that I may the more surely prevail in my suit, let me for a time exert
over thee the mesmeric power; thy bodily eyes being closed, and thy
spirit set free from its encumbering clay, let me introduce thee to
distant scenes.
The hour is midnight,--the place an humble home in far off Michigan. Let
us enter; nothing hinders, for bolts and bars are here unknown. Step
quietly, that we may not disturb the sleeping. Come with me to this
bed-chamber; it is indeed dark, but the spirit does not need material
light. On this rude bed reposes an aged man with whitened locks and
furrowed face, and yonder lies a little child whose tiny feet have yet
taken but few steps on life's rude journey. Listen!--she moves--she is
not asleep. What has wakened thee, gentle one?--the slumbers of
childhood should be undisturbed. She sings--in the silent, lonely night,
with sweet low voice she is singing--
"Jesus, Saviour, Son of God,
Who for me life's pathway trod;
Who for me became a child,
Make me humble, meek, and mild.
I thy little lamb would be,
Jesus, I would follow thee;
Samuel was thy child of old,
Take me now within thy fold."
The old man wakens--she has disturbed him. Shall he stop her?--no; he
loves that little one, and he has not the heart to bid her be silent.
One after another she pours forth her sweet melodies, till at last her
voice grows fainter and fainter, and soon she and her grandfather are
both lying again in unbroken repose. The morning comes. The old man
calls to him the petted one, and says: "Lucy, why did you sing last
night when you should have been asleep? What were you singing?" Stopping
her play she looks up and says brightly--"I was singing to Jesus,
grandpa, and you ought to sing to him, too."
Why does he start and tremble, that stern, gray-headed man? He has lived
more than sixty years an unbeliever--a despiser of the lowly Savior. No
thought of repentance or remorse has afflicted him--no desire has he
ever had to hear the words of eternal life. He has trained up his family
in ignorance of God, and only in _his memory_ has the blessed Sabbath
had a name since he went to his distant western home.
Not long ago a benevolent man passing through the town, gathered some of
the ragged and forsaken little ones into a Sabbath-school, and bestowed
on them the inestimable gift of a few small books. The little Lucy
heard from her young companions the wonderful story, and begged to go.
But she was sternly refused. He wanted nothing with the Sabbath-school.
She could not be pacified, however, and at length with prayers and tears
she was permitted to prevail. She went, and returned with her Testament
and little hymn-book, and with such joy and glee, that even her
grandfather came to think the Sabbath-school an excellent thing. Of that
blessed school he is now a member, and is weekly found studying the word
of God, as humbly and diligently as a little child. The infidel of sixty
years is a penitent follower of that Jesus to whom little Lucy sung her
midnight song, and who out of the mouths of babes often perfects his
praise.
But we cannot tarry here; let us journey on. Our way lies through these
woods. Do you hear the sound of an axe? Yonder is a woodman, and by his
side a little boy. We will approach. Never fear. Spirits cannot be
discerned by mortal eyes, and though we come very near, they will be
unconscious of our presence. How attractive is childhood. The little
fellow is as merry as a lark, and chatters away to his father, who, with
silent absorption pursues his work. Suddenly his axe slips, and a large
limb, which should have fallen in the other direction, descends with
violence upon his foot. Can spirits be deaf at pleasure? If so we will
quickly close our ears, for fearful is the torrent of oaths proceeding
from the mouth of the infuriated man. But where is the child? Look at
him where he stands; his innocent prattle hushed--his whole appearance
and attitude showing the utmost fear and distress. Listen--he
speaks--slowly and solemnly: "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord
thy God in vain." Who made thee a preacher of righteousness, a rebuker
of sin, thou little stray lamb of the Savior's fold? _The
Sabbath-school_,--lone instrument of good in these western wilds, has
taught thee, and thou teachest thy father. Nor is the reproof vain.
Heart-stricken and repentant he is henceforth a new man. "God moves in a
mysterious way, his wonders to perform." But we will on. The woods are
passed, and we emerge again into the highway. Who goes yonder with
painful effort in the road before us? It is a crippled boy. Stop--let us
speak to him. Can spirits converse in human tones? We will try. "Good
morning, my poor boy; are you going far on your crutches over this rough
road?"
