occasionally get hard," said a venerable citizen the other day, "when
one sees the way in which people live and ladies dress." We thought
there was a great deal of truth in what the old gentleman said. Houses
at from five hundred to a thousand dollars rent, brocades at three
dollars a yard, bonnets at twenty, and shawls, and cloaks, &c., from
fifty dollars up, are enough to embarrass any community that indulges in
such extravagances as Americans do. For it is not only the families of
realized wealth, who could afford it, that spend money in this way, but
those who are yet laboring to make a fortune, and who, by the chances of
trade, may fail of this desirable result. Everybody wishes to live,
now-a-days, as if already rich. The wives and daughters of men, not
worth two thousand a-year, dress as rich nearly as those of men worth
ten or twenty thousand. The young, too, begin where their parents left
off. Extravagance, in a word, is piled on extravagance, till
"Alps o'er Alps arise."
The folly of this is apparent. The sums thus lavished go for mere show,
and neither refine the mind nor improve the heart. They gratify vanity,
that is all. By the practice of a wise economy, most families might, in
time, entitle themselves to such luxuries; and then indulgence in them
would not be so reprehensible. If there are two men, each making a clear
two thousand a-year, and one lays by a thousand at interest, while the
other spends his entire income, the first will have acquired a fortune
in sixteen years, sufficient to yield him an income equal to his
accustomed expenses, while the other will be as poor as when he started
in life. And so of larger sums. In fine, any man, by living on half of
what he annually makes, be it more or less, can, before he is forty,
acquire enough, and have it invested in good securities, to live for the
rest of his life in the style in which he has been living all along. Yet
how few do it! But what prevents? Extravagance! extravagance! and again
extravagance!
_Wives and carpets._--In the selection of a carpet, you should always
prefer one with small figures, for the two webs, of which the fabric
consists, are always more closely interwoven than in carpeting where
large figures are wrought. "There is a good deal of true philosophy in
this," says one, "that will apply to matters widely different from the
selection of carpets. A man commits a sad mistake when he selects a wife
that cuts too large a figure on the green carpet of life--in other
words, makes much display. The attractions fade out--the web of life
becomes weak--and all the gay figures, that seemed so charming at first,
disappear like summer flowers in autumn. _This_ is what makes the
bachelors, or some of them. The wives of the present day wish to cut too
large a figure in the carpet of life."
* * * * *
Selected.
EVERY PRAYER SHOULD BE OFFERED UP IN THE NAME OF JESUS.
Through Him alone have we access with boldness to the throne of grace.
He is our advocate with the Father. When the believer appears before God
in secret, the Savior appears also: for he "ever liveth to make
intercession for us." He hath not only directed us to call upon his
Father as "Our Father," and to ask him to supply our daily need, and to
forgive our trespasses; but hath graciously assured us, that
"_whatsoever_ (we) shall ask _in his name_, he will do it, that the
Father may be glorified in the Son."--(John 14:13.) And saith (verse
14), "If ye shall ask _anything in my name_, I will do it." And again
(John 15:23, 24), "Verily, verily, I say unto you, whatsoever ye shall
ask the Father _in my name_ he will give it you. Hitherto ye have asked
nothing _in my name_; ask, and _ye shall receive_, that your joy may be
full."
All needful blessings suited to our various situations and circumstances
in this mortal life, all that will be necessary for us in the hour of
death, and all that can minister to our felicity in a world of glory,
hath he graciously promised, and given us a command to ask for, _in his
name_. And what is this but to plead, when praying to our heavenly
Father, that Jesus hath sent us; and to ask and expect the blessings for
his sake alone?
H. MORE.
* * * * *
Original.
THE MOTHERS OF THE BIBLE.
BATHSHEBA.
A summons from the king! What can it mean? What can he know of her? She
is, indeed, the wife of one of his "mighty men," but though he highly
esteems her husband, he can have no interest in her. She meditates. Her
cheek pales. Can he have heard evil tidings from the distant city of the
Ammonites, and would he break kindly to her news of her husband's death?
