tly tuna !! nth.
[For the American Presbyterian.]
THREE YEARS AGO.
BY MRS. N. E. MORSE
Three years ago ! The day has come,
Just as it dawned upon us there—
A clear, blue sky, and brilliant sun,
And fleecy cloudlets, pure and fair,
And the bare peach tree 'gainst the sky,
Held up its crimson tracery.
Three years ago the Sabbath smiled
Upon us all with balmy breath—
But on our fair and pleasant child
Was stamped the waxen seal of death
But calm and still as was the day,
Serene and peacefully she lay.
"When all are gone to church," she said,
" We'll have a peaceful quiet time;
You'll sit beside my little bed,
And hear the church-bell's silver chime ;"
And raised her dark eyes, calm and clear,
To smile away my falling tear.
Three years ago ! How clear to me
Come back the mem'ries of tha , , hour,
The little couch I seem to see,
-And my sweet, tender, drooping flower,
Still smiling from her bed of pain,
To bring my own smile back again.
And then she slipped her little hand
In mine and said : " I love you so :"
And what her spent breath did not add,
Said in her dark eyes' loving glow—
Then slept the sleep that precedes death,
With half-closed eyes, and tluVring breath
Once rousing up, her thoughtful eye -
Lit up with gratitude and love,
To see the white clouds drifting by,
And the clear vault of blue above;
I bent to hear her gently sny,
"I love God so, for this bright day."
* * * * *
Once in the night she clasped her hands,
And on the solemn midnight air,
Slow trembled from her dying lips,
The old familiar evening prayer,
Then gave to each a good-night kiss,
Sweet duty—that she could not miss.
And so the dark night slowly went,
Ancl the cold sleet and wind moaned on,
When death swept down on sudden wing,
And our sweet, patient lamb was gone.l
So quickly snapped the silver cord,
We waited for another word.
Why do I weep ? If words of mine
Could call her back to this poor earth,
There's not a wish within my heart,
Could give such utterance a birth.
Yet eyes will weep, and hearts will bleed,
For words of love, we sorely need.
For such were ever hers to give.
Her gentle spirit would not leave
The slightest thing in pain, or grief,
Could her sweet little art relieve,
And when the household hearth shone bright.
She was its center and delight.
Three years ago, Death seemed to stand
With greedy eyes our hearth beside,
He had just rapt in chill embrace,
The youngest, dearest from our side,
A beauteous boy, whose tender grace,
Shone always like an angel's face.
Within one grave they lie at rest—
They who so fondly loved below—
Three winters o'er their resting place
Have laid the purity of snow,
Three summers' suns have kissed to bloom,
The roses planted o'er their tomb.
Three years! How often in that time
All busy with some household care,
I've met some little thing they loved,
Some garment that they used to wear,
And stood, all smitten with my loss,
As when I first took up the cross.
But Faith—that comforter divine—
With radiant hand hath pointed me
Up to that pure, and sinless clime,
Where all the ransomed angels be.
Safe from all ill that could betide,
Safe with my God do they abide.
Three years ago, they left me—fair
And beautiful. Their winning ways,
Their tender kisses and sweet words,
Will be a solace all my day s.
I thank my God that He has left me still
Such golden memories my heart to fill.
Preble, N. Y., Nov. 22d, 1.868.
DON MARTIN.
AN OLD SPANISH LEGEND
Now, Don Martin was—the Devil ! And
this name he went by, once—centuries and
centuries ago—in Spain. And an author of
that country makes a story about him—it
was written a hundred years before print
ing was invented—which I shall tell again
in my own words and apply to our own
triimes.
A rich man became quite poor, and the
loss of his money made him very wretched.
One day, sad and lonely, he was taking a
stroll in the mountains, when, lo ! he came
upon another wanderer.
It was the Devil,
Now, the Evil One knew very well what
was passing in tho man's mind; but, to be
gin to talk with him, he asked him what
ailed him.
" No use in you knowing," said the man;
"for you could do nothing to help me."