"Only to the village, sir, about a mile from this."
"And pray what may be your errand that you make so much effort?"
"Oh, sir, one of the boys, last week, gave me a little book, which told
about God, and heaven, and hell, and I am frightened about my soul, and
I am going to ask the good minister who lives in the village what I
shall do that I may go to heaven."
"God speed and teach thee, and give us to see thee at last among the
ransomed ones."
We have left the village where the "good minister" lived, far behind,
and now we approach a populous town. By our side travels a thoughtful
man, all unwitting of his company. It is the Sabbath, and he has been
ten miles to hear the gospel preached. No church-going bell has as yet
ever gladdened the place which he calls his home. Deep sighs escape from
his breast, as he rides slowly along. He meditates on the wretched
condition of his neighbors and friends. As we approach the town the
sound of voices is heard. The good man listens, and distinguishes the
tones of children familiar and dear. He approaches the hedge from which
they proceed. What anguish is depicted on his face as he gazes on the
boys, sitting under the hedge, on God's holy day, busily engaged _in
playing cards_! Are you a parent, kind reader? Are you a Christian
parent? If so, perhaps you can understand his feelings as he turns
desparingly away, and murmurs to himself--"No preacher of the gospel--no
Sunday-school--no Sabbath day. Alas! what shall save our children?"
Our journey is ended. Every incident which we have imagined we saw, is
recorded in God's book of remembrance as a fact.
My plea is in behalf of those who would establish Sabbath-schools among
the thousands of precious infant souls in the far-off West.
Do you ask what you can do? Perhaps you can increase your donations to
the Home Missionary and Sunday-school Societies. Every dollar goes far,
given to either. But perhaps you are doing all you can in that way. Have
you then no good books lying about your home which have done their work
for your loved ones, and can be dispensed with? Can you collect among
your friends a dozen or more? Do not think it a small thing. Gather them
together, and put them in some box of clothing which is destined to
Michigan. Every one of those defaced and cast-off books may be a
messenger of life to some starving soul.
More than this you can do. Train your own precious children to value
their abundant privileges, and embue them with the earnest desire to
impart freely what is so freely given. Look upon your son, your pride
and joy. A few years hence may find him living side by side with one of
those unfortunate boys who knew no better than to desecrate the holy day
with gambling. Will he be able to withstand the influences which will
surround him in such society? That, under God, depends on your prayers
and efforts. Ask earnestly for grace to prepare him to do the blessed
work, wherever he goes, of winning souls to Christ, and not be himself
enticed to evil. Your daughter--your gentle, bright-eyed one--over whom
your heart yearns with unspeakable tenderness--her home may be yet
appointed far toward the setting sun. For her sake, lend all your
influence to the good work of saving those rapidly populating towns from
the dominion of evil. Labor and pray, and day by day, instil into her
young mind the principles which governed her Savior's earthly life--who
went about doing good, and who valued not the riches of heaven's glory
that he might redeem souls.
SIGMA.
* * * * *
Original.
THE STUPID, DULL CHILD.
There is always great danger of wounding the sensibilities of a timid,
retiring child. It requires great forbearance and discrimination on the
part of parents and teachers, in their endeavors to develop the latent
faculties of the minds of such children, (whether this dullness is
natural, or the effect of untoward circumstances,) without injuring the
sensibilities of the heart.
This is especially true at the present day, when the world is laying
such heavy demands upon the time and attention of parents.
We not unfrequently hear a father confessing, with regret, to be sure,
but without any apparent endeavors to obviate the evil, that his time
and thoughts are so absorbed in the cares of his business, that his
little children scarcely recognize him, as he seldom returns to his
family, till they are in bed, and goes forth to his business before they
are up in the morning.
This is, indeed, a sad evil, and if possible ought to be remedied. How
can we expect that such a father will understand the peculiar temper and
dispositions of his children so as to aid a mother in their proper
training? Perhaps in some cases such evils cannot be remedied.
But, alas! what heavy responsibilities does such neglect, on the part of
the father, devolve upon the mother! Methinks the circumstances of such
a mother may be even more difficult to meet than if she were a widow!
