Part 32

As I recall to mind that journey and that happy, cheerful child, I often think how much comfort even a child can impart to others, when their hearts have been sanctified by the Spirit of God. I cannot forbear to say that cheerfulness is a cardinal virtue, and ought to be more cultivated by the old and by the young. A cheerful disposition not only blesses its possessor but imparts happiness to all that come within its reach.

As we entered the city at an early hour, everything wore a cheerful aspect, every step seemed elastic and every heart buoyant with hope. There was a continual hum of busy men and women, as we were passing near a market. Such a rolling of carts and carriages--so many cheerful children, some crying "Raddishes"--"raddishes"--others "Strawberries"--"strawberries"--others with baskets of flowers--all wide awake, each eager to sell his various articles of merchandise. This was indeed a novel scene to us--it did seem a charming place. My young companion remarked, Aunt C----, "I think everybody here must be happy." I could not but at first respond to the sentiment. But presently we began to meet persons--some halt--some blind--some in rags--looking filthy and degraded.

Every face was new to us--not one person among the throngs we met that we had ever seen before. An unusual sense of loneliness came over me, and I thought my young attendant participated in this same feeling of solitude, and though I said nothing, I sighed for the quiet and familiar faces and scenes of the "Home, sweet home" I had so recently left.

We had not proceeded far before we saw men and boys in great commotion, all running hurriedly, in one direction, bending their steps towards the opposite shore. Their step was light and quick, but a look of sadness was in every face. We could only, now and then, gather up a few murmuring words that fell from the lips of the passers-by.

"There were more than thirty persons killed," said one. "Yes, more than fifty," said another. We soon learned that a vessel on fire, the preceding evening had entered the harbour, but the fire had progressed so far that it was impossible to extend relief to the sufferers, and most of the crew perished in the flames, or jumped overboard and were drowned.

The awful impression of distress made upon the minds of persons unaccustomed to such disasters, cannot well be described--they certainly were by no means transient.

It was sad to reflect that many who had thus perished after an absence from home, some a few weeks, others for months, instead of greeting their friends, were hurried into eternity so near their own homes, under such aggravated circumstances. And then what a terrible disappointment to survivors! Many families as well as individuals were by this calamity not only bereft of friends, but of their property--some reduced to a state of comparative beggary.

This day's experience was but a faint picture of human life.

But to return to that young nephew. Does any one inquire with interest, Did his cheerful, benevolent disposition, his readiness to impart and to receive happiness continue with him through life? It did in a pre-eminent degree. It is believed that even then "The joy of the Lord was his strength."--Neh. viii. 10.

He died at the age of 37, having been for nearly six years a successful missionary among the spicy breezes which blow soft o'er Ceylon's Isle. A friend who had known him most intimately for many years while a student at Yale, and then tutor, and then a student of Theology, after his death, in writing to his bereaved mother, says, "We had hope that your son, from his rare qualifications to fill the station he occupied, his remarkable facilities in acquiring that difficult language, his cheerfulness in imparting knowledge, his indomitable perseverance, his superior knowledge, and love of the Bible, which it was his business to teach--that in all this God had raised him up for a long life of service to the Church; but instead of this, God had been fitting him, all this time, for some more important sphere of service in the upper sanctuary."

Here, as in thousands of other cases, we see that "The boy was the father of the man."

Would any mother like to know the early history of that cheerful young traveler, we reply, as in the case of the prophet Samuel, he was "asked of the Lord," and was, therefore, rightly named Samuel. The Lord called him by his Spirit, when a mere child, "Samuel," "Samuel," and he replied "Here am I;" and his subsequent life and character were what might be expected from his obedient disposition and his lowly conduct in early childhood.

* * * * *

A young prince having asked his tutor to instruct him in religion and to teach him to say his prayers, was answered, that "he was yet too young." "That cannot be," said the little boy, "for I have been in the burying ground and measured the graves; I found many of them shorter than myself."

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Original.

MUSIC IN CHRISTIAN FAMILIES.--NO. 1.

It gives me much pleasure, in accordance with your suggestions, Mrs. W., to lay before the readers of the Magazine, a few thoughts on the subject of music in Christian families. The subject is a very interesting one; and I regret that time and space will not allow me to do it more ample justice.

