presented her with that good and useful book--a book which has elicited
praise from many able writers, and called forth the gratitude of many
wise and good parents.[D]
This remark was anything rather than a grateful acknowledgment to her
husband for his thinking of her when absent; and it not only evinced a
spirit of thoughtlessness and ingratitude to him, but manifested a
remarkable share of self-sufficiency and self-complacency.
Just so it is with a head of wheat. When it is empty, it stands
perfectly erect, and looks self-confident; but as soon as it is filled
with the precious grain, it modestly bends its head, and waives most
gracefully, as if to welcome every whispering breeze.
But was Louise wanting in affection and care to her own child? No; not
in one sense, for she was foolishly fond of this little paragon of
perfection. She one day said, boastingly, "My child has never been
washed but with a fine cambric handkerchief, which is none too good for
her soft flesh. Nothing can be too good for this precious darling, and
while I live she shall never want for any indulgence I can procure for
her."
It might be said, too, that Louise evinced a fondness for her husband;
and she was proud of the attentions of a youth who was admired for his
remarkable polish of manners; but she certainly had not at this
time--whatever she might afterwards acquire--a warm and generous heart,
free from selfish interests, to bestow upon any object on earth or in
heaven.
Notwithstanding Joseph's elegant address and appearance, his character
was in one respect vulnerable, as will be seen from a trivial act which
I have yet to mention.
His mother was an occasional assistant in her son's family. He was her
only son. She was in most respects a highly-educated woman, with no
ordinary share of self-possession, having pleasing manners, unless it
might be said that she evinced a kind of _hauteur_, which made her
rather feared than loved. But it was apparent to every one that she was
selfishly attached to this only son. Louise said one day to a friend--"I
never had occasion to be jealous of Joseph's attentions to me, or of his
affection for me, except when his mother was present."
No one could help noticing the greater deference this mother paid to her
son, even when his father was present; and most fully did this son
reciprocate his mother's respectful attachment. This love and reverence
for his mother, on the part of this son, would have been right and
beautiful if it had not been so exclusive.
In one of her visits in her son's family, when she was in feeble health,
this son proposed to his mother, towards night, in the presence of
Louise, but without conferring with her, that his mother should lodge in
his broad bed, with Louise, in their well-heated nursery.
To this Louise objected, saying she would quickly have a fire made in
the spare chamber, and there would be ample time to have it thoroughly
heated; and if she did not choose to lodge alone, she would offer her a
charming young lady to sleep in the room with her. The choice was again
referred by Joseph to his mother. Louise now expostulated with her
husband. She said, as she was not strong, she needed his assistance a
part of the night, as usual, in the care of the infant. But still,
without any regard for her feelings and her wishes to the contrary,
Joseph _insisted_ that his mother should make a choice; and, strange to
say, she chose to lodge with Louise.
This unaccountable preference, unless it was because it was proffered by
her son, it would seem, must have produced unhappiness and discomfort,
on her part, on witnessing this daughter the livelong night restlessly
turning from side to side, and her child restless and crying. But not
one expression of regret was manifested the next day by either mother or
son.
The day after the incident referred to above occurred, a kind friend
whispered in Joseph's ear a truth, which, perhaps, till then had been
entirely overlooked by him. This friend reminded him that when he
plighted his vows to his young wife at the altar, he did most solemnly
promise, agreeably to God's ordinance, "that he would forsake father and
mother, and all others, and he would cleave to his wife, and to her
alone; that he would take her for better or for worse."
We may laud the conduct of Naomi and Ruth in their beautiful attachment
to each other, at the point of history where they are first introduced
to us. But their love to each other was doubtless greatly modified by
the circumstances into which they were now brought. They had a
remarkable sympathy and fellow-feeling for each other in their
sufferings. That son and husband, the bond of this tender and happy
union, and the occasion had there been any strife between them when this
loved object was living, was now forever removed from them, and not a
trace of any thing to blame or to regret was still remembered by them.