We invite the attention of parents to a consideration of this topic and
some of the evils growing out of the wrong treatment of timid, dull
children. We can do no more at present than attempt to show, in a given
case, how such an existing evil was cured by forbearance and kindness.
The illustration is taken from "Pictures of Early Life," in the case of
a little girl by the name of Lilias Tracy.
This poor child, though her father was rich, and held an honorable
station in society, yet on account of her mother's sorrows, and
subsequent insanity, her poor child, Lilias, who was allowed to remain
with her mother, was brought up in an atmosphere of sadness, and it was
no wonder that she became melancholy and reserved.
After the death of her mother, her father understood too little of the
character of his only child to be able to afford her much solace, and he
therefore determined to send her to a boarding-school.
If there be a trial which exceeds a child's powers of endurance, it is a
first entrance into a boarding-school. Little Lilias felt at once this
painful situation in all its bitterness.
Shy and sensitive at all times, she had never felt so utterly forlorn,
as when she first found herself in the play-ground belonging to Mrs.
Bellamy's school.
Not only was she timid and shy, but the necessity of being always with
her mother to soothe the paroxysms of distress, had deprived Lilias of
many opportunities of education, and she was therefore far less advanced
in knowledge than most of her companions. Numberless were the
mortifications to which she was obliged to submit on account of her
ignorance, while her timidity and shyness increased in proportion to the
reproofs of her teachers, and the ridicule of her schoolfellows. She at
length came to be regarded as one of those hopelessly dull pupils who
are to be found cumbering the benches of every large school, and but for
her father's wealth and honorable station in society, she would,
probably, have been sent away in disgrace.
Fortunately, Providence raised up for poor Lilias, at this juncture, a
kind friend and patient teacher in a schoolfellow, by the name of
Victorine Horton. This amiable young lady, seeing the trials and
mortifications of this sensitive child, begged Mrs. Bellamy to allow
Lilias to become her room-mate, and she would assist her in her lessons.
Some few weeks after this arrangement took place, Victorine was accosted
thus--
"How can you waste so much time on that _stupid_ child, Miss Horton?"
said one of the teachers. "She does not seem to improve any, with all
your pains; she will never repay your trouble."
"I do not despair," said Victorine, smiling. "She is an affectionate
little creature, and if continual dropping will wear away a stone,
surely, repeated kindness will melt the icy mantle of reserve which now
conceals her better qualities."
A happy child was little Lilias, thus to become the companion and
bedfellow of such a kind-hearted friend as she found in Victorine.
Stimulated by affection, she applied herself to her studies, and as
"perfect love casteth out fear," she was enabled to get her lessons, and
to recite them without that nervous timidity which had usually deprived
her of all power.
A few months after Victorine had thus undertaken the charge of Lilias, a
prize was offered, in each class, for the most elegantly written French
exercise. Lilias observed the eagerness of the pupils to compete for the
medals, but she never dreamed of becoming a candidate till Victorine
suggested it.
"I wish you would try to win the prize in your class, dear Lilias," said
Victorine.
"I, Victorine! It would be impossible."
"Why, impossible, Lilias? You have lately made great progress in the
study of French, and if I may judge by your last translation, you will
stand as good a chance as any of the class."
"But, you know, I have your assistance, Victorine, and if I were writing
for the prize I should be obliged to do it all myself."
"I gave you little aid in your last exercises, Lilias, and there are yet
two months before the time fixed for awarding the premiums, so you will
have opportunity enough to try your skill."
"But if I should not succeed, the whole school will laugh at me for
making the attempt."
"No, Lilias; those who possess proper feelings will never laugh at an
attempt to do right, and for those who can indulge an ill-natured jest
at the expense of a schoolfellow's feelings, you need not care. I am
very anxious you should make the attempt."
"Well, if _you_ wish it, Victorine, I will do my best; but I know I
shall fail."
"Do you know how I generally succeed in such tasks, Lilias? It is never
by thinking of the possibility of failure. I have almost forgotten to
say, _I can't_, and have substituted, upon every occasion, _I'll try_."
"Well, then, to please you, Victorine, '_I'll try_,'" said Lilias,
smiling.
"Poor child," thought Victorine, "with your affectionate nature, and
noble principles, it is a pity you should be regarded only as a dull and
sullen little dunce, whom no one cares to waste a thought upon."
