cast of mind, regular in his habits, careful in forming his
associations, kind and dutiful as a son and brother. He ever proved a
help and solace to his mother in the family circle, where he was the
oldest child. In pursuing his course of studies he evinced industry of
application, and sustained an excellent standing in his classes. His
regular and interested attendance on the exercises of the
Sabbath-school, as well as the services of the sanctuary; his conduct in
the family circle, and the developments of the closing scenes of his
life, all tend to form the conviction that divine truth had obtained a
lodgment in his mind by the sanctifying influence of the Holy Spirit. At
the interesting period of nineteen years, full of hope and promise, the
seeds of pulmonary disease sprang forth within him. In the fall of 1850,
he began to cough, and since then, with variations as to its severity,
it continued with him, and his friends marked that it became deeply
seated, and apprehended its probable termination. He, however, retained
his active habits and course of study till last fall. His earnest
attention to sermons, his occasional remarks on their evangelical and
practical character as profitable, and his prayerful reading of the
Bible, showed the influence divine truth was exerting upon him. The
sickness and rapid decline of his brother Joseph was to him most
affecting, as they had grown up from childhood together in uninterrupted
intercourse and love. In his feeble state of health, he saw his beloved
brother hastening to death and the grave, while their dear mother was
yearning over both in view of their spiritual welfare. While everything
indicated a deep interest in the matter of the soul's salvation, doubts
and difficulties prevented him from finding joy and peace in believing.
About ten days before his death, and just before the death of Joseph, he
received the remarkable letter from his Uncle Scudder which wrought
powerfully on his mind, and followed by Joseph's death, was doubtless
instrumental, under the divine blessing, in leading him to the decision
of giving himself to the Savior by the profession of his faith. The
Sabbath, January 11, on the morning of which Joseph died, was indeed a
memorable and impressive one in many of its associations. De Witt had
just made profession of his faith, and was admitted into the communion
of the Presbyterian Church in Canal street, of which the Rev. Mr.
Carpenter is pastor, and was carried into the church to unite with God's
people in celebrating the Lord's supper, and it was just at the
expiration of the two months of special prayer by his uncle in India.
When his mother, this morning, announced to him the death of his
brother, he just exclaimed, with much emotion, "Is Joseph dead? Then I
have no brother." He left the room for a moment and returned, saying,
"Mother, we have no cause to mourn. Joseph is only gone to the new
Jerusalem, where dear father was waiting to receive him," and then
calmly prepared himself for the sacramental service in the church before
him. The writer of this had an interview with him the following morning
(Monday). Everything conspired to render the scene impressive. As I saw
the remains of Joseph, I observed in the appearance of De Witt the
indications of approaching death, and heard the account of his
attendance at the Lord's table on the preceding day. After conversation,
he asked me to pray that it would please God to spare his life that he
might be a support and comfort to his mother, and be permitted to labor
for Christ. I replied that such desires were in themselves worthy, but
that I strongly felt it would be with him as with David in whose heart
was the desire to build the house of God. God accepted the desire, but
denied him the work, and assigned it to another. I told him that I must
affectionately tell him that every indication denoted that the Savior
was preparing him shortly to enter upon his service in heaven, and that
he would soon join his brother, whose mortal remains were then waiting
for the tomb. He received this without agitation, and calmly replied
that he then wished me to pray that it would please God to impart and
preserve to him the light of his countenance, and his divine peace, and
enable him to glorify Him during the little portion of time which might
still be allotted to him on earth. His mother states she does not
remember after this to have heard him say much about living, and that
only as connected with the service of his Savior. His mind, which had
been opening to the light and peace of the Gospel, became more and more
established in the faith of Christ, and enriched with the comforts of
the Spirit. While his body was fast wasting, his soul as rapidly grew
strong. There has rarely been a more striking growth in grace, calm and
substantial, free from all vain excitements and feverish heats. Many
interesting incidents connected with the spirit he displayed, and the
words he uttered during the week following my interview with him just
alluded to, are treasured up in the heart's memory. But there is no room
for details until we reach the closing scene, from Friday to Monday,
January 19. I shall copy from some memoranda furnished by the mother.
