Chapter I: AM not one of those who wander (1)

Unaffection’d here and there,
But my heart must still be fonder
Of its sites of joy or care;
And I point sad memory’s finger
(Tho’ my faithless foot may roam)
Where I’ve most been made to linger,—
To the place I called _my home_.

TUPPER.

THOUGH many a long year has passed away since I mingled in the pleasant enjoyments and childish sports of my native home, yet I look back with feelings of the deepest sorrow, and sincerely wish that I could again spend those hours which afforded me so much innocent delight. It is true, that I had a home only for a very few years, for I had scarcely learned to love my mother and feel the worth of my father, before the clods of the valley rumbled over their coffins; yet those years were the happiest of my life.

It is in the family circle that we are taught so many lessons of kindness to our fellow-men, and it is there we are fitted to enter upon the stern realities which await us in the busy world. There, and there alone, are the seeds of truth and morality sown by the affectionate hand of an attached mother; and a loving sister entwines her affections around the heart of a thoughtless brother, and frequently keeps him from houses “which are the way to hell,” and from a drunkard’s grave.

Blot out of existence the thousands of Christian homes in this land of ours, and you will destroy the very _corner stone_ of this happy and prosperous country.

It was around the fireside that such men as Patrick Henry, Henry Clay and Daniel Webster first learned those lessons of wisdom and unwavering devotion to their country.

Well has it been remarked, “There is no place like home.”

I had rather part with my right hand or my right eye, than to be deprived of those simple truths taught me by my sainted mother when I was scarcely old enough to lisp her name. How indelibly are they impressed upon my mind! And those simple prayers which she taught me—shall I ever forget them? No, never. They will go with me to my grave. And when I was sick, how she watched over me, nursed me, and prayed for my recovery!

My home! How thoughts of the loved and lost arise in my mind at the mere mention of the name! That dear father, that more than sainted mother, where are they? Gone, gone forever!

It is customary with many heathen nations, when any one of their number is thought to be dying, to place him upon a narrow couch, set by his side a small portion of bread and water, and permit him to draw his last breath with no friend near to whisper words of consolation in his dying ear, or shed a tear of regret at his departure.

How different in the Christian family! Nothing can equal the tender care and soothing attention paid to him whose sand is well nigh run out. And when he is gone, how fast do tears of bitterness flow from the eyes of those who loved and watched over him even in the hour of death!

William Jay, in speaking of domestic happiness, uses the following beautiful and touching language: “Oh! what so refreshing, so soothing, so satisfying, as the quiet joys of home? Yonder comes the laborer;—he has borne the burden and the heat of the day; the descending sun has released him from his toil, and he is hastening home to enjoy his repose. Half way down the lane, by the side of which stands his cottage, his children run to meet him. One he carries and one he leads. See his toil-worn countenance assume an air of cheerfulness. His hardships are forgotten—fatigue vanishes—he eats and is satisfied. Inhabitant of the lowly dwelling! who can be indifferent to thy comfort? Peace to thy house!”

But, children, that pleasant home cannot always be the abode of happiness.

Since sin entered into this world of ours, and death by sin, man can never be perfectly happy.

Sooner or later some member of that family will be locked in the cold embrace of Death; and sadness will follow in the footsteps of joy. There will be a vacant chair, and a deserted hearth-stone, ere many more days shall have passed away. That dwelling in which pleasure and happiness now reign, shall soon echo with the sobs and lamentations of those who have parted with perhaps a father, a mother, a fond sister, or a loving brother. He who to-day resides in the costliest mansion, may to-morrow be an inhabitant of a hovel. That father who to-day bowed before the family altar, and asked a Heavenly Father’s blessing upon his children, may be wrapped in the winding sheet of Death to-morrow.

How important then is it, that we should look forward to a home in that house not made with hands, whose builder and maker is God. There father and mother, husband and wife, brother and sister, shall meet to part no more. There shall be no night there. Pain and anguish, sickness and sorrow, affliction and disappointment, shall be feared and felt no more for ever. How happy the scene! How joyful the meeting of friends and relations! How delightful will it be to meet with that father and that mother who have gone before, and feel that we shall never be separated again!

Children, if you wish to meet your departed relations, who have died trusting in Christ, in Heaven, beware how you trifle away your inch of time. If you die in your sins, you can never be with them in that “happy land;” for to a sinner _Heaven_ would be the worst _Hell_ into which he could be placed. Then, “Seek the Lord while he is near, and call upon Him while He may be found.”

* * * * *

MY OLD DEAR HOME.

“BETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lovely home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still:
But a stranger’s foot hath crossed the sill!

