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,

Rural Retirement, Va.

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,—

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!

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,

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.

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,

He is blind.

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.

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:

“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.

As the shipwrecked mariner, driven at the mercy of the winds and waves, seeks to quench his burning thirst by drinking the briny element which surrounds him, only to find that his thirst is increased rather than diminished, so does man find his desire for wealth increase with each successive gain. Soon his ledger becomes his Bible, his bank his sanctuary, his gold the god at whose shrine he bows morning, noon and night.—When he has reached the dregs of his existence, when his body is wasted by disease, weakened by age, when enfeebled Reason sits tottering on her throne, how bitter must be his thoughts when they revert to the hearts he has left all crushed and bleeding, to the homes all deserted and destroyed.—He then begins fully to realize the fact that he has been in the constant pursuit of an ever-receding ignis-fatuus, which dazzled only to destroy him. He has betrayed the noblest principles of the human heart for the sake of filthy lucre: like Judas, madly dashes the occasion of his misery to the ground, and frequently goes forth and hangs himself.

“WHO SHALL BE THE GREATEST?” No. 3.

Men are Ambitious of Distinction.

As the child with uplifted hand and eager look chases the bubble which its tiny lips have fashioned, only to find that it vanishes into thin air as soon as it is grasped, so does man, seemingly but a child in understanding, spend days and nights of laborious toil in pursuit of the bubble Distinction.

The heart of some youthful aspirant is fixed with a burning desire for the gaudy tinsel of distinction, with which the name of some hero in life’s battle is clothed. He abandons the cheerful fireside and genial society of home, and chooses for himself some arduous profession. Every energy is bent towards this one great object of his life. Every faculty of mind and body is rendered subservient to this “heart’s desire.” Hours which Nature has allotted to rest, are spent in unwearied application. He finds himself not only burning the oil of his midnight lamp, but the oil of the very lamp of life itself. He soon finds that the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong—that “there is a Divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.”

As one competitor after another passes him, lean-faced Envy whispers words of malice in his ready ear, so that him whom he once loved he then despises.

As Themistocles could not sleep because of the deserved honors of Melviades, so do the deserved honors of his rivals drive peace from his side, repose from his couch.

Every laurel which crowns their brows becomes a thorn in his pillow. Anxiety for the future, dissatisfaction with the present, remorse for the past, embitter his lonely hours. Long-deferred hope makes his heart sick. And then he comes to the pass of death.

He presses into the unknown night alone, leaving behind him the sad warning to those who come after him—Love not the praise of men more than the praise of God. (John 12: 43.)

It may seem that we have painted the lovers of wealth and distinction in colors too deep and dark. They, however, are intended as the background from which true nobility and true greatness shall stand forth with greater beauty and loveliness.

He who is conscious of possessing powers capable of benefiting his fellow man, and spends his time and talents in inglorious ease, is guilty of sinful self-indulgence. It is not ours, like the stupid rustic, to sit still and wait until the stream passes by in order that we may cross, but rather stem the current and breast its billows. If we succeed, then success has been gained where it is always surest and sweetest, in the discharge of duty. We have sacrificed no principle; we have stooped to no mean act; our gold is not stained with the blood of trampled-on innocence; our reputation has not been gained in the pathway of shame.

If we fail, then we are encouraged by the thought that we have done what we could. (Mark 14: 8.)

In reply to a letter from a young man in which the following sentence occurred,—

“If I know my own heart, I ask not wealth or honor; but to do good and to communicate, (Heb. 13: 16) is the object of my life,”—a successful Christian merchant thus wrote:

“The object of your life as you explain it, is the noblest on the face of the earth; and although it will not bring you worldly wealth and ease, it is sure of much higher reward both here and hereafter. Press forward. Never lose sight of it. Be very thankful that God has thus called you to his service, and show Him your gratitude by consecrating yourself wholly to Him. I think I have lived long enough to know that your choice, or the service to which you are called, is not only the noblest, but in fact, the only service worth a man’s living for at all. How many failures do we see in the lives of the ambitious and the great, notwithstanding advantages of the highest distinction. But bankruptcy with a genuine child of God is impossible. His life cannot be a failure.

