DWELL'ST thou with thine own people? are the joys,
The hopes, the blessings of "sweet home" thine own?
"The Word is nigh thee;" hear the sacred voice!
At morn, bow with thy loved ones round the throne;
At noon-tide read and pray; and in the hour
When evening's shades close round thee, let the truth
Subdue thy heart by its transforming power;
That thou, whom God has blessed, may'st serve him from thy youth.
Affection's ties oft sunder; and the home
Of peace and love, sorrow and death can enter.
Art thou, indeed, a mourner? dost thou roam
Alone and sad, where late thy joys did centre?
"The Word is nigh thee!" and though bitter grief
Makes all the future seem one day of sorrow,—
Its words of peace shall grant thee sweet relief;
The night of pain and fear shall find a joyous morrow
"The Word of God is nigh thee!" let it be
The lamp that o'er thy pathway sheds its light,
Then, through the mists of error, thou shalt see
The way of truth, all radiant and bright,
In which of old the sons of God did go,
Leaning on Him who was their friend and guide;
Nor shall thy heart be faint, thy step be slow,
Till thou in Heaven, thy home, shalt triumph by their side
The Word of God shall bless thee, in the hour
When human hopes and human friends shall fail:
It was in health thy portion, and its power
Is mightiest even in the gloomy vale.
No evil shalt thou fear while He is with thee;
The sting of death his hand shall take away,
His rod and staff shall comfort thee and cheer thee,
And thou with Him shalt dwell through heaven's eternal day.
WE remember as it were yesterday the first time we saw her, though it was a brief glance, and she was so quickly forgotten that most of us had passed into the supper-room and the rest had reached the door, heedless of the stranger, when one of our party, perhaps more thoughtful than the others, cast her eyes on the quiet little figure that stood, near the fire as if irresolute, whether to follow or remain. With lady-like politeness she received the excuses which one of the gentlemen offered for having preceded her, and entered the room.
She was very slight, and thin, and pale, her, eyes were of a light gray and her hair inclined to redness, but her forehead, was broad and smooth and, about her thin lips there hovered an expression of sweetness and repose.
We have forgotten now what first led us to feel that beneath that unprepossessing exterior were concealed the pulses of a warm, generous heart, and the powers of a strong and cultivated mind, but we remember well the morning that she set her seal upon our heart.
It was a clear, cold, brilliant morning in March. The whole broad country was covered with a thick crust of hard, glittering snow, and every tree was encased in ice. The oaks and elms and chestnuts and beeches from their trunks upward and outward to their minutest twigs, and the pines and firs with their greenness shining through, sparkled like diamonds and emeralds in the brightness of the sun.
O, it was a glorious morning, and we have seldom since been so young in feeling as never we are sure in years, as when we walked forth into its bracing air. And Aunt Rachel—she enjoyed it; the broad icy fields, the difficult ascent of the steep slippery hills and the "duckies" down them, and the crackling of the icicles as we thrust our way through the bristling under-brush of those diamond-cressed woods. We loved even to eat the icicles that hung from the pines with their pungent flavour, strong as though their pointed leaves had been steeped in boiling water. It was a pleasure to taste as well as see the trees.
As we entered the "Main Road" and were passing along by the "Asylum for the Insane," a clear, pleasant voice from one of the cells in the upper story, accosted us: "Good morning, ladies." We looked up and bowed in reply to the salutation. "It is a beautiful morning," he continued, "and I should like myself to take a walk down on 'Main Street,' but my folks have sent me here to be shut up because they say I am crazy, but I am sure I am not crazy, and I can't see why they should think so." And we thought the same as we listened to the calm, pleasant tones of his voice, till he added, "It will soon make me beside myself to be with this wild, screaming set; and it doesn't do them any good either to shut them up here. What they want is the Grace of God, and I'll put the Grace of God into them."
His voice grew wild and excited, but we knew that a whole volume of truth had been uttered in those simple words: "What they want is the Grace of God."
