Part 8

"'Not yet, Charles,' she would say, 'not yet, till you have made enough to pay you for coming.'

"And repressing her own earnest yearnings for the faces of loved ones far away, by her gentle firmness she held him to his enterprise, till after some years, a good opportunity occurring to sell out at a fair advance, for his own sake as well as hers, he embraced it, and joyfully they retraced their course to the scenes they had left behind.

"It may not be amiss to add, at the risk of a digression, that Mr. W. was enabled, while dwelling on the prairie, to carry out his plans for being active in the service of Christ. And so did he win the hearts of others by his consistent, useful life, that when he was about to leave the region, an old pioneer, moved by powerful emotions of grief at parting from him, sought him out, and, throwing his brawny arms about the good man's neck, wept aloud. The ice of his reserve once broken, Mr. W. has since taken his place among Christian men at the East."

In the older settled portions of our country, the amenities of the heart, and the gentle fireside graces often bloom in beauty. But on the frontier, the stronger, more valiant traits are developed. Indeed, if it were not for woman, no new country could be civilized: It would be the old story of Adam and the beasts over again. Every thing would end in Crusoe experiments, in hunting and trapping, mining and fishing. Woman, however, has more than her share of work in reclaiming earth's wastes. I have visited many hundred cabin homes on the frontier, and my conclusion is, that to the wife and mother, more than to any other influence, belongs the credit of whatever of advancement is made socially. Encompassed with untold difficulties, she not only does her own work, but aids and encourages her husband in his. She helps build the cabin, "put up the fence," drive home the cows, take care of the crops, "fight the prairie fires," "tend" the store, keep the tavern, and take charge of the post-office.

There was Mrs. C., whom I first saw when going with a friend for family supplies. How I started back on entering "the store," supposing I had blundered into a private room. A bed, neatly covered, stood in a corner, a coffee-mill ready for use hung against the wall. These first met the eye. However, the sight of flour, and other articles of merchandise, reassured me. It was a two-roomed cabin, with a low sleeping apartment overhead. Yet in that little building a brisk trade was carried on, a number of boarders found accommodation, and the post-office was kept; and Mrs. C., to allow her husband leisure to put other "irons in the fire," superintended the whole, respected by all the settlers for her faultless judgment, and kind, dignified bearing.

So also woman's influence is felt in religious matters.

On account of the severity of the winter, our dwelling, being central, was for a time our sanctuary. One Sabbath morning, the mercury being thirty below zero, not a person came save two Christian ladies, who had walked nearly two miles to attend meeting! I had not felt inclined to chide our brethren for their absence, so fierce was the morning, and the courageous zeal of those devoted women filled me with admiration. The incident was characteristic.

And in the fearful national contest now raging, the women of our free frontier will not be found wanting. Their hearts took fire when Kansas was invaded by border ruffians. Not a few Southern ladies, brought up in luxury, have I met with in cabin homes, self-exiled from the places of their birth, by their abhorrence of American slavery. Prairie women, self-reliant, free in spirit as the air they breathe, have no affinity with tyrant traitors. And were it possible that through the sorcery of party politics, or some other fell influence, the fathers and brothers of the Northwest should falter in this struggle, the loyal mothers and sisters could not. Inspired by heroism, nursed by danger and deprivation, they would court any suffering or peril rather than see the fair structure of our civilization and freedom overthrown by the barbarized champions of human bondage.

THE MIDNIGHT CALL.

THE winter of 18— was marked with unusual severity. I remember it the more vividly because of the incident which follows.

One night I sat by the fire, absorbed in reading. It was just the evening to enjoy a good book and home comforts, for the storm, which had been raging through the day, and still whirling the snow against the windows, repressed all desire to go abroad, and shut out intruders. I read on, till, through the roar of the tempest, I heard the muffled tones of a neighboring church clock strike eleven. Another hour had nearly passed when I was aroused by a knock at the door, and, opening it, a woman, clad in a thin shawl covered with snow, came timidly in. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, and her whole appearance expressed deep sorrow.

Standing, and wringing her hands in her anguish, she said,—

"My father is dying! He is in great distress of body and mind. I've called to ask if you won't please come and see him, for there's no one to speak a word to him about his soul, and I fear he can't live till morning."

"But," said I, "I am not a minister, and am afraid I could be of little service. Has your father no experienced Christian friend who would like to converse with him? What church does he attend?"

"We do not go any where to meeting," she replied, with an embarrassed air; "but father had been talking about it some time!"

"Hadn't you better go for a clergyman, then? There's Rev. Mr. E."

"I've been for him," she quickly returned, "but he was not at home, and then I inquired for some one who could pray, and a man sent me to you. Do please go, sir, for father is very anxious that I get some one, and I can't leave him long, he suffers so, and he 'll feel dreadfully if nobody comes to see him."