That there are and have been numberless persons, the object of whose lives was to advance Christ’s Kingdom and add to the happiness of their fellow-men, we have abundant testimony. The names of Howard, of Wilberforce, of McCheyne, of Henry Martyn, of Hedley Vicars, of Brainerd Taylor, of Harlan Page, of noble-hearted Daniel Baker, the pioneer of the cross in the wilds of Texas, of many others, of whom the world is not worthy, stand out in the boldest prominence. Yea, such men are to be seen around us every day. In the pulpit, at the bar, in the counting-room of the merchant, in the shop of the mechanic, at the bedside of the sick and dying, fearing neither the death-breathing pestilence, nor the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

Shall it not, then, be ours to follow in their footsteps? Is there any pleasure so great as the pleasure of doing good?

Who shall be the greatest? Not in worldly honors, but in the measureless wealth of disinterested kindness, and the unfading honors that cluster around the Cross of Christ.

Longfellow beautifully sketches the upward and onward career of a youth who, despite the warnings of the aged, the entreaties of the young, wound his weary way up the steep sides of one of the Alps mountains only to make his grave beneath the cold snow of the topmost peak.

THE POOR CONSUMPTIVE.

A COLPORTEUR SKETCH.

Stretched on a bed of painful sickness there lay a woman in the last stages of consumption. Pale-faced poverty was an inmate of the hovel in which she dwelt. The broken panes of glass, the bare floor, the large cracks in the wall, the scanty covering, carefully thrown over the bed, all plainly bespoke the absence of the very necessaries of life. As I entered the door, my heart throbbed hurriedly when my eyes caught the destitution, the misery, the wretchedness, which surrounded me. Several children, from six to fourteen years of age, were in the room—some of them lying together on the floor, others seated on the remnant of a chair, while one little fellow, with matted hair and unwashed face, scowled at me from behind a door, as if he thought me an unwelcome visitor. The children had evidently been long neglected. No voice of love had often fallen on their ears; no smile of affection had cheered their loneliness. Their lives had been made up with scenes of want and wretchedness. Their minds were like gardens all overgrown with noxious weeds. But few seeds of truth had been sown in their little hearts by the hand of kindness, and their little voices had never sung the sweet notes of “Happy Day,” or “The Sabbath-school.”

But let me not forget the quiet sufferer, who, with such calm composure, has all this time been lying in unbroken silence. Her days are almost numbered. Consumption, that fell destroyer of human hopes, has long been gnawing at her heart-strings. The cord of life is worn almost to its last thread. Her hollow cheek, her wasted form, her sunken, death-glazed eye, all tell me that the cold, clammy hand of Death is gradually chilling her life-blood. She breathes with difficulty, for her lungs are too far gone to perform their functions. Now and then a hacking cough seems as if it would rend her frail chest to pieces. In her feeble hand she holds a fan, with which she is endeavoring to cool her burning brow. Its faint fluttering is but the counterpart of the almost fainter fluttering of life, as it hovers round her heart.

I sat for several moments quietly gazing on the wan and wasted features of the poor sufferer, before I could summon the resolution to say a word. I finally broke the solemn silence which filled the desolate chamber, by telling her that I sympathized very deeply with her in the suffering through which she had to pass.

I then asked her, if God should see fit to call her away from earth, did she think she was prepared for so awful a change. She feebly whispered “Yes.”

“What is then to become of your unprotected children?”

“God will take care of them.”

“Do you think it right that you should suffer so much, while others are in the enjoyment of countless blessings?”

“Perfectly.”

“Shall I read a portion of God’s Word, and pray with you?”

“If you please, sir.”

She reached her arm under the pillow and drew forth a Bible. Oh! how precious a thing it is, in the hour of death, to pillow one’s weary head on the precious promises of that blessed Book!

I slowly turned its sacred pages till I reached the fourteenth chapter of John—that chapter of blessed memory, which has soothed the troubled spirits of so many dying souls—after reading which, I knelt at her bedside and united with her in prayer. When I arose from my knees, her eyes were melted to tears, and a calm and holy peace rested on her pale and emaciated face.

Reader, it was a precious season to my own soul. God grant that the influences of that scene may never depart from me. My heart was cast down in humility, in penitence, as I remembered how often I had rebelled against God’s holy law. The unbidden tear was quietly trickling down my own cheek as I left that Bethel—that house of God.

Since writing the above, “The Poor Consumptive” has sweetly fallen asleep in Jesus.

“WHAT I LIVE FOR.”

We are told that a word, when it has fallen from the lips, never dies away; that the sound goes on widening and widening throughout the immensity of space.