For a long time, Lilias' project in regard to the medal was concealed
from the school. To tell the truth, Victorine, herself, had many doubts
as to the success of her little friend, but she knew if she failed to
obtain the prize, the exertion would be of service to herself.
Long before the day arrived, Lilias had twenty times determined to
withdraw from all competition; but she never broke a promise, and as she
had pledged herself to Victorine, she resolved to persevere.
In the sequel, Victorine was surprised at the beauty of the thoughts in
Lilias' exercise, as well as the correctness of the language. She was
satisfied that Lilias had done well; her only fear was lest others
should do better.
At the head of the class to which Lilias belonged was Laura Graham; and
a mutual dislike had always existed between them. Laura was a selfish,
as well as an avaricious girl; and she had often looked with a covetous
eye upon the costly trifles which Lilias' father had bestowed upon his
daughter. To her narrow mind it seemed impossible that Victorine should
not have an interested motive in her kindness to Lilias, and she thought
an opportunity was now offered her of sharing some of her spoils.
About a week before the trial day, Laura G. sought Lilias, and leading
her to a remote part of the garden, she unfolded to her a scheme for
insuring the prize she so much coveted. She proposed to destroy her own
theme, knowing she was one of the best French pupils, thereby securing
the prize to Lilias, on condition she should receive, in return, a pearl
brooch and bracelet she had long coveted. Lilias, as might have been
expected, expressed the greatest contempt and resentment at the
proposal.
When the day arrived, many a little heart beat high with hope and fear.
Victorine, as might have been expected, took the first prize in the
first class. The class to which Lilias belonged was next in order. As
Mrs. Bellamy arose, Lilias perceived she held in her hand two themes,
while before her on the table lay a small box. Addressing Laura Graham,
who sat with an air of conscious superiority at the head of the class,
Mrs. Bellamy said,
"Of the two themes I hold in my hand, the one written by you, Miss
Graham, and the other by Miss Lilias Tracy, I am _sorry_ to say that
_yours_ is best."
Lilias could scarce restrain her tears, as she saw Laura advance,
proudly, towards Mrs. Bellamy, and bend her head as if to receive the
riband that suspended the glittering prize; but what was her surprise,
when Mrs. Bellamy, instead of offering it to Laura, in the usual manner,
handed her a small box, closely sealed.
"As the best French scholar, Miss Graham," said she, "I am compelled to
bestow on you the medal which you will find enclosed in a box; but, as
an act of justice, and a proper punishment for your want of integrity,
(Mrs. B. having casually overheard what passed in the garden), I forbid
you to wear, or exhibit it, for twelve months."
"Come hither," said Mrs. B. to Lilias, as Laura, pale and trembling, and
drowned in tears, hurried in shame and sorrow from the room. Lilias,
scarcely less overwhelmed than her guilty fellow-pupil, advanced with
faultering step, and Mrs. Bellamy, suspending from her neck a small and
highly-finished locket, said:
"I can give but one medal in each class for improvement in French, and
had not Miss Graham been in your class, yours, Miss Tracy would have
been the best; I cannot, however, allow this opportunity to pass without
some lasting memorial of your merit. I therefore present you with a
locket containing the hair of your beloved friend, Victorine, as a
testimonial of my esteem for your integrity and honor."
Poor Lilias! She had never been so happy in her life as when she threw
herself in Victorine's arms, and shed tears of joy upon her bosom.
Whether these few outlines of this truly interesting story be founded on
fact or not, we cannot forbear to say that God will assuredly, sooner or
later, fully reward all those who live up to the holy principles and
precepts of his own blessed truth, and he is no less faithful in
punishing every proud and wicked doer.
* * * * *
FAULT FINDING--THE ANTIDOTE.
(Continued from page 162.)
At length it was time to choose his path in life, and being inclined to
mercantile pursuits, his father placed him in the store of one of their
friends, where he would have every facility for acquiring a thorough
knowledge of business. Oh, how carefully did his mother watch the effect
of a closer contact with the world, and a more prolonged absence from
her hallowed influence--and how gratefully did she perceive that her
precious boy still came to her with the confiding love of his childhood,
in all the temptations of his business life, and that her influence was
still potent with him for good.
