Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle Volume Three

The Pacific Press · No. 1059 Castro Street, Oakland, Cal. · 1878

NOTE TO THE READER.

The two volumes that precede this are filled with moral and religious instruction for the home circle, embracing the entire family. The first is adapted to the wants of children and youth, the second to those of more mature years. The matter contained in this volume sets forth the defects and duties of persons of all ages; therefore its design is well stated on the cover—“For the Home Circle.” Volume four will be more especially devoted to setting forth the dangers and duties of parents.

The subject matter in this series of books has been selected with the greatest care. The compilers have read hundreds of volumes, and papers almost without number, in search of well-written articles that defend a sound morality, and breathe a spirit of devotion, tenderness and true piety. They are impressed with the fact that the religious world have been greatly wronged in having had thrown upon the market a great number of books containing matter of little value, still held at high prices. Our Sunday-school and youths’ libraries are cursed with religious fiction. We have endeavored to avoid these errors, in giving to the public in this humble series, matter-of-fact lessons which appeal to the mind and heart relative to the every-day duties of life. May God crown the effort with his blessing. PUBLISHERS.

SABBATH READINGS.

FOR

THE HOME CIRCLE.

LYMAN DEAN’S TESTIMONIALS.

I DO not believe two more worthy, excellent people could be found than Gideon Randal and his wife. To lift the fallen, and minister to the destitute was their constant habit and delight, so that often they shortened their own comforts for the good of others. Mr. Randal’s friends urged him to reