very present help in trouble, and cheering to hear your
widowed heart sing of mercy and exult in the happiness of that precious
group who have gone before you into the eternal world." * * *
"My dear friend, may the sentiments and doctrines inculcated in your
work drop as the rain, and distill as the dew, fertilizing and
enlivening the sluggish soul, and encouraging the weary and heavy-laden.
I know you need encouragement in your labor of love, and as I expect
soon to visit M----, when I shall greet that precious Maternal
Association to which I belonged for so many years, and which has so
often been addressed by you, through the pages of your Magazine, as well
as personally, I shall hope to do something in increasing the
circulation of the work there. * *
"Your friend,
"E. M. R."
We have many other letters from which we might make similar extracts,
but our purpose in making the above was to give us an opportunity to say
to our friends, that our bark is again ready for sea, with the
flattering prospect of making a pleasant voyage, and that our sails are
trimmed and need but the favoring breeze to speed it on its way.
* * * * *
Original.
COUSIN MARY ROSE; OR, A CHILD'S FIRST VISIT.
BY GEORGIANA MAY SYKES.
How capricious is memory, often retaining through life trivial and
transient incidents, in all the freshness of minute details, while of
far more important events, where laborious effort has been expended to
leave a fair and lasting record, but faint and illegible traces
frequently remain!
Far back in my childhood, so far that I am at a loss where to place it,
is a little episode, standing so far apart from the main purport of its
history, that I do not know how it happened, or whether the original
impression was deepened by its subsequent recurrence. This was a visit
to the village of W----, the home of my Cousin Mary Rose.
I remember distinctly the ride; short it must have been, since it was
but four or five miles from home, but it seemed long to me then. There
was great elation of spirits on my part, and no particular excitement;
but a very sedate pace on the part of our old horse, to whose swinging
gait a monotonous creaking of the old-fashioned chaise kept up a steady
response, not unharmonious, as it was connected in my mind with the idea
of progress. I remember the wonders of the way, particularly my awe of a
place called Folly Bridge, where a wide chasm, filled with many
scattered rocks, and the noisy gurgle of shallow water, had resulted
from an attempt to improve upon the original ford. Green fields, and
houses with neat door-yards, thickened at last into a pretty village,
with a church and school-house, stores and workshops. Then, turning from
the main street, near the church, we took a quiet lane, which soon
brought us to a pause, where our wheels indented the turf of a green
slope, before the gate of a long, low dwelling, half buried in ancient
lilac trees. This was the home of Aunt Rose, who, though no veritable
aunt of mine, was one of those choice spirits, "to all the world akin,"
around whose memory lingers the fragrance of deeds of kindness. Here, by
special invitation, I had come on a visit--my _first_ visit from home. I
had passed through no small excitement in the prospect of that event. I
had anxiously watched every little preparation made for it, and my own
small packing had seemed momentous. I felt to the full the dignity of
the occasion. The father and mother, the brothers and sisters, the
inseparable and often tedious nursery-maid, Harriet, were all left
behind.
I stood for the first time on my individual responsibility among persons
of whom I had known but little. The monotony of home-life was broken in
upon, and my eyes and ears were both open to receive new impressions.
Doubtless, the careful mother, who permitted me to be placed in this new
situation, was well satisfied that I should be subjected only to good
influences, but had they been evil, I should certainly have been
lastingly affected by them, since every thing connected with the house
and its inmates, the garden, the fields, the walks in the village, lives
still a picture of vivid hues.
What induced the family to desire my company, I do not know; I have an
idea that I was invited because, like many other good people, they liked
the company of children, and in the hope that I might contribute to the
element of home-cheerfulness, with which they liked to surround their
only daughter, my Cousin Mary Rose, whose tall shadowy figure occupies
in my recollections, as it did in reality, the very center of this
household group. That she was an invalid, I gather from many remembered
trifles, such as the constant consideration shown for her strength in
walks and rides, the hooks in the ceiling from which her swing-chair had
formerly hung (at which I used to gaze, thinking it _such_ a pity that
it had ever been removed); her quiet pursuits, and her gentle, and
rather languid manner. She must have been simple and natural, as well as
refined in her tastes, and of a delicate neatness and purity in her
dress. If she was a rose, as her name would indicate, it must have been
a white rose; but I think she was more like a spotted lily. There was
her father, of whom I remember little, except that he slept in his large
arm-chair at noontide, when I was fain to be quiet, and that he looked
kindly and chatted pleasantly with me, as I sat on his knee at twilight.