I can never be sufficiently grateful for the oft-reiterated advice of my
father to his children. "Never," he would say, "act a selfish part." In
all your plans and purposes in life, do not have an exclusive regard to
self-interest. If you do, you will find many competitors. But if you
strive to render others happy, you will always find a large and open
field of enterprise; and let me assure you that this is the best way to
promote your own happiness for time and for eternity.
* * * * *
Original.
ONE-SIDED CHRISTIANS.
How difficult a thing it is in the present day to find a well-balanced
Christian! In this day of fits and of starts, of impulse and of action,
a day of revolution both in thought and kingdoms, where is the man who
is formed in _all respects_ after the image of his Savior?--where the
Christian, who, "being _fitly framed together_, groweth unto an holy
temple in the Lord?" Many of the followers of Christ seem to have
forgotten that His alone is the example after which they are to pattern,
and are looking to some distinguished neighbor or friend, or to their
own selfish and sensual desires, to inquire how they shall walk in this
evil world. Many appear to have made an estimate in their hearts how
little religion will suffice them--how little humbling of the
spirit--how little self-denying labor for Christ and dying men. It may
be they "do justly," and, in their own eyes, "walk humbly;" but their
religion is of the negative sort. They are "neither extortioners,
unjust, nor even as this publican:" they give to every man his due, and
take good care to obey the precept--"to look every man on his own
things, and not on the things of his neighbors." But they forget that
"Love mercy" was a part of the triad! that the religion of Jesus is not
a religion of selfishness, and that the Master has said, "Go ye out into
the streets and lanes, and _compel them_ to come in, that my house may
be filled!" They forget His _example_ who came down from heaven to
suffer and die for guilty man; who _went about_ doing good, and whose
meat and drink was to accomplish the work which the Father had given him
to do. They forget that one of his last acts was to wash his disciples'
feet, saying, "As I have done to you, so do ye also to one another;"
and, as if our selfish and proud hearts would rebel, he adds--"The
disciple is not above his Master, nor the servant above his Lord."
This want of conformity to Christ is also shown in the speech of many of
his followers. He who was the _Searcher of hearts_ must certainly be
expected to condemn iniquity, and condemn it severely; but how unwilling
do we find him to pass sentence upon the guilty--how comforting and
consoling to the sinner! To the offending woman he says--"Neither do I
condemn thee; go, and sin no more." For his murderers he cries--"Father,
forgive them; they _know not_ what they do!" And must vain, erring man
be more harsh towards his fellow-man than his Maker? "Blessed are the
merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." "I came," says Jesus, "to seek
and to save _the lost_!" therefore, who so lost but in Jesus shall find
a friend? And shall it not be so with his followers, when they remember
his words, "_I have given you an example_, that ye should do as I have
done to you"?
In this day of the multiplicity of good works, and of trusting to them
for salvation, it may seem strange for us to urge their necessity. But
in speaking of those who lack the beautiful oneness in character and
conduct which distinguished Jesus, we would not omit many who, having
been educated in the full belief of the doctrine of "justification by
faith," carry it to such an extent as to despise good works, and almost
to look upon them as heretical. They set them down in their religious
calendar as _savoring of ostentation_, and thus run into the opposite
extreme, neglecting entirely the command of our Lord, to "Let your light
so shine before men, that they _may see your good works_." They take a
one-sided view of truth and duty, forgetting that "he who shall break
one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so" (even by
practice), shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven. Could
they but know, by sweet experience, the luxury of giving "even a cup of
cold water in His name," they would never again refrain from the blessed
work. Could they fully understand the words to be pronounced on the
final day, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these
my brethren, _ye have done it unto me_," no earthly inducement would be
able to deter them from obtaining a part in that commendation and
reward. Did they but read with divine enlightening the parable of the
good Samaritan, and hear the Master saying, "Go and do thou likewise,"
what possible excuse would remain for them for not obeying his command?