Music is one of those precious gifts of Providence which are liable to be misused and misinterpreted. It has been applied, like oratory, to pernicious, as well as to useful purposes. It has been made to minister to vice, to indolence and to luxury--as well as to virtue, to industry, and to true refinement. But we must not on this account question the preciousness of the gift itself. The single circumstance that the Master of Assemblies requires it to be employed through all time, in the solemn assemblies of his worshipers, should suffice to prevent us from holding it in light estimation.

Other good things besides music have been abused. Poetry, and prose, and eloquence, for example; but shall we therefore undervalue them? Painting, too, has its errings--some of them very grievous; but shall it therefore be neglected, as unworthy of cultivation? Things the most precious all have this liability, and should on this account be guarded with more vigilance.

Music, merely as one of the fine arts, has many claims to our attention. We could not well say, in this respect, too much in its favor. Wrong things, indeed, have been said; and many pretensions have been raised to which we could never subscribe. It does not possess, as some seem to think, any _inherent_ moral or religious efficacy. It is not _always safe_, as a _mere_ amusement. An unrestrained passion for it, has often proved injurious, and those who would become artists or distinguished amateurs, have need of much caution on this head. Music is in this respect, like poetry, painting, and sculpture. The Christian may cherish any of these arts, as a means to some useful end; but the moment he loses sight of real utility he is in danger, for everything that he does or enjoys should be in accordance with the glory of God.

The most interesting point of view in which music is to be regarded is that which relates to the worship of God. This gives it an importance which is unspeakable. There is no precept which requires us to employ oratory, or painting, or sculpture in the worship of the Most High. Nor is there any direct precept for the consecrated use of poetry; for "psalms and hymns and spiritual songs," may be written in elevated prose. But the Bible is filled with directions for the employment of music in the sacred service. Both the Old Testament and the New require us to sing with devout affections, to the praise and glory of God. The command, too, seems to be general, like those in relation to prayer. If all are to pray, so "in everything" are all to "give thanks." If we are to "pray without ceasing," so we are told, "let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord." Again, "is _any_ man afflicted, let him pray: is he merry (joyful), let him _sing_ psalms." The direction is not, "if any man is joyful, let him attend a concert or listen to exercises in praise," but "let him _sing_." There is something to be done in his own proper person.

Our necessities compel us to pray. A mere permission to do so, might seem to suffice. For we must pray earnestly and perseveringly, or perish forever. But will it do meanwhile to be sparing in our thanks? True, one may say, I am under infinite obligations to give thanks, and I generally endeavor to do so when engaged in the exercise of prayer. But, remember there is another divinely constituted exercise called praise. Why not engage in this also, and mingle petitions with your praises? This is the scriptural method of expressing gratitude and adoration, and for ourselves, we see not how individuals are to be excused in neglecting it. Every one, it is true, would not succeed as an artist, if he had never so many advantages. But every one who has the ordinary powers of speech, might be so far instructed in song, as to mingle his voice with others in the solemn assembly, or at least to use it in private to his own edification. This position has been established in these later times beyond the possibility of a rational doubt. Proofs of it have been as clear as demonstration. These, perhaps, may be exhibited in another number.

But in reply to this statement it will be said, that cultivation is exceedingly difficult if deferred to adult years. Well, be it so. It follows, that since it is not difficult in years of childhood and youth, all our children should have early and adequate instruction. There should be singing universally in Christian families. And this is the precise point I have endeavored to establish in the present article. How far the neglects and miscarriages of youth may excuse the delinquences of adult years, I dare not presume to decide or conjecture. It may suffice my present purpose to show that according to the Bible all _should_ sing; and that all _might_ sing if instruction had not been neglected. Is it not high time for such neglect to be done away? And how shall it ever be done away, except by the introduction of music into Christian families?

Let Christian parents once become awake to the important results connected with this subject, and they can ordinarily overcome what had seemed to them mountains of difficulty; nay, more, what seemed impossibilities, by considerable effort and a good share of perseverance.

Even one instance of successful experiment in this way should be quite sufficient to induce others to make similar efforts.

A father who for many years, during his collegiate and professional studies, was for a long period abstracted from all domestic endearments, much regretted this, as he was sensible of the prejudicial influence it had in deadening the affections. Not many years after he became settled in business, he found himself surrounded by quite a little group of children. He became exceedingly interested in their spiritual welfare, and in the success of Sabbath-school instruction. His heart was often made to rejoice as he contemplated the delightful influence upon himself of these home-scenes, and which he longed to express in sacred song. But as he had never cultivated either his ear or his voice, he felt at his time of life it would be quite useless for him to try to learn. Neither did the mother of his children know anything about the rules of music.

They had at one time a very musical young relative for a visitor in their family. The children were so delighted with his lofty strains that they kept him singing the greater part of the time. The mother expressed great regret that neither she nor her husband could gratify the children in their eager desire to enjoy music.

This young friend said he was sure, if she would but try, he would soon convince her of the practicability of learning. She promised to try--and in the attempt she was greatly encouraged by the assurances of her husband that he also would try.

It was soon found that all the children had a good ear and a good voice, and particularly the eldest, a girl of seven, who was at length able to take the lead in singing a few tunes at family worship.

After a few months' trial, no money could have tempted these parents to relinquish the pleasure and the far-reaching benefits which they felt must result from this social and exalted pleasure of uniting on earth in singing the sacred songs of Zion, as a preparation for loftier strains in Heaven.

* * * * *

It has been beautifully said that Reason is the compass by which we direct our course; and Revelation the pole star by which we correct its variations.

Experience, like the stern-light of a ship, only shows us the path which has been passed over.

Happiness, like the violet, is only a way-side flower.

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Original.

"WHY ARE WE NOT CHRISTIANS?"

A SKETCH FOR DAUGHTERS.

It was the day for the meeting of the Monthly Missionary Society, in the village of C.; a day of pure unclouded loveliness in early summer, when the sweetest flowers were blossoming, and the soft delicious air was laden with their perfume, and that of the newly-mown hay. All nature seemed rejoicing in the manifestations of the goodness and love of its Creator, while the low mingled murmurings of insects, breezes and rivulets, with the songs of birds, formed a sweet chorus of praise to God. The society was to meet at deacon Mills's, who lived about four miles out of the village, and whose house was the place where, of all others, all loved to go. Very early in the afternoon all the spare wagons, carriages, carryalls, chaises and other vehicles were in demand. A hay-rack was filled with young people, as a farmer kindly offered to carry them nearly to the place, and toward evening, they considered, it would be pleasant to walk home. So deacon Mills's house was filled with old, middle-aged and young, who were all soon occupied with the different kinds of work, requisite for filling a box to be sent to a missionary family among the distant heathen. Seaming, stitching, piecing, quilting and knitting, kept every hand busy, while their owners' tongues were equally so, yet the conversation was not the common, idle talk of the day, but useful and elevating, for religion was loved, and lived, by most of those dear and pleasant people, and it could not but be spoken of. Still there was interest in each other's welfare, as their social and domestic pursuits and plans were related and discussed.

There was a piazza in front of the house, the pillars of which were covered with vines, running from one to another, gracefully interlacing, and forming a pleasant screen from the sun's rays. At one end of this piazza, a group of five young girls were seated at their work. They were chosen and intimate friends, who shared with each other all that was interesting to themselves. They had been talking pleasantly together for some time, and had arrived at a moment's pause, when Clara Glenfield said, "Girls, I think this is a good opportunity to say to you something that I have for a long time wished to say. You know we are in the habit of speaking to each other upon every subject that interests us, excepting that of religion. None of us profess to be Christians, although we know it is our duty to be. We have all pious mothers, and, if yours are like mine, they are constantly urging, as well as our other friends, to give our hearts to God, and we cannot but think of the subject; now, why should we not speak of it together? and why are we not Christians?"

Emily Upton. "I should really be very glad, Clara, if we could. It seems to me we might talk much more freely with each other, than with older persons; for some things trouble me on this subject, and if I should speak of them to mother, or any one else, I am afraid they would think less of me, or blame me."

Clara. "Then let us each answer the question, why are we not Christians? You tell us first, Emily."

Emily. "Well, then, it seems to me, I am just as good as many in the church. I do not mean to say that I am good, but only if they are Christians, I think I am. There is Leonora D., for instance, she dresses as richly with feathers and jewels, attends parties instead of the prayer-meetings, and acts as haughtily as any lady of fashion I ever knew. Now, I go to the Bible class, evening meetings, always attend church, and read the Bible, and pray every day. Notwithstanding all, mother says, so tenderly, 'Emily, my child, I wish you were a Christian,' and I get almost angry that she will not admit that I am one."

