“THE LAST NIGHT OF THE SEASON.”
“Hasten, O sinner, to return,
And stay not for to-morrow’s sun,
For fear thy lamp should cease to burn
Before the needful work is done.”
“The Last Night of the Season,” stood forth in bold prominence from mammoth posters at every prominent place in the city.
“The Last Night of the Season” headed an advertisement in every daily paper.
“The Last Night of the Season,” was echoed by thousands of handbills.
“The Last Night of the Season,” lingered on the lips of nearly every passer-by.
At night, thronging crowds, with hurried step and anxious heart, pressed earnestly into the accustomed entrance – then too narrow to admit the greatly increased numbers – of a large and brilliantly illumined building.
Do you know, breathed in quick succession from one to another, it is “The Last Night of the Season?”
Fellow traveller to the bar of God, “I have somewhat to say unto thee.”
Has not this sentence already gone, like an arrow, to your heart? Do you not feel that perhaps you have seen the last night of the season of salvation?
Oh! it is an awful thought. Yet, thanks be to God, there is still another opportunity of being saved. I now present you that opportunity. Will you, can you, refuse? It may be the last night of the season. God only knows.
“Delay not, delay not, O sinner, to come,
For mercy still lingers and calls thee to-day,
Her voice is not heard in the vale of the tomb;
Her message unheeded will soon pass away.”
Fathers, mothers, friends, relatives, brothers, sisters, those that love you tenderly, dearly, Christian ministers, the writer of this little article, all join in the earnest entreaty, “Come to Jesus!”
He is a precious Saviour.
He is a loving Saviour.
He is a willing Saviour.
He is an able Saviour.
Then, will you not come and cast your burden upon Him?
He has never turned away one soul.
The thief on the cross, – poor, weeping Peter – Mary Magdalene, with her seven devils, – all found Him such a Saviour as I have described.
Young man, in the morning of life, you whose brow no cloud of sorrow has ever darkened, will you not come to that Saviour?
Young lady, will you not come to that Saviour? Will you, whose sex was the last at the cross, the first at the sepulchre, stay away from that Saviour? The daughters of Jerusalem found Him an all-sufficient Saviour, and will you not come, like Mary, and
“ – fall at His feet,
And the story repeat,
And the lover of sinners adore?”
MARY AT JESUS’ FEET
To hear the Saviour’s word
The gentle Mary came;
Low at His feet she sat and heard
Sweet mention of her name.
She chose the better part,
The one bright pearl she found:
May we, with Mary’s constant heart,
In Mary’s grace abound.
Like her, we look above,
To learn our Saviour’s will;
The droppings of His lips we love,
And would His word fulfil.
Speak, as to Mary Thou
Didst speak in Galilee;
Call us by name, our hearts shall bow,
And melting, flow to Thee.
E. M. C.
HUGH MILLER AND THE PRECIPICE
“Heaven above and hell below,
Pleasure, pain, and joy and woe,
Repeat the words in accents slow,
Stop and think!”
The celebrated Hugh Miller, when a boy, was in the habit of scaling giddy precipices, either in search of some peculiar specimen of rock, or some unknown species of bird.
On one occasion he saw a raven’s nest far above the ground, snugly fixed on a very high cliff, which had never been scaled by the foot of man. From below it was a matter of impossibility to reach it, for it was more than a hundred feet above the level of the sea. He therefore determined to make an attempt from above. Creeping carefully along, now holding by some protruding rock, now clinging to some slender shrub, he at last found himself within six or eight feet of the desired prize. There he stopped and hesitated. Beneath, the raging surf roamed and boiled. One misstep would launch him into eternity.
His foot was stretched out to take the first step, when he observed, as the sun burst suddenly from behind a cloud, the light glisten on a smooth surface of chlorite, slippery as glass. He at once saw the consequences of such an attempt, retraced his steps, and was, in God’s providence, spared to exert an influence for good, the extent of which will never be fully known.
Reader, have you ever attempted to perform some act which no one else was able to accomplish, and been on the very brink of destruction, when the Sun of Righteousness shone on your pathway and revealed to your darkened understanding the imminent danger of your position?
Young man, you that are anxious to write your name high above that of your fellow-man, beware how you step. The ocean of a never-ending eternity is roaring beneath you. You, perhaps, do not see your danger, yet it is there. If you are seeking only the riches of this world, which perish with their using, and endeavoring to do what no one else has done, pray that God will show you the peril of your position, retrace your steps, and remember the sad end of him “who layeth up treasure for himself and is not rich toward God.” Luke 12: 21.
The sequel to this little sketch is very, very heart-rending.
Not long after the above occurrence a youth named Mackay made a similar attempt; paused even for a longer time; then trusting himself to the treacherous chlorite, his foot slipped, and he fell headlong over the precipice. His head striking violently against a projecting rock, his brains were scattered over a space of ten or twelve square yards in extent.
The rock doubtless yet remains – a lasting monument of the sinful folly of man.