They little realize that they may read and meditate and _believe_, and
still remain very selfish and un-Christ-like; for if Christ had been
possessed of their supineness, he would still have remained in heaven,
and we and ours yet been in the bonds of wickedness. Christian mothers
have greatly erred in not _training_ their children to a life of
Christian self-denial and usefulness. In their visits to the poor and
perishing, they should early accustom their little ones to accompany
them, thus overcoming that sensitive dread of misery in its various
forms, so common to the young. They would thus be laying up for them a
good foundation against the time to come--training them in the way they
should go--guiding their feet into the imitation of that blessed One
whom they hope soon to see them following. Of how many delightful hours
have parents deprived their children, who have never taught them, by
precept and example, the luxury of doing good! How many gracious
promises in God's blessed word are yet sealed to them--promises for
time and for eternity! Mothers, awake! to know more of Jesus, of his
life, his example, and of the high and holy inducements which he holds
out to you in his word, to be conformed to his image.
* * * * *
Original.
LUX IN TENEBRAS; OR A CHAPTER OF HEART HISTORY.
BY GEORGIANA M. SYKES.
It was a beautiful winter-morning. The new fallen snow lay light and
fleecy about the porch and on the evergreens before the door, and
cushioned and covered all the thousand minute branches of the trees till
they stood forth as if traced in silver on the deep blue of the sky. A
sparkling, dazzling scene it was, which lay spread out before the
windows of that comfortable family parlor, where the morning sunshine
and the blazing wood-fire on the hearth seemed to feel a generous
rivalry as to which should be most inspiriting.
There were children in the room, a merry group of all sizes, from the
boy of ten years old to the little one whose first uncertain footsteps
were coaxed forth by a lure, and cheered onward like a triumphal
progress by admiring brothers and sisters. It was the morning of
New-Year's day, which had always been held as a high festival in the
family, as it is in many families of New England, all the merriment and
festal observance elsewhere bestowed upon Christmas having been
transferred by Puritan preferences to this holiday.
It was just the weather for a holiday--brisk and bracing. Sleigh-bells
were jingling merrily, as the deep drifts of the road having been
overcome, one after another of the families of the neighborhood had
commenced their round, bearing baskets filled with gifts and pleasant
tokens of remembrance, with the customary wishes and salutations of the
day.
The young mother sat in the group of happy children, but she did not
smile on them. Her hand rested fondly on one little head and another, as
they pressed to her side with eager question or exclamation. She drew
the little one with a quick, earnest clasp to her heaving bosom. Her
tremulous lips refused to obey the impulse of her will; she left
Edward's question unanswered, and abruptly placing Willie in the arms of
his careful nurse, she rushed away from the gladness she could not bear,
to the solitude of her own chamber. There she fell upon her knees and
covered her face, while the storm of sorrow she had striven so hard to
stem, swept over her. Amid groans of agony, came forth the low
murmur--"'Write his children _fatherless_, and his wife a _widow_!' Oh,
my God, why must this be? _His_ children fatherless, _his_ wife a
widow!"
Soon came the quick sobs which told that the overcharged heart which had
seemed ready to burst, had found temporary relief in tears; then
followed the low moans of calmer endurance, and the widow's heart sunk
back into all it had yet found of peace under this great bereavement,
though it had been months since the blow fell; the peace of
submission--"Not my will, but thine, O God, be done!" This time it
expressed itself in the quaint words of Herbert;
"Do thou thy holy will;--
_I will lie still_."
Then came the mother's habitual recollection of her children. They must
not bear the weight of this great sorrow in the days of their tender
youth, lest the hopefulness and energy they would certainly need in
after life should be discouraged and disheartened out of them. Edward is
naturally too reflective; he dwells too much on his loss, and evidently
begins to ponder already how so many children are to be taken care of
without a father. Sensitive Mary feels too deeply the shadow of the
cloud which has come over her home; her face reflects back her mother's
sadness.
So, rising, the mother rang the bell, and gave directions that the
children should be prepared for a visit to their grandfather's, and
that the sleigh should be brought to the door.