There was a coincidence in this unexpected call that impressed me. I had been much exercised with the desire to be more actively useful as a Christian, and had felt moved to pray that larger opportunities for doing good might be given. Was this an answer to that prayer? But it did not come in the way I had anticipated, and numberless excuses were ready to present themselves, the most weighty of which was my extreme youth, and consequent inexperience; and (shall I confess it?) I even glanced, with selfish shrinking, out at the driving blast. But the case would admit of no parleying. With pale, imploring face, my caller stood waiting my decision. Strength came, and I said,—

"I will go, and do the best I can for your father;" and, thanking me, she hurried away.

In a distant and disreputable part of the city, alone, on a dreary declivity overlooking the sea, stood the dwelling of the sick man. Entering, I had stepped to the feeble fire that flickered in the grate, to warm me ere speaking to him, when, casting my eyes toward the bed, they met his. Such an expression of wild despair I had never before seen. In the thrilling tones of one consciously approaching eternity unprepared, he exclaimed, stretching out his hand,—

"'I want some one to point me the way!'"

Instantly all diffidence fled; and, grasping his hand, I began to question him about his past life and present feelings. Suspicious of "death-bed repentance," I dealt plainly with him, which was well received. The result was a conviction that his was a case of genuine sorrow for sin. He had been a man of great physical strength and endurance. His business had called him to stand much in the water, as he worked about the vessels in the harbor, experiencing no ill effects from his exposed life till within a short time, when his lower limbs commenced swelling, accompanied by excruciating pain, the torture increasing as the disease crept up toward the vitals. Now his sufferings were well nigh intolerable, and his swollen appearance made him a truly frightful object. His naturally fine mind remained unclouded, however, and its whole vigor was exercised in self-accusing reviews of the past, and hopeless anticipations of the future.

"Oh," said he, "it's not the fear of death that troubles me so much as thoughts of my wasted, godless life. I have lived as if there was no God. What a stupid, ungrateful wretch I have been! And he has been so good, so forbearing, so patient. For fifty years and more I never saw a sick day, and yet no love toward him who made and preserved me! Oh, how can I think of it!"—and he covered his face as if to hide some hideous vision.

"But," I asked, "did you have no concern about these things till you were taken sick?"

"Yes; one day, a few weeks before, I fell to thinking over my past life,—I know not what made me,—and I saw it to be all wrong. Then I resolved to do better. But what a task I found it to overcome evil habits formed through so many years; and then my sins, my sins, they were a load crushing me to despair. One thing, however, I determined on, and that was to attend preaching somewhere. But, delaying to get suitable clothing, I was meanwhile laid up with this sickness. And now," he continued, "what I wish more than any thing else is to be rid of sin and serve God. But how can this be? How can I hope he will have mercy on me, when all the strength of my days has been given to self and sin? What shall I do? what shall I do? It's all dark to me."

Assuring him that salvation was free and ample, that the blessed Saviour invited all who felt their need of it to partake without money and without price, he could not credit the good news, and exclaimed, with moving earnestness,—

"Read it to me from 'the Book.' I want to hear it for myself, that I may know there is no mistake about it!"

Drawing a Bible from my pocket, and lifting up a prayer for guidance, for I knew not where to turn, I opened at this passage: "Jesus stood and cried, saying, If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink." A divine radiance seemed to rest on the Lord's invitation, and as I was explaining it, he suddenly exclaimed,—

"'I see it!'" He had fallen back on the pillow, a smile surpassingly beautiful irradiating his before distorted features. Those wondrous words of Christ, in which divine majesty blends with perfect human sympathy, through the Spirit's power, had inspired trust. The cloud, the darkness, the storm passed from his soul, and, like a tired infant nestling in his mother's arms, so he found rest in the love of his Saviour.

How blessed to kneel in prayer after such a change! Prayer was turned to praise, and that lowly cot became as the gate of heaven. Nor did his peace abate, for when I called again, three days afterwards, and inquired how he felt,—

"Oh!" said he, with beaming face, "it's so delightful; 'it is peace in the morning, and peace at night.' My mind is so at rest," he continued, "that even my bodily pains, at times, seem all to have left me."

