Chapter 4
In after time Shechem became the chief seat of the people who thenceforth bore the name of Samaritans. They were made up in part of emigrants from other eastern nations. When the Jews returned from their long captivity in Babylon, and began to rebuild Jerusalem and their temple, the Samaritans desired to aid them in their work. "Let us build with you," was their request. The Jews refused to admit them to this privilege; hence a strong hatred between the two sects arose. The Samaritans erected their temple on Mount Gerizim.
Shechem received the new name of Neapolis from the Greeks--a name which it retains to the present day. The city has passed through many changes, which, had we time to recount them, might be of deep interest to the reader. But it would take a larger space to do this than we can now occupy. The Samaritans are still here; but their number now is small, not exceeding one hundred and fifty. They have a synagogue, where they preserve several ancient copies of the books of Moses, and among them one ancient manuscript which they believe to be three thousand four hundred and sixty-five years old, saying it was written by Abishua, the son of Phinehas (1 Chron. 6: 3, 4.) The manuscript, so travellers who have seen it say, is very ancient; but they do not all think it so old as the Samaritans pretend it is.
Mount Gerizim is still held in great veneration by the Samaritans. Four times a year they ascend it in solemn procession, to worship. The old feeling of hostility between them and the Jews is still existing.
The city of Neapolis, or, as the Arabs call it, Nablous, is long and narrow, stretching close along the northeast base of Mount Gerizim. The population is about eight thousand souls, all Mohammedans, with the exception of about five hundred Greek Christians, and the one hundred and fifty Samaritans already mentioned. Those who have taken part in its eventful past history are gone. But never shall be heard there a more glorious voice than that which uttered those sublime words of heavenly truth to the woman at Jacob's well.
"ARE WE NOT ALL BROTHERS AND SISTERS?"
BY REV. W.R.G. MELLEN.
That the human race is one, bound together by the strongest and holiest ties, is one of the sublimest truths announced by the Master. Indeed, so close and intimate is the connection subsisting between the various members of the common family, that to tear one from the body would be like following the direction of Solomon to his servant, and dividing the living child in two, leaving life's purple current to spout forth from either half. An appreciation of this truth is what the world, heart-sick and weary as it is, now needs above all things else. And to illustrate and enforce the fact that it is not a vain shadow, but a solid reality, too solemn to be trifled with, and too important to be neglected,--to illustrate this by deeds which bear joy to the joyless and hope to the hopeless,--is _the_ work which Christians, the young as well as old, are now called to perform. Will it need the voice of duty, which speaketh as from the skies? This is the great truth, also, which, with all its relations to life and duty, is to be impressed by the present, upon the minds of the rising, generation. This is what my young readers are to learn,--and not simply to learn, but to practise:--that we are all brothers and sisters, no matter in what clime or country we may have been born, or with what complexion we may be clothed.
A little girl, some five years of age, whom the writer of this has often fondled in his arms, had well learned this most important lesson. By pious parents and earnest Sabbath school teachers had she been taught, that to be like Jesus, who took little children in his arms and blessed them, she must love and do good unto all, as brothers and sisters. This had sunk deep into her young and tender mind; and when, on a visit at the house of a friend, she was asked that familiar question, which is so often put to children,--whom she loved,--
After a moment's hesitation she replied, that she loved everybody. "Indeed!" said the querist; "how can that be? You certainly do not love me as well as you do your own brothers and sisters; do you?"
After another short pause she replied, "Yes, I think I do; for _you_, too, are my sister." "_I_ your sister?" said the lady, in surprise; "how can that be possible?" Looking up with a countenance in which all heaven's innocence and purity were mirrored, she exclaimed, "Is not God our Father? and are we not all brothers and sisters? and should we not love each other as such?"
There was no further argument to be used. Though hid from many wise and prudent, yet the truth was thus revealed to babes.
Yes, we _are_ all brethren and sisters, having a common origin, a common destination, and a common home. And may all those children who read this short article ever recollect this important truth. When you behold a poor, unfortunate man, with torn and filthy garments, and perhaps intoxicated, reeling through the streets, do not hoot after, and throw stones at him, as I have known many boys do, but think within yourselves, "He is our brother."
When one of your number abuses the rest, and you are tempted to injure and beat him, wait till you have said to yourselves, "He is still our brother; and though he has done us wrong, why should we strike or injure him?"
When you see a companion in trouble, and one to whom your assistance can do much good, recollect he is a brother, or she is a sister, and fly to help him. And oh! if all, both old and young, would act upon this principle, how different would be the aspect of affairs from what it now is! Then the kingdom of God would dawn upon us. Then the wolf and the lamb would lie down together, and the lion eat straw like an ox. Then we should be like _little children_, and the blessing-smile of Jehovah would shed upon us choicest benediction.
FORTUNE-TELLING.
A DIALOGUE FOR EXHIBITIONS.
BY JULIA A. FLETCHER.
_Sophronia_. Come, girls, let us go and have our fortunes told.
_Eveline_. Oh! I should like it of all things; where shall we go?
_Sarah_. Let us go to old Kate Merrill's. They say she can read the future as we do the past, by hand, tea-cups, or cards. Come, Mary Ann.
_Mary Ann_. Excuse me, girls, if I do not go with you. I do not think it is right to have our fortunes told.
_Sophronia_. Not right? why not?
_Mary Ann_. Because, if it had been best for us to know the future, I think God would have revealed it to us.
_Sarah_. Oh, but you know this is only for amusement.
_Eveline_. Of course, we shall not believe a word she says.
_Mary Ann_. If it is only for amusement, I think we can find others far more rational and innocent. But depend upon it, girls, you would not wish to go, if there were not in your minds a little of credulous feeling?
_Sophronia_. Well, I am sure I am not credulous.
_Mary Ann_. Do not be offended, Sophronia; I only meant that we are all of us more inclined to believe these things than we at first imagine.
_Sarah_. I think that Mary Ann is right in this respect. I am sure I would not go if I did not think her predictions would come to pass.
_Mary Ann_. Certainly; I could not suppose you would spend your time and money to hear an old woman tell you things you did not believe.
_Eveline_. Well, I am sure I do not see any harm in having a little fun once in a while.
_Sophronia_. No; and I think it is very unkind in Mary Ann to spoil all our pleasures with her whims. She is always preaching to us about giving up our own way for the comfort of others, and I think she ought to give up now, and go with us.
_Sarah_. Now, really, Sophronia, I think you are the one that is unkind. If Mary Ann is wrong, it is better to convince her of it kindly, and I am sure she will acknowledge it.
_Mary Ann_. I hope I should be willing to give up a mere whim for the pleasure of those I love so well. But this is not a whim; it is a serious conviction of duty.
_Sophronia_. Well, I thought you always pretended to be very obliging.
_Mary Ann_. I have no right to be obliging at the expense of what I deem duty. Our own inclinations we should often sacrifice, our prejudices always, but our sense of duty never.
_Eveline_. I think, girls, we have done wrong to urge Mary Ann to go, after she had told us her reasons.
_Sophronia_. Well, then, don't spend any more time in urging her to go, against her will. You know the old proverb "The least said is soonest mended."
_Eveline_. Well, do not let us go away angry or ill-natured. You asked Mary Ann to say why she thought it was wrong, and we should receive her reasons kindly.
_Sarah_. So I think; but I wish she would tell us what harm she thinks it would do to go.
_Mary Ann_. Well, girls, I think, by trying to look into the future, we are apt to grow discontented and restless, and to forget that we have duties to perform in the present. Then, if we do not believe in it, it is a waste of time and money, which might be better employed in relieving the suffering of the poor around us. But the greatest evil of all is, that we should believe even a part; she would of course tell us many little circumstances which would be true of any one; thus we might be led to believe all she said; the prediction would probably work out its own fulfilment, and perhaps render us miserable for life.
_Sophronia_. Oh, fudge! Mary Ann. This is altogether too bad and ungenerous in you. In the first place, the few cents we give, bestowed as they are on a poor old widow woman, are not wasted, in my opinion, but well spent;--and if I spend an evening, granted to me by my father and mother for recreation, in listening to Old Kate, it is no more wasted than if I spend it with the girls in any other social way. And when you connect fortune-telling and our duties in the present, you make it too serious an affair. _Remember, this is all for sport_.
_Mary Ann_. It may be so with you, Sophronia; but there are those who seriously believe every word of a fortune-teller, and actually live more in the unseen but expected events of the future, than in faithfully performing their duties in the present. This is true, Sophronia. The contentment and peace of many young minds have been utterly lost, _sold_ for the absurd jabbering of old, ignorant, low-bred women, who pretend to read the future. [_In a livelier tone of voice_.] But just say, girls, do you believe there is any connection between tea-leaves and your future lives?
_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Why, no!
_Mary Ann_. Do you believe God has marked the fortunes of thousands of his creatures on the face of cards?
_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Certainly not.
_Mary Ann_. Well, do you believe, if God should intrust the secret events of the future with any of our race, in this age, it would be with those who have neither intellectual, moral, nor religious education--who can be bribed by dollars and cents to say anything?
_Sarah, Eveline_. No, indeed!
_Mary Ann. (Turns to Sophronia,)_ You do not answer, Sophronia. Let me ask you one or two more questions. Do you suppose Kate Merrill believes that she has a revelation from God?
_Sophronia_. No, Mary Ann.
_Mary Ann_. Do you suppose she thinks you believe so?
_Sophronia_. Why, yes, I do.
_Mary Ann_. Then, is it benevolent to bestow money to encourage an old woman in telling for truth what she knows to be false?
_Sophronia_. I doubt whether it is really benevolent.
_Mary Ann_. And if Old Kate speaks falsely and knows she does so, and you know it, yet spend your time in listening to what she has to say, what good can come of it to head or heart?
_Sophronia_. None at all, Mary Ann. It is time wasted, and I am convinced that I have been doubly wrong in wishing to go, and in being angry with you. Will you forgive me?
_Mary Ann_. Certainly, Sophronia. And now, if you wish for amusement, I will be a witch myself, and tell your fortunes for you.
_Sophronia_. Oh, do tell mine; and be sure you tell it truly. What lines of fate do you see in my hand?
_Mary Ann. (Takes her hand and looks at it intently.)
(To Sophronia_.)
Passions strong my art doth see. Thou must rule them, or they rule thee. If the first, you peace will know; If the last, woe followeth woe.
_Sarah_. Now tell mine next.
_(To Sarah_.)
Too believing, too believing, Thou hast learned not of deceiving. Closely scan what seemeth fair, And of flattering words beware.
_Eveline_. Now tell me a pleasant fortune, Mary Ann.
_(To Eveline_.)
Lively and loving, I would not chide thee, Do thou thy duty, and joy shall betide thee.
_Sophronia_. Thank you, Mary Ann, for the lessons you have given us. We can now, in turn, tell your fortune, and that is, Always be amiable and sensible as now, and you will always be loved.
THE BOY WHO STOLE THE NAILS.
BY REV. MOSES BALLOU.
I remember well, that, when I was quite a little boy, a circumstance occurred which I shall probably never forget, and which, no doubt, has had some little influence on my life at many different periods since. I will relate it; and I wish all my young readers would remember the story.
My father was somewhat poor. He had no salary for preaching, except for a few months, perhaps not five hundred dollars for forty years of pulpit labor. He maintained his family chiefly from a small farm, and, there being several children, we were deprived of many little things that wealthier parents are accustomed to furnish for theirs. We had few presents, and those chiefly of necessary articles,--school-books, or something of the kind; while toys, playthings, and instruments of amusement, we were left to go without, or take up with such rude and simple ones as we could manufacture for ourselves.