The Grace of God. How many has it saved—rescued—from madness! how have prayer and watchfulness been blest in conquering self, in subduing rampant passion and the wild, disorderly vagaries of the brain!
As we listen, the low whispered prayer of a Hall when he felt the billows of angry passion about to sweep over his soul, "O, Lamb of God, calm my perturbed spirit," we feel that but for such interceding prayer and that watchfulness which accompanied it, the insanity to which he was temporarily subject would have won the same mastery over the mighty powers of his mind as over those of Swift, and the glory of his "wide fame" as well as the peace of his "humble hope," would have been exchanged for the vagaries of the madman or the drivellings of the idiot.
The Grace of God. We thought of John Randolph, with his sway over the minds of others, with a "wit and eloquence that recalled the splendours of ancient oratory," yet with so little command over himself that his weak frame sometimes sank beneath the excitement of his temper, and gusts of passion were succeeded by fainting-fits; and when the one desire of his heart was denied, when a love mighty as every other passion of his soul failed him, his grief, ungovernable and frenzied as his rage, overwhelmed him, and the "taint of madness which ran in his line," flooded his brain. But when the atheist became a Christian; when, in his own words, he felt "the Spirit of God was not the chimera of heated brains, nor a device of artful men to frighten and cajole the credulous, but an existence to be felt and understood as the whisperings of one's own heart;" his prayer of, "Lord! I believe, help thou my unbelief," was answered in calm and peace to his soul.
"The saddest thought," said Aunt Rachel, as we turned away from that gloomy edifice, "the saddest thought connected with that building is, that so large a number of its unhappy inmates have brought their misery upon themselves, are the victims of their own irregular and indulged passions."
As we turned and looked upon her smooth brow, her serious and serene eyes and her sweet, calm mouth, we marked a look of subdued suffering mingled with an expression of Christian triumph; and we knew that she had felt "the ploughings of grief;" that she had learned "how sublime a thing it is to suffer and grow strong;" but, though we wondered deeply, we never knew in what form she had been called "to pass under the rod;" but we heard a voice that said,
"Fear not; when thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee."
Nay, fear not, weak and fainting soul,
Though the wild waters round thee roll,
He will sustain thy faltering way,
Will be thy sure, unfailing stay.
And though it were the fabled stream
Whose waves were fire of fearful gleam,
He still would bear thee safely through
The fire, but cleanse thy soul anew.
NOT to the man of dollars,
Not to the man of deeds,
Not to the man of cunning,
Not to the man of creeds,
Not to the one whose passion
Is for a world's renown,
Not in a form of fashion,
Cometh a blessing down.
Not unto land's expansion,
Not to the miser's chest,
Not to the princely mansion,
Not to the blazoned crest,
Not to the sordid worldling,
Not to the knavish clown,
Not to the haughty tyrant,
Cometh a blessing down.
Not to the folly-blinded,
Not to the steeped in shame,
Not to the carnal-minded,
Not to unholy fame;
Not in neglect of duty,
Not in the monarch's crown,
Not at the smile of beauty,
Cometh a blessing down.
But to the one whose spirit
Yearns for the great and good;
Unto the one whose storehouse
Yieldeth the hungry food;
Unto the one who labours,
Fearless of foe or frown;
Unto the kindly-hearted,
Cometh a blessing down.
"TO some the sky is always bright, while to others it is never free from clouds. There is to me a mystery in this—something that looks like a partial Providence—for those who grope sadly through life in darkened paths are, so far as human judgment can determine, often purer and less selfish than those who move gayly along in perpetual sunshine. Look at Mrs. Adair. It always gives me the heart-ache to think of what she has endured in life, and still endures. Once she was surrounded by all that wealth could furnish of external good; now she is in poverty, with five children, clinging to her for support, her health feeble, and few friends to counsel or lend her their aid. No woman could have loved a husband more tenderly than she loved hers, and few wives were ever more beloved in return; but she has gathered the widow's weeds around her, and is sitting in the darkness of an inconsolable grief. What a sweet character was hers! Always loving and unselfish—a very angel on the earth from childhood upwards, and yet her doom to tread this darkened pathway! If Heaven smiles on the good—if the righteous are never forsaken, why this strange, hard, harsh Providence in the case of Mrs. Adair? I cannot understand it! God is goodness itself, they say, and loves His creatures with a love surpassing the love of a mother; but would any mother condemn beloved child to such a cruel fate? No, no, no! From the very depths of my spirit I answer—No! I am only a weak, erring, selfish creature, but—"
Mrs. Endicott checked the utterance of what was in her thought, for at the instant another thought, rebuking her for an impious comparison of herself with her Maker, flitted across her mind. Yes, she was about drawing a Parallel between herself and a Being of infinite wisdom and love, unfavourable to the latter!