" But," retorted the Devil, " .show
you that I am able to help you, if only you
will do all that I want of you. I know
what makes you so unhappy. YO.ll were
rich ; you are poor now. But I'll make
you -richer than you ever were before, and
richer than any of your family ever were
before, if only you 011 accept - my condi
tion s."
" What are you ?" asked the man.
" I am the Devil," said the Tempter.
Now when the man heard this name he
was afraid. But the Devil knows how to
Booth the fears of those who have half a
mind to serve him; and so, after a little
further talk, the Evil One won the day, and
the wanderer agreed to do all that was re
quired of him, on condition that he should
be made very rich.
" So it is," says the ancient author, "that
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, MAY 20, 1869.
the Devil always knows his time to make
men fall into his snares. When he sees us
in any trouble or necessity, it is then that
he offers us his aid, to avoid labor and
anxiety for the sake of an immediate ap
parent relief. So it was that he obtained
possession of this man, making him his
slave."
As soon as this contract between the
fiend and the man was settled, the Devil
told him that be must become a robber,
and that he would give him the power to
open the gate or door of any house, how
ever securely it might be shut with bolts
and bars.
" But if I should be taken prisoner ?"
asked the man.
" Then," answered the Devil, " cry out,
Help me, Don Martin,' and I will come
and set you free."
Calmed and nerved by these promises,
the man went and broke into the house of
a rich merchant. As soon as he reached
the door, the Devil opened it fbr him. He
got great treasures in this house.
Again and again, aided by the Tempter,
he entered the dwellings of the rich and
robbed them ; but, although he became
quite wealthy, he could not abandon his
wicked ways, and so he kept on in his ca
reer of robbery. At length he was caught
and lodged in jail.
Bat here the Devil came to his assistance
and released him.
As soon as he was out he returned to his
old life, and it was not long before he was
again in prison.
" Help me, Don Martin !" be cried.
But, somehow, Don Martin was not so
Prompt as he had been before ; yet he came
at last and liberated him—excusing him
self for his delay by explaining that he
was particularly engaged at that moment.
This delay had frightened the man; but
the excuse deceived him, and he continued
his robberies without fear.
He was once more arrested ; and this
time Don Martin failed him.
He was arraigned, tried, and condemned
to die.
Yet, after sentence was passed, Don Mar
tin once more placed him at liberty in the
name of the king.
" Again," writes the old author, " this
man returned to his old courses, •and again
was taken prisoner. This time, however,
Don Martin did not arrive until he was at
the foot of the scaffold."
The man then told Don Martin that this
was no child's play, for his delay had caused
him dreadful alarm.
Don Martin replied that he had brought
five hundred maravedi in an alms-bag to
bribe the judge with and so get the release
of his friend and servant.
As the jailors were making preparations
to hang the criminal, there seemed to be
some trouble about finding a stout rope ;
and thereupon the prisoner offered the bag
to the judge, and asked him to let him es
cape. They managed things differently
in those days; for no prisoner could see the
judge or bribe a jailor on the day of his
execution now.
"And then," says the chronicler, "the
judge after a short time, turning to the
people, said : 'My friends, did you ever see
a rope wanting when the man is really
guilty ? It is clear that Heaven does not
desire the death of the innocent ;so let us put
off the execution until to-morrow. Examine
his antecedents more carefully, and depend
upon it justice shall be satisfied. ?'"
This, we are told, the judge did to gain
time to count the money in the bag.
But what was the judge's surprise and
rage, when on opening the bag, he found,
not a bribe, bat a rope.
He at once ordered the man to be hanged,
and had the rope in the bag put found his
neck.
" Help me, Don _Martin !" shrieked the
robber.
The Devil appeared.
" Help me, D-o-n-M-ar-t—"
The rope was choking him.
" Hclp me, Don —, ' suddenly he shriek
ed out, as the rope was loosened for ,a
second.
" Can't do it! Sorry ; but can't do it,"
said the Devil: When once a rope is
round a man's neck, can't help him."
"And," says Don Manuel, who tells the
story, "the consequence was that the cul
prit met the fate which awaited him, losing
thereby both soul and body, from not re
sisting the temptation of the Devil; such
being the fate of all those who rely upon
false aid and delay their repentance.