A FEW SHORT YEARS – AND THEN. —
“A few short years – and then
Our young hearts may be reft
Of every hope, and find no gleam
Of childhood’s sunshine left!
“A few short years – and then,
Impatient of its bliss,
The weary soul shall seek on high
A better home than this!
“A few short years – and then
The dream of life will be
Like shadows of a morning cloud,
In its reality!
“A few short years – and then
The idols loved the best
Will pass in all their pride away,
As sinks the sun to rest!”
THE HOME OF ST. PAUL
I never left the place that knew me,
And may never know me more,
Where the cords of kindness drew me,
And gladdened me of yore, —
But my secret soul has smarted,
With a feeling full of gloom,
For the days that are departed,
And the place I called my home.
Tupper.
Who is there that can stand beside the simple stone which marks the birthplace of George Washington, or enter that plain cottage in the slashes of Hanover, or walk the halls of Monticello, and not feel arising in his bosom feelings of pleasure and delight? Such feelings are natural; and I hope, dear reader, you will ever cherish them for the memory of such men as Washington, Jefferson, Clay, and the host of others who have done so much for our common country. If we love to visit the birthplaces and homes of men who have preferred death to bondage, how much greater must be the love with which we look upon the home of him who suffered and bled and died for the liberty of the soul from the powerful bondage of sin and Satan – the home of Saul of Tarsus, the scholar of Gamaliel.
That Tarsus was the birthplace of Saul is not very certain, as no one informs us of the fact; but one thing is certain, it was there he spent the hours of his childhood, there he was taught to reverence God’s Word, and there his tender mind received those impressions of love to God and his fellow-man, which followed him throughout his interesting and eventful life.
Tarsus, at the time of Saul’s residence, was one of the largest cities in Asia Minor. It was beautifully situated on the river Cydnus, in the midst of a most fertile and picturesque valley, and was the capital of Cilicia. On the one side a lofty peak of the Taurus mountains lifted its hoary head, and stood like a sentinel, to watch over and protect the city which lay in such calm quietude at its base; on the other lay the lovely valley of the Cydnus, interspersed with beautiful groves of palm trees and luxuriant gardens, through the midst of which the silver stream wound its way till it was lost in the Mediterranean sea. Over this plain, happy cottages were scattered like stars in the blue canopy of heaven. Above the city, about a mile distant, were the falls of the Cydnus, whose sullen roar added no little to the grandeur of the scenery. Such was the nature of the country in which the youthful Saul spent the days of his childhood and youth. Tarsus, as Saul himself says, was “no mean city.” It was no less remarkable for the beauty of its situation, than as a seat of learning and wide-spread commerce.
There is something about the word Home, which in itself is pleasant. How delightful is it to him upon whose locks have fallen the snows of many winters, and whose brow has been furrowed by the hand of time, to look back to the home and friends of his childhood! Every thing about the old homestead is interesting to him. Here, surrounded by kind friends and dear relatives, he spent the happiest hours of his life. Every spot has some attraction. In one he once was rescued from danger; in another he used to indulge in those sportive games which afford so much pleasure to the young beginner of life’s journey; beside some murmuring stream he often strayed, and stole the nimble trout from its crystal home, or rested his weary limbs beneath the wide-extending branches of the aged oak which overhung the gushing spring.
Such, doubtless, were the feelings with which the great “Apostle of the Gentiles,” when his mind was “burdened with the care of all the churches,” visited his native city. And now how changed! An English writer thus describes the present condition of that once prosperous city: “It is now a Turkish town, greatly decayed, but still of some relative importance, and carrying on a somewhat active commerce. The population is about 6,000.” – However the works of man may have decayed in and around Tarsus, yet the works of God remain almost unaltered. – “The rich harvests of corn still grow luxuriantly after the rains in spring; the same tents of goats’ hair are still seen covering the plain in busy harvest. The same sunset lingers on the pointed summits. The same shadows gather in the deep ravines. The water-falls of the Cydnus still break over the same rocks.”
Who would not like to visit a city once hallowed by the presence of one of the greatest and best of men?
THE WANDERER’S RETURN
I left my home in childhood,
The beautiful green spot,
Where I used to sport among the leaves,
Around my native cot.
My heart was full of happiness
Among the woods and hills,
And I heard the voice of hope and love
Sing gayly in the rills.
Each lawn and sunny meadow,
Each tree and flower was dear —
And I left them full of sadness,
With childhood’s flowing tear.
And after years of roaming
I sought again the scene —
I stood within the cottage door,
And looked upon the green; —
But my heart within me died away —
For time had trod the lawn,
And change had passed o’er field and cot,
And those I loved were gone!
The earth was full of beauty,
There was balm upon the air,
But the feelings of my childhood
I found no longer there.
C. W. Thompson.
HOME
I am not one of those who wander
Unaffection’d here and there,
But my heart must still be fonder
Of 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 corn
Is 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 yore
I can smell the hay from the open door
And 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 trees
Where 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 sheaves
Have 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.