Kitobni o'qish: «The Deaf Shoemaker», sahifa 9
THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN’S DEATH-CHAMBER
“Why lament the Christian dying?
Why indulge in tears or gloom?
Calmly on the Lord relying,
She can greet the opening tomb.”
Every voice was hushed; every step muffled. The soft rays of an April sun kissed, with a lingering affection, the pale cheek of a young lady, the tide of whose life was fast ebbing away.
She was the child of Christian parents, who had faithfully endeavored to bring her up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. At an early age she was deprived by death of her sainted mother; and before many years had elapsed, she was called to mourn the loss of a father upon whom every affection of her young heart was centred. To the bitterness of orphanage was added the loss of the greatest blessing on earth – health. The rose of Death was long blooming on her cheek, ere her nearest friends were aware that she was falling a victim to the flattering and insidious attacks of consumption.
She had not neglected the early instructions of her pious parents, and, when very young, made a profession of her faith in Christ. For several years previous to her last sickness, her mind, at times, was clouded with doubts, and she occasionally seemed to suffer unutterable anguish at the absence of God’s Spirit from the heart. A few days preceding her death, these doubts and fears were all entirely removed, and she seemed to enjoy, to the fullest extent, the light of God’s reconciled countenance. It was indeed beautiful to see her, who, but a few weeks before, was so cold and indifferent, now wholly absorbed in the great and glorious truth of salvation through Christ. She was frequently engaged in earnest secret prayer, and never allowed anything to be read in her presence but the Bible, or some of those sweet and touching hymns so soothing to the troubled heart of the dying Christian. No moment was to be lost. During the silent watches of the night, she would frequently call her brother to her bedside, and say, “T – , read to your dying sister some of those beautiful passages in Revelation which our dear father used to love so tenderly, and caused to be read when dying.” “How beautiful! how grand! how sublime!” she would exclaim, when the book was closed.
Reader, come with me and stand beside the bed of this dear, dying young Christian, and see how calmly, serenely and happily a Christian can die. Contrast her death-bed with that of Hume or Voltaire, and tell me if there is not something in religion they knew nothing about – something that fits a man for life, and especially for death; listen attentively to the few words which drop from her faltering tongue; treasure them in your memory, and so live that your last end may be like hers.
The devoted Pastor of the – church had frequent and delightful interviews with her. In one of them the following conversation occurred: “Miss M – , you doubtless are aware that you can be with us but a few days more; are you perfectly resigned to God’s will?” With calm and sweet composure, she replied, “Yes, Mr. M – , perfectly, perfectly, PERFECTLY; I long to be with my Saviour; earth has no charms for me now.”
After reading the beautiful 14th chapter of St. John, Mr. M – extended his hand, and was about bidding her, what seemed to him, a last farewell, when she made the following remarks: “Perhaps this will be the last time we shall ever meet again on earth: I wish you to preach my funeral sermon in the old R – n church – the church of my father and my mother, where first I listened to the glad tidings of salvation; preach it from the text, “In the way of righteousness is life; and in the pathway thereof there is no death” – Prov. xii., 28. Preach to the living – to the living – to the living! And I want the congregation to sing that delightful hymn, beginning,
‘God moves in a mysterious way – ’
Good-bye.” The Sabbath previous to her death, several of her friends united in singing that beautiful old hymn,
“Rock of ages,” &c.
When they had completed the 3d verse, and were just beginning the last —
“While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my heart-strings break in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment throne, —
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee” —
she, with a sweetness and heavenly melody which beggars description, joined with them and sung the entire verse alone, – as the voices of all in the room were so much choked with emotion they could not utter a word. Oh, what a scene! That feeble, faltering voice spending its “last lingering breath” in singing her Redeemer’s praise! I felt as if I was standing in the very vestibule of heaven, catching some of those sweet accents of devotion warbled by immortal tongues. Such composure, confiding trust, holy resignation!
When her brothers and sister stood around her bed to receive the dying embrace and last fond kiss of their dear sister, she made them kneel down at her side, laid her feeble hands on their orphan heads, (yea, doubly orphan, since she was about leaving them,) and gave them a sister’s dying blessing. She then remarked to her younger brother: – “My brother, you alone, of the three which will be left when I am gone, are not a Christian. My brother – my young, fatherless, motherless, almost sisterless brother —be a Christian!”
A few moments before her death, a new and unusual lustre shone forth from her eyes, a beautiful glow mantled her hitherto pale and wan check, and in accents of the most touching and rapt eloquence, her voice rich and full, she gave utterance to the following sublime sentiment, which should live forever, and be proclaimed wherever the Gospel of Christ is preached: – “I have tasted of Racine; I have dipped into Voltaire; I have read Tom Paine; I have had the daring audacity to study Hume; I have attempted to form a Philosophy myself – but have found them all” – not one exception – “FALLACY, FALLACY!”