' Who doth not trust in God repose
Evil his life and sad its close.' "
This story is not an idle fable. It is the
shadow of a great truth, which every one
who scans the ways of men in the world
can see to-day as clearly as it was seen
twenty centuries ago.
Bad men often prosper, and good men
sometimes seem to be crashed under the Jug
gernaut wheels of society. But the end is
not yet. There is a long, long eternity be
fore us; and as surely as we sell our souls
to the Tempter—whether for gold, or
honors, or ease—we shall surely find at last
a rope in the bag.—lndependent.
"NOT NOW."
James W— sat in his father's office reading
an interesting paper. His father sat at a desk
opposite, busily engaged writing. In a few mo
ments be looked up and said, "My son, I want
you to go down to the post•office for me." " 0
father! not now. lam busy reading." His fa
ther made no reply, then, but in a few moments,
'when his mother and sister came in the carriage
to the door, as James was about to step in after
his father, the latter replied, "Not now, my son,
you may finish your reading."
This little incidentbrought to my remembrance,
a picture which I had seen in my early childhood,
which made a lasting impression on my mind.
The artist represented an old man climbinc , on a
chair, and endeavoring'to reach a book from a
high shelf. But before the desired object is at-
twined the old man sinks down overcome with the
exertion, His history has often been v4ritten. In
his youth, kind friends and the voice of con
science urged him to read his Bible, but, his
answer was, Not Now. On entering manhood,
the warning voice again confronted him, but again
received the reply, Not now. At last, old age and
disease overtook him, poverty and affliction visit
ed him and his former numerous friends deserted
him. And now when all else has failed, he re
members his long neglected Bible, and goes to
look for it, to see if it will afford any comfort. He
climbs to,get it,:and as he has a hand almost upon
it, he hears a voice, the awful voice of Death,
saying, Not Now.
"How often would I have gathered thy child
ren together, as a hen gathers her brood under
her wings,
.and ye would not." RITA.
THE RED PEPPERS.
In a basket of seeds and vegetables that
had just arrived from the country was a
string of bright red peppers, which imme
diately attracted the attention of James
Anthon, a boy of four years, who had come
in with his mother, while I was unpacking
the basket.
"0 mamma," he exclaimed, " what shin
ing red things 1 How very pretty they are 1
May I have them to play with, mamma ?"
" They are not playthings, my dear," she
answered ; " neither are they good for little
boys: Besides, they are very hot."
James opened wide his big black eyes.
"Hot, mamma? Why, there is no fire ;"
and, reaching out a chubby finger, he softly
touched one of the peppers, as though he
feared it might burn him : exclaiming, in a
triumphant tone, " There, mamma, the pret
ty red thing is cold ! May I not hold it in
my hand one little minute ?"
Now I am sorry to say that James, like
a great many little boys and girls I know,
loved to have his own way; and it was very
hard for him to give up anything that he had
set his heart upon. So he persisted in beg
ging for the red peppers. Oh, if you would
give me one, just one little 'teenty, ton
ty ' one, mammal" he said in a coaxing tone.
On his mother telling him it would burn
his fingers, he gave .a quick laugh, saying,
" How can a cold thing like that burn me ?"
Then she explained to him that they were
hot in themselves ; and that, if he got any
of the pepper on his hands or face, it would
smart terribly, and he would quickly find
out what she meant when she called them
hot.
And so the subject was dropped. I was
called from the room, and Mrs. Anthon was
busy with her sewing, when all at once I
heard a loud . scream from James. He had
slyly crept up to the table, and had taken
possession of one of the scarlet playthings
he had so long been coveting, and was speed
ily finding out, to his bitter cost, what his
mother meant when she called them "hot_."
His plump little hands were smartingas
though they had been plunged into the fire,
and big tears were rolling down his cheeks.