It cannot be. Why should he do this for her more than for hundreds of
others in like trouble? Again, she ponders, and now a crimson hue mounts
to her temples--her fatal beauty! Away with the thought--it is shame to
dwell upon it--would she wrong by so foul a suspicion the Lord's
anointed? She wearies herself with surmises, and all in vain. But there
is the command, and she must be gone. The king's will is absolute.
Whatever that summons imports, "dumb acquiescence" is her only part. She
goes forth in her youth, beauty and happiness--she returns--
* * * * *
Weeks pass, and behold another message, but this time it is the king who
receives, and Bathsheba who sends. What is signified in those few words
from a woman's hand, that can so unnerve him who "has his ten thousands
slain"? It is now his turn to tremble and look pale. Yet a little while,
and he, the man after God's own heart, the chosen ruler of his
people--the idol of the nation, shall be proclaimed guilty of a heinous
and abominable crime, and shall, according to the laws of the land, be
subjected to an ignominious death. _He_ ponders now. Would he had
thought of all this before, but it is too late. The consequences of his
ungoverned passion stare him in the face and well nigh overwhelm him.
Something must be done, and that speedily. He cannot have it thus. He
has begun to fall, and the enemy of souls, is, as ever, at hand to
suggest the second false and ruinous step.
* * * * *
Another summons. A messenger from the king to Joab. "Send me Uriah the
Hittite." It is peremptory; no reasons are given, and Joab does as he is
bidden. Unsuspecting as loyal, Uriah hastens on his way, mindful only of
duty, and is soon in the presence of his royal master, who, always kind,
is now remarkably attentive to his wants and thoughtful of his
interests. He inquires for the commander of his forces and of the war
and how the people fare, and it would almost seem had recalled him only
to speak kindly to him and manifest his regard for the army, though he
had not himself led them to battle.
But though unsuspecting and deceived, the high-minded and faithful
soldier cannot even unwittingly be made to answer the end for which he
has been summoned, and after two days he returns to Joab, bearing a
letter, of whose terrible contents he little dreams and is happy in his
ignorance.
Meantime Bathsheba has heard of his arrival in Jerusalem, and is
momentarily expecting his appearance. Alas! that she should dread his
coming. Alas! that she should shudder at every sound of approaching
footsteps. How fearful is the change which has come over her since last
she looked on his loved face! He is her husband still, and she, she is
his lawful loving wife. Never was he so dear to her as now. Never did
his noble character so win her admiration, as she contemplates all the
scenes of her wedded life and reviews the evidences of it in the past.
How happy they have been! What bliss has been hers in the enjoyment of
his esteem and affection! She is even now to him, in his absence, the
one object of tender regard and constant thought. She knows how fondly
he dwells on her love, and how precious to him is the beauty which first
won him to her side. She is the "ewe lamb which he has nourished, which
has drank from his own cup and lain in his bosom"--she is his all. He
has been long away; the dangers of the battle field have surrounded
him, and now he is returned, alive, well; her heart bounds, she cannot
wait till she shall see him; yet how can she meet him? Ah! fatal
remembrance, how bitterly it has recalled her from her vision of
delight. It is not true! it cannot be true! it is but a horrible dream!
Her heart is true? She would at any moment have died for him. The entire
devotion of her warm nature is his. She had no willing part in that
revolting crime. Oh! must she suffer as if she had been an unfaithful
wife? Must she endure the anguish of seeing him turn coldly from her in
some future day? Must she now meet him and have all her joy marred by
that hateful secret? Must she take part in deceiving him, in imposing
upon him--him, the noble, magnanimous, pure-minded husband? Oh, wretched
one! was ever sorrow like hers?