I found my place at once in the household. If I had any first feelings
of strangeness to be overcome, which is probable, as I was but a timid
child, or if I wept any tears under deserved reproof, or was in any
trouble from childish indiscretions, the traces of these things have all
vanished; nothing remains but the record of long summer-days of delight.
Up and down, in and out, I wandered, at will, within certain limits.
An old cider mill (for such things _were_ in New England) in the orchard
was the remotest verge in one direction; to sit near it, and watch the
horse go slowly round and round, and chat with Chauncey, the youngest
son of the house, who was superintending it, was a great pleasure; but
most of my out-of-doors enjoyments were solitary. I think this must have
given a zest to them, for at home I was seldom alone. I was one of a
little troop of brothers' and sisters, whose pleasures were all _plays_,
gregarious and noisy. It was a new thing to be so quiet, and to give my
still fancies such a range. I was never weary of watching the long
processions of snow-white geese, moving along the turfy sides of the
road, solemn and stately, each garnished with that awkward appendage the
"_poke_," which seemed to me very cruel, since, in my simplicity, I
believed that the perpendicular rod in the center passed, like a spit,
directly through the bird's neck. Then, how inexhaustible were the
resources of the flower garden, on the southern side of the house, into
which a door opened from the parlor, the broad semicircular stone
doorsteps affording me a favorite seat.
What a variety of treasures were spread out before me: larkspurs, from
whose pointed nectaries I might weave "circles without end," varying the
pattern of each by alternate proportions of blue, and pink, and white.
There were foxgloves to be examined, whose depths were so mysteriously
freckled; there were clusters of cowslips, and moss-pinks to be
counted. There were tufts of ribbon-grass to be searched as diligently
as ever merchandise in later days, for perfect matches; there were
morning-glories, and moon-sleeps, and four o'clocks, and evening
primroses to be watched lest they might fail to be true to their
respective hours in opening and shutting. There were poppies, from whose
"diminished heads" the loose leaves were to be gathered in a basket,
(for they might stain the apron,) and lightly spread in the garret for
drying. There were ripe poppy-seeds to be shaken out through the curious
lid of their seed-vessel, in which a child's fancy found a curious
resemblance to a _pepper-box_; I often forced it to serve as one in the
imaginary feasts spread out on the door-step, though there were no
guests to be invited, except plenty of wandering butterflies, or an
occasional humming-bird, whizzing about the crimson blossoms of the
balm. Oh, the delights of Aunt Rose's flower-garden!
Then, there were the chickens to be fed, and the milking of the cows to
be "assisted at," and a chat enjoyed, meanwhile, with good-natured
Nancy, the maid, to stand beside whose spinning-wheel when, in an
afternoon, she found time to set it in motion, herself arrayed in a
clean gown and apron, was another great delight.
But my greatest enjoyments were found in Cousin Mary Rose's pleasant
chamber, which always seemed bright with the sunshine. From its windows
I looked out over fields of grain, and fruitful orchards, and green
meadows, sloping all the way to the banks of the blue Connecticut. I
doubt if I had ever known before that there was any beauty in a
prospect. There was plenty of pleasant occupation for me in that
chamber. I had my little bench, on which I sat at her feet, and read
aloud to her as she sewed, something which she had selected for me.
Though I never had an opportunity of knowing her in years when I was
more capable of judging of character (for we were separated, first by
distance, and now, alas, by death), I am sure that she must at that time
have been of more than the average taste and cultivation among young
ladies. Sure I am that she opened to me many a sealed fountain. My range
of reading had been limited to infant story-books and easy
school-lessons. She took from her book-shelves Cowper, and made me
acquainted with his hares, _Tiny_ and _Bess_, and enlisted my sympathies
for his imprisoned bullfinch. She turned over many leaves of the
_Spectator_ and _Rambler_, till she found for me allegories and tales of
Bagdad and Balsora, and showed me the Vision of Mirza, the Valley of
Human Miseries, and the Bridge of Human Life; I caught something of
their meaning, though I could not grasp the whole, and became so
enamored of them that when I returned home nothing would satisfy me but
the loan of my favorites, that I might share the great pleasure of these
wonderful stories with my friends there. How great was my surprise to
find that the same books held a conspicuous place in the library at
home!