“There is the barn—and as of yore
I can smell the hay from the open door
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song:
But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof—
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof!

“There is the orchard—the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger’s children are swinging there!

“There bubbles the shady spring below,
With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;
’Twas there I found the calamus root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing:
But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring!

“Oh! ye that daily cross the sill;
Step lightly, for I love it still;
And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have passed within that scented door,
To gladden the eyes that are no more.

“Deal kindly with those orchard trees,
And when your children crowd your knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart:—
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

“The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows, with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall,—
My heart still lingers with them all:—
Ye strangers on my native sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still.”

TO MY SABBATH-SCHOOL CLASS.

LEWISBURG, Va., July 31st, 1858.

MY DEAR SABBATH-SCHOOL CLASS:—I have been intending to write you a short letter ever since leaving home, but have been so constantly engaged that I have not found an opportunity.

A great deal of interest has transpired since the commencement of my mountain trip, of which I should like to tell you, but must defer doing so until we meet, which, if God spares our lives, will be in a few weeks. I know you would like very much to leave the hot and dusty streets of Richmond, and come out and enjoy the pure mountain air and health-giving water. My own health has improved very much, and I do most earnestly pray that it and my life may be precious in the sight of God, and I may yet ere long enjoy the greatest of earthly privileges—preaching the mystery of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I have very often thought of and frequently remembered you at a throne of grace. Oh! you know not how much pleasure it would afford me to see you _all_ professors of religion. You know I told you before leaving, if any of you should _perish_—I feel sad to think of such a thing—I hoped it would not be my fault, for I had endeavored, feebly and imperfectly though it was, to lead your youthful feet in the ways of righteousness—the paths of peace.

I feel constrained to urge you once more to _come to Jesus_. We may never meet again on earth, and I do so sincerely desire to meet my Sabbath-school class in heaven. Suppose _one_ of you should be missing, which will it be? May each one of you ask himself the question, “_Lord, is it I?_”

And then, my dear young friends, we want ministers so badly. Where shall we get them? Do I not hear at least _one_ of you say, “_Here am I; Lord, send me?_” Think of that shepherdless and sorrowing flock, that vacant pulpit, that newly made grave, in Amelia county! think how fearlessly and faithfully the lamented S. HAMNER DAVIS stood up for Jesus, and how triumphantly he died! My dear scholars, will not _some_ of you, would it be too much to say _all_ of you, dedicate yourselves to the work of the blessed ministry? I know it has not a great many earthly attractions, but there is something cheering in the thought of living for the benefit of your fellow-men. I had rather be the humble instrument, in the hands of God, of saving one soul, than be worth all the riches or obtain all the honors which the world can furnish.

May the Lord abundantly bless and preserve you all, while we are absent from each other, is the prayer of

Your affectionate Teacher,
PHILIP BARRETT.

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.

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.

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.

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.

SKETCHES FOR YOUNG MEN.

NOTE.

FINDING in my portfolio a number of sketches not considered entirely suited to the class for whom my little volume is intended, I have determined to add them in the form of an appendix, with the hope that they may prove interesting and instructive to persons of maturer years.

THE AUTHOR.

SKETCHES FOR YOUNG MEN.

* * * * *

THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.

No. 1.

IT has long been a mystery to us that the Bible is so little read, so poorly appreciated. A few hurried snatches in the morning, the shortest psalm in the evening, to a very great extent constitute the Bible reading of many who even profess and call themselves Christians. The prolific press is daily pouring forth issues of aids to Scripture reading; the most gifted intellects, both of this and other lands, are using all their powers to make the Bible the text-book of the age; but in vain. There seems to have arisen, in the minds of many, an insatiable desire for something new, something stirring, something calculated to arouse their stupified faculties.

Persons will pore, hour after hour, over the pages of some trashy novel, while the Bible—_its_ pages glittering with golden truths—its chapters glowing with a Saviour’s love—lies unopened for weeks, yea, months; its clasps blackened by canker—its cover thick with dust.

They will nestle in their bosoms the sin-stained pages of Byron—not knowing his slime is polluting, his poison infecting, the purest affections of their hearts, while a stream of living water is gushing from this ever full and overflowing fountain of Truth. In the one are found waters of Marah; in the other, sweet, soul-inspiring, soul-cheering streams, whose supply is never wanting, whose freshness never departs.