The day passes, and the night, and he comes not. Can he have suspected
the truth? Slowly the tedious hours go by, while she endures the racking
tortures of suspense. The third day dawns, and with it come tidings that
he has returned to Rabbah, and his words of whole-souled devotion to his
duty and his God are repeated in her ears.--Faint not yet, strong heart;
a far more bitter cup is in store for thee.
* * * * *
Bathsheba is again a wife, the wife of a king, and in her arms lies her
first-born son. Terrible was the tempest which burst over her head, and
her heart will never again know aught of the serene, untroubled
happiness which once she knew. The storm has indeed lulled, but she sees
the clouds gathering new blackness, and her stricken spirit shrinks and
faints with foreboding fears. The little innocent being which she holds
fondly to her bosom, which seemed sent from heaven to heal her wounds,
lies panting in the grasp of fierce disease. She has sent for the king,
and together they look upon the suffering one. Full well he knows, that
miserable man, what mean those moans and piteous signs of distress, and
what they betoken. He gazes on the wan, anguished features of his wife
as she bends over her child; his thoughts revert hurriedly to her
surpassing beauty when first he saw her--a vision of the murdered Uriah
flits before him--the three victims of his guilt and the message of
Nathan, which he has just received--the stern words, "Thou art the man,"
bring a full and realizing sense of the depth to which he has fallen,
and overwhelmed with remorse and wretchedness, he leaves the chamber to
give vent to his grief, to fast and weep and pray, in the vain hope of
averting the threatened judgment.
Seven days of alternate hope and fear, of watching and care have fled,
and Bathsheba is childless. Another wave has rolled over her. God grant
it be the last. Surely she has drained the cup of sorrow. She sits
solitary and sad, bowed down with her weight of woes; her thoughts
following ever the same weary track; direful images present to her
imagination; her frame racked and trembling; the heavens clothed in
sackcloth, and life for ever divested of happiness and delight. The king
enters and seats himself beside her. And if Bathsheba is changed, David
is also from henceforth an altered man. "Broken in spirit by the
consciousness of his deep sinfulness, humbled in the eyes of his
subjects and his influence with them weakened by their knowledge of his
crimes; even his authority in his own household, and his claim to the
reverence of his sons, relaxed by his loss of character;" filled also
with fearful anticipations of the future, which is shadowed by the dark
prophecy of Nathan--he is from this time wholly unlike what he has been
in former days. "The balance of his character is broken. Still he is
pious--but even his piety takes an altered aspect. Alas for him! The
bird which once rose to heights unattained before by mortal pinion,
filling the air with its joyful songs, now lies with maimed wing upon
the ground, pouring forth its doleful cries to God." He has scarcely
begun to descend the declivity of life, yet he appears infirm and old.
He is as one who goes down to the grave mourning. Thus does he seem to
Bathsheba as he sits before her. But there is more in David thus humble,
contrite and smitten, to win her sympathy and even love, than there was
in David the absolute, and so far as she was concerned, tyrannical
monarch, though surrounded with splendors, the favorite of God and man.
A few days since had he assayed the part of comforter, she would have
felt her heart revolt; but now repentant and forgiven, though not
unpunished by Jehovah, she can listen without bitterness while he speaks
of the mercy of the Lord which has suffered them both to live, though
the law could have required their death, and which sustains even while
it chastises.
* * * * *
Another message--by the hand of the prophet to David and Bathsheba--a
message of peace and tender consideration--a name for their new-born
child, the gift to them from his own hand. "Call him Jedediah--beloved
of the Lord."