Suddenly he stuck both fists into his eyes, and
then, with a howl of pain, threw himself
into his mother's lap, crying out, "0 mam
ma! how it hurts ! bow it burns ! 0 mam
ma! can't you do something to take away
the naughty pain ?" •
I got a basin of cold water, and dipped
into it a soft linen cloth, which I laid again
and again upon his flushed and swollen face
and burning hands; his mother telling him,
that, another time he must remember she
knew better than he did what a little boy
ought to do, and that now he was punished
for being disobedient, and for persisting in
having his own way.
I did not see James Anthon for several
years after that little adventure,—nor till he
was a tall, manly-looking lad. I asked him
if he bad forgotten the red peppers. He
blushed scarlet, and turned towards his
mother with a tender smile. She answered
for him : " I am happy to say he never has
forgotten them ; and whenever he has at
tempted to have his own way, and to set
up his own will against mine, I have said,
' Red peppers, James,' and be has instantly
given up." —Child at Horne.
REMARKABLE SIICOESSES.
A writer in London Society contributes an
article on "Luck in Families," in which
he gives sketches of several characters
whose lives have been marked by instances
of singular good fortune or good manage
ment, or a happy combination of the two.
Of these sketches , we give a few of the
briefest:
"There is a man in the west of Englend
—the story is well known there—who took
a thousand shares in a mine, and never had
to pay more than a pound apiece for them ;
and on those shares he lived sumptuously,
and out of the income of those shares he
bought an estate for a hundred thousand
pounds, and, finally, be sold those shares
for a half million of money. There is a
man in Berkshire, who has got a park with
a walled frontage of seven miles,' and he
tells of a beautiful little operation which
made a nice little addition to his fortune.
He was in Australia when the first discov
eries of gold were made. The miners
bpouglitin_their nuggets, and took them to
the local banks. The bankers were a little
nervous about the business, uncertain about
the quality of the gold, and waiting to see
its character established. This man had a
taste for natural sciences, and knew some
thing about metallurgy. He tried each
test, solid and fluid, satisfied himself of the
quality, of the gold, and then, with all the
money he had or could borrow, he bought
as much gold as might be, and showed a
profit of a hundred thousand pounds in the
course of a day or two.
"It is to be observed here that, what we
call luck is resolvable very often into what
is really observation and knowledge, and a
happy tact in applying them when a sudden
opportunity arises. The late Joseph Hume
was a happy instance of this. He went out
to India, and, while he was still a young
man, he accumulated a considerable fortune.
He saw that hardly any about him knew
the native languages, so he applied himself
to the bard work of mastering them, and
turned the knowledge to most profitable
account. On one occasion, when all the
gunpowder had failed the British army, he
succeeded in scraping together a large
amount of the necessary materials, and ma
nufactured it for our troops. When he re
turned to England he canvassed with so
much ability and earnestness for a seat in
the East India Directorate, that he might
carry out his scheme of reform, that, though
he failed to get the vote of a certain large
proprietor of stock, he won his daughter's
heart, and made a prospwous marriage.
Ah 1 marriage is, after all, the luckiest bit
of lack when it is all it should be 1 When
Henry Baring, the late Lord Ashburton,
traveled in America—not merely dilettante
traveling, but, like Lord Milton in our days,
piercing into untraveled wilds, meeting
only a stray, enthusiastic naturalist, like
Audubon—he made his marriage with Miss
Bingham, and so consolidated the American
business of the great house of Baring. In
an international point of view, this was a
happy marriage, for in after years it gave
him a peculiar facility for concluding the
great Ashburton treaty.
" We have just seen with universal satis
faction a great lady added to the peerage
of Great Britain. Mr. Disraeli dedicated
one of his works to the severest of critics,
bat a perfect wife;' and at the Edinburgh
banquet he told the guests how much he
owed to his matchless wife. It is no secret
how much of his fortunes he owed to her
help, and how greatly he benefited by her
sympathy and wisdom. The husband whom
she so helped in his youthful struggles for
fortune, has, in return, made her a peeress,
and we all wish happiness and long life to
the Viscountess Beaconsfield. So lucky has
Mr. Disraeli been in his wife, that it is
hardly worth while alluding to the minor
and subordinate circumstance that an old
lady, a stranger, some years ago, left him a
legacy of thirty or forty thousand pounds,
through admiration of his public character."