The sky of Mrs. Endicott had not always been free from clouds. Many times had she walked in darkness; and why this was so ever appeared as one of the mysteries of life, for her self-explorations had never gone far enough to discover those natural evils, the existence of which only a state of intense mental suffering would manifest to her deeper consciousness. But all she had yet been called to endure, was, she freely acknowledged, light in comparison to what poor Mrs. Adair had suffered, and was suffering daily—and the case of this friend gave her a strong argument against the wisdom and justice of that Power in the hands of which the children of men are as clay in the hands of the potter.
Even while Mrs. Endicott thus questioned and doubted, a domestic opened the door of the room in which she was sitting, and said,
"Mrs. Adair is in the parlour."
"Is she? Say that I will be down in a moment."
Mrs. Endicott felt a little surprised at the coincidence of her thought of her friend and that friend's appearance. It was another of those life-mysteries into which her dull eyes could not penetrate, and gave new occasion for dark surmises in regard to the Power above all, in all, and ruling all. With a sober face, as was befitting an interview with one so deeply burdened as Mrs. Adair, she went down to the parlour.
"My dear friend!" she said, tenderly, almost sadly, as she took the hand of her visiter.
Into the eyes of Mrs. Adair she looked earnestly for the glittering tear-veil, and upon her lips for the grief curve. To her surprise neither were there; but a cheerful light in the former and a gentle smile on the latter.
"How are you this morning?"
Mrs. Endicott's voice was low and sympathizing.
"I feel a little stronger, to-day, thank you," answered Mrs. Adair, smiling as she spoke.
"How is your breast?"
"Still very tender."
"And the pain in your side."
"I am not free from that a moment."
Still she smiled as she answered. There was not even a touch of sadness or despondency in her voice.
"Not free a moment! How do you bear it?"
"Happily—as I often say to myself—I have no time to think about the pain," replied Mrs. Adair, cheerfully. "It is wonderful how mental activity lifts us above the consciousness of bodily suffering. For my part, I am sure that if I had nothing to do but to sit down and brood over my ailments, I would be one of the most miserable, complaining creatures alive. But a kind Providence, even in the sending of poverty to his afflicted one, has but tempered the winds to the shorn lamb."
Mrs. Endicott was astonished to hear these words, falling, as they did, with such a confiding earnestness from the pale lips of her much-enduring friend.
"How can you speak so cheerfully?" she said. "How can you feel so thankful to Him who has shrouded your sky in darkness, and left you to grope in strange paths, on which falls not a single ray of light?"
"Even though the sky is clouded," was answered, "I know that the sun is shining there as clear and as beautiful as ever. The paths in which a wise and good Providence has called me to walk, may be strange, and are, at times, rough-and toilsome; but you err in saying that no light falls upon them.
"But the sky is dark—whence comes the light, Mrs. Adair?"
"Don't you remember the beautiful hymn written by Moore? It is to me worth all he ever penned besides. How often do I say it over to myself, lingering with a warming heart and a quickening pulse, on every word of consolation!"
And in the glow of her fine enthusiasm, Mrs. Adair repeated—
"Oh, Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
"When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears
Is dimmed and vanished, too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our Peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day."