I wanted a small box very much. A handsome little trunk, such as most of my young readers probably have, was too much to hope for, and a plain wooden box, even, I had no means to purchase.
I went without for a long time, and at last determined that I would try to make one. But the materials,--where was I to obtain them? True, my father had pieces of thin boards that would answer, but there were nails, and hinges, and a lock wanting. Where were these to come from?
After trying a variety of methods, I invented a plan for fastening it without a lock, and leather made a very good substitute for hinges, as it was to be out of sight. Still, I wanted nails. There were some old ones about the house, but they were crooked, and broken, and rusty. These would not answer if anything better could be obtained.
My uncle, who at this time lived but a short distance from us, was engaged in building, and I watched the barrel of bright new nails his workmen were using, with a longing eye. O, how I coveted them!
The temptation was too great. I sought the opportunity while the hands were at dinner, and, after cautiously looking about to see that no one was near to observe me, with trembling hands seized upon them, _and stole enough to make my box_. O! how my heart beat as I hurried away across the fields home. I almost expected to see some one start up from every stump and bush on the way, to accuse me of the theft. I hardly dared to look behind me. It seemed as though my old uncle, with frowning brow, was at my very heels. And then, too, the workmen;--were they not suspicious from my hanging about them, and had not some of them watched me? So horrid images began to dance about my brain. Dim visions of court-rooms, and lawyers, and judges, and prisons, and sorrowing parents, and frightened brothers and sisters, rose in awful terror before me. I began to grow dizzy and faint. I had laid up, for a long time, all the pennies I could obtain, which, at that time, amounted to the vast sum of twenty cents, contained in an old-fashioned pistareen; and the hope sprung up in my heart, that, possibly, by paying this to the officers, they would not carry me to jail.
Thought was busy in laying plans for escape, and I reached home in the greatest excitement imaginable.
Well, the deed was now done, and I could not undo it. I was really a thief; and now, as I had got the nails, I thought I might as well use them. I was too anxious about the crime, however, to do this at once. So I hid them away for a week or more, before I ventured to make my box.
Taking such leisure hours as I had,--for I was obliged to work most of the time on the farm,--I crept away in the loft of an old building, and finally succeeded in finishing my task. But, now that the box was done, my troubles were by no means ended. It would be seen. I could not always keep it out of sight. My brothers, and sisters, and playmates, would examine it, and possibly my father would get his eye upon it! Suppose he should, and ask me where those nails came from?
O, how my poor brain was racked to invent some false story by which I could escape detection! I thought of saying that they were old ones which I had polished up so as to appear new, and I even filed down the rust on the head of an old nail to see if they would look sufficiently alike. But nothing of this kind would answer. The cheat, I thought, would be detected; and so I was obliged, after all my trouble and suffering, to keep my box hidden away when it was done. Every time I went to look at it, those bright new nail-heads were staring out at me, ready to reveal my crime to any one who saw them.
For a long time, I did not dare to go to my uncles again. True, he knew nothing of my wrong; but I felt guilty, and did not care to see him. Finally, after some time had passed away, though I had by no means forgotten the theft, and still suffered much every time it was thought of, I ventured to call and see him. I could hardly avoid the impression that he must know what I had done, and would accuse me of it; and when he met me in the yard at his door; patted my cheek with a half-laughing, half-reproving look; asked why I had stayed away from him so long; and said, that, to punish me, he should go and get me some very nice apples from the garden;--I could bear it no longer. It seemed as though my heart would break. What I said, I have now forgotten. I remember that I cried very heartily, and, as soon as my tears would allow it, told him the whole story!
I can still see, fresh in my memory, the sad look that came over him as I confessed my crime; but not a single harsh or unkind word did he utter. He told me that it was very wrong; that I had acted nobly in confessing it; and that, if I had only asked him in the first place, he would gladly have given me all I wanted.
