“Ah! how unwise the busy fluttering race,
Who, from themselves, to wanton tumults fly;
Their reason lost in passion’s thorny maze,
No ray divine beams through their troubled sky;
A while they rave, and in their raving die
Ah there, my son, ‘s a waste of human woes!
There lions prowl, and filthy harpies cry;
There syrens lull the mind to cursed repose―
But in this waste serene the soul is far from foes.”
―ANON
After the death of their mother, the old fanner took Helen and William, the one now in her eighth and the other in his sixth year, into his own family. Helen had been taught by her mother to read, to knit, and to sew a little. William could also read, though imperfectly. As there was no school near the place, his sister, and the woman of the house, frequently gave him lessons; and in the course of a twelvemonth he could read the Bible fluently. Here the two orphans had the benefit of a pious example; and the sweetness of their tempers, and ready obedience, procured them the affection of everyone in the house. As they grew up, William was employed in keeping his benefactor’s cows, and Helen assisted in the diary. During their leisure hours they rambled together by the rushy brooks and sunny hills, gathering here the wild thyme and there the silky white down of the cannach; and never did they return home without visiting their mother’s grave, covered now, by the pious care of the shepherds, with a smooth granite stone, on which they had cut, in “uncouth letters,” the name of the inhabitant below. A gray willow, whose roots were nursed by the passing streamlet, spread its sweet-smelling leaves halfway over the grave, and by the other side bloomed the heath, rustling on the edge of the stone, while the breeze sighed over the moorland. Here would Helen kneel down, and pray with her little brother that God would be their father, their guardian, and their friend, and take them at length to Himself, where they would be orphans no more―and here would she instruct her brother in the fear of the Lord, and tell him all that she remembered of their mother, while they lived in the little hut―and here, especially every Sabbath morning in Summer, early, while the dew yet sparkled on the wild flowers, sat the orphan pair. Oh, how often did they sit on this gray stone, unseen by all but heaven I and while the wild bee hummed its little note of gratitude, and sipped its sweet food from the bosom of the heatherbell, did they drink of the streams of life which flow from the pure Word of God. On Helen’s soul at least, young as she was, the dawn of eternal day had already appeared. She prayed in faith―she trusted in her Saviour―she leaned on the Rock of Ages. She felt that her own heart was ever ready to go astray―she felt that she was naturally polluted; and she kept her eye on the Star of Bethlehem, and went daily to wash in the fountain that is ever open for sin and for uncleanness.
Helen was remarkable for tender-heartedness. The lamb forsaken or bereaved of its mother, the crippled fowl, the dying sheep, received her ardent attention and often her tear. She would frequently watch the falcon in chase of the lark or the moss-chirper; and as the little bird, now descending, now mounting above its fell pursuer, struggled for life, she would exclaim, “Oh, would it come to me―” and once she enjoyed the luxury of saving the little trembler in her bosom, while the disappointed falcon swam away on the wind, in search of some less fortunate songster of the desert. She would often, too, go out of her way, that she might not disturb the nest of the lapwing, the snipe, or the plover. And when she happened in her thoughtful mood to cast her eye down on the wild flower that seemed decaying, while all around was verdant and lively, she would bathe it with a tear, and say, “We must all die like thee, drooping flower. The world will laugh and be gay when we are gone, as the herbage that surrounds thy falling head. Oh, that I may answer my end like thee! Thou hast grown up, spread thy bosom to the morning, shed they fragrance around thee, looked lovely―very lovely, and thy duty is complete. Oh, that I may so grow up, opening my heart to the Sun of Righteousness, casting around me a sweet savor of piety, shining in the white robes of holiness, and falling at last without a murmur into the grave; secure that my soul shall have an everlasting place by the fount of life.” There was one rather odd employment into which the tenderness of Helen’s feelings often led her.
Whoever has traveled over the moorish districts of Scotland must have observed the webs woven by a large gray spider. They are to be seen in the thousands, suspended across the gullies and broken mosses, glitter-in the morning dew. The insect generally fastens a single thread to a stump of heath, on each side of the gully, from the middle of which it weaves four or five other threads, fixing them also to one side of the gully. On these it spins a circular network, nine inches or a foot in diameter in the midst of which it crouches, like death, in concealment, till the coming of the heedless fly.
In her idle hours, Helen would often take a bush of heath in her hand, scramble among the broken mosses, and sweep away hundreds of those frail toils, always letting the spider escape, but disabling it for a time for carrying on the work of destruction.