Such are our lives. The acts which we do, the words which we utter, are exerting an untold influence for good or for evil. They are moulding, silently but certainly, the character of those by whom we are surrounded, for weal or for woe. Their influence extends even to eternity.

Fellow Christians! impressed with this solemn thought, let our heart’s desire be to minister to the wants of the sick and dying, to carry the glad tidings of salvation to the hovels of ignorance and poverty, to cheer the homeless orphan, to console the friendless widow; for by so doing, we shall surely gain our reward both in this world and that which is to come. Let us do what we can to dry the tear of sorrow, to gladden the heart of the laborer in his long hours of lonely toil; do what we can by precept, by prayer, by example, by toilsome labor, to win souls to Jesus Christ. Who had not rather be the means of saving one soul, than obtain all the riches or receive all the honors the world can furnish?—

THE LAST SERMON OF THE SEASON.

“What a thought! The last opportunity I shall ever enjoy of making my peace with God; the last time I shall ever listen to the glad tidings of salvation; the last time I shall hear from the sacred desk the earnest entreaty, Come to Jesus; the last time I shall ever sing the songs of Zion!”

Such were the thoughts which rushed wildly through the mind of a young man as his unwilling feet lingered on the steps of the house of God. He was leaving that house with a heart at enmity with his heavenly Father. Again and again had he put off for a convenient season the eternal interests of his never-dying soul. Long, long had Satan pacified his restless conscience by whispering in his ear that to-morrow would be time enough. To-morrow after to-morrow had come and gone, yet he was farther from salvation than he had ever been.

The minister’s earnest entreaty, a conviction of the awful eternity which awaited him if he died in his sins, pressed with burning weight upon his thoughts. He seemed to be held fast by some resistless power. “Perhaps it may be the last night of the season of salvation; God only knows. I will arise and go to my Father,” thought he to himself. He sought the minister; went with him to his study; and there, by the aid of God’s Spirit, trusts he gave himself to his Saviour.

Fellow sinner, this may be the last night of the season of salvation to you. Will you not come to Jesus? Father and mother, brother and sister, those that love you tenderly, all join in the entreaty, Come to Jesus. He is a precious Saviour; he is a willing Saviour; he is an able Saviour. Then will you not come and cast your burden of sin upon him? He has never turned away one soul. “Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.”

“WILL NOBODY SAVE ME?”

During the burning of the Richmond theatre, in 1811, a gentleman who had nobly endangered his own life in endeavoring to rescue others from the jaws of the devouring flames, was seen to leap from one of the topmost windows to the ground. So severe was the fall, he was unable to move an inch. Above him stood the tottering wall, ready to fall and crush him to death. He looked around him; not a soul was near. From the depths of his agony, he cried out, “Will nobody save me?” The cry fell on the ear of a sturdy negro, who rushed to him, and bore him away in his strong and brawny arms to a place of safety.

Such is the case with the sinner. When he finds that of himself he can do nothing, that God’s angry vengeance is tottering above his head, that no one is near to save him, then it is that he cries, “Will nobody save me?” The cry comes to the waiting ear of his blessed Saviour, and He bears him away in His arms of love to His Father’s bosom.

A SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY.

There is something to me peculiarly pleasant in a country Sabbath. No rattle of carts, no bustle of crowds, no hum of voices, disturb the calm and holy quietude of the hallowed day. Cattle are quietly grazing on grassy meadows, or sleeping in the refreshing shade; the irregular tinkle of the sheep-bell falls sweetly on the ear; the plough stands motionless in the unfinished furrow; the little songster trills from some swinging bough its morning song. The household dog seems to know it is a day of peaceful rest. His voice is hushed in silence. The clouds glide calmly across the heavens; the rays of the Sabbath sun rest sweetly on the face of nature. A dreamy, delightful serenity hovers over all the land. The incense of prayer rises from many a family altar, and the accents of praise tremble on many a lip.

Let us go up to the house of God. How different from our city churches! Perhaps it is some venerable building whose foundation was laid by men to whom the faces and forms of a Samuel Davies, or William Wilson, were familiar; perhaps remains of the foundation erected for the protection of God’s people against savage cruelty still linger around it; perhaps marks of the Indian’s bullet have not yet been effaced from its rude stone walls. Let us cross its threshold. No stained glass softens the rays of light, no cushioned pew invites you to a seat, no costly pulpit meets your eye; no beautiful fresco will draw your attention from the minister or the word of God. Every thing is as plain, as practical, as solid, as the men who first worshipped beneath its roof, but who now sleep beneath the waving grass of the adjoining cemetery.