She had before urged that he should pray in view of continued life only
for strength to speak of the goodness of the Lord in the land of the
living, and thus live a long life in the little time spared to him. This
seemed to be verified. Mrs. Hunt writes: "On Friday morning he arose as
usual, and reclined on the sofa. He was weak, and his throat sore, so
that he could only swallow liquids. When the physician visiting him
left, I told him that he thought him very low, but I requested him to
remember what his beloved minister had told him, to look away from death
to Jesus and Heaven; he exclaimed, 'O death, where is thy sting? O
grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength
of sin is the law; but thanks to God, who giveth me the victory, through
my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.' He expressed the delightful thought
that he would be where 'the Lamb would feed him, lead him to living
waters, and wipe away all tears from his eyes.' Sometimes he would say,
'Precious Savior. Mother, what would I do without such a Savior?
Precious hope, what would I do without such a hope?' And then he would
speak of the mansions in Heaven. The 27th and 40th Psalms, which his
dear father had selected for us a short time before his death, that we
might read them for our comfort after he was gone, were given. When the
27th was commenced he took it up and repeated the whole. On Saturday he
had severe pain in the lungs, and thought his end near. Several of his
friends called, and he noticed them all distinctly. He addressed two of
his fellow-students in the University in an affectionate appeal to what
he supposed their spiritual condition. In a conversation with Rev. Mr.
C., he said that if God had been pleased to spare his life, he should
have felt himself consecrated to the ministry and missionary service;
and expressed the calm assurance of his faith. Prayer was offered that
he might spend one more precious Sabbath on earth. The night passed, and
the Sabbath came. My child exclaimed, soon after waking, '_Precious
Sabbath_,' and his eyes beamed with hallowed feeling. I said, 'Dear son,
can you truly say this morning that you feel the peace of God which
passeth understanding?' He raised his eyes and replied, most
impressively, '_Oh, yes_.' He said with delight, 'Mother, O think that
Joseph is now by the river of the water of life.' He said also to me,
'Mother, you will not weep for me?' I replied, 'If I do joy will mingle
with my tears.' He continued, 'I shall be nearer to you in Heaven than
in India' (alluding to his purpose, if his life should be spared, to be
a missionary in India). I asked him what message I should send to his
Uncle Scudder. He said, 'Tell him I think my heart was in the right
place when his letter reached me, or I know not what I should have
done.' Two friends came in. De Witt said, 'I thought I should have spent
part of this day around the throne in heaven.' And one (a pious young
college companion) said to the other, 'If this be dying, I envy him.'
After service in the afternoon, Rev. Mr. Carpenter came in with two of
his elders, and three other Christian friends were present. Singing was
proposed; De Witt was delighted with the thought of it, and selected the
hymns. '_Come, thou fount of every blessing_,' was sung first. My child
could not join with his voice, but stretched out his arm, and with his
arm, having the forefinger extended, beat the time. It was a touching,
solemn scene; the singing filled the room, and seemed to go up to
Heaven. After we had ended the second hymn, '_Rise, my soul, and stretch
thy wings_,' he exclaimed, 'I thought I was almost in heaven.' On
Sabbath night, about ten o'clock, he inquired of a friend, 'whether she
did not think he would soon die?' I went to him and asked him if he felt
any change that induced him to ask the question. He replied, 'Everything
seems to fail.' I then talked to him about the Savior being with him
when he passed through the dark valley, and added, 'Dear son, I will
give you up to the Lord.' Directly he said, 'I am now ready any moment
to say, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.' He afterward repeated 'Lord
Jesus, receive my spirit. The Lord is my light and my salvation. Of whom
shall I be afraid? It is better to die than live.' A little before six
o'clock he looked intensely upon me. I asked what he wished to give
me?--his farewell kiss, which he repeated several times. He then again
gave me an intense look. I said, 'My son, God will take care.' He
replied, 'I know he will.' He shook hands with two of his youthful
companions, and sent a message to the brother of one of them, expressive
of his solicitude for his spiritual welfare. I said to him, 'I have
taken care of you these nineteen years, for the Lord.' He said, 'Yes,
these nineteen years,' but did not proceed. He asked one of his friends
to pray, which he did. After this he ceased to speak, and sank,
continuing to breathe hard, without a struggle, until the precious
spirit took its everlasting flight a little before eight o'clock,
January 19."
I have thus given, from the notes furnished by the bereaved and
mourning, but grateful and comforted mother, a sketch of the closing
hours and dying scene of this youth, which, in connection with the
similar scene in the younger brother, beautifully and strongly
illustrates the precious trust committed to mothers, the importance and
value of maternal influence, and the encouragement to its faithful and
wisely-directed exercise.
T. D. W.
* * * * *
Original.
THE WASTED GIFT; OR, "JUST A MINUTE."
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy
might."--ECCLESIASTES 9:10.
(Continued from page 128.)