"None," said Mrs. Adair, "but those who have had the sky of their earthly affections shrouded in darkness, can fully understand the closing words of this consolatory hymn. Need I now answer your question, 'Whence comes the light?' There is an inner world Mrs. Endicott—a world full of light, and joy, and consolation—a world whose sky is never darkened, whose sun is never hidden by clouds. When we turn from all in this life that we vainly trusted, and lift our eyes upward towards the sky, bending over our sad spirits, an unexpected light breaks in upon us, and we see a new firmament, glittering with myriads of stairs, whose light is fed from that inner world where the sun shines for ever undimmed. Oh, no, I do not tread a darkened pathway, Mrs. Endicott. There is light upon it from the Sun of heaven, and I am walking forward, weary at times, it may be, but with unwavering footsteps. I have been tried sorely, it is true—I have suffered, oh how deeply! and yet I can say, and do say, it is good for me that I was afflicted. But I meant not to speak so much of myself, and you must forgive the intrusion. Self, you know, is ever an attractive theme. I have called this morning to try and interest you in a poor woman who lives next door to me. She is very ill, and I am afraid will die. She has two children, almost babes—sweet little things—and if the mother is taken they will be left without a home or a friend, unless God puts it into the heart of some one to give them both. I have been awake half the night, thinking about them, and debating the difficult question of my duty in the case. I might make room for one of them—"
"You!" Mrs. Endicott interrupted her in a voice of unfeigned astonishment. "You! How can you give place a moment to such a thought, broken down in health as you are and with five children of your own clinging to you for support? It would be unjust to yourself and to them. Don't think of such a thing."
"That makes the difficulty in the case," replied Mrs. Adair. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. My heart is large enough to take both of them in; but I have not strength enough to bear the added burden. And so I have come around this morning to see if I cannot awaken your interest. They are dear, sweet children, and will carry sunshine and a blessing into any home that opens to receive them."
"But why, my friend," said Mrs. Endicott, "do you, whose time is so precious—who have cares, and interests, and anxieties of your own, far more than enough for one poor, weak woman to bear, burden yourself with a duty like this? Leave the task to others more fitted for the work."
"There are but few who can rightly sympathize with that mother and her babes; and I am one of the few. Ah! my kind friend, none but the mother, who like me has been brought to the verge of eternity, can truly feel for one in like circumstances. I have looked at my own precious ones, as I felt the waves of time sweeping my feet from their earthly resting place, and wept bitter tears as no answer came to the earnest question, 'Who will love them, who will care for the when I am taken?' You cannot know, Mrs. Endicott, how profoundly thankful to God I am, that He spares my life, and yet gives me strength to do for my children. I bless His name for this tender mercy towards me when I lie down at night, and when I rise up in the morning, I bear every burden, I endure every pain cheerfully, hopefully, even thankfully. It is because I can understand the heart of this dying mother, and feel for her in her mortal extremity, that I undertake her cause. You have only one child, my friend, and she is partly grown. 'A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure.' Is it not so? Take one, or even both of these children, if the mother dies. They are the little ones who are born upon the earth, in order that they may become angels in Heaven. They are of God's kingdom, and precious in His eyes. Nurture and raise them up for Him. Come! oh, come with me to the bedside of this dying mother, and say to her, 'Give me your babes, and I will shelter them in my heart.' So doing, you will open for yourself a perennial fountain of delight. The picture of that poor mother's joyful face, painted instantly by love's bright sunbeams on your memory, will be a source of pleasure lasting as eternity. Do not neglect this golden opportunity, nor leave other hands to gather the blessings which lie about your feet."
That earnest plea was echoed from the heart of Mrs. Endicott. The beautiful enthusiasm, so full of a convincing eloquence, prevailed; and the woman in whose heart the waters of benevolence were growing stagnant, and already sending up exhalations that were hiding the Sun of heaven, felt a yearning pity for the dying mother, and was moved by an unselfish impulse toward her and her babes. Half an hour afterwards she was in the sick-chamber; and ere leaving had received from the happy mother the solemn gift of her children, and seen her eyes close gently as her spirit took its tranquil departure for its better home.