With these words lingering on her lips, she calmly and resignedly fell asleep in Jesus. O for the death of those that die in the Lord!
The devoted Mr. M – complied with her minutest requests; and when he informed the congregation that he preached to them from the text selected by his departed sister in Christ, and that she urgently requested him to preach to the living, there was not a dry eye in the house. Many a soul left that old time-honored church, feeling that “In the way of righteousness is life; and in the pathway thereof there is no death.”
WHAT PRAYER DOES
“Prayer moves the arm that moves the world.”
Herod Agrippa, finding that the death of the Apostle James pleases the Jews, has seized the venerable Galileean fisherman and thrust him into prison. Four quaternions of soldiers are guarding him. He is chained by each hand to a Roman soldier – soldiers who know that, to sleep at their post is to die. Thus guarded, the doors and windows and gates all bolted and barred, he lays himself down to sleep. His sleep is doubtless sweet and refreshing. His faith is strong in the promises of the Lord. To human eyes, death seems certain. On the coming morrow, this veteran soldier of the cross must lay his life down for Jesus. Tears, hot and bitter, will be shed by God’s people over the lifeless form of him who once so fearlessly breasted the strong waves of Galilee to meet his Master.
But we are told that the Church “made prayer unto God, without ceasing, for him.” And even while he is quietly and sweetly sleeping, there is going up from an inner chamber on one of the dark and unfrequented streets of Jerusalem, a fervent, importunate prayer in his behalf.
During the prayer, an angel of the Lord descends and stands by the side of the slumbering apostle. A heavenly radiance lights up the dark cells of the dismal prison. The heaven-sent messenger arouses the sleeper, and the chains fall from his hands. No sound of footsteps is heard; no rattle of chains breaks the solemn silence. There is no hurry. Peter slowly girds his coat about him, and binds on his sandals. He then throws his rough cloak around him, and follows the angel. They pass, unheard and unseen, through the wards of the prison; the massive gate moves on its hinges, and opens wide at their approach. At last he is safe – safe from the wrath of his enemies. All – all of this accomplished through importunate intercessory prayer!
Christian, I care not how lowly your situation, never say again, “I can’t do any thing for Jesus.” You can pray.
“PRAY WITHOUT CEASING.”
During a great outpouring of God’s Spirit at – college, my attention was called to the case of a young man of the most wicked and immoral character. It is true, he was the son of a godly father and a praying mother; but this, rather than softening, seemed to harden his heart. It was one of the most copious outpourings of God’s Spirit I ever witnessed. The windows of heaven were indeed opened, and God was pouring out such a blessing that it seemed there could not be room to contain it. The dry bones of the valley had been breathed upon by His Spirit, and hearts once dead in trespasses and sins were awakened to a new life, and rejoicing in the blessed hope of salvation through Jesus Christ.
Nearly every student seemed to feel the need of a Saviour. Every countenance was marked with concern; every heart lifted to God in prayer for mercy and forgiveness. Rooms which once resounded with drunken revellings, were now Bethels of the living God. Lips which once profaned Jehovah’s name, and joined in singing lewd and vulgar songs, now trembled with the accents of prayer, and sung the songs of Zion. It was a delightful season – I shall never forget it.
Amid such scenes as these, there was one whose hard heart was steeled against the influence of God’s awakening Spirit. It was A. M – , the son of pious parents. Many and fervent were the prayers which ascended in his behalf, but they seemingly were of no avail. The more Christians prayed for him, the more hardened he became. The campus, time and again, resounded with his awful profanity; and even the most obdurate would stop and wonder that man, “whose breath was in his nostrils,” could call upon God so frequently and earnestly to damn rather than save his soul.
Such was the extent to which his God-defying; wickedness went, that frequently, when the Christian students were engaged in the exercises of a prayer-meeting, he gathered together a few of his sinful comrades and held a mock prayer-meeting in an adjoining room. Is it not wonderful that God did not cut him down in the midst of such heaven-daring presumption? But, like Paul, he was a chosen vessel. God had yet a great and glorious work for him to perform.
During one of those meetings which he was in the habit of holding, the arrow of conviction pierced his flinty heart, and laid him low and bleeding at the foot of the cross.
Great was the joy among the students, when the glad tidings flew from lip to lip that A. M – had come to Jesus and fallen at His feet. Old men wept with delight, and yearning hearts throbbed with inexpressible pleasure.
The “tidings of great joy” soon winged their way to the ear of the young man’s mother. Her heart overflowed with rejoicing, and tears of exultation flowed in quick succession down her furrowed cheek. Said she to a friend, “I have never bowed my knee without beseeching God to convert my poor wayward boy; and now my prayer is answered. Joy, joy, joy! Now let thy servant depart in peace. My son is a Christian.”