That evening a little schoolmate came to visit her; they played several
amusing games, and Emily staid up much past her usual hour. The next
morning when her mother called her, she felt very sleepy, and unwilling
to rise, so instead of jumping up at once, she turned her head on the
pillow thinking "I will get up in a minute." But in less than that
minute she was fast asleep again, and did not awake until aroused by
Mary the nurse, whose voice sounded close in her ear, exclaiming,
"Why, Miss Emily, are you in bed yet! Here have I been looking all
through the house and garden for you. Jump up quick, breakfast is just
over."
You may be sure Emily did not wait a second bidding, but hurrying on her
clothes, hastened down stairs without even thinking about saying her
prayers, which no little child should ever forget to do, because it is
the kind and merciful God who keeps us safely through the night, and our
first thoughts when we awaken should be gratitude to him for protecting
us, and we should pray to Him to keep us all day out of sin and danger,
and teach us how to improve the time which He has intrusted to our care.
Emily thought of none of these things, but ran down to the
breakfast-room, feeling rather ashamed of being so late. Her papa had
finished his breakfast, and gone out, and when her mother looked up to
the clock as she entered, she saw that it wanted twenty minutes to nine.
"How very late it is!" thought the little girl, as she hurried off to
school, "mamma always calls me at seven. I did not think I had slept so
long."
Despite all Emily's haste she was too late; school had commenced when
she entered, and worse than all, she did not know her lessons, and was
kept in an hour after the rest were dismissed. She could not study the
evening before, and had depended upon an hour's study before breakfast,
but her unlucky morning nap left her no time to think about lessons
before school, and her consequent disgrace was the punishment. The
little girl returned home that day very unhappy.
Emily had not forgotten the conversation about the wasted gift, and had
determined to give no opportunity for her mother to complain. She
thought she was very careful that week, but never imagined how much of
the precious gift she wasted each day in idleness.
The day after her unfortunate disgrace in school, she brought down
several articles of dress that needed repairing, and seated herself at
the window to work. Her mother had promised to take her out with her,
and Emily had to finish her mending first. She plied the needle very
steadily for a while, but presently her attention was attracted by the
opposite neighbors.
"Look, mamma," she exclaimed, "there is Mrs. Dodson and Lucy; they are
just going out, and Lucy has on a new hat."
"Well, my dear," returned her mother quietly, "it is not unusual for
people to get new bonnets at this season."
Emily felt a little abashed at this reply, but could not refrain from
casting furtive glances across the way. The afternoon was fine, and the
street filled with well-dressed people. The little girl watched the
passers-by, holding her needle listlessly in her fingers, and presently
cried out,
"Did you see that lady, mamma? How oddly she was dressed."
"No," answered Mrs. Manvers, "I am attending to my work now, but I hope
soon to join the promenaders myself."
Emily stole a glance at her mother to see whether her countenance
implied reproof, but Mrs. Manvers's eyes were fixed upon her work and
the little girl again endeavored to fix her attention upon her sewing.
At length Mrs. Manvers rose and put aside her work-basket. "I am going
to dress, Emily," she said.
"Very well, mother, I will be ready in a minute," replied her daughter,
and she followed her mother up stairs.
Emily tossed over her bureau in vain to find a clean pair of pantalets,
and then she remembered of having taken several pairs down stairs to
mend. She ran hastily down and selected the best pair. Some of the
button-holes were torn out, but she could not wait to mend them now, so
hastily pinning on the pantalets, she dressed and joined her mother.
As they pursued their walk, Emily felt something about her feet, and
looking down discovered her pantalets; she hastily stooped to pull them
off and the pin scratched her foot severely. Mrs. Manvers saw all this,
but said nothing; she knew that her daughter had wasted time enough to
have mended all her pantalets, and she added another hour to the already
long account of wasted minutes in her memorandum.
The following day was Friday, and it was part of Emily's duties on this
day to arrange her bureau-drawers and put her closet in order. She went
up stairs after dinner with this intention, but there were so many
little gifts and keep-sakes in her drawers, to be successively admired
and thought over, so many sashes to unfold, and odd gloves to be paired,
that the whole afternoon was consumed, and the tea-bell rang before she
had quite finished the second drawer, and consequently the duty of that
day remained to be finished on the next.
"Well, my little girl," said her father the next morning, "I hope you
will have my handkerchief nicely hemmed by this afternoon; you have had
it several days now, and I suppose it is nearly finished. I shall want
it, as I am going away after dinner."
"You shall have it, papa," replied Emily. She did not like to tell him
the handkerchief was not yet commenced, as she felt quite sure she could
finish it in time, and determined to begin immediately after breakfast.