"O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how
unsearchable are his judgments and his ways past finding out."' In his
dealings with his sinful children how far are his ways above the ways of
men! "As the heaven is high above the earth, _so great_ is his mercy
toward them that fear him." He dealeth not with them after their
sins--he rewardeth them not according to their iniquities, but knowing
their frame--remembering that they are dust--that a breath of temptation
will carry them away--pitying them with a most tender compassion, he
deals with them according to the everlasting and abounding and
long-suffering love of his own mighty heart. Whenever those who have
known him best, to whom he has manifested his grace most richly, whom he
has blessed with most abundant privileges, fall, in some evil hour, and
without reason, upon the slightest cause, bring dishonor on his name and
give occasion to his enemies to blaspheme, and incur his just judgment,
behold how he treats them. Upon the first sign of contrition, the first
acknowledgment "I have sinned," how prompt, how free, how full is the
response, "The Lord also hath put away thy sin, thou shalt not die." No
lingering resentment--no selfish reminding of his wounded honor--no
thoughts but of love, warm and tender, self-forgetting love and pity for
his sorrowing child. Even when he must resort to chastisement, "his
strange work"--when he must for his great name's sake, raise up for
David evil out of his own house--when he must, before the sun and before
all Israel, show his displeasure at sin; with one hand he applies the
rod, and with the other pours into the bleeding heart the balm of
consolation, so pure, so free, that his children almost feel that they
could never have understood his goodness but for the need of his
severity. When, notwithstanding the earnest prayer of the father, he
smites the child of his shame, how soon does he return with a better
gift--a son of peace, who shall remind him only of days of contrition
and the favor of God--a Jedediah, who shall ever be a daily witness to
his forgiving love.
And to those who suffer innocently from the crimes of others, how tender
are the compassions of our heavenly Father. To the injured, afflicted
Bathsheba is given the honor of being the mother of Israel's wisest,
most mighty and renowned king; and she is, by father and son, by the
prophet of the Lord, by the aspirant to the throne, and by all around
her, ever approached with that deference and confidence which her truly
dignified character and gentle virtues, not less than her high station,
demand. And while not a word of reproach is permitted to be left on
record against her, on that monument of which we have before spoken,
among mighty and worthy names, destined to stand where many of earth's
wisest and greatest are forgotten, with the progenitors of our Lord and
Savior, is inscribed hers "who was the wife of Urias."
* * * * *
Original.
FEMALE EDUCATION.
BY REV. S. W. FISHER.
The second and special object of education, is the preparation of youth
for the particular sphere of action to which he designs to devote his
life. It may seem at first, that this general education of which I have
already spoken, as it is most comprehensive and reaches to the highest
range of subjects, so it should be the only style of training for an
immortal mind. If we regarded man simply as spiritual and immortal, this
might be true; but when we descend to the practical realities of life;
when we behold him in a mixed nature, on one side touching the earth, on
the other surveying the heavens, his bodily nature having its
necessities as well as his spiritual, we find ourselves limited in the
manner of education and the pursuit of knowledge. The division of labor
and of objects of pursuit is the natural result of these physical
necessities in connection with the imperfection of the human mind and
the constitution of civilized society.
This division of labor constitutes the starting point for the diverse
training of men, and modifies, in part, all systems of instruction that
cover childhood and youth. This is, at first, an education common to
all. The general invigoration of the intellect, and the preparation of
the mind for the grand, the highest object of life on which I first
dwelt, embrace all the earliest years of youth. There are elements of
power common to all men, and instruments of knowledge effective for both
the general pursuits of a liberal education, and the limited pursuits of
physical toil. The education of the nursery and school are equally
useful to all. But when you advance much beyond this, far enough to
enable the youth to fix upon his probable line of life, then the
necessity of an early application to that pursuit at once modifies his
course of education.
When we pass from the diverse professions into which the growth of
civilized society has divided men, to the distinctions which exist
between man and woman, we enter upon a still clearer department of our
subject. The differences which are here to give character to education,
are not incidental and temporary, but inherent and commensurate with
life itself. The physical constitution of woman gives rise to her
peculiar life. It determines alike her position in society and her
sphere of labor.
