Part 7

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,

“Diffused grace celestial, his whole form Dilated, and to statelier height advanced, That worthier of all reverence he might seem To the Phæacians,”

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.

“Then wish not o’er his earthly tomb The baneful night-shades’ lurid bloom To 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 year Seasons return. But not to him returns Day, 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 obtain Water 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 exceeding All 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 fault If 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?”

* * * * *

“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.

“Another followed fast, And a book was in his hand, Filled with the flashes of burning thought, That are known in many a land; But the child of Genius quailed to hear Death’s pitiless demand. “_Here that book cannot enter with thee, For the bright flash of Genius is nothing to me._””

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 shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device,

EXCELSIOR.

“Beware the pine tree’s wither’d branch Beware the awful avalanche!” This was the peasant’s last good-night,— A voice replied, far up the height,

EXCELSIOR.

At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of St. Bernard Uttered the oft repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air,

EXCELSIOR.

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device—

EXCELSIOR.

There, in the twilight cold and grey, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star,

EXCELSIOR.

* * * * *

THE POOR CONSUMPTIVE.

* * * * *

A COLPORTEUR SKETCH.

“IS this the place where a princess dwells, A favored daughter of the King of kings? Within their humble and contracted cells, Do heavenly spirits wave their guardian wings?”

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.