Kitabı oku: «The Deaf Shoemaker», sayfa 6

HALF AN HOUR IN BAD COMPANY

“Separate from sinners and unspotted from the world.” – Bible

A youth was once unintentionally thrown into the company of some half dozen young men of very immoral character. Their language, their jests, were of the lowest order. Indecent expressions, vulgar anecdotes, heart-defiling oaths, characterized their conversation. It was evident there was no thought of God in all their hearts.He left them and went to his room. It was time for retiring to rest. He opened his Bible and attempted to read its sacred pages; but he could not confine his thoughts. The low, vulgar anecdotes of that godless party were continually flitting across his mind. Their hollow mockery of God still rung in his ear; the thought that perhaps there was no God, no heaven, no hell, disturbed his hitherto pleasant evening meditations; but that kind, friendly voice within, the lives and death-beds of parents whom he had loved only to lose, told him too plainly there was a God above, of tender and forgiving mercy, there was a heaven of bliss and joy, there was a lake whose waves of fire and brimstone were never quiet. He knelt down to pray, and the profane jests of that God-rejecting company intruded themselves upon his thoughts; he retired to rest – they haunted his slumbers; he awoke in the morning – they still lingered in his mind. Year after year has passed away, but that half an hour in the company of the profane, the wicked, still exerts its injurious influence upon the heart of that young man. It will never leave him. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, it will remain in his mind to the last day of his life. It may be forgotten for a time, but, like the serpent concealed in a bed of violets, it will again and again come up to pollute his best and purest thoughts, to poison his sweetest affections.

He left them and went to his room. It was time for retiring to rest. He opened his Bible and attempted to read its sacred pages; but he could not confine his thoughts. The low, vulgar anecdotes of that godless party were continually flitting across his mind. Their hollow mockery of God still rung in his ear; the thought that perhaps there was no God, no heaven, no hell, disturbed his hitherto pleasant evening meditations; but that kind, friendly voice within, the lives and death-beds of parents whom he had loved only to lose, told him too plainly there was a God above, of tender and forgiving mercy, there was a heaven of bliss and joy, there was a lake whose waves of fire and brimstone were never quiet. He knelt down to pray, and the profane jests of that God-rejecting company intruded themselves upon his thoughts; he retired to rest – they haunted his slumbers; he awoke in the morning – they still lingered in his mind. Year after year has passed away, but that half an hour in the company of the profane, the wicked, still exerts its injurious influence upon the heart of that young man. It will never leave him. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, it will remain in his mind to the last day of his life. It may be forgotten for a time, but, like the serpent concealed in a bed of violets, it will again and again come up to pollute his best and purest thoughts, to poison his sweetest affections.

My dear young friends, particularly boys, write this as your motto upon the fly-leaves of your books – write it on the walls of your rooms – write it in your copy books – write it on your hearts – Keep out of bad company.

THE BIBLE A GUIDE TO THE YOUNG

 
How shall the young secure their hearts
And guard their lives from sin?
Thy word the choicest rules imparts
To keep the conscience clean.
 
 
When once it enters to the mind,
It spreads such light abroad,
The meanest souls instruction find,
And raise their thoughts to God.
 
 
’Tis like the sun, a heavenly light,
That guides us all the day,
And through the dangers of the night
A lamp to lead our way.
 
 
Thy word is everlasting truth;
How pure is ev’ry page!
 

Watts.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE NEW YEAR

 
’Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to heaven,
And how they might have borne more welcome news.
 

Young.

Another year, with its fond anticipations and blasted hopes, its scenes of joy and its seasons of sorrow, its days of rejoicing and its nights of weeping, has been laid in the grave of the past.

Many a bounding heart that welcomed us a year ago, now lies beneath the clods of the valley: many a cloudless brow which then met our eye, now meets it no more for ever; many a manly form which then walked the streets of our city, now walks the golden streets of the New Jerusalem. The young man, before whom the future stretched in scenes of brightness and beauty; the young lady, whose glowing cheek and brilliant eye bespoke a long life of joy and happiness; the father, whose presence cheered and whose counsel guided his little flock; the mother, whose yearning heart seemed to throb only for the dear little one whose cherub arms clung so lovingly around her neck; the young minister, whose hopes of wide-spread usefulness gladdened his lonely hours of toil; the venerable man of God, whose golden virtues, mingled with his silver locks, won the love and admiration of all who knew him; – these, all of these, have been laid in the cold and silent grave, during the year that is past and gone.

Over some of their graves the green grass is not yet growing, and stricken hearts are now bleeding for loved ones, with whom we had expected to walk hand in hand during the year which has so beautifully dawned upon us.