"Mother, I was terribly urged to go to the theater last week," said he
in one of his frequent visits at home. "Harvey and Brown were going, and
they are pretty steady fellows, and I really was half inclined to go."
"Well, what saved you?"
"Oh, I knew just how you would look, mother, dear, and I would rather
never see a theater than face that grieved look of yours. Mother, the
thought of you has saved me from many, many temptations to do wrong, and
if I am good for anything, when I am a man, I must thank God for my
mother."
"Thank God for his preserving grace, my dearest Charley, and ask him to
give you more and more of it."
Not many days after, Mrs. Arnold was in company with her son's employer.
"Your son promises well, Mrs. Arnold," said he, "he is very accurate,
obliging, respectful. I am somewhat hasty at times, and a few days since
blamed him severely for something which I thought he had done wrong. He
showed no ill-temper, but received it with so much meekness, my heart
smote me. The next day he asked me very respectfully if I would inquire
of one of the clerks about it, which I did, and found he had done
nothing blameworthy in the least. He is a fine boy, madam, a very fine
boy, and I hope will make as good a man as his father."
But a good _man_ Charley was not destined to be. Her reward was nearer
than she had thought, and he who had learned of the lowly Saviour to be
meek and lowly of heart, was soon to be transplanted to dwell with
loving and holy ones above. One day he returned home unexpectedly, and
the first glance told his mother he was in trouble. "Mother, I feel
really sick. I was sick yesterday, but I kept in the store; but to-day I
could only go down and see Mr. Barker, and tell him I must come home for
a day or two. Oh, mother it is a comfort to see your dear kind face
again," said he, as she felt his pulse, examined his tongue, and
inquired how he felt, "and perhaps if I can rest quietly an hour or two
this dreadful pain in my head will be relieved."
He went to his pleasant chamber, to his quiet bed, the physician was
summoned, and all that skill and the tenderest care could do was done,
but he rapidly drew near the grave. He was patient, gentle, grateful,
beautiful upon that bed of death, and while his mother's soul was poured
forth in earnest prayer, for his continued life, her heart swelled with
grateful thanksgiving for the sweet evidence he gave of a subdued and
Christian spirit, and she could say with true and cheerful submission,
"Not my will but _Thine_ be done, whether for life or death, for it is
well with the child."
Just at twilight one evening, he awoke from a short slumber, and his eye
sought his mother at his bedside. She leaned over him and softly pressed
her lips to his forehead. "Mother," he said, faintly, "the Doctor has
given up all hope of my life, has he not?" Nerving herself to calmness
for his sake, she answered, "He thinks you very sick, Charley, but I
cannot give up all hope. How can I part with you, my beloved?"
"Mother," said he, as he took her hand in both his, and laid it on his
breast, "I want, while I am able, to tell you how I feel, and I want you
to know what you have done for me. I was a passionate, bad tempered boy,
and you know father--" He stopped. "Mother, I should have been a ruined
boy but for you. I see it all now plainly. You have saved me, mother.
You have saved my soul. You have been my guide and comfort in life. You
have taught me to meet even death and fear no evil, for you have shown
me my sin, and taught me to repent of it, and love and trust the
precious Saviour, who died that His blood might cleanse even my guilt. I
feel that I can lie in His arms, sure that He has forgiven my sin and
washed my sinful soul white in His blood. How often you have told me He
would do it if I asked Him, and I have asked Him constantly, and He will
do it, He will not cast me off. Mother, when you think of me, be
comforted, for you have led me to my Saviour, and I rejoice to go and be
with Him forever."
The next sun arose on the cold remains of what was so lately the active
and happy Charles Arnold, and there was bitter grief in that dwelling,
for very dear had the kind and loving brother been to them. The father
was stunned--thunderstruck. Little had he expected such a grief as this,
and he seemed utterly unable to endure it, or to believe it. How much he
communed with his own heart of his neglected duty to that departed boy,
we know not, but dreadful was the anguish he endured, and the mother
had the joy to perceive that his manner afterward was far more tender to
his remaining children, whom he seemed now for the first time to realize
he might not always have with him, to be neglected and put aside, as a
trouble and as a care, rather than as a precious gift, to be most
carefully trained up for God.