"They must go," thought she, "I cannot bear them about me. I must spend
this day alone;" and she bade Mary replenish the fire, and seated
herself in the arm-chair by the window. What a sickness fell upon the
sad heart as the eye roved over the cheerful winter landscape! Here were
the hurryings to and fro of congratulation, the gay garments, such as
she and hers had laid aside, the merry chiming of the many-toned
sleigh-bells, all so familiar to her ear that she knew who was passing,
even if she had not looked up. Here is Thomas with the sleigh for the
children, and, preceding it, is Ponto in his highest glee--now he dashes
forward with a few quick bounds, and turns to bark a challenge at Thomas
and the horses--now he plunges into a snow-drift, and mining his way
through it, emerges on the other side to shake himself vigorously and
bark again.
Has Ponto forgotten his master? Ponto, who lies so often at his
mistress's feet, and looks up wistfully into her face, as if he
understood much, but would like to ask more, and seems, with his low
whine, to put the question--Why, when his master went away so many
months ago, he had never come back again:--Ponto, who would lie for
hours, when he could steal an access to them, beside the trunks which
came home unaccompanied by their owner, and which still stood in a
closed room, which was to the household like the silent chamber of
death. There had been for the mourner a soothing power in Ponto's dumb
sympathy, even when, with the caprice of suffering, she could not bear
the obtrusiveness of human pity.
Out trooped the merry, noisy children, well equipped with caps and
comforters. Good Thomas arranged them on the seats, and wrapped the
buffalo-robes about them, and encircling his special darling, a
prattling little girl of three years old, with his careful arm, away
they went, down the hill and out of sight.
With a sigh of relief, the mother drew her chair to the hearth, and
resolved, for that one day, to give over the struggle, and let sorrow
have its way. She dwelt on all the circumstances of the change, which so
suddenly had darkened her life. She permitted her thoughts to run upon
themes from which she had sedulously kept them, thus indulging, and as
it were, nursing her grief. She recalled the thoughtful love which had
been hers till it seemed as natural and as necessary to her as the air
she breathed. She had been an indulged wife, constantly cared for, and
lavishly supplied with everything that heart could wish. The natural
sensitiveness of her temperament had been heightened by too much
tenderness; she had been encouraged to cling like a vine, and to expect
support from without herself. She was still young and beautiful. She was
accustomed to be loved and admired by many, but that was nothing to her
in comparison with the calm unvarying estimation in which she had been
held by one faithful heart. How was she to live without this essential
element of her life?
Then the darkened future of her life rushed over her like an
overwhelming flood: the cares and duties which were henceforward to
devolve on her alone; the children who were never to know any other
parent but herself; never to know any stronger restraints from evil or
incentives to good than she in her feebleness could exert over them.
What would become of her boys as they grew older, and needed a father's
wise counsels? She saw with grief that she was even less qualified than
most mothers to exercise the sole government and providence over a
family. She had been too much indulged--too entirely screened from
contact with the world's rough ways.
How were the wants of her large family to be provided for with the
lessened income she could now command? Pecuniary loss had followed close
upon her great bereavement, and though this constituted but a small
element in her sorrow, yet now that it came before her on the morning of
this new year, it added yet another shade to the "horror of great
darkness" which encompassed her. She knew that it must have a direct
bearing upon her welfare, and that of her family.
Then she reverted to the New Year's Day of last year; the little
surprises she had helped to plan; the liberal expenditure by which she
had sent pleasure, for one day at least, into the dwellings of the poor,
her generous gifts to her servants, which it had been a pleasant study
to adapt to their several tastes and wants; the dependencies, near and
remote, which she had used as channels for conveying a measure of
happiness to many a heart. Now there must be an end to all this; she
could be generous no more. Even her children, partly from her
pre-occupied mind, had no gifts provided for them to-day. Was she not a
"widow and desolate?"
"Desolate, _desolate_!" she repeated in bitterness of soul. She paused.
A voice within her seemed to say--"Now she that is a widow and desolate
_trusteth in God_." A moment after there came into her mind yet another
verso, "And _none of them that trust in Him shall be_ DESOLATE."