One by one the congregation begin to enter and take their seats. They reverently bow their heads and seek the aid of God’s Spirit to enable them rightly to understand and apply the truths to which they shall listen. Many and varied are the personages which draw the attention. One is a venerable elder: time has not dealt gently with him; his brow is furrowed, his cheek wrinkled, and he totters feebly to his seat beneath the weight of many years, and a life of laborious toil. Though the fires of life are well nigh gone out, hope burns brightly in his heart, and beams forth from his eye. The assurance that his Redeemer liveth, is the rod and staff on which he leans for support. Another is a young man. His step is firm, his frame robust. He has not seen the snows of more than twenty winters. His countenance wears a thoughtful, solemn air. He is thinking of God, of heaven, of eternity. He has not come to the house of God because it is his custom, to see a friend, or to while away an hour. His is a nobler object. It is to worship God, to obtain instruction which shall lead his steps in the ways of righteousness, the paths of peace. At his side sits his mother—“he is the only son of his mother, and she a widow.”

But another form, of dignified, yet gentle, demeanor, enters the door. The placid features of his face, the mildness of his eye, point him out as “the man of God.” His appearance is such as at once to attract the attention. He is very tall, perhaps above six feet. His person is quite spare. He is slightly bowed with age, and as he feebly walks down the aisle, you almost involuntarily rise from your seat as if to do him reverence. He has long been a laborer in his Master’s vineyard. For more than half a century has he proclaimed the glad tidings of salvation from the same pulpit which he now occupies. His mind easily reverts to the time when the whistle of the red man’s bullet was liable at any moment to disturb the worship of God’s people; when the hardy pioneers of Christ and His kingdom came up to the house of God with muskets lashed to their backs. The thriving village in which he now resides was then almost a wilderness; cattle grazed, and corn grew in the fertile valleys from which now rises the populous city. The wild Alleghanies, then the home of the beasts of the forest, now daily echo with the rattle of the stage coach; and the shrill whistle of the locomotive has made the panther and the bear to seek shelter in the more distant West. He is one of a very few of the links which bind the Virginia of the present with the Virginia of fifty years ago. His few remaining silver locks are combed back from a forehead of fine proportions. He enters the sacred desk; bows his head and supplicates the assistance of God’s Spirit. He rises; “Let us worship God,” falls tremblingly from his lips, and the whole congregation rise to their feet. With earnestness, with simplicity, he invokes the presence of Him with whom is the residue of the Spirit. He then slowly turns to that beautiful old hymn, so dear to God’s people—

So distinct is his enunciation that his voice falters on every syllable. Every heart trembles in unison with his, and many an eye is dimmed with the unbidden tear. From almost the entire congregation rises up a united song of praise. One voice after another catches it up, till there is scarcely one which does not join in the melodious hymn.

“This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief,” is announced as his text.

Such a sermon I never heard before; such an one I am afraid I shall never hear again. His voice, at first weak and tremulous, strengthens as he progresses with his subject. His eye burns with a new lustre; his frame becomes more erect, his features kindle with animation, as with pathetic eloquence he dwells on Christ’s mission to this sin-stained world of ours. And then, his invitation to those who know Him not. How simple, how sublime, how earnest! His whole heart is full of the deepest emotion struggling for utterance. As he looks anxiously on the waiting congregation, and in accents of melting tenderness, says, of whom I am chief! the hot blood rushes unbidden to my face, and the briny tear trickles unconsciously down my cheek.

I shall never forget that Sabbath, that sermon, that minister. They will go with me to my grave. When I am earnestly engaged in other pursuits, ever and anon visions of them flit across my mind, and awaken emotions of the most delightful nature.

THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN’S DEATH-CHAMBER.

Every voice was hushed; every step muffled. The soft rays of an April sun kissed, with a lingering affection, the pale cheek of a young lady, the tide of whose life was fast ebbing away.

She was the child of Christian parents, who had faithfully endeavored to bring her up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. At an early age she was deprived by death of her sainted mother; and before many years had elapsed, she was called to mourn the loss of a father upon whom every affection of her young heart was centred. To the bitterness of orphanage was added the loss of the greatest blessing on earth—health. The rose of Death was long blooming on her cheek, ere her nearest friends were aware that she was falling a victim to the flattering and insidious attacks of consumption.

