The Deaf Shoemaker

HOME

I am not one of those who wanderUnaffection’d here and there,But my heart must still be fonderOf 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 cornIs 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 yoreI can smell the hay from the open doorAnd 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 treesWhere 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 sheavesHave 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.

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 YOUNGHow shall the young secure their heartsAnd guard their lives from sin?Thy word the choicest rules impartsTo 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 nightA 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 skiesMy 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 youthI have been taught to seek Thy face,And know the way of truth.“Oh! let Thy Spirit lead me stillAlong 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 goTo hear His word and sing His love,We ought to worship Him belowAs saints and angels do above.”

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

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

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

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

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

MARGARET WILSON

A COVENANTER SKETCHO fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know ere long,Know how sublime a thing it isTo 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 shedIn 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 unknownTill persecution dragged them into fame,And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew– No marble tells us whither.Cowper.THE DAY OF LIFEThe 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.