So far is religion from destroying the finer feelings of our nature; so far from contracting our sympathies, or souring our ordinary pleasures. Indeed, how is it possible that the liker we become to our Father in heaven, who cares for all His works, ―the solitary flower of the desert as well as the seraphim in glory, ―our regards for creation can be diminished? Truly, the more religious we are, whatever the mere sentimentalist may say, the more kindly will we look on all the works of God’s hand. The flower of the field is penciled by Jehovah; and the good man looks on it with an eye of admiration. The lark is taught her song by the Almighty; and the Christian listens to it with delight. The river spreads its bounties, and leads its meanderings under the guidance of the God of Israel; and the saint tastes its waters, and gazes on its romantic banks and devious course, with feelings of poetical rapture and devotional gratitude. The Christian feels that he is heir of all things; and he looks to them all, thinks of them all, and acts towards them all, as a son. There have been Christians, and perhaps some of them may still be found, who seem to despise the natural world, with all its beauty and grandeur. They turn away their ear from the music of the grove, as if God had not taught the songster; they tread on the lily of the valley, as if God had not arrayed it with glory. But this is a spot in their character―a sin which the blood of Christ must wash out; and far from being, as they would have us believe, a denying of themselves. Dispositions such as theirs have often caused the philosopher and the sentimentalist to load our holy religion with the charge of extinguishing the natural charities, and absorbing the finer sympathies of our soul. Imitate them not, reader. God himself demands your warmest love; His tender mercy in Christ your primest gratitude. But let all the works of creation prove a mirror to your mind. Do the saints in glory―do the holy angels look on the moon and stars, walking the paths of the midnight sky, without rapture? Do they hear the ocean lift up the voice of his waves, and roar to break up his everlasting prison-doors; or the river roll down the massy wanderings of his strength; or the mountain forest shake the locks of his majesty without exclaiming, “Great and marvelous are Thy works, Lord God Almighty; just and true are all Thy ways, thou Creator of the ends of the earth!”
Helen had now finished her fourteenth, and William his twelfth year, when Mr. Hunter, a gentleman who had been an acquaintance and friend of their father while in Glasgow, came to pay them a visit. His manners were kind and familiar, such as soon gain the confidence of the youthful mind. William, who was never so well contented with his situation as his sister, listened eagerly while Mr. Hunter talked of Glasgow, the hurry of its business, and the way of making money. Mr. Hunter, pleased with William’s natural capacity, and observing his dispositions, offered to take him along with him to Glasgow, and initiate him into the principles of the commercial concern of which he was himself a partner. William accepted the proposal with eagerness; the old farmer approved the more easily of his choice, as he knew Mr. Hunter to be a sober, industrious gentleman, and well in the world; and the views of future independence and respectability to her brother, and his promises never to forget religion, gained the consent of Helen.
It was a morning in Autumn when William set out with his new friend. And as the old shepherd, with Helen, accompanied them a mile or two on their way to Glasgow, he addressed William shortly after this manner “You are now going away, my son,” for this was the kind appellation of the old farmer always gave him, ― “you are going from the quietness and sobriety of our sequestered glens. Vice and temptation will beset you on every side. But trust in God, and he will uphold you. Read your Bible; pray for directions to your Father in heaven; attend as often as possible the preaching of the Gospel. Be obedient to your master, constant at your business, and obliging to all. And, if God shall prosper you, beware of pride and vanity: your prosperity will last the longer. Observe the heath on which we tread. It heeded not the first shower of Spring: it put not forth its buds till the frosty nights were gone and the steady heat of Summer come in. And see, it is still green and vigorous―while the gaudy flower, which rose and spread its painted leaves at the first sunshine of the year, has already withered away, and no trace of it is seen on the mountains. Remember this short advice, my William, and the God of your fathers be with you.”
Helen held her brother by the hand, enforced the old man’s instructions, and repeated to him their mother’s last advice, with much tenderness and affection, “‘Never forsake God, and He will never forsake you.’ And, oh, come to see us soon.” The two orphans now embraced, and with tears in their eyes bade each other farewell. William took his way over the heath towards Glasgow; and Helen, often looking back on her brother, for she loved him with the tenderness of a seraph, returned with the old farmer to her home.
William, on his arrival in Glasgow, was much amused with the busy scene. The houses, the streets, the carriages were all new to him. As new were the habits and manners of the inhabitants. But his natural pliancy of manner, and aptness to learn, soon assimilated his general character to his associates. Constant and vigilant at his business, he gained his master’s favor and kind attention in return. He was taught writing and accounts, and whatever might tend to accomplish a young man designed for the activities of business.