The little pieces of needlework, too, which filled a part of every day,
unlike the tedious, never-ending patchwork of school, were pleasant.
Cousin Mary Rose well understood how to make them so, when she coupled
the setting of the delicate little stitches with the idea of doing a
service or giving a pleasure to somebody. This was a bag for Nancy.
To-morrow, it was a cravat for Chauncey. Now, this same Chauncey was my
special delight, he being a lively youth of eighteen, the only son at
home, with whom, after tea, I had always a merry race, or some
inspiriting game of romps. And then, feat of all, came the hemming of a
handkerchief for Mr. Williams.
But who was Mr. Williams? I had no manner of idea who he was, or what
relation he held to the family, which entitled him to come in
unceremoniously at breakfast, dinner or tea-time, and gave him the
privilege of driving my Cousin Mary Rose over hill and valley for the
benefit of her health. In these rides I often had my share, for my
little bench fitted nicely into the old-fashioned chaise, where I sat
quietly between the two, looking out for wonders with which to interrupt
the talk going on above my head. Not that the talk was altogether
unintelligible to me. It often turned on themes of which I had heard
much. It spoke of God, of heaven, of the goodness and love of the
blessed Savior, of the hopes and privileges of the Christian. I liked
to hear it; there was no constraint in it. They might have talked of any
thing else; but I knew they chose the topic because they liked it,--I
felt that they were true Christians, and that it was safe and good to be
near them. Sometimes the conversation turned on earthly hopes and plans,
and then it became less intelligible to me.
One ride, I remember, which occupied a long summer afternoon. We left
home after an early dinner, and wound our way over hills rocky and
steep, from which we would catch views of the river, keeping always near
its bank, till we came to Mr. Williams's own home, or rather that of his
mother. What a pleasant visit was that! How Mr. Williams's mother and
sisters rejoiced over our coming! What a pet they made of me! and how
much they seemed inclined to pet my Cousin Mary Rose. I have an
indistinct idea of a faint flush passing now and then over the White
Rose. What a joyous, bountiful time it was! Such pears, and peaches, and
apples as were heaped up on the occasion! How social and cheerful was
the gathering around the teatable, lavishly spread with dainties!
How golden and glorious looked the hills, the trees, and the river in
the last rays of the setting sun, as we started from the door on our
return! How the sunset faded to twilight, and the dimness gave place to
the light of the rising moon, long before we reached the door, where
anxious Aunt Rose was watching for us! How much talk there was with the
old people about it all; for I suspect that, in their life of rare
incidents, it was the custom to make much of every thing that occurred.
What an unlading there was of the chaise-box, and bringing to light of
peaches and pears, which kept the journey in remembrance for many days
after!
That night, as on every other night of my stay, my kind cousin saw me
safely placed in my bed, after I had knelt beside her to repeat my
evening prayer. Then, as she bent to kiss me, and gently whispered,
"_God bless thee, child_," she seemed to leave her serene spirit as a
mantle of repose.
When the Sabbath came, I walked hand in hand with her to the village
church. There was much there to distract my attention, particularly in
that rare sight, the ample white wig (the _last of the wigs_ of
Connecticut!) on the head of the venerable minister, who, though too
infirm for much active service, still held his place in the pulpit; but
I listened with all my might, intent on hearing something which I might
remember, and repeat to please Cousin Mary Rose; for I knew that she
would expect me to turn to the text, and would question me whether I had
understood it. I have pleasant hymns too, in recollection, which date
back to this very time. They have outlived the beautiful little purse
which was Mr. Williams's parting gift to me, and the tortoise-shell
kitten, with which Aunt Rose sought to console me, in my grief at seeing
myself sent for to return home. The summons was sudden but peremptory,
and I obeyed it with a sad heart.
I cannot tell how long afterwards it was, for months and years are not
very different in the calendar of childhood, when I was surprised with
the announcement that a change had come over Cousin Mary Rose. She was
changed to Mrs. Williams, and had gone with him, I think, to the South.
I doubt if any trace of the family is still to be found in the pleasant
village which was their home. The parents have gone to their rest. The
younger members removed long ago to the distant West.