You cannot inflict greater punishment on some persons than force them daily to read a portion of God’s word. To them it is as a root out of dry ground, having no form or comeliness. Notwithstanding this, we find in the Bible every thing that is attractive and lovely. Viewed as a literary production, _aside from_ its inspiration, there is no work, ancient or modern, which is marked by such variety of style—such beauty of diction—such sublimity of sentiment. Its writers are taken from all classes and conditions of life—from the shepherd boy that watches his father’s flocks on the grassy hill-sides of Judea, to the king, the golden magnificence of whose court, and unerring wisdom, attracted the notice of Arabia’s queen—from the humble fisherman who mends his nets on the shores of “deep Galilee,” to the talented scholar of the learned Gamaliel.

The rich and the poor, the aged and the young, the wise and the ignorant, the pastor and his people, can all discover in its pages something to suit their respective situations. In fact, from Genesis to Revelation, it is filled with truths simple enough for the prattling child—deep enough for the profoundest scholar.

What sublime simplicity characterizes the Pentateuch! what melodious notes fall upon the ear, like “sweet music from some far-off isle enchanted,” as the sweet Psalmist of Israel sweeps the chords of his thrilling harp! what rapt, impassioned eloquence bursts from prophetic souls as they picture the future glory of Immanuel’s kingdom, or paint the awful scenes of that wrathful day,

“When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!”

RURAL RETIREMENT, Va.

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THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.

No. 2.

TURN to the New Testament. How touching those simple narratives! Hard indeed must be the heart of him who can read without deep emotion, that truly affecting account of the return of the prodigal son to the father of his early love, the home and scenes of his childhood.

Behold that aged man, as with tottering step, forgetful of the pressing weight of his many years, he _runs_ to meet his poor wayward boy, clasps him to his yearning bosom, falls on his neck and kisses him.

Stand beside the grave of Lazarus; look at those loving sisters of Bethany, as with throbbing hearts and swollen eyes they gather around the last resting-place of that much-loved and only brother. Is your heart more unfeeling than the heart of Him of whom it was said, “Behold how he loved him?” If not, then moisten his grave with a tear of sympathy for those heart-stricken sisters; for it is not unmanly to weep,—

“That noble gift! that privilege of man.”

Let us leave these scenes, so well calculated to sadden the heart and moisten the eye, and turn to others of a far different nature.

Look at that stranger standing on Mars Hill. ’Tis true he is not commanding in person; neither is his speech in itself eloquent; but there is an electric current which continually passes from his soul to his eye, making it to flash with dazzling brilliancy.

With the deep blue sky as his canopy, and standing where Socrates once stood, he begins one of the most highly finished and closely argued orations on record.

With kindling features and burning ardor, he enters at once into the mysteries of his subject,—_The nature of God_. What eloquence!

“It wields at will that fierce democracy.”

John Milton has truly remarked: “There are no songs comparable to the songs of Zion; no orations equal to those of the prophets; no politics like those which the Scriptures teach.”

But there is another feature in this precious Book to which we would briefly direct your attention.

THE CHARACTERS.—A young man, dressed in the plain garb of a husbandman, is wandering over the rugged sides of mount Ephraim in search of his father’s cattle. Exposure to wind and storm has rendered his frame robust, his tread firm and steady. Fearless courage sits enthroned on his peerless brow; stubborn resolution, untiring energy, prompt decision, all beam from a countenance, which, though bronzed by the ardent frown of the summer’s sun, yet is none the less attractive for the noble qualities which it so plainly displays. But it is the commanding appearance of his person, the symmetry of his form, which first unconsciously draws the attention. As the oak of the forest lifts its head far above the surrounding trees, so does the dauntless crest of this choice young man rise head and shoulders above his companions.

Such is the person and character of him who was chosen as the first king of Israel; and as Pallas, “over the head and shoulders broad” of Ulysses,

“Diffused grace celestial, his whole form
Dilated, and to statelier height advanced,
That worthier of all reverence he might seem
To the Phæacians,”

so God endowed the son of Kish, in order that he might better command the respect of those over whom he was called to preside.

Time does not suffice to notice in detail his anointing by the venerable Samuel, nor the swelling tide of human beings which rolled along the streets of Mizpah, on the day of his proclamation, nor how the enemies of Israel were swept before his stalwart arm, like chaff before the whirlwind.

Thus far Saul presents one of the noblest specimens of filial obedience, of daring bravery, of unreserved submission to the will of God, to be found in sacred history.

But his heart becomes elated at his unparalleled success, and the remainder of his life is a series of heaven-daring presumption, of flagrant disobedience, of detestable faithlessness, of unmanly cowardice; his bosom swells with arrogant pride—that invariable precursor of destruction—which paves his way to the most ignominious of deaths—that of a cowardly suicide.