"God will bless you, madame!"
All the dying mother's thankfulness was compressed into these words, and her full heart spent itself in their utterance.
Far away, in the inner depths of Mrs. Endicott's spirit—very far away—the words found an echo; and as this echo came back to her ears, she felt a new thrill of pleasure that ran deeper down the electric chain of feelings than emotion had ever, until now, penetrated. There were depths and capacities in her being unknown before; and of this she had now a dim perception. Her action was unselfish, and to be unselfish is to be God-like—for God acts from a love of blessing others. To be God-like in her action brought her nearer the Infinite Source of what is pure and holy; and all proximity in this direction gives its measure of interior delight—as all retrocession gives its measure of darkness and disquietude.
"God will bless you!"
Mrs. Endicott never ceased hearing these words, and she felt them to be a prophecy. And God did bless her. In bestowing love and care upon the motherless little ones, she received from above double for all she gave. In blessing, she was twice blessed. About them her heart entwined daily new tendrils, until her own life beat with theirs in even pulses, and to seek their good was the highest joy of her existence.
Still there were times when Mrs. Endicott felt that to some God was not just in his dispensations, and the closer she observed Mrs. Adair, the less satisfied was she that one so pure-minded, so unselfish, so earnest to impart good to others, should be so hardly dealt by—should be compelled to grope through life with painful steps along a darkened way.
"There is a mystery in all this which my dim vision fails to penetrate," she said one day, to Mrs. Adair. "But we see here only in part—I must force myself into the belief that all is right. I say force, for it is indeed force-work."
"To me," was answered, "there is no longer a mystery here. I have been led by at way that I knew not. For a time I moved along this way, doubting, fearing trembling—but now I see that it is the right way, and though toilsome at times, yet it is winding steadily upwards, and I begin to see the sunshine resting calmly on the mountain-tops. Flowers, too, are springing by the wayside—few they are, as yet, but very fragrant."
Mrs. Adair paused for a moment, and then resumed,
"It may sound strange to you, but I am really happier than when all was bright and prosperous around me."
Mrs. Endicott looked surprised.
"I am a better woman, and therefore happier. I do not say this boastfully, but only to meet your question. I am a more useful woman, and therefore happier, for, as I have learned, inward peace is the sure reward of benefits conferred. The doing of good to another, from an unselfish end, brings to the heart its purest pleasure; and is not that the kindest Providence which leads us, no matter by what hard experiences, into a state of willingness to live for others instead of for ourselves alone? The dying mother, whose gift to you has proved so great—a good, might have passed away, though her humble abode stood beside the elegant residence I called my home, without exciting more than a passing wave of sympathy—certainly without filling my heart with the yearning desire to make truly peaceful her last moments, which led to the happy results that followed her efforts in my behalf. My children, too; you have often lamented that it is not so well with them as it would have been had misfortune not overshadowed us,—but I am not so sure of that. I believe that all external disadvantages will be more than counterbalanced by the higher regard I have been led to take in the development of what is good and true in their characters. I now see them as future men and women, for whose usefulness and happiness I am in a great measure responsible; and as my views of life have become clearer, and I trust wiser, through suffering, I am far better able, under all the disadvantages of my position, to secure this great end than I was before."
"But the way is hard for you—very hard," said Mrs. Endicott.
"It is my preparation for Heaven," replied the patient sufferer, while a smile, not caught from earth, made beautiful her countenance. "If my Heavenly Father could have made the way smoother, He would have done so. As it is, I thank Him daily for the roughness, and would not ask to have a stone removed or a rough place made even."
O, IT is life! departed days
Fling back their brightness while I gaze—
'Tis Emma's self—this brow so fair,
Half-curtained in this glossy hair,
These eyes, the very home of love,
The dark thin arches traced above,
These red-ripe lips that almost speak,
The fainter blush of this pure cheek,
The rose and lily's beauteous strife—
It is—ah, no! 'tis all but life.