She had not neglected the early instructions of her pious parents, and, when very young, made a profession of her faith in Christ. For several years previous to her last sickness, her mind, at times, was clouded with doubts, and she occasionally seemed to suffer unutterable anguish at the absence of God’s Spirit from the heart. A few days preceding her death, these doubts and fears were all entirely removed, and she seemed to enjoy, to the fullest extent, the light of God’s reconciled countenance. It was indeed beautiful to see her, who, but a few weeks before, was so cold and indifferent, now wholly absorbed in the great and glorious truth of salvation through Christ. She was frequently engaged in earnest secret prayer, and never allowed anything to be read in her presence but the Bible, or some of those sweet and touching hymns so soothing to the troubled heart of the dying Christian. No moment was to be lost. During the silent watches of the night, she would frequently call her brother to her bedside, and say, “T——, read to your dying sister some of those beautiful passages in Revelation which our dear father used to love so tenderly, and caused to be read when dying.” “How beautiful! how grand! how sublime!” she would exclaim, when the book was closed.

Reader, come with me and stand beside the bed of this dear, dying young Christian, and see how calmly, serenely and happily a Christian can die. Contrast her death-bed with that of Hume or Voltaire, and tell me if there is not something in religion they knew nothing about—something that fits a man for life, and especially for death; listen attentively to the few words which drop from her faltering tongue; treasure them in your memory, and so live that your last end may be like hers.

The devoted Pastor of the —— church had frequent and delightful interviews with her. In one of them the following conversation occurred: “Miss M——, you doubtless are aware that you can be with us but a few days more; are you perfectly resigned to God’s will?” With calm and sweet composure, she replied, “Yes, Mr. M——, perfectly, perfectly, PERFECTLY; I long to be with my Saviour; earth has no charms for me now.”

After reading the beautiful 14th chapter of St. John, Mr. M—— extended his hand, and was about bidding her, what seemed to him, a last farewell, when she made the following remarks: “Perhaps this will be the last time we shall ever meet again on earth: I wish you to preach my funeral sermon in the old R——n church—the church of my father and my mother, where first I listened to the glad tidings of salvation; preach it from the text, “In the way of righteousness is life; and in the pathway thereof there is no death”—Prov. xii., 28. Preach to the living—to the living—to the living! And I want the congregation to sing that delightful hymn, beginning,

Good-bye.” The Sabbath previous to her death, several of her friends united in singing that beautiful old hymn,

When they had completed the 3d verse, and were just beginning the last—

she, with a sweetness and heavenly melody which beggars description, joined with them and sung the entire verse alone,—as the voices of all in the room were so much choked with emotion they could not utter a word. Oh, what a scene! That feeble, faltering voice spending its “last lingering breath” in singing her Redeemer’s praise! I felt as if I was standing in the very vestibule of heaven, catching some of those sweet accents of devotion warbled by immortal tongues. Such composure, confiding trust, holy resignation!

When her brothers and sister stood around her bed to receive the dying embrace and last fond kiss of their dear sister, she made them kneel down at her side, laid her feeble hands on their orphan heads, (yea, doubly orphan, since she was about leaving them,) and gave them a sister’s dying blessing. She then remarked to her younger brother:—“My brother, you alone, of the three which will be left when I am gone, are not a Christian. My brother—my young, fatherless, motherless, almost sisterless brother—be a Christian!”

A few moments before her death, a new and unusual lustre shone forth from her eyes, a beautiful glow mantled her hitherto pale and wan check, and in accents of the most touching and rapt eloquence, her voice rich and full, she gave utterance to the following sublime sentiment, which should live forever, and be proclaimed wherever the Gospel of Christ is preached:—“I have tasted of Racine; I have dipped into Voltaire; I have read Tom Paine; I have had the daring audacity to study Hume; I have attempted to form a Philosophy myself—but have found them all”—not one exception—“FALLACY, FALLACY!”

With these words lingering on her lips, she calmly and resignedly fell asleep in Jesus. O for the death of those that die in the Lord!

The devoted Mr. M—— complied with her minutest requests; and when he informed the congregation that he preached to them from the text selected by his departed sister in Christ, and that she urgently requested him to preach to the living, there was not a dry eye in the house. Many a soul left that old time-honored church, feeling that “In the way of righteousness is life; and in the pathway thereof there is no death.”

WHAT PRAYER DOES.

“Prayer moves the arm that moves the world.”