This wayward boy is now a devoted minister of Christ, and has gone far hence to proclaim the glad tidings of salvation to the hundreds of settlers scattered along our western territories. Christian fathers, Christian mothers, Christian brothers, Christian sisters, pray without ceasing for those who are near and dear to you. Your prayers will be answered.
APPENDIX
Letters from Staunton, Va
NO. 1
INSTITUTION FOR THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND
Staunton, Va., May, 1859.
The Institution for the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind, situated at this place, is a building of very attractive and beautiful appearance. Occupying an eminence to the right of the Virginia Central Railroad, it is among the first things that attract the attention in your approach to this beautiful mountain town, – for we believe it has not yet risen to the dignity of a city.
The style of the building is Doric; the entrance being a large portico supported by six massive pillars. On each side of the portico are two attractive wings, used for the reception of visitors and recitation rooms; – in the rear are several other apartments, all large and well arranged, appropriated to the different purposes of the Institution.
The building is situated in the midst of quite a number of stalwart mountain oaks, and the yard is beautifully diversified by various kinds of shrubbery and winding graveled walks. There is an absence of everything like studied formality in the arrangement of both the shrubbery and the walks, and the eye is at once struck with the peculiarly easy and natural appearance of the building and its surrounding ornaments.
On entering, you are at once pleased with the neatness and beauty of the internal arrangements. A very polite and attentive gentleman meets you in the reception room, and inquires if you wish to look through the Institution. On replying affirmatively, you are first ushered into the apartment for
THE BLIND
The scene is one which awakens mingled feelings of pleasure and pain; of pleasure to see so many afflicted little ones, for most of them are young, led by the hand of kindness in the pleasant and peaceful ways of wisdom; of pain, when you behold them rolling wildly their sightless orbs, and seemingly endeavoring to gather in some few straggling rays of the cheerful sun, or to look out upon the beautifully draped fields of nature, and know that all these things, so attractive to us, are midnight darkness to them.
One of the scholars, a little girl about ten years old, read several passages from various books for me, and then pointed out on a large map of the United States, Pittsburg, and told me at the junction of what rivers it was situated, Richmond, Staunton, and many other places, with an ease and accuracy really astonishing. Two other girls, somewhat older, sung, and played on the piano “Do they miss me at home?” As I listened to the sweet melody of their well-tuned voices, I, for a moment, forgot their blindness, and felt tears dimming my eyes as my mind wandered back to the two near and dear ones at home, and I thought to myself, “Do they miss ME at home?” I then listened to the reading of several passages in French by a young lady of about sixteen. It really was surprising to witness the fluency with which her delicate fingers glided over word after word, and sentence after sentence.
In all these cases the reading is done by passing the fingers over raised letters.
The sweetness of expression, the amiability of character, the flow of spirits which characterized one of the little pupils, Bettie Archibald, engaged my attention, and enlisted my affection. On being asked if she would be blind in heaven, she very sweetly and quickly replied, “No, sir.”
Quite a number of the male pupils are daily instructed in instrumental music, and many of them display more than ordinary talents. It was quite a treat to hear the little fellows play “Yankee Doodle:” their faces were soon lighted up with smiles, and they played with as much life and animation, as if they were leading an American army on to victory.
We now wend our way into the apartments for
THE DEAF AND DUMB
A large class, consisting of boys and girls, is seated in regular order opposite their instructor, who is also deaf and dumb. At a given signal, they all devoutly rise, and with eyes fixed on the fingers of their teacher, follow him in his devotions, as he leads them to a throne of grace. It is the most touching scene I ever witnessed. There is but one person (he, your correspondent,) in that large assembly can utter a syllable, or distinguish a sound. Not a sound is heard; the stillness becomes painful – deathlike; the devotion seems to grow warmer and warmer; the prayer is concluded; the seats resumed; all of this gone through without the utterance of one word.
What a lesson should it teach us! How true is it that we shall not be heard for our much speaking! Leaving the chapel, we enter the recitation room. Each pupil is standing opposite a black-board, with his eyes turned to the teacher; questions and answers are written by the instructor, and then copied by the pupils. In this room are assembled classes, each under the charge of a separate teacher, studying geography, grammar, history; and in one room is a small class just beginning to read. The chirography of some of the pupils is really beautiful; and we leave the room feeling that though God has deprived them of two senses, yet, in his loving kindness, he has bestowed upon them unusual capacities in the others. It may be a fact worthy of mentioning, that the deaf and dumb do the printing (raised letters) for the Blind: such is the economy of the Institute.
The number of pupils in the departments is at present sixty-nine.
In conclusion, I would express my especial thanks and obligations to Assistant-principal Mr. Covell, Mrs. Coleman, of the Blind, and Mr. Fink, of the Deaf-mute Department, for their extreme kindness and attention.