“Then wish not o’er his earthly tomb
The baneful night-shades’ lurid bloom
To drop its deadly dew;
Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn,
That rudely binds his turf forlorn,
With spring’s green swelling buds to vegetate anew.”

But only remember that _one_ act of indiscretion will blast a lifetime of virtue and usefulness; and remember also how essential it is that we be true to our God, true to our country, true to ourselves.

RURAL RETIREMENT, Va.

* * * * *

THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.

No. 3.

THERE is one other character, noticeable for none of those traits which mark the life of Saul; yet of an order to which no one, we think, will be unwilling to pay deserved tribute,—which next claims our attention.

Two men—the one in the prime of manly vigor, the other has passed the ordinary limits of human life—are standing on the banks of the Jordan. The one is arrayed in royal garments, the other in a pastoral garb,—for during many a long year has he led his flocks beside the still waters, and made them to lie down in the green pastures of Gilead.

The snows of four-score years have fallen softly upon his head, and his “brow has grown wrinkled like the brown sea sand from which the tide of life is ebbing.” The friends of his youth are _asleep with their fathers_; the playmates of his childhood have also been laid in the cold and silent sepulchres of Nebo or Pisgah. With the Poet he exclaims,

“They are all dead now:
I’m old and lonely.”

_He is blind._

“Thus with the year
Seasons return. But not to him returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev’n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom or summer’s rose,
Or flocks or herds, or human face divine.”

To him taste has lost its sweetness; music, its melody.

David—for it is he who wears the robes of royalty,—insists on his aged friend accompanying him to Jerusalem.

Noble-hearted old Barzillai replies, that he will go a little way with him beyond Jordan, but adds, “Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn back again, that I may die in mine own city, and be buried in the grave of my father and my mother.”

How beautiful! how touching! how true to nature!

The winter of age is not severe enough to wither the blossoms of youth!——

A storm is raging on the sea of Galilee; the heavens are black with clouds; the moaning of the billows, as they dash against the sides of the vessel, falls on the ear with a peculiar loneliness; the winds are howling fearfully through the rigging; an occasional flash of lightning, as it darts athwart the waters, reveals to the eye many a face pale with fear, and many a form struggling nobly with the furious elements.

There is on that vessel an old weather-beaten sailor, whose home is the bosom of the lake. Hardship and exposure have rendered him perfectly reckless as to danger. His brow shows no signs of fear; his noble heart throbs only with emotions of fearless daring.

A familiar voice is heard above the fury of the winds, the roar of the waves.

The practiced ear of the sturdy old sailor quickly catches the sound, recognizes it as his Master’s voice, and with impetuous zeal and unshaken confidence, makes an attempt to rush into his embrace.

Though this Galilean fisherman doubtless possessed a rough exterior, yet his heart was easily warmed into expressions of the deepest love, and quickly melted to tears.

At one time we behold him, with that quick impetuosity which so peculiarly distinguished him, cutting off the ear of a high priest’s servant; at another, going out into retirement, and weeping with intense bitterness.

In no instance is his ardent temperament more plainly shown, than the one in which Christ appears to His disciples by the dim twilight of morning on the shores of Galilee. It is he who hastily girds his fisher’s coat about him, casts himself into the sea and swims with longing earnestness to the shore.

It is true there are some acts in this noble apostle’s life over which we should like to throw the mantle of forgetfulness; yet there is much worthy of admiration and imitation.

No one ever suffered more than he on account of his errors; no one of the apostles labored with more self-denying application for his Master’s cause; and we are sure no one received a richer reward.

We know not with any degree of certainty how he died, though tradition informs us that he was crucified, with his head towards the earth, thus showing he never forgot, to the last hour of his life, that one act of denial which caused him so many bitter tears, such intense anguish of spirit.

There are many other lovely characters which, did time permit, we should love to dwell upon.

Let us read God’s word with more diligence and greater earnestness in the future than we have in the past: let us lay its sacred truths up in our hearts, and practice them in our lives.

Oh! let us rejoice, that this lamp does not shed its light on a chosen few, but that its rays have penetrated many a land of darkened ignorance and fiendish cruelty, scattering joy and happiness in habitations where sorrow and misery once had their abode.

Let us thank God, that leaves from this Tree of Life have been wafted by propitious breezes throughout the length and breadth of the world. They are to be found in the hut of the Esquimaux, the hovel of the African, the wigwam of the Indian, in the cottage of the laborer, in the palace of the lord, floating on the surface of the Ganges, fringing the borders of the Nile.