During the past year we have permitted many a golden opportunity for doing good to pass away unimproved; we have failed properly to use many a precious privilege; and does it not then become us, to-day, to implore forgiveness for the past, and unreservedly to dedicate ourselves and all we have and are, to the service of our blessed Redeemer?

Let us determine that this year shall be a year of entire consecration to God’s service; that our places at the Sabbath-school, in the house of God, at the Wednesday evening lecture, at the prayer-meeting, shall be less frequently vacant than they were during the past year.

That this shall be a year of prayer – earnest, importunate prayer. That we will especially pray for those who are bound to us by ties of affection and love, but who know nothing of the warm affection and tender love of a Saviour’s heart.

That it shall be a year of heart-searching.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts: and see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

That it shall be a year of unremitting prayer for the outpouring of God’s spirit, not only upon the church with which we are connected, but throughout the length and breadth of His vineyard.

And, in conclusion, that we will endeavor so to live and act, that whenever the summons comes to call us hence, our lights shall be burning, our lamps trimmed, and we shall hear the welcome invitation, “Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.”

THE SWIFTNESS OF TIME

 
“Swift as the wingèd arrow flies,
My time is hast’ning on;
Quick as the lightning from the skies
My wasting moments run.
 
 
“My follies past, O God, forgive;
My ev’ry sin subdue;
And teach me henceforth how to live,
With glory full in view.
 
 
“Thanks, Lord, to Thine unbounded grace,
That in my early youth
I have been taught to seek Thy face,
And know the way of truth.
 
 
“Oh! let Thy Spirit lead me still
Along the happy road;
Conform me to Thy holy will,
My Father and my God.”
 

THE YOUNG MAN WHO WENT TO SLEEP IN CHURCH

 
“When to the house of God we go
To hear His word and sing His love,
We ought to worship Him below
As saints and angels do above.”
 

There is but one instance mentioned in the Bible in which a person went to sleep during religious service. It was at night. Paul, the eloquent preacher, with his usual burning zeal and strong enthusiasm, had enchained the attention of his audience till a late hour – 12 o’clock. On the morning he was to leave them, His hearers were hanging with deep sorrow on his parting words, for they felt “they should see his face no more.” There was, doubtless, many a quivering lip, many a tearful eye, many a throbbing heart.In the midst of such a scene, beneath the preaching of so gifted, so talented a man as Saul of Tarsus, there sat a young man unmoved by the tears of the listeners, unaffected by the sermon of the minister. Deep sleep fell heavily upon his slumbering eye-lids; his dull ear was closed against the touching appeals of the fervent speaker.

In the midst of such a scene, beneath the preaching of so gifted, so talented a man as Saul of Tarsus, there sat a young man unmoved by the tears of the listeners, unaffected by the sermon of the minister. Deep sleep fell heavily upon his slumbering eye-lids; his dull ear was closed against the touching appeals of the fervent speaker.

The house was no doubt crowded; for the young man was sitting in a window; “and as Paul was long preaching, he sunk down with sleep, and fell down from the third loft, and was taken up dead.” (Acts xx. 19.)

Sleeping, slumbering souls in the church of God, beware least you fall asleep and be taken up dead!

SLOTHFULNESS LAMENTED

 
“My drowsy powers, why sleep ye so?
Awake, my sluggish soul;
Nothing has half thy work to do,
Yet nothing’s half so dull.
 
 
“We, for whom God the Son came down
And labored for our good,
How careless to secure that crown
He purchased with His blood!
 
 
“Lord, shall we lie so sluggish still
And never act our parts?
Come, Holy Spirit, come and fill
And wake and warm our hearts.”
 

MARGARET WILSON

A COVENANTER SKETCH

 
O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
 

Longfellow.

Almost two hundred years ago there lived in Scotland a girl whose name was Margaret Wilson. She was a covenanter; that is, she belonged to that noble band of Scotch Christians who claimed the right of worshiping God according to the teachings of their own consciences.

About this time a violent persecution was commenced against these quiet, inoffensive and pious covenanters. The officer who commanded the King’s (James II.) forces in Scotland was named Claverhouse. He was a man of violent temper, and possessed a heart as hard as adamant. The mere mention of his name would cast a gloom over many a happy home, and mothers would clasp their children closer to their bosoms whenever the news of his approach reached their ears. He drank in iniquity like water, and breathed out bitter persecution and death against God’s servants. The poor covenanters were driven from their peaceful homes by his troopers, and forced to seek shelter in the rugged sides of the mountains. There they were hunted and shot down like wild beasts of the forest. Homeless, poor, despised, forsaken of man, day after day, and night after night, they wandered through the pathless woods without clothing to protect or food to nourish them. From many a mountain top, from many a barren heath, in the silence of the night, the fervent prayer and the wild warbling notes of some simple Scotch hymn went up like incense before the face of Jehovah. It is true “they were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword; they wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented; they wandered in deserts and mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.” (Acts xi. 37, 38.) They were imprisoned by hundreds, and hung by scores. Corpses were seen dangling from trees, and the atmosphere itself was tainted with death. The blood-thirsty troopers spared neither age nor sex. The prattling babe and the hoary head were alike disregarded.

The severity of the persecution only made them cling more closely to their religion, and a mighty army of martyrs went up from Scotland to join the ranks of the great captain of their salvation – Jesus Christ.

The noble courage with which Margaret Wilson suffered death rather than forsake the religion of her childhood, has made her name to be held in lasting remembrance. She was quite young, but showed a degree of calm composure and unshaken faith worthy of much riper years. On being seized by the troopers, she was told that her life would be spared if she would give up her religion. This she positively refused to do, and was sentenced to be drowned. She was alike unmoved by the fierce countenances of the brutal soldiery and their horrible threats. Her heart was fixed. She was as firm as a rock. Finding her still unyielding, she was taken to a place where the Solway overflows twice a day, and securely fastened to a stake fixed in the sand between high and low water mark. Presently the tide commenced coming in. At first it played around her feet; by and by it rose higher and higher; at last the waves approached within a few inches of her lips. Still she remained unmoved. Her unclouded brow looked serene and happy. Her cheek was pale, but not with fear. Her thoughts were wandering by the banks of the river of the Water of Life; she seemed to be listening to the angelic notes of the heavenly choir.

“Will you deny now your religion?” demanded the cruel soldiery.

“No, never; I am Christ’s; let me go,” she gasped out, her voice choked by the gurgling water, and the waves closed over her for the last time.

“THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS.”

 
Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim —
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth;
To walk with God; to be divinely free.
Yet few remember them. They lived unknown
Till persecution dragged them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew
– No marble tells us whither.
 

Cowper.

THE DAY OF LIFE

 
The morning hours of cheerful light,
Of all the day are best;
But as they speed their hasty flight,
If every hour is spent aright,
We sweetly sink to sleep at night,
And pleasant is our rest.
 
 
And life is like a summer day,
It seems so quickly past;
Youth is the morning bright and gay,
And if ’tis spent in wisdom’s way,
We meet old age without dismay,
And death is sweet at last.
 

Jane Taylor.

GILBERT HUNT

 
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
 

Longfellow’s Village Blacksmith.

There lives in the city of Richmond, Virginia, a very venerable and highly respected negro blacksmith, named Gilbert Hunt. For more than three-score years he has pursued his humble calling; and even now, at the advanced age of seventy-seven years, the merry ring of Gilbert’s anvil is among the first things that break the stillness of the morning. His shop is situated on one of the most busy streets in the city; and long before the stores are opened, or the busy hum of human voices heard, the lively glow of the blacksmith’s fire and the unceasing blowing of his bellows, whisper in the ear of many a tardy young man —Be diligent in business.Thus has he lived and labored through the weary days of many a long year. Though time has plowed many a deep furrow across his dusky brow, though his head is covered with the almond-tree blossoms of age, though those that look out of the windows are darkened, though the doors are shut in the streets, though the silver cord has been worn almost to its last thread, yet Gilbert Hunt remains still healthy and robust, retains the cheerfulness of youth, and seems to feel that his work on earth is far from being accomplished.

Thus has he lived and labored through the weary days of many a long year. Though time has plowed many a deep furrow across his dusky brow, though his head is covered with the almond-tree blossoms of age, though those that look out of the windows are darkened, though the doors are shut in the streets, though the silver cord has been worn almost to its last thread, yet Gilbert Hunt remains still healthy and robust, retains the cheerfulness of youth, and seems to feel that his work on earth is far from being accomplished.

His dark countenance, while in conversation, is lighted up with a happy smile, and you cannot help feeling, as you look upon the old and grey-headed man, what a precious promise that beautiful old hymn expresses when it says,

 
“E’en down to old age, all my people shall prove
My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;
And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,
Like lambs, they shall still in my bosom be borne.”
 

The eventful life of this aged blacksmith, together with his vivid remembrance of bygone days, renders an hour spent in his company very pleasant.