When she went up stairs to get the handkerchief out of her drawer she
saw her bureau was yet in disorder. "Mamma will be displeased to see
this," she thought, "and I shall have time enough to put it in order and
hem papa's handkerchief beside." She went eagerly to work, but the
bureau took her longer than she anticipated, and when her father came
home to dinner she had not finished his handkerchief.
Now she made her needle fly, but her industry came too late; her father
could not wait, and Emily had the mortification of hearing him say:
"I hope my handkerchief will not be like my gloves, that you kept so
long to mend, and mamma had to finish after all."
She cried bitterly after he was gone, but managed through her tears to
finish the handkerchief at last, and carried it to her mother, asking
her to beg her papa's forgiveness.
After tea was over, Mrs. Manvers called Emily to her, and folding her
arm fondly around the little girl's waist, pointed to a small book lying
open upon the table, saying as she did so:
"Do you remember, my love, our conversation last Saturday night upon the
subject of your gifts?"
"Oh, yes, mamma, and you told me you would keep an account of my
ill-usage of one of them."
"I have done so, my dear, and now tell me can you not imagine what this
gift is which you so much abuse?"
"Indeed, I cannot, mamma," replied the little girl with a sigh. Mrs.
Manvers placed the memorandum book in her daughter's hand without saying
a word.
There, written at the head of the page, were these words:
"_Emily's Waste of Time._"
and beneath was quite a long column of figures, and a list of duties
unfulfilled.
"Oh, mamma," cried Emily, throwing herself upon her mother's breast, "it
is time, precious time, that is the gift I waste; but surely I have not
spent so many idle minutes in just one week."
"I am sorry to say that you have, my dear daughter, all these and even
more. I have promised to keep an account, and I have done so; add them
up and see how many there are."
Emily added up the figures with tearful eyes, and said, "there are four
hundred and twenty, mamma."
"And how many hours does that make, Emily?"
The little girl thought a moment, and then answered,
"Seven hours."
"Very well; then you see you waste seven hours in a week, which would
make three hundred and sixty-four in a year, and if you should live the
allotted period of life, which would be sixty years from the present
time, you will willfully waste twenty one thousand eight hundred and
forty hours of the precious time God has given you in which to work out
His will."
"Oh, dear mamma, it does not seem possible; I am sure I don't know how
the time slips away," said Emily, sadly.
"I will tell you, my love," replied Mrs. Manvers. "It slips away in just
a minute; as uncounted drops of water form the sea, so do millions of
minutes make up the sum of life; but so small are they that they pass
without our heeding them, yet once gone they come back to us no more.
Time is the one talent, the precious gift which God has bestowed upon
all his creatures, and which we are bound to improve. Every hour brings
its duty, and do you think it is right, Emily, to leave that duty
unfulfilled?"
Emily hung her head, while tears slowly coursed down her cheek.
"Do you not see, my dear, that by idling away the precious moments you
crowd the duty of one hour into the next, so your task can never be
finished, or at best very imperfectly? If you reflect, the experience of
the past week will tell you this. I have kept this memorandum on purpose
to convince you of your sinful waste of that most precious of all
gifts,--the time which our Master allows us here to work out our
happiness hereafter. Remember, my love, that you are accountable to Him
for your use of His gifts, and a proper improvement of time will not
only save you many mortifications and produce much pleasure and comfort
to yourself and all about you, but it is a duty you owe to the God who
bestowed it. Do not think me unnecessarily earnest, my dear little girl;
the subject is of fearful importance, and this habit of putting off till
to-morrow what should be done to-day, is your greatest fault. Remember
hereafter that 'Whatsoever thine hand findeth to do, do it now with all
thy might,' and then I shall have no more occasion to remind you of the
wasted gift."
Emily never forgot the lesson of that week, but gradually overcame the
evil habits of idleness and procrastination which were becoming fixed
before she was made fully aware of their danger, and a long life of
usefulness attested the good impression left upon her mind by her
mother's memorandum of "The Wasted Gift."
* * * * *
Original.
FAULT FINDING--THE ANTIDOTE.
"Will you excuse me, mother," said a bright looking boy of twelve or
thirteen to his mother, as soon as he had finished his meat and potato.