But how can I express the gladness that filled my heart that night, as I left the aged convert to return home! The howling tempest could not drown the melody that came down from angel-harps, to the ear of faith, as in the presence of God there was joy over another repentant sinner. Christian disciple, pray to be a true laborer for Christ. Watch to improve each opportunity the Lord shall give for activity in his vineyard. Charlotte Elizabeth writes, "I asked work of my heavenly Master, and he gave it." None shall ask it of him in vain. Fear not to follow his leadings. The impenitent are more ready to hear on the subject of their eternal interests than is generally supposed. "I have," says Newcomb, "conversed with many hundreds, in almost every variety of states of mind, not excepting avowed infidels, but have rarely met with one who did not receive it kindly, and treat me with courtesy." Since the incident related above, which occurred in my eighteenth year, personal religious conversation with some "thousands" enables me to bear a similar testimony.

THE WORLD-WANDERER.

I WAS visiting in the quiet city of N—. On the street a clerical friend met me, and said,—

"I want you to come to our conference meeting this evening, and hear one of my members talk. It will do you good."

Now I confess to a partiality for those social services, in which young and old, the lettered and unlettered, all turn preachers, and in the freedom of God's family circle make heart-offerings of prayer, and praise, and exhortation. Would that we had less "pulpit" and more "church" in our sanctuaries; at least, I should prefer it.

The good pastor's flock were accustomed to prayer-meeting privileges, and no time was lost.

"That's the man," whispered my friend; "listen."

At that instant a man arose in a side pew, and commenced speaking. Partly bald, his thin, light hair fell from a high forehead, while his sharply cut features, bronzed by exposure to sun and storm, wore a bold, stern look, as of one accustomed to face danger without shrinking. His voice was resonant and full, his manner assured and forcible. A tender smile, like sunlight resting on the jagged rock, played over his face,—a face accustomed more to harsher moods, one would think.

His words—I will not attempt to rehearse them—were wondrously weighty and convincing, as, with a confidence such as the Apostles had after the baptism of Pentecost, he reasoned out of the Scriptures of "righteousness, temperance, and judgment to come." He spoke like one who had consciously emerged from darkness to light; who had been soundly converted from the extremity of ungodliness to a living discipleship. And when he alluded to his own experience, how touching and persuasive!

"Sinner!" he exclaimed; "you who make light of these things, pleased with the trifles of earth, hugging sin, your deadliest foe, to your hearts, rejecting the only good, eagerly pressing on the broad road to destruction, look at me, a monument of God's sparing mercy, a trophy of his grace! Some of you have known me from my childhood. You can remember what a vile, God-defying, blasphemous wretch I was. You have heard me insult the Majesty of heaven and earth; yes, pour out my swearing wrath on Him who died for me. It is but a year since he spoke to me as to Saul of Tarsus, and brought me to his feet. Since then my testimony has been one and the same. I am a new creature; old things have passed away. I have found him of whom Moses and the prophets did write; and in finding him I have found every thing. Sin's strong fetters have been broken; pardon, peace, joy, love, the fellowship of the saints, the communion of the Holy Ghost, heaven, all are mine, and can 'you' stay away?"

Then, plaintively, almost soliloquizing, "Fifty years of my life were wasted in sin, before I saw the great light. I have been all over the world, seen hardships and danger in many a clime, all the while defying the God who made and preserved me. Yes, I have been to Palestine, trodden that sacred soil with a heart harder than adamant, gone over those places hallowed by the weary feet, watered by the tears and blood of Immanuel,—but what was it all to me? Oh, that I could once more see that land, all-glorious! Oh, that I might again look on Jordan and Tiberias, Gethsemane and Calvary, now that he has had pity on a wretch like me, and revealed himself to my soul. How dear, how holy, would be those scenes!—what joy, what rapture would thrill my heart! But this can not be. But, blessed be God, the heavenly Canaan—

"'Stands dressed in living green.'

"I shall see 'that.' I shall behold Him whom I once reviled, but who is now to my soul the chiefest among ten thousand, and the One altogether lovely. Sinner, will you go with me? Come, for there is room for all!"

"What," said the preacher, as we walked home together, "did you think of that?" referring to the exhortation I have meagerly sketched.

"Ah!" I replied, with a sigh, "if we all could speak with that assurance of faith and depth of conviction."

"And yet," he continued, "that man was one of the worst, most hopeless scoffers I ever heard of. The language he would use in expressing his scorn and hatred of the Saviour is too horrible to repeat. But since his conversion not an opposer dares breathe an accusation against his demeanor. Having been forgiven much, he loves much."

"What were the circumstances connected with his conversion?"