’Tis true, his name is unknown both to fortune and to fame; for but few stop, in this cold world of ours, to pay the deserved meed of praise to humble, unpretending merit.

 
“Far from the madd’ning crowd’s ignoble strife,
His sober wishes never learned to stray —
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
He kept the noiseless tenor of his way.”
 

But to return to our first intention. Gilbert Hunt was born in the county of King William, (Va.,) about the year 1780; came to the city of Richmond when seventeen years of age; learned the trade of a carriage-maker, at which he worked for a considerable length of time, and by constant industry and close economy laid by a sufficient amount of money to purchase his freedom of his master. In 1832, he determined to emigrate to Liberia; and in February of that year, left Virginia. He remained in Africa eight months, and having travelled some five hundred miles into the interior, returned to the coast and embarked for home. His reception, on arriving at Richmond, was one which would have done honor to any conqueror or statesman, so highly was he respected by the citizens. “When I reached Richmond,” to use his own language, “the wharves were crowded with all classes and conditions of people; I was invited to ride up town in a very fine carriage, but preferred a plainer style, and came up in a Jersey wagon, seated on my trunk.” Since that time, nothing of special interest has transpired in the life of this truly remarkable man. “Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,” he has followed with unpretending simplicity of character his accustomed labor. Success seems not to make him proud, nor failure to discourage him. He has made a sufficient amount of money to enable him to spend the evening of his life in quiet retirement, but his place at his shop is seldom, if ever, vacant.

For more than half a century he has been a consistent member of the Baptist Church; thus teaching us, would we have the needed blessings of life added to us, we should seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness.

The event which invests the name of Gilbert Hunt with more than ordinary interest, is the active part which he took at the burning of the Richmond theatre in 1811.

We add a brief account of this sad occurrence, as related by Gilbert himself, feeling there are but few eyes which can read it without moistening with tears.

“It was the night of Christmas, 1811. I had just returned from worship at the Baptist church, and was about sitting down to my supper, when I was startled by the cry that the Theatre was on fire. My wife’s mistress called me, and begged me to hasten to the Theatre, and, if possible, save her only daughter, – a young lady who had been teaching me my book every night, and one whom I loved very much. The wind was quite high, and the hissing and crackling flames soon wrapt the entire building in their embrace. The house was built of wood, and therefore the work of destruction was very short. When I reached the building I immediately went to the house of a colored fiddler, named Gilliat, who lived near by, and begged him to lend me a bed on which the poor frightened creatures might fall as they leaped from the windows. This he positively refused to do. I then procured a step-ladder and placed it against the wall of the burning building. The door was too small to permit the crowd, pushed forward by the scorching flames, to get out, and numbers of them were madly leaping from the windows only to be crushed to death by the fall. I looked up and saw Dr. – standing at one of the top windows, and calling to me to catch the ladies as he handed them down. I was then young and strong, and the poor screaming ladies felt as light as feathers. By this means we got all the ladies out of this portion of the house. The flames were rapidly approaching the Doctor. They were beginning to take hold of his clothing, and, O me! I thought that good man who had saved so many precious lives, was going to be burned up. He jumped from the window, and when he touched the ground I thought he was dead. He could not move an inch. No one was near that part of the house, for the wall was tottering like a drunken man, and I looked to see it every minute crush the Doctor to death. I heard him scream out, ‘Will nobody save me?’ and at the risk of my own life, rushed to him and bore him away to a place of safety. The scene surpassed any thing I ever saw. The wild shriek of hopeless agony, the piercing cry, ‘Lord, save, or I perish,’ the uplifted hands, the earnest prayer for mercy, for pardon, for salvation. I think I see it now – all – all just as it happened.” And the old negro stopped to wipe away a tear which was trickling down his wrinkled cheek.

“The next day I went to the place where I had seen so much suffering. There lay a heap of half-burnt bodies – young and old, rich and poor, the governor and the little child – whose hearts were still fluttering like leaves. I never found my young mistress, and suppose she perished with the many others who were present on that mournful occasion. I thought there would never be any more theatres after that.” The old man was silent; his tale was told; tear-drops were standing in his eyes.

Should any of my readers desire to learn more of the history of this venerable old negro, the simple sign of

Gilbert Hunt,

Blacksmith,

which still hangs over his door, will direct them to his lowly shop, and guarantee a warm welcome at his hands.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

 
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
 
 
His hair is crisp and black and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
 
 
Week in, week out, from morn till night
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat, and slow;
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.
 
 
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
 
 
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
 
 
It sounds to him like his mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
 
 
Toiling, – rejoicing, – sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
 
 
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught:
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
 

Longfellow.