’Tis a fountain ever bursting,
Whence the weary may obtain
Water for the soul that’s thirsting,
And shall never thirst again.

’Tis a lamp forever burning,
By whose never-dying light,
Sinners, from their errors turning,
Are directed through the night.

’Tis a mine of richest treasure,
Laden with the purest ore;
And its contents, without measure,
You can never well explore.

’Tis a chart that never fails you,
Which God to man has given,
And, though rudest storms assail you,
Will guide you safe to heaven.

’Tis a tree whose fruits unfailing,
Cheer and stay the fainting soul,
And whose leaves, the nations healing,
Scatter joy from pole to pole.

’Tis a pearl of price exceeding
All the gems in ocean found;—
_To its precepts ever listening,
In its truths may I abound_.

RURAL RETIREMENT, Va.

* * * * *

“WHO SHALL BE THE GREATEST?”

No. 1.

A TEACHER of great wisdom is seated in the midst of a class of students, who long have hung with breathless silence on the wonderful words which fall from his lips. His class is composed of persons from nearly all conditions and callings of life. Some have been nurtured on the bosom of the deep; some dwelt from early childhood under the shadows of venerable mountains, and caught from them true nobility and loftiness of soul; others, doubtless, spent their days in the peaceful pursuits of husbandry; while one, at least, has lived amid the active duties of public life, demanding, perhaps, with Shylock relentlessness, the uttermost farthing from the hand of his debtor.

As they sit at the feet of their instructor, what diversity of disposition meets our eye. One is impulsive, ardent, passionate; by his side sits another, of fervent love, gentle mildness, unshaken confidence; another is evidently very skeptical—sometimes doubting the truthfulness of his own vision; by his side is one whose heart is as guileless as that of a little child; while not far off, is another, of calculating mind and heart, as black as night with vile hypocrisy.

What is the question which has so deeply absorbed their thoughts?—It is one which they have been discussing by the wayside—for their cheeks would burn with shame did they think their Master suspected such feelings ever throbbed in their bosoms. It is this:—

“WHO SHALL BE THE GREATEST?” (Mark 9: 34.) That this is still an absorbing thought of mankind, may be seen from the anxious brow and hurried step of the merchant, the feeble frame and the hollow cheek of the student, the brawny arm and vigorous tread of the laborer; yea, the skeleton fingers of the lowly seamstress, as she mingles her very life’s blood with her daily toil, and sings alike the “Song of the Shirt,” and the Dirge of the Sewer. Neither is it alone common to the city of the living; its intrusive front has even invaded the solemn silence of the city of the sleeping dead.

Though prattling childhood and hoary-headed age, the lordly rich and the needy poor, there dwell side by side, how great is the contrast between the places of their abode! Over the one rises the proud monument, on whose cold front are written in letters of gold the names and deeds of the dead. The simple rose, with its blushing purity, planted by the hand of affection, and watered by the tears of love, sweetly blooms above the other. In what beautiful numbers has the poet sung:

“Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

“Can storied urn or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?”

* * * * *

“WHO SHALL BE THE GREATEST?”

No. 2.

MEN are ambitious of the esteem of those who are prominent in the eyes of the world on account of their wealth, their greatness, their learning.

How fond we are of the notice of the rich! How we strive to win their approbation! How we labor to gain their interest! How highly prized, how exaggerated, how boasted of, their slightest attentions. We will lick the very dust from the feet of _wealth_, and refuse to shake the honest hand of _poverty_. With what amazing sycophancy do we bow our heads at the footstool of him who has been mighty in battle, or great in the councils of the nation! And then the learned! How we out-Boswell Boswell himself, in picking up the crumbs which fall from their tables. In their august presence the world-worshipper prostrates himself in the dust of humility, and looks up to them for a smile with that air of servility with which the dog turns his face to the eye of his master for a crust of bread.

_Men are Ambitious of Wealth._

The son of some poor cottager is charmed by the glitter and glare of riches. His father’s cottage soon becomes too small for his accommodation; the narrow confines of the little farm cramp too much his swelling expectations. He leaves the home of his childhood, the friends of his youth, and enters the busy, bustling marts of commerce. No stone, however heavy, is left unturned; no task is too burdensome, no difficulty too great, for the accomplishment of his heart’s desire. Toilsome labor, assiduous application, penurious economy, a heart steeled alike against the cries of want, the claims of his Maker, are called into requisition for the furtherance of this one mighty object. Visions of beautiful and boundless fields—of coffers overflowing with gold, of princely mansions, flit across his disordered imagination during the silent watches of the night. The more fuel he adds, the stronger the passion burns.