In all ages and climes, celebrated by travelers, historians, poets, she
stands forth as a being of better impulses and nobler affections than
him, of whom she is the complement. That which is rugged in him, is
tempered by softness in her; that which is strong in him, is weak in
her; that which is fierce in him is mild in her. Designed of God to
complete the cycle of human life, and through a twofold being present a
perfect _Adam_, she is thus no less different from man than essential to
his perfection. Her nature at once introduces her into a peculiar sphere
of action. Soon, maternal cares rest upon her; her throne is above the
family circle; her scepter of love and authority holds together the
earliest and happiest elements of social life. To her come young minds
for sympathy, for care, for instruction. Over that most wonderful
process of development, when a young immortal is growing every day into
new thoughts, emotions and habits, which are to abide with it for ever,
she presides. By night she watches, by day she instructs. Her smile and
her frown are the two strongest powers on earth, influencing human minds
in the hour when influence stamps itself upon the heart in eternal
characters. It is from this point of view, you behold the glorious
purpose of that attractive form embosoming a heart enriched with so
copious a treasure of all the sweetest elements of life. She is destined
to fill a sphere of the noblest kind. In the course of her life, in the
training of a household, her nature reveals an excellence in its
adaptation to the purpose for which she is set apart, that signally
illustrates the wisdom of God, while it attracts the homage of man.
Scarcely a nobler position exists in the world than that of a truly
Christian mother; surrounded by children grown up to maturity; moulded
by her long discipline of instruction and affectionate authority into
true-hearted, intelligent men and women; the ornament of society, the
pillars of religion; looking up to her with a reverent affection that
grows deeper with the passage of time; while she quietly waits the
advent of death, in the assurance that, in these living representatives,
her work will shine on for ages on earth, and her influence spread
itself beyond the broadest calculation of human reason, when she has
been gathered to the just.
How then are we to educate this being a little lower than the angels;
this being thus separated from the rest of the world, and divided off,
by the finger of God writing it upon her nature, to a peculiar and most
noble office-work in society? It is not as a lawyer, to wrangle in
courts; it is not as a clergyman, to preach in our pulpits; it is not as
a physician, to live day and night in the saddle and sick room; it is
not as a soldier, to go forth to battle; it is not as the mechanic, to
lift the ponderous sledge, and sweat at the burning furnace; it is not
as a farmer, to drive the team afield and up-turn the rich bosom of the
earth. These arts and toils of manhood are foreign to her gentle nature,
alien to her feeble constitution, and inconsistent with her own high
office as the mother and primary educator of the race. If their pursuits
are permitted to modify their education, so as to prepare them for a
particular field of labor, proceeding upon the same supposition, it is
equally just and appropriate, that her training should take its
complexion from the sphere of life she is destined to fill. So far as it
is best, education should be specific, it should have reference to her
perfect qualification for her appropriate work. This work has two
departments. The first, which is most limited, embraces the routine of
housewifery and the management of the ordinary concerns of domestic
life.
The second department of her duties, as it is the most important, so it
must be regarded and exalted in an enlightened system of female
education. It is as the centre of social influence; the genial power of
domestic life; the soul of refinement; the clear, shining orb, beneath
whose beams the germs of thought, feeling, and habit in the young
immortal are to vegetate and grow to maturity; the ennobling companion
of man, his light in darkness, his joy in sorrow, uniting her practical
judgment with his speculative wisdom, her enthusiastic affection with
his colder nature, her delicacy of taste and sentiment with his
boldness, and so producing a happy mean, a whole character; natural,
beautiful and strong; it is as filling these high offices that woman is
to be regarded and treated in the attempt to educate her. The
description of her sphere of life at once suggests the character of her
training. Whatever in science, literature and art is best adapted to
prepare her to fill this high position with greatest credit, and spread
farthest around it her appropriate influence, belongs of right to her
education. Her intellect is to be thoroughly disciplined, her judgment
matured, her taste refined, her power of connected and just thought
developed, and a love for knowledge imparted, so that she may possess
the ability and the desire for future progress.