PART II.

"Two years on the Brink of Jordan," Sanctification, by Mrs. R. S., " " " " conclusion " " Story, " " Poetry, " "

INTRODUCTION

A life finished, is a proper subject for contemplation and study. To the Christian, whose eye is ever turning to the end of life, nothing can be more interesting than the life and death of the saints. It is never difficult to secure a large congregation to the funeral services of a well known Christian.

In looking upon a life closed, from a Christian standpoint, we see the Divine and the human blended. We see human nature moulded by divinely cast circumstances; we see character developed and displayed through these occasional circumstances. The "hidden man of the heart" is brought out, and we are able to see the _inner_ through the _outer_ life.

To this pleasant and profitable study, the reader of these pages is invited. He will be brought in contact with a life, humble and perhaps commonplace, but interesting at every step, because always earnest and real. He is invited to follow that life through a responsible, laborious and thorny pathway; and to see manifest, a character always glowing in brightness and stronger than any emergency.

He may learn the secret of that brightness and strength if he will. It is not of man but of God. He may hear a faith express itself before great difficulties (as I have often times) in these words: "Who art thou O great mountain? before _Zerubbabel_, thou shalt become a plain." Zech. IV. 7.

And, if his eyes are cleared to see the things of God, as were those of Elisha's servant, as he and his master stood in the midst of the Syrian hosts at Dothan, he will see, not the mountains round about full of horses and chariots of fire; but a heavenly light streaming down upon the toiler, and a crown of resplendent glory held in her full view;--an angelic hand guiding her as she slowly pursues her way, sometimes weeping but often singing, through the inspiration of the hope set before her.

In presenting a sketch of this life I attempt to fulfill a threefold duty. First, it is an act of obedience to the feelings of my own heart. An imperious sentiment forces me to the task. This book is the tribute I bring to cast upon the tomb of a loved mother! Secondly, I essay to discharge this duty in obedience to the wish of many relatives and dear friends. I feel myself honored in a very high degree in being thus called to so delicate a responsibility, and I can but deeply feel my inabilities. Knowing, however, their sincere regard for the person whose name I endeavor to commemorate, I feel somewhat encouraged to entrust to their generosity my best efforts. Lastly, the interests of Christianity seem to demand this at my hands. A voice from above which I regard as that of the Master urges me to lay before the Christian world this life, as a help and solace to the many struggling ones. Reverently bowing to this call, and imploring His blessings upon the humble effort, I assume the pen. May the Lord own the work! And here I desire also to express my profound thanks to those distinguished Christians, who have contributed most essentially to this volume, and to the many more, whose letters of sympathy and love have furnished inspiration to the performance of this sad, yet pleasing duty.

T. G. S.

In Memoriam.

BY WILLIAM STEWARD ("WILL.")

"They are love's last gifts, bring ye flowers, pale flowers."--MRS. HEMANS.

I stand alone beside the silent mound, The dull, cold earth beneath me, and the sky Dark blue o'er head.--The spacious hills around Nor charms the gaze of my grief wearied eye; Sad, tired, forlorn, I sink upon the sod, With rev'rent awe and mournful bareéd head, I try to raise my thoughts to mother's God, And with affection contemplate the dead.

I am a boy again--a lisping child, With sunny face and merry prattling tongue; I totter forth with joyous fancy wild, And sing the lullaby we last night sung; My young heart bounds with radiant happiness As some new toy my angel-mother gives, Or stoops to pat my head with sweet caress, And my glad lips her cherished kiss receives.

Now I am grown to boyhoods first estate; And thorns of life 'gin prick me one by one,-- Now aspiration's hopes, my thoughts elate, And now by disappointments am cast down; The daily avocations of the farm Bring each in turn their elements of woe, But mother's heart, its beatings always warm, Is a sure haven where I ever go.