'Tis all but life—art could not save
Thy graces, Emma, from the grave;
Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past,
Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last,
Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid,
All we adored of thee is hid;
Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell,
Is throbless in the narrow cell:
Thy gentle voice shall charm no more,
Its last, last joyful note is o'er.
Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung,
The requiem of the fair and young;
The theme is old, alas! how old,
Of grief that will not be controlled,
Of sighs that speak a father's woe,
Of pangs that none but mothers know,
Of friendship with its bursting heart,
Doomed from the idol-one to part—
Still its sad debt must feeling pay,
Till feeling, too, shall pass away.
O say, why age, and grief, and pain,
Shall long to go, but long in vain?
Why vice is left to mock at time,
And gray in years, grow gray in crime;
While youth, that every eye makes glad,
And beauty, all in radiance clad,
And goodness, cheering every heart,
Come, but come only to depart;
Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day,
Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away?
'Tis darkness all! black banners wave
Round the cold borders of the grave;
Then when in agony we bend
O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend,
One only comfort then we know—
We, too, shall quit this world of woe;
We, too, shall find a quiet place
With the dear lost ones of our race;
Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend,
And life's sad story find an end.
And is this all—this mournful doom?
Beams no glad light beyond the tomb?
Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride;
They do not quench the orb they hide;
Still there it wheels—the tempest o'er,
In a bright sky to burn once more;
So, far above the clouds of time,
Faith can behold a world sublime—
There, when the storms of life are past,
The light beyond shall break at last.
HOW much comprised in the simple word, kindness! One kind word, or even one mild look, will oftentimes dispel thick gathering gloom from the countenance of an affectionate husband, or wife. When the temper is tried by some inconvenience or trifling vexation, and marks of displeasure are depicted upon the countenances and perhaps, too, that most "unruly of all members" is ready to vent its spleen upon the innocent husband or wife, what will a kind mien, a pleasant reply, accomplish? Almost invariably perfect harmony and peace are thus restored.
These thoughts were suggested by the recollection of a little domestic incident, to which I was a silent, though not uninterested spectator. During the summer months of 1834, I was spending several weeks with a happy married pair, who had tasted the good and ills of life together only a twelvemonth. Both possessed many amiable qualities, and were well calculated to promote each other's happiness. My second visit to my friends was of a week's duration, in the month of December. One cold evening the husband returned home at his usual hour at nine o'clock, expecting to find a warm fire for his reception, but, instead, he found a cheerless, comfortless room. His first thought, no doubt, was, that it was owing to the negligence of his wife, and, under this impression, in rather a severe tone, he said,
"This is too bad; to come in from the office cold, and find no fire; I really should have thought you might have kept it."
I sat almost breathless, trembling for the reply. I well knew it was no fault of hers, for she had wasted nearly all the evening, and almost exhausted her patience, in attempting to kindle a fire. She in a moment replied, with great kindness,
"Why my dear, I wonder what is the matter with our stove! We must have something done to-morrow, for I have spent a great deal of time in vain to make a fire."
This was said in such a mild, pleasant tone, that it had the most happy effect. If she had replied at that moment, when his feelings were alive to supposed neglect, "I don't know who is to blame; I have done my part, and have been freezing all the evening for my pains. If the stove had been put up as it should have been, all would have been well enough." This, said in an unamiable, peevish tone, might have added "fuel to the fire," and this little breeze might have led to more serious consequences; but fortunately, her mild reply restored perfect serenity. The next day the stove was taken down, and the difficulty, owing to some defect in the flue, was removed. What will not a kind word accomplish?
SPEAK kindly, speak kindly! ye know not the power
Of a kind and gentle word,
As its tones in a sad and weary hour
By the trouble heart are heard.
Ye know not how often it falls to bless
The stranger in his weariness;
How many a blessing is round thee thrown
By the magic spell, of a soft, low tone.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of the sad and lonely, they're dear, how dear,
And they nothing cost.
Speak kindly to childhood. Oh, do not fling
A cloud o'er life's troubled sky;
But cherish it well—a holy thing
Is the heart in its purity.