During his first year’s stay in Glasgow, the kind advices of his sister and his old benefactor never left his memory. He read his Bible, prayed in secret, and went to church on the hallowed day. When he heard the boy younger than himself utter horrid oaths, and take the name of the Holy One in vain, or when he heard the tongue of licentiousness and scandal, his soul trembled within him. But vice is a dangerous neighbor. Like the apples of Gomorrah, how rotten soever within, it puts on a fair outside; or, like the vampire of America, while it sucks away the life-blood of piety, it soothes and flatters the repose of its victims. William’s associates, who were most careless of religion, and some of them covertly addicted to the grosser vices, seemed cheerful, free, and generous, and often ridiculed his seriousness and scrupulous observance of the Lord’s day. In his master, William had no example of genuine religion. Mr. Hunter, as we have observed, was sober, vigilant in business, and knew well how to gain the world. But his creed was of the easy and accommodating kind. In these persecuting times, he shifted it, like too many of his contemporaries, as best suited his personal safety and worldly aggrandizement. His character was fair in the eyes of his neighbors; but the leprosy of sin was at work in the darkness of his heart. In his house, family worship was neglected; and his instructions to William were oftener how to manage the fluctuations of trade, and distance his fellows in the pursuit of wealth, than how to avoid the snares of wickedness, and gain “the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.”
Thus removed from the kind instructions of his sister and the old farmer, and exposed to the seducements of temptation and vicious example, like the willow, from whose roots the stream turns away its waters, and on whose leaves comes the blighting frosts, need we be surprised if the beauty of William’s piety began to wither and decay? Now he would think of the gaiety of his companions, who seemed happy in their neglect of religion; now he would question the utility of so much attention to the well-being of his soul, and again, the former admonitions of his friends awakened in his memory, and his conscience trembled. By degrees, however, he forgot his Bible, or read it heedlessly; went to sleep without committing himself to the care of his Heavenly Father; and arose in the morning without thanking the God who had preserved him. The Sabbath, instead of being spent in the house of prayer, or in devotional meditation, was often profaned in pleasure walks, or in idle or licentious conversation. Still would the parting advice of Helen come like a warning angel to his soul, and stem, for a moment, the current of his misdoings. His heart beat with fear when he thought that his sister might hear of his dishonoring the Sabbath, or neglecting his devotions.
And had he no fear of God? Will you, reader, stand in awe of your fellow-men? Will you tremble at the rebuke of the world? Yes, you will grieve to wound the heart of your earthly benefactor. You will stand pale before the offended laws of your country Shame will blush on your face, when you violate the niceness of the rules and customs of fashion. You will bow to the great ones of the earth; and look with alarm when the hand of man’s justice lifts the sword against you. The little tyrant, who couches in the gloominess of his barricaded fastnesses, although but a worm of God’s footstool, and make you tremble; and will you not fear God, who can cast both soul and body into hell fire? Will you fear to grieve your earthly benefactors, and will you have no reverence to your Father in heaven? Will you tremble to offend the laws of man, and blush to be seen in an unfashionable suit of apparel; and will you trample under foot the laws and the statutes of the God of Hosts; and will you not blush when He sees you stript of the white robes of innocence, and refusing to put on the garments that are worn in the courts of heaven? Surely this is folly.
One thing I shall observe here which may be useful to parents, should this little piece happen to fall into any of their hands.
Among the injunctions which the old farmer gave William, you remember one was, that he should attend the preaching of the Gospel. But the good old man forgot to specify what minister of religion he should hear. Indeed, in those days, when the faithful servants of God were mostly driven from their flocks by persecution, it was not easy to find, even in such a place as Glasgow, a minister who ventured to declare the whole counsel of God. Those whom the iniquitous laws of the time permitted to appear in the pulpits were dumb dogs that could not bark: they prophesied lies, and announced to their slumbering congregations, “Peace, peace, when there was no peace.”
Such was the man under whose ministry Mr. Hunter had placed himself, and William attended the same church. Here he heard little of the original depravity of man—of his natural hatred to God, and all that is holy. Little of the inflexibility of God’s justice, and of His jealous and immutable regard to the minutest requirement of His moral law. He was indeed told that he was a sinner, and needed to be made holy, and just, and good, before he could see God. He was enjoined to do good, to love mercy, and walk humbly with his God; to be kind and charitable to all, and to keep God’s commandments, as far as frail human nature would permit. He was also reminded that, after all his pious endeavors, much would be amiss; but that God was a God of mercy, and delighted to forgive the repenting sinner. But, alas! he heard little of the great atonement―of God’s mercy flowing to sinners, only through Him―of the quickening influences of the Holy Spirit―of man putting away from his trust all his own works, and relying for salvation solely on the merits and propitiatory death of the Lord Jesus Christ.