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
An agent had addressed the congregation,
a contribution had been taken, and the pastor
was about to pronounce the benediction,
when all were startled by a voice from the
Contribution Box, which the deacon had
just placed on the table:
"Wait a moment, good friends, and give
me a chance to speak. I have long had
something on my mind, and must unburden
myself. The truth is, lam much abused.
Sometimes for weeks together I am allowed
no part in all your Sunday services, though
prayers and alms should come up together
for a memorial before God.' But lam tuck
ed away out of sight, where I get only dust
and cobwebs.
"Worse, still, are my grievances when I am
allowed to come around from pew 'to pew in
aid of your devotions. I always come with
a heart full of good will, ready to confer on
you all the great blessings of giving. Yet,
oh, what treatment! I don't mean now the
tricks of fun-loving boys, who give me old
buttons for pennies. I can put up with their
mischief; especially as I never get so full
but that I can carry a few buttons extra.
But I do mean you for one, Mr. Blind.
Why do you never see me when I tome?
Your face is turned toward the Orchestra,
or you are hunting for something in the
hymn book, or your head is down, as though
you had, just then, an extra touch of devo
tion. If it had been by accident, you would
have sought me after service. But you hur
ried out right after the benediction. How
much of the benediction did you carry home?
You're rightly named Blind, for 'none are
so blind as those that won't see.' [Mr.
Blind here put his head down out of sight.]
Closefist, you put in this torn bill.. You
knew it would be at a discount at the bank.
Don't tell me it_was accidental. You have
done the same thing before, and it isn't for
want of a whole one, either. You had better
go home and read what Rev. Dr. Malachi
says in one of his discourses, about the man
who brought that which was 'torn' as an
offering to the Lord.
Have you lost your pocket book, Bro.
Prudence ? [Prudence claps his hand sud
denly on his pocket.] Don't be alarmed.
You left it at home and brought only a lit
tle wallet, for fear, as you said, that •your
feelings would get the better of your judg
ment. You needn't be so prudent. Your
benevolent feelings are the last thing to get
beyond your control.
Drop that veil over your face, Mrs. Dis
play. You'll need it to hide your blushes
while I tell the congregation that you have
not given me so much this year as you have
paid out for those ear rings and that point
lace handkerchief, and, here, to-day, you
have been thinking about buying a $5OO
diamond ring. And you profess to love tlte
Saviour, and the heathen who are perishing
for want of His gospel !
What now shall be said to you, the rich-,
est man in the whole society, a member of
the church, a teacher in the Sunday school,
a regular attendant at the prayer-meeting ?
1 see I don't need to name you. [Dr. Pe
nurious is hitching nervously in his pew in
the broad aisle.] You speak and pray well.
You have much to say of sound doctrine and
liberality and consecration to Christ. But,
whenever you are asked to give, you always
say, have too many calls, too many calls.'
Yes, but they get no answers. If you an
swered any of them liberally, .I could excuse
you. To-day you have given line one dollar,
when fifty dollars would have been nearer
your share. You have a `call' to study that
book which says, 'covetousness is idolatry.'
And soon you'll have another 'call' which
you must answer, to leave those money bags
and go and settle accounts with Him who
owns them all.
Now I have something for you all to hear.
When, at the end of last year, you footed
up the contributions of the church, and said
it was quite a fair sum, I ached to tell you
that your pastor and a ministerial secretary
in the church, from their slender incomes,
had given full one-third of the whole. It
would have been still more but for Bro.
Whole-souled and Bro. Generous, who are
always liberal. And Mrs. Humble, too, dear
good woman, let me not forget her: the five
dollar bill she put in was fragrant with pray
er and love and self-denial, and shed a sweet
perfume through the whole. 'She hath done
what she could.' There was a quarter, too,
that dropped most lovingly from the little
fiigers that had made themselves weary in
earning it. Ah ! dear Mary, we shall want
you for a missionary by and by.