Alice Grey. "Well, I do not blame Leonora much. To tell the truth, I do not believe in so much church-going and psalm-singing. I think God has given us these pleasant things to enjoy them, and it is perfectly natural for a young girl to sing and dance, visit, dress, and enjoy herself. It seems to me there is time enough for religion when we grow older, but give me youthful pleasures and I can be happy enough."

Sophia. "But you think religion is important, do you not?"

Alice. "Yes, I suppose it is necessary to have religion to die by, and I own I sometimes feel troubled for fear that I may die before possessing it, but I am healthy and happy, and do not think much about it. I want to enjoy life while I can, like these little birds in the garden who are singing and skipping so merrily."

Clara. "Annie, you are the reverse of Alice, quiet, gentle, and sedate; why are not you a Christian?"

Annie. "Since we are talking so candidly, I will tell you. I really do not know how to be. I cannot feel that I have ever done anything that was so very sinful, although I know, for the Bible says so, that I am a sinner. To be sure, I have done a great many wrong things, but it does not seem as though God would notice such little things, and besides it did not seem as though I could have done differently in the circumstances. Mother has always commended me, and held me up for a pattern to the younger children, and I suppose I have become, at least, you will think I have, a real Pharisee. Yet when I have been urged to repent and believe in Christ, I have not known what to do. I have spent hours in the still, lonely night, thinking upon the subject, and saying, if I could only feel that I am a sinner I would repent. I have always believed in Jesus, that He is the Son of God, that He assumed our nature, and bore the punishment we deserve, and will save all who believe in Him. Now what more can I do? I know that I must do everything, for I feel that I am far from being a Christian, and yet I know not what. I suppose your experience does not correspond with mine, Clara?"

Clara. "Not exactly. I not only know, but deeply feel, that I am a great sinner; sometimes my sinfulness appears too great to be forgiven. The trouble with me is _procrastination_. I cannot look back to the time when I did not feel that I ought to be a Christian, but I have always put off the subject, thinking I would attend to it another time, and it has been just so for year after year. Only last week I was sitting alone in my room at twilight, enjoying the quiet loveliness and beauty of the view from my window. I could not help thinking of Him who had made all things, and had given me the power of enjoying them, besides so many other blessings, and I longed to participate in the feeling which Cowper ascribes to the Christian, and say, '_My Father_ made them all.' Then something seemed to whisper, 'wilt thou not from _this time_ cry unto me, My Father, thou art the guide of my youth?' 'Now is the accepted time.' 'To-day, if ye will hear his voice, harden not your heart.' But I did harden my heart. I did not feel willing, like Alice, to give up the pleasures which are inviting me all around, and become a devoted, consistent Christian, for I do not mean to be a half-way Christian, neither one thing or the other."

Sophia. "Nearly all these reasons have been my excuse for not becoming a Christian, but another has been, that I do not like to be noticed, and made an object of remark. My father and mother and friends would be so much pleased, they would be talking of it, and watching me, to see if my piety was real, and I would feel as if I were too conspicuous a person. Now if we would all at the same time resolve to consecrate ourselves to the Lord, I think each particular case might not be so much noticed."

"But why should you dread it so much Sophy?" asked Emily.

"I hardly know _why_" she replied, "but I have always felt so since I was quite a child, but since I have for the first time spoken of it, it seems a much more foolish reason than I had before considered it."

Alice. "And I must confess that I am not always so careless and thoughtless on this subject. When I am really possessing and enjoying the pleasures I have longed for, there seems to be always something more that I need to make me happy. Fanny Bedford, pious and good as she is, seems always happier than I, and I have often wished that I was such a Christian as she is."

"Who has not," exclaimed the other girls; and their praise of her was warm and sincere.

"She is so consistent and religious, and yet so humble, and so full of love to every one, that it is impossible not to love her and the religion she loves so much. Annie, I have never wished so much that I was a Christian, as when I have thought of her; how much I wish I was like her." "There is Fanny in the hall, let us speak to her of what we have been saying," said Sophia.