The minister who concealed thus the essence of preaching was called a minister of the Gospel; but, oh! how unlike a minister of the Gospel of Christ! Under him William’s conscience was flattered; he became more pleased with himself, and was glad to hear that he might expect heaven at last with so little expense to his natural desires and propensities. Thus, one who called himself, and whom the world called, a servant of God, joined with William’s companions, and the deceitfulness of his own heart, in endeavoring the ruin of his soul.
How careful should all be, then, who have the guidance of youth, to place them under a true minister of the Gospel of the grace of God—an able and a faithful minister of the New Testament! We are sorry to have cause to say, that our pulpits are not yet wholly cleared of false prophets. Let parents and guardians, therefore, beware. Let them not make the omission of the old fanner. Who knows how much William’s pious resolutions might have been strengthened, and his backsliding prevented, by the ministrations of a zealous, heart-searching, faithful minister of the Gospel of Christ! The state of the Church, as we have hinted, formed some palliation for the conduct of the old farmer. But the guardians of youth can have now no such excuse. Blessed be God, faithful servants of Christ may now be found in every part of the kingdom.
While William was thus, unknown to his friends putting away from him the fear of the Lord, Helen, far retired from these busy scenes, was training her soul to virtue, and assimilating her nature to those “who walk with God, high in salvation, and the climes of bliss.” The mercy and holiness of God, as manifested in the sacrifice of His Son, was the theme of her sweet and daily contemplation―she did good, and loved mercy, and walked humbly with her God; but she looked to Jesus Christ alone as the author and finisher of her faith, as the great and only means of her justification with God, and to the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, for those renewing and sanctifying influences which could alone prepare her soul for an inheritance among the saints in light. Helen had often fled from the violence of persecution; and young, inoffensive, and meek as she was, suffered oftener than once from its cruelty. One time in particular, a lighted match was placed between her fingers by a soldier, to extort from her the discovery of her old guardian. Helen knew, if the old man was taken, immediate death would be his lot, for he had not only been intercommuned himself, but his house was a noted sheltering-place for the scattered flock of Christ. The match burned between her fingers, but Helen, with a look that might have softened the heart of the wolf, and a voice that might have wrung a tear from the eye of the tiger, said to her tormentor, that she could not discover the old man, for he was to her as a father.
The oaths and menaces of the soldier made her tremble but looking to heaven for strength, she endured the torture, and after her hand had been severely burned, the cruel dragoon struck her tender neck with the flat of his sword, and went off cursing her obstinacy, as he called her pious and faithful firmness.
Meanwhile the arm of persecution was beginning to weary in the slaughter. The instruments of torture, the iron boot and the thumbkin, were nearly laid aside in Scotland, and the children of God were less hunted by the hounds of oppression. Helen neglected not the kind interference of Providence. Every Sabbath she was present in the house of God, where she sat with peculiar delight. Every morning of the hallowed day she visited the solitary grave of her mother, reading her Bible and holding communion with the upper world.
To the affairs of the house, Helen, was ever attentive; and her modesty, sensibility, and piety made her the favorite of the sequestered few with whom she lived. The troublous aspect of the times, and the severe bereavements she had suffered, had thrown a seriousness and sobriety over her character rather disproportioned to her years. But she knew nothing of moroseness or melancholy. The fear of heaven dwelt in her bosom; the smile of content beamed in her face.
She always took a ready part in the simple and innocent amusements of her rustic companions. Of music she was peculiarly fond. Often would she sit on the grassy seat, by the house side, and listen to the evening song of the shepherd boy, winding down the glen from his laired flock. And often in the winter evening―the peat burning on the hearth, and the wheel humming in the corner―would the old farmer lay the stocking at which he knitted on his knee, and give his ear to Helen while she sang the sweet melodies of Scotland.
The Christian life is no dreary thing. Its light casts a ray of cheerfulness over all the character. It is the Christian who possesses the merry heart. He is on his way to his Father’s house; and why should he be fretted or morose? He sees no darkness on the countenance of heaven; and why should his face gather blackness? He knows that no frown rests on the face of his reconciled Father; and why should he offer Him monastic sullenness?