The Deaf Shoemaker

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 proveMy 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 lifeHe 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 BLACKSMITHUnder a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre 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 nightYou can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledgeWith measured beat, and slow;Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening sun is low.And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike 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 voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like his mother’s voiceSinging in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA 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 lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.Longfellow.

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.

“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.

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, 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.

“Diffused grace celestial, his whole formDilated, and to statelier height advanced,That worthier of all reverence he might seemTo the Phæacians,”

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 tombThe baneful night-shades’ lurid bloomTo 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 yearSeasons return. But not to him returnsDay, 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 obtainWater 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 exceedingAll 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 faultIf 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?”