In my next, I shall give you a sketch of the Lunatic Asylum, also situated at this place.
Yours, truly,Philip Barrett.
No. 2
THE LUNATIC ASYLUM
Staunton, Va., June, 1859.
The sun was hanging low in the west, when we stood at the gateway of the Staunton Lunatic Asylum. His rays were gilding with a golden lustre the hoary summits of the Blue Ridge, as they printed their bold outlines on the cloudless evening sky; and as a few beams fell here and there on the graveled walks, the flower-crowned terraces, and verdant shrubbery of the beautiful greensward which stretches forth in front of the Asylum, we could but thank an ever-gracious and ever-good Providence, for His inestimable gift to mankind – the bright, sparkling, joyous sunshine.
A moment’s glance at the general appearance of the buildings convinces the beholder that they are not as beautiful nor as commanding as those of the Blind Institute; though much taste is displayed in the arrangement of the walks, and selection of many and choice specimens of rare and beauteous flowers and shrubbery. You enter the main building, after ascending a flight of granite steps, through a portico of Ionic architecture, supported by four graceful pillars. The first apartment which we enter is the chapel. On either side of the pulpit are painted in beautiful gilt letters, the Ten Commandments; in the opposite end of the room stands a large and handsome organ; the dome and walls are beautifully frescoed. The pulpit is occupied every Sabbath evening by some one of the ministers of the various evangelical denominations worshipping in Staunton. All these bespeak that these poor demented creatures are not forgotten on the Sabbath; and even where a few sparks of intellect linger amid the ashes of minds once proud and noble, it is interesting to see how those sparks are kindled anew by the light of religion.
After wending our way through various other portions of the buildings, and stopping here and there to bestow a hasty glance at one and another rare specimen of curiously carved workmanship, by some lunatic genius, we find ourselves gazing through iron bars at a scene which would cause the most unfeeling heart to shudder with horror. There are grouped together, in the narrow confines of four tall brick walls, not less than a hundred patients in the very worst stages of lunacy. It seems that the darkest cavern in the regions of Despair could present no more heart-rending picture.
The wild glare of the piercing eye, the dishevelled locks; the meaningless gibberish; the incoherent babbling; the fiendish ravings that rent the silent air, together with numberless other acts which constitute the sum of a poor maniac’s life, have left an impression on our mind that will go with us to our grave.
How true are the words of the poet —
“Oh, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s eye, tongue, sword;
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers, quite, quite down.”
We willingly leave such scenes, and turn our ready steps to an observatory which crowns the main building, and commands one of the loveliest views we ever witnessed.
Let us forget the painful sights we have just beheld, and drink in the resplendent beauty of nature as she stands robed in the crimson folds of evening —
“For the west yet glimmers with some streaks of day.”
Beneath us are the various buildings of the Asylum, glittering, like burnished gold, in the rays of the setting sun. To the north rise the graceful proportions of the Blind Institute, nestled in its grove of wide-spreading oaks; to the west are seen the heaven-pointing spires and beautiful residences of Staunton; to the east is the graveyard of the asylum, with its plain, upright marble slabs, marking the spot where slumber the remains of many a friendless maniac; to the south is one wide-extended view of sloping hills, smiling valleys, sunlit streams and snow-white cottages, dotted over the scene like stars in the blue canopy of heaven.Who can look upon such a prospect and not feel his thoughts turn from nature to nature’s God?“All things are calm and fair and passive; earthLooks as if lulled upon an angel’s lap,Into a breathless, dewy slumber: so stillThat we can only say of things, they be.” – Festus.The gathering darkness reminds us that we have trespassed too long on the kindness of the gentleman who has so cheerfully shown us through the many apartments of this truly noble institution, whose object is to ameliorate the condition of the suffering maniac.
Who can look upon such a prospect and not feel his thoughts turn from nature to nature’s God?
“All things are calm and fair and passive; earth
Looks as if lulled upon an angel’s lap,
Into a breathless, dewy slumber: so still
That we can only say of things, they be.” – Festus.
The gathering darkness reminds us that we have trespassed too long on the kindness of the gentleman who has so cheerfully shown us through the many apartments of this truly noble institution, whose object is to ameliorate the condition of the suffering maniac.
We bid her, her directors and her officers “God-speed” in their noble enterprise, and earnestly pray that they may continue “blessing and being blessed” until the light of reason shall be shed abroad in the darkened intellect of every lunatic in our land.
There are many other points which we might mention; but they are of such a nature as only to sicken the heart, and we pass them by in silence, simply remarking that if there be one crowning blessing for which our hearts should ever be outgushing in grateful thanks to our Heavenly Father, it is REASON.
Philip Barrett.