Thinking I had suffered enough already, he promised not to tell my parents, in case I continued a good boy, and advised me to destroy the box and bring him back the nails, as no one could then suspect what had been done but ourselves.
His kindness, I confess, pained me very much. I think nothing could have tempted me to do him any wrong again.
I loved him better than ever before. He never alluded to the subject afterwards, but I always thought of it when I saw him. He died in a short time; and, twenty years after, as I stood by his grave, the circumstance came up, clear and distinct, to my recollection. I have not, indeed, from that to the present hour, felt the least temptation to commit any wrong of the kind without recalling it; and, if all my young readers will think seriously how much suffering that one act cost me, and how much happier I should otherwise have been, I am confident that they will never commit a similar offence so long as they remember the story of _the boy who stole the nails_.
THE CHILDLESS MOTHER.
BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.
There are many childless mothers in our land. In some homes there never lived a little child to make them happy; but in others the spirits of the little ones have departed. They dwell in another home--the "dear heavenly home." Their mothers, those childless mothers, weep day and night in their loneliness and sadness. This sketch is of a mother who had buried all her little babes--four precious children--all her little family. The mother's name was Ellen Moore.
For many months after the birth of her first child, Ellen was free from sorrow as a bird in the morning. She never thought affliction might come to her blessed home. It was not surprising, for she had never known what bereavement and bitter disappointment were. She was educated to be a child of sunshine. She had always lived amid smiles and tenderness, and when the fearful cloud of sorrow broke, in an unexpected moment, upon her head, she seemed bowed down, never to rise again in health and beauty.
It was a sad day in our neighborhood when Ellen's first little babe died; we all wept. Not so much because he was dead, for we all felt that _he_ was at rest; but his dear mother was so sorely troubled, her heart ached so grievously, it seemed as if she too would die. Days and nights Ellen wept, and moaned, and walked her house. The tears seemed to burn their way down her cheeks. She spoke but seldom, yet that pitiful moan she so often breathed out pierced our souls and made us all very sad.
After a few weeks, the consolation we offered her quieted her feelings, and she became calm. She went to church, called on her friends, and attended to her duties at home. But there was ever a sadness in her voice and manners. Her home was so lonely, so strangely still and vacant, and Ellen so silent, that the voice of gladness was not heard in it again until a second beautiful boy was born under its roof.
We were all happy then. Even Ellen smiled as she kissed her dear babe--but a tear followed the smile and the kiss so soon, we knew her wounded heart was not _then_ healed. She was very sad, and felt that this babe, too, might only be loaned her for a short time. It was not long before we all felt so. That little face, so pale, so sad, so beautiful, evidently bore the seal of death upon it. He refused all nourishment, and pined slowly away. Ellen knew he must die, but could not say so. She could not shed one tear to relieve her sorrowful heart. She neither spoke nor wept, until her infant was laid in its coffin.
A friend had woven a wreath of beautiful flowers, and laid it on the satin pillow of the coffin, and placed a delicate rose-bud in the little hand of the babe. Ellen went alone to take her last kiss, when, seeing her babe so beautiful in death, she seated herself on the floor and wept freely.
"Who loved my babe so fondly?" said she, when she came from the room. "Who has been so kind and thoughtful of me? It has unsealed my tears; now let me weep alone." We left her. She came out of that room a changed woman. She assisted us in our preparations for the burial of the dead, spoke cheerfully to her husband, conversed freely about her children in heaven, and remarked that henceforth her life should be worthy of a Christian. We buried the sweet babe by the side of his brother, and planted a rose-tree over his grave. Then our thoughts turned to Ellen, whose whole manner indicated resignation and peace.
We were not surprised at the effect of grief upon Ellen, for I have told you she was not educated to bear human misery with much composure. Yet what her parents had left undone seemed to be effected by those severe dispensations of God. Our Father in heaven often educates us by his chastisements, giving us wisdom, patience, hope, trustfulness and resignation, according to the severity with which he afflicts us.