"A member of my church and Sabbath school," said he, "was in search of scholars. She was looking for them among the poor and neglected. She had heard of this man—was aware that he was a skeptic of the blackest hue; but knowing that he had children growing up untaught in divine things, her heart was moved with pity; and, repressing her timidity, she begged leave for them to attend Sunday school. Her conciliatory, persevering efforts, were rewarded by her request being granted. The youngest of them, a little girl of five, became religiously impressed, and began the habit of secret prayer. One evening, just at dark, her father chancing to pass the door of her room, thought he heard a voice. It was little Mary offering her childish petitions. Just then she was asking God to bless and save her dear father. The listening parent heard his name thus laid before the mercy-seat. Conviction followed. 'What does this mean?' he ejaculated. 'My little girl praying for me! Am I, then, such a sinner?' His life came up for review; he was plunged in wretchedness, could not sleep, and next morning sent for me. He was walking the room, gloomy and agitated, as I entered.

"'Sir,' said he, 'can you prove that the Bible is true?'

"'Yes, to one who is candid,' I answered.

"'Then let me hear your arguments,' he rejoined.

"I spent the day with him. Ere I left, at his request I prayed for him, and he broke out in earnest supplication for himself. When light dawned, his mind was flooded. No doubts have distressed him since. His testimonies always have power with unbelievers; they don't question the change. But did you observe," he added, "how he yearned to see the Holy Land once more? He often reverts to that, reproaching himself for his indifference and unbelief when there."

The converted infidel died about a year after. His last moments were glorious. Denied another sight of the earthly Canaan, the heavenly soon burst upon his enraptured vision.

Oh, ye laborers in the Sabbath schools of our land, go forth! Go forth into the highways and hedges, into the homes of error, the dens of corruption, and bear thence the tender child where hallowed influences descend, and the knowledge that maketh wise unto salvation is imparted. Save the children, and it may be you will save the fathers and the mothers, who, transformed, shall become champions of the cross.

THE PASTOR'S DREAM.

DEACON G. was a pillar in the church some years since. He was the very embodiment of good deaconly qualities;—bland, zealous, prayerful, efficient. His hospitable doors were ever open to the "pilgrim and stranger," and many a weary man of God, and many a hungry wanderer, was sheltered and fed beneath his roof. And not seldom did some struggling theological student, visiting him of a vacation, have his fundless wallet replenished, and his outer man improved by the exchange of his worn boots and threadbare coat for a more comely and comfortable garb. It was whispered around, however, that with all his virtues, he had one weakness. He was pronounced prodigal in his alms-deeds, by some of the more "prudent," and the pastor inclined to the opinion. He admired the whole-hearted benevolence of the deacon, but being himself more wary, and having his friend's interests really at heart, he became much troubled about the matter. For some time he revolved the subject in silence, until compelled, as he thought, by a sense of duty, he waited on his official helper to express his concern. He laid before him all his fears, endeavoring, with a discriminating hand, to draw the line between a safe and an imprudent generosity.

"Have I not enough for the support of my family? Do I at all distress them by giving away?" asked the deacon.

"This may be true," said the minister, "but many of your brethren fear for the future for you. You know not what reverses may await you. Is it not wise; do you not owe it to your family so to husband your resources as to be prepared for emergencies that may arise?"

His listener duly weighed each word, but was scarcely convinced of the necessity of the caution. It seemed to him that he had only given of his abundance, and that a watchful Providence had granted him to reap liberally as he sowed liberally.

The pastor left; his solicitude somewhat softened, perhaps, by the interview; yet with the consciousness that he had relieved himself of any responsibility in whatever might befall the deacon's worldly affairs, while the latter remained with his large heart uncontracted.

That night the pastor dreamed that, taking his daily walk, he bent his steps to the sea-side. It was a bright day in summer, and he paused to look on the broad expanse. Soft clouds lay dreamily against the horizon. Sea-birds sailed slowly through the air, or darted down upon their finny prey. The white-crested waves flashed back golden rays. While absorbed in the glorious scone, a step behind caused him to turn his head, and he saw Deacon G. approaching. The latter appeared not to notice him, but stepping to the verge of the shore, took from a basket on his arm loaf after loaf of wholesome looking bread, and tossed them into the water.

"Stop! stop!" exclaimed the pastor, in surprise, "why this waste?"

The deacon pointed solemnly into the sea, and said, "Look! observe!"

The former looked, and, to his astonishment, saw that for each loaf thrown in, the returning wave brought back a basketful, and cast them at the donor's feet!

In great wonder he awoke, and the next day calling on the deacon, related his dream, and added, tearfully,—

"Go on, brother! go on! Cast your bread upon the waters—doubtless, after many days, it will be returned to you!"

A SMILE, A GLANCE, A HYMN.

A THOUGHTLESS boy of fifteen, who had heard the Bible and the Christian profession treated lightly, imbibed the poison of skepticism. He had come to think that religion was only a name, and that the followers of Christ were a gloomy people, denying themselves this world's enjoyments and receiving no equivalent. It chanced one day that he was sent on an errand to a lady, of whom his parents would often speak compassionately, as one who had but a little while to live.