Th' unruly horse my youthful strength o'erpowers, Or vicious cattle wear my patience bare, Each is recounted of in evening hours, In boyhood's confidence in mother's ear,-- Ah! we six childish ones with each our cares-- Bespeak we each ones place, in mother's heart, Where we each pour our trouble, hopes and fears, And mother, tenderly takes each one's part.

And at th' appointed hour the father comes; His day's work o'er, prompt, day and day the same, Then happiest ours of all the happy homes Our lessons coning, or with sportive game,-- Oh would those days of childhood linger still-- The ev'ning game prolong--e'en daily task Is welcomed linger! youthful years ye will Be vanished and your stay in vain we ask!

Too soon with quickning steps the eager days Bring manhood's strength--our childhood all outgrown And then for life we take our sep'rate ways, Each son and daughter choose a course their own; Too soon, alas! the shadowy curtain falls And sorrows, real, begin to cast their gloam, Our consciences' tickle with increasing galls As each new silv'ry hair comes to our home.

Dear cherished ones, thy load we now wish lighter, Since we are grown, and see thy waning years, Thy daily walks we would see fair and brighter, But ev'ry effort still augments thy cares; Affliction's hand, spares not the burdened mother, But suff'rings, long, great, are thy constant lot; Nor stintless hand divides it with another Who'd die for thee and for thee be forgot.

Grown, stalwart boys and buxome girls we all are And fain would bring renown to thy dear name-- Pride to thy heart, and comfort to thy leisure By some good noble deeds, and worthy fame, Alas, how short we've come! When thou complaisant Looked on expectant for some virtuous act, How Self appeared like some fierce tigress couchant, And we with evil motive seemed impact!

And thou art gone! Well do I remember Our childhood's days again--I'd live them o'er-- When chilly blasts of sleeting, bleak December Kept us, long ev'nings, close within the door, We stories begged and then some Bible tale-- Of David's valor, or Saul's treachery Of Moses meekness or Methus'lah hale-- Of Abraham's faith or Esau's jealousy.

Of Enoch's constancy in serving God, Of Joseph, sold a slave; of Egypt's kings, Of Pharaoh's plagues, and Moses' wond'rous rod, And of the Psalms which ev'ry Christian sings, Of John the Baptist, Christ the living Word Which was made flesh, and came and dwelt with men, Who was, and is, and shall be, God the Lord; Of His disciples, Holy ones, and then The Revelation, and the last Great Day, Each in its turn, in loving tones, was given And thus our mother thought to point the way With truthful finger, to the gates of Heaven; The great "Old Bible" then across her knee Was tender laid,--I see her sparkling eye,-- With trem'lous voice she read the "Verily" And hushed, we listen'd, 'till no eye was dry.

Then, kneeling, when the Word had well been read In very confidence she talked with God, And then with happy tears we went to bed, Now Mother lies beneath the silent sod! And thus, when father was away at toil In fact'ry's buzz, his cherished ones to keep, Giving his strength for them, in hot turmoil, We, his dear ones, were wrapped in blissful sleep.

But she is gone! we've laid her down to rest In a soft bed of satin, white and pure We spread her o'er white rose buds on her breast, And bade her soul, waft to the better shore! Where mansions fair unnumbered stand prepared For her and hers--her Lord had told her so His Fathers house, to her he said, was shared By those who loved as she had loved below.

And would I grieve? Yes, many a poisoned dart Have I with wilful hand flung straight at thee, Yet stood aghast, when it did prick thy heart, I mourn in silence, now--thou'rt gone from me; Father, and we, the six yet still are here And for thy sake will serve each others good-- Grief answers grief, now comes the ready tear, To bring thee back we'd weep thee tears of blood; And would we weep for thee to call thee hence? Again instate thee in this world of woe, Would we rebel and murmur--dread offence-- Against the God whose mandate bade thee go? Nay, wearied one, fly to thy hav'n of rest, God wills it so; content we are to be Without thee here, thou dwell'st among the blest Forever safe in realms prepared for thee.