My good friends, the agents, [turning to
wards the pulpit] often mortify me. They
are dry—don't give fresh facts—don't feel
the facts they do give, or affect to feel them
so much they weary and disgust folks. They
don't know when to stop; talking an hour
when forty minutes would open purses wider.
I've seen many an X at forty minutes chang
ed for a V at fifty, and for an I at sixty.
The dear pastor is sometimes too timid,
and instead of seconding the agent's appeal
with all his eloquence, will say that he hopes
the people, though they have given to so
many objects, have a little left for this good
cause, when the truth is few have denied
thems_lves a pin for their contributions.
I have one secret more to tell. lap
something more than I seem to be. You
think me only a wooden box—a convenience
for gathering up your donations. Know,
then, that a messenger from your Saviour is
here. Yes,l represent His pierced hand
outstretche toward you, and your returns
to me are registered as an index of your
love for Him. As I pass. from pew to pew
I gather something more than money. These
tales of your secret history, and a thousand
others, are all put on record, and will be
read in that day before the great congrega
tion."
The voice ceased, and the good pastor, in
tones trembling with emotion, said, "Let us
all pray for pardon before the benediction."
—Selected.
A SILVER WEDDING INCIDENT.-A pastor's
wife in the State of New York treats us to this
bit of ministerial experience. In a thrifty town,
that shall here be nameless, the pastor's silver
wedding approached. He held a warm corner
in the hearts of the young people, and they
raised by subscription among themselves a gen
erous present for the occasion. This money fell
into the hands of two good deacons, who put
their shrewd financiering beads together and
agreed that it would be a nice thing to "keep"
the silver wedding by wiping out the several
years' arreareges on the minister's salary, and
that this sum would nearly do it I The happy
thought was acted on, and during the evening
Deacon Blank made a little speech, congratula
ting the young people, and the rest assembled,
that nearly enough had been raised to cancel
this unpleasant deficit, but giving no mention of
the circumstances under which the money was
raised.
The Advance is assured of the actuality of
this incident, but is as ignorant of its locality
as of the proper adjective to apply to it!
PAUL GERHARD'S TntisT.—The pious Luthe
ran minister at Berlin, Paul Gerhard, was de
posed from his office and banished the country
in 1686 by the Elector Frederic William the
Great, on account of the faithful discharge of
his ministerial duties. Not knowing whither to
go, he and his wife passed out of the city, and
finally stopped at a tavern, oppressed with care
and grief. Gerhard endeavored to comfort his
partner by that text, Psalm =Evil. 5 : " Com
mit thy way unto the Lord ; trust also in him;
and he shall bring it to pass." He then went
into the garden adjoining the tavern in order to
commune with God concerning the cares that
weighed him. down. Seating himself in an ar
bor and taking out his pocket-book, he composed
that beautiful hymn, while his soul was filled
with the peace of God and a holy confidence :
Commit thou every grievance
Into His faithful hands,
To His sure care and guidance
Who heaven and earth commands;
For He, the cloud's Director,
Whom winds and seas obey,
Will be thy kind protector,
And will prepare thy way, etc.
Having finished the hymn, he presented it to
his still deeply disConsolate wife. She had not
yet finished its, perusal, when two gentlemen en
tered the guest room, who forthwith commenced
a conversation with Gerhard, informing him that
Duke Christian of Merseburg had deputed them
to invite a certain deposed minister of Berlin,
named Gerhard, to call on him. Light and joy
now beamed from the countenances of Gerhard
and his wife, who were to be graciously rewarded
for
,their trust in God ! Gerhard travelled to
Merseburg,
received a pension from the Duke,
and in 1699 was appointed Archdeacon at Lueb
ben, in the province of Niederlausitz. The
aforesaid hymn in after years fell into the hands
of the Elector of Prussia, and made such a deep
impression on his mind that he asked his prime
minister who was the author thereof. The
same Paul Gerhard," replied the minister," whom
your Excellency banished the country." The
Elector felt alarmed and deeply grieved at the
injustice he had done to Gerhard.
A person must have dug deep in poverty
of spirit, if he takes not occasion from others
trespasses to enhance own reputation.