Herod Agrippa, finding that the death of the Apostle James pleases the Jews, has seized the venerable Galileean fisherman and thrust him into prison. Four quaternions of soldiers are guarding him. He is chained by each hand to a Roman soldier—soldiers who know that, to sleep at their post is to die. Thus guarded, the doors and windows and gates all bolted and barred, he lays himself down to sleep. His sleep is doubtless sweet and refreshing. His faith is strong in the promises of the Lord. To human eyes, death seems certain. On the coming morrow, this veteran soldier of the cross must lay his life down for Jesus. Tears, hot and bitter, will be shed by God’s people over the lifeless form of him who once so fearlessly breasted the strong waves of Galilee to meet his Master.

But we are told that the Church “made prayer unto God, without ceasing, for him.” And even while he is quietly and sweetly sleeping, there is going up from an inner chamber on one of the dark and unfrequented streets of Jerusalem, a fervent, importunate prayer in his behalf.

During the prayer, an angel of the Lord descends and stands by the side of the slumbering apostle. A heavenly radiance lights up the dark cells of the dismal prison. The heaven-sent messenger arouses the sleeper, and the chains fall from his hands. No sound of footsteps is heard; no rattle of chains breaks the solemn silence. There is no hurry. Peter slowly girds his coat about him, and binds on his sandals. He then throws his rough cloak around him, and follows the angel. They pass, unheard and unseen, through the wards of the prison; the massive gate moves on its hinges, and opens wide at their approach. At last he is safe—safe from the wrath of his enemies. All—all of this accomplished through importunate intercessory prayer!

Christian, I care not how lowly your situation, never say again, “I can’t do any thing for Jesus.” You can pray.

“PRAY WITHOUT CEASING.”

During a great outpouring of God’s Spirit at —— college, my attention was called to the case of a young man of the most wicked and immoral character. It is true, he was the son of a godly father and a praying mother; but this, rather than softening, seemed to harden his heart. It was one of the most copious outpourings of God’s Spirit I ever witnessed. The windows of heaven were indeed opened, and God was pouring out such a blessing that it seemed there could not be room to contain it. The dry bones of the valley had been breathed upon by His Spirit, and hearts once dead in trespasses and sins were awakened to a new life, and rejoicing in the blessed hope of salvation through Jesus Christ.

Nearly every student seemed to feel the need of a Saviour. Every countenance was marked with concern; every heart lifted to God in prayer for mercy and forgiveness. Rooms which once resounded with drunken revellings, were now Bethels of the living God. Lips which once profaned Jehovah’s name, and joined in singing lewd and vulgar songs, now trembled with the accents of prayer, and sung the songs of Zion. It was a delightful season—I shall never forget it.

Amid such scenes as these, there was one whose hard heart was steeled against the influence of God’s awakening Spirit. It was A. M——, the son of pious parents. Many and fervent were the prayers which ascended in his behalf, but they seemingly were of no avail. The more Christians prayed for him, the more hardened he became. The campus, time and again, resounded with his awful profanity; and even the most obdurate would stop and wonder that man, “whose breath was in his nostrils,” could call upon God so frequently and earnestly to damn rather than save his soul.

Such was the extent to which his God-defying; wickedness went, that frequently, when the Christian students were engaged in the exercises of a prayer-meeting, he gathered together a few of his sinful comrades and held a mock prayer-meeting in an adjoining room. Is it not wonderful that God did not cut him down in the midst of such heaven-daring presumption? But, like Paul, he was a chosen vessel. God had yet a great and glorious work for him to perform.

During one of those meetings which he was in the habit of holding, the arrow of conviction pierced his flinty heart, and laid him low and bleeding at the foot of the cross.

Great was the joy among the students, when the glad tidings flew from lip to lip that A. M—— had come to Jesus and fallen at His feet. Old men wept with delight, and yearning hearts throbbed with inexpressible pleasure.

The “tidings of great joy” soon winged their way to the ear of the young man’s mother. Her heart overflowed with rejoicing, and tears of exultation flowed in quick succession down her furrowed cheek. Said she to a friend, “I have never bowed my knee without beseeching God to convert my poor wayward boy; and now my prayer is answered. Joy, joy, joy! Now let thy servant depart in peace. My son is a Christian.”

This wayward boy is now a devoted minister of Christ, and has gone far hence to proclaim the glad tidings of salvation to the hundreds of settlers scattered along our western territories. Christian fathers, Christian mothers, Christian brothers, Christian sisters, pray without ceasing for those who are near and dear to you. Your prayers will be answered.