"Yes, if you wish." "And may I be excused too, mother?" cried his little
brother of some six or seven years. "Yes, dear, if there is any occasion
for such haste, but why do you not wish for your pudding or fruit?" "Oh,
Charley is going to show me something," replied the happy little boy, as
he eagerly hastened from his seat, and followed his brother to the
window, where they were both speedily intent upon a new bow and arrow,
which had just been presented to Charley by a poor wandering Indian, to
whom he had been in the habit of giving such little matters as his means
would allow. Sometimes a little tobacco for his pipe, a pair of his
father's cast-off boots or a half-worn pair of stockings, and sometimes
he would beg of his mother a fourpence, which instead of purchasing
candy for himself was slid into the hand of his aboriginal friend, and
whenever he came, a good warm dinner was set before him, under Charley's
special direction. He loved the poor Indian, and often told his mother
he would always help an Indian while he had the power, for "Oh, how
sorry I am that they are driven away from all these pleasant lands," he
often used to say, "and are melting away, like the snows in April.
Mother, I should think they would hate the sight of a white man." But
the poor Indian is grateful for kindness from a white man, and this day
as Charley came from school, poor Squantum was sitting at the corner of
the house waiting for him, with a fine long smooth bow, and several
arrows. "I give you this," he said, "for you always good to Squantum;"
and without waiting for Charley's thanks, or accepting his earnest
invitation to come in and get some dinner, he strode away. Charley was
wild with delight. He flew to the house with his treasure, but the
dinner-bell rang at that moment. He could not find in his heart to put
it out of his hand, so he took it with him, and seated himself at the
table, and as soon as his hunger was appeased, he nodded to his brother
and hurried to show him his precious gift. The family were quietly
conversing and finishing their dinner, when crash! and smash! went
something! Poor Charley! In the eagerness of his delight, while showing
the beautiful bow to his brother, he had brought the end of it within
the handle of a large water-pitcher, which stood on the side table near
him, and alas, the twirl was too sudden--the poor pitcher came to the
floor with a mighty emphasis. "Boy! what are you about? What have you
done? What do you mean by such carelessness? Will you break everything
in the house, you heedless fellow? I'd rather you had broken all on the
table than that pitcher, you young scapegrace. Take that, and learn to
mind what you are about, or I'll take measures to make you." And with a
thorough shaking, and a sound box on the ear, the father quitted the
room, took his hat, and marched to his office, there to explain the law,
and obtain _justice_ for all offenders. But alas for Charley! How great
was the change of feeling in his boyish heart. His mother looked for a
moment with an expression of fear and sorrow upon her countenance, and
telling a servant to wipe up the water he had spilled--she took his hand
gently to lead him away. For a moment he repulsed her, and stood as if
transfixed with astonishment and rage. But he could not withstand her
pleading look, and she led him to her own room. As soon as the door
closed upon them, his passion burst forth in words. "Father treats me
like a dog. I never will bear it--never, never, another day. Mother, you
know I did not not mean to do a wrong thing, and what right has my
father to shake and cuff me as if I were a vile slave? Mother, I'll
break the house down itself if he treats me so--to box my ears right
before all the family! And last night he sent me out of the room, so
stern, just because I slammed the door a little. I was glad he had to go
to the office, and I wish he would stay there--"
"Hush, hush, my son, what are you saying? Stop, for a moment, and think
what you are saying of your own kind father! Charles, my son, you are
adding sin to sin. Sit down, my dear child, and crush that wicked spirit
in the bud." And she gently seated him in a chair, and laying her cool
hand upon his burning brow, she smoothed his hair, and pressing her lips
to his forehead, he felt her tears. "Mother, mother, you blessed good
mother." His heart melted within him, and he wept as if it would burst.
For a few moments, both wept without restraint, but feeling that the
opportunity for making a lasting impression must not be lost, Mrs.
Arnold struggled to command herself. "Charles, my son, you have
displeased your father exceedingly, and you cannot wonder that he was
greatly disturbed. That pitcher, you often heard him say, was used for
many years in his father's family. It is an old relic which he valued
highly. It was very strong, and has been used by us so long, that it
seemed like a familiar friend. It is not strange that for a moment he
was exceedingly angry to see it so carelessly broken, and oh, my son,
what wicked feelings have been in your heart, what undutiful words upon
your tongue!"
"I cannot help it, mother--I cannot help it," replied the excited boy,
"he ought not to treat me so, and I will not--" "Charles, Charles, you
are wrong, you are very wrong, and I pray you may be sorry for it,"
interrupted his mother, in a tone of the deepest sorrow. "Do not speak
again till you can conquer such a spirit," and they were both silent for
a few moments. The mother's heart went up in fervent prayer that this
might be a salutary trial, and that she might be enabled to guide his
young and hasty spirit aright.