Could it be that she remembered the passage aright? Her Bible lay open
on the table before her. She had that morning earnestly sought strength
from it, and from communion with God before she could nerve herself to
meet her children, and bear their reiterated salutations, heart-rending
to her, "Happy New Year, mother"--"Mother, dear mother, I wish you a
Happy New Year."
Now as she drew it towards her, and turned over its pages to verify the
exactness of the words, it soon opened to _the blessed thirty-fourth
psalm_, which has proved to many an anchor of hope when they cried to
God "out of the depths."
"I will bless the Lord at all times;" Oh, surely not!--How could any one
bless the Lord at such a time as this? Yet there it stood:--
"I will bless the Lord _at all times_; his praise shall continually be
in my mouth." If others could do this, and had done it, God helping her,
she would do it too. She, too, would bless the Lord, and speak his
praises.
"My soul shall _make her boast in the Lord_." A feeling of exultation
began to rise within her. Something was yet left to her. Her earthly
"boast" was indeed broken; but why might not she, too, "_make her boast
in the Lord_"?
Touched with living light, verse by verse stood out before her, as
written by the finger of a present God. Humbled to the earth,
overpowered by deep self-abasement and contrition of soul, she clung as
with a death-grasp to the words that were bearing her triumphantly
through these dark waves.
"They looked unto Him _and were lightened_." Was not her darkness
already broken as by a beam from His face?
"This poor man cried, and _the Lord heard him_, and delivered him out of
all his troubles."
"The angel of the Lord encampeth about them that fear Him, and
delivereth them."
"The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and His ears are open unto
their cry."
"Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but _the Lord delivereth him
out of them all_."
Who was this, that, under these comfortable words, looked peacefully
upward? It was one who was learning to _trust God_; taught it, as most
of us are, by being placed in circumstances where there is _nothing
else_ to trust.
It is not for us to portray all that passes in the human soul when it is
brought into vivid communion with its Maker. It is enough for us to know
that this sorrowful heart was made to exult in God, even in the calm
consciousness of its irretrievable loss; and that before the sun of a
day specially consecrated to grief had attained its meridian, the
mourner came cheerfully forth from her place of retirement, while a
chant, as of angelic voices, breathed through the temple of her
sorrowful soul, even over its broken altar.
"_Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good_; blessed is the man that
trusteth in Him."
"Oh, fear the Lord, ye his saints; _for there is no want to them that
fear Him_."
The group of banished little ones was recalled, but while the messenger
was gone for them, the mother in the strength of her new-found peace,
had brought forth from that closed chamber the gifts which the fond
father had designed for each of his children, and had spread them out
in fair array on the parlor table. So it was New Year's Day to the
children after all.
The trust of that mother _in the widow's God_ was never put to shame.
Her children grew up around her, and hardly realized that they had not
father and mother both in the one parent who was all in all to them. She
was efficient and successful in all her undertakings. Her home, with its
overshadowing trees, its rural abundance and hearty hospitalities, lives
in the hearts of many as their brightest embodiment of an ideal, a
cheerful, Christian home. The memory of that mother, dispensing little
kindnesses to everybody within her reach, is a heritage to her children
worth thousands of gold and silver. Truly, "they that seek the Lord
_shall not want any good thing_."
* * * * *
FILIAL REVERENCE OF THE TURKS.
A beautiful feature in the character of the Turks is, their reverence
and respect for the author of their being. Their friends' advice and
reprimands are unheeded; their words are _leash_--nothing; but their
mother is an oracle. She is consulted, confided in, listened to with
respect and deference, honored to her latest hour, and remembered with
affection and regret beyond the grave.
"My wife dies, and I replace her; my children perish, and others may be
born to me; but who shall restore to me the mother who has passed away,
and who is no more?"
* * * * *
Original.
THE MOTHERS OF THE BIBLE.
ICHABOD'S MOTHER.
"Strength is born
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts,
Not amidst joy."