Enough of sorrow the cold world hath,
Enough of care in its later path,
And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw
O'er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of joyous childhood, they're dear, how dear—
And they nothing cost.
Speak gently to age—a weary way
Is the rough and toilsome road of life,
As one by one its joys decay,
And its hopes go out 'mid its lengthened strife.
How often the word that is kindly spoken,
Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken,
Then pass not the feeble and aged one
With a cold, and careless, and slighting tone;
But kindly, speak kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of the care-worn and weary, they're dear, how dear—
And they nothing cost.
Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold,
Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there;
Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold—
Oh, every heart hath its burden of care.
And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye
Are often a bitter mockery,
When a bursting heart its grief would hide
From the eye of the world 'neath a veil of pride.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of the proud and haughty they're often dear,
And they nothing cost.
Speak kindly ever—oh, cherish well
The light of a gentle tone;
It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell,
A charm that is all its own.
But see that it springs from a gentle heart,
That it need not the hollow aid of art;
Let it gush in its joyous purity,
From its home in the heart all glad and free.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of all who hear them they're dear, how dear—
And they nothing cost.
IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finished mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a saucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat and comfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.' She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty. She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and her thin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showed signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew later, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach of some one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her door. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; it stopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid face brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, intelligent-looking lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evident delight.
"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said.
Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himself in the seat Mary had quitted.
"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "is anything the matter?"
"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper. I am quite ready for it."
As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look. Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper, of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen, and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, rested his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands covered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickle down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though he were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said, in a tone of indignation and resolve,
"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer."
Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, taking a stool, she seated herself beside him.
"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how many hundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's the matter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?"
Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of his thick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the too evident marks of cruel usage.
"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he be so cruel?"
"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, and he was sorry for it after."
"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with you?"
"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain, but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a careless little rascal, that he lost all patience with me. That hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he didn't say so."
"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore it so patiently.
"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work."
Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner that almost made poor Stephen cry,
"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer, Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world, And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad, and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if you are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it was for me to get you this situation; you might not get another; you must not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must be patient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, God knows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have to suffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, a few years longer."
Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears, while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in vain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said,
"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came in to-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But I will promise you to be patient and industrious still. Considering all that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to do for you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am patient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.—It's not so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there's one comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundays with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper. We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time."
Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, his patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor fellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a small country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for five years, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a little, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself away with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually fretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other, perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he did cease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many, many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; but he was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother. And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed Sundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always strengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolution for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would result from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only had faith in her doctrine—that patience and industry would some time be rewarded. How the reward was to come in her son's case, she could not see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the doctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith.
It was now nearly four years since the conversation between mother and son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturday evening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle, kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked much older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment looking very downcast.
"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen, with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; I have borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent a moment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding all this, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me a single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know that apprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word to me about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word."
"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without saying something; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannot refuse to do something to help you."
"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of telling him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feel that he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask a favour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'd sooner do anything than that. He ought to do something for me, and there's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him on Monday."
Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up his courage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be done when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they were liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time they separated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the shop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over: everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into the little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they were alone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account for the sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken in silence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed, still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his first cup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun to swallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before him untouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep breath, coloured slightly, and then began:—
"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you."
His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all surprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well, sir, speak on."
Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tell his little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on he became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonished himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt strongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his apprenticeship, and finished by entreating his master now to help him to do something, for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no friends, no money, no influence.
His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from Stephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen.
Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of grunting ejaculation—"Humph! so your mother gets her living by mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and here's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed."
As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of clothes;—should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.
"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen.
"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. And so they parted.
The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment. Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form plans for the future—how he should go about to seek for another situation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen had pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, "Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they were startled by a loud rap at the door.
"Who's there?" shouted Stephen.
"A letter for you," was the reply.
Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. A letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised, Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying. He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very like his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened by a flash of hope; she could not read writing—Stephen must read it for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the first thing he saw—he examined it—it was actually a ten pound Bank of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's; what could this mean? But there was a little note which would perhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not understand it.
"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed.
With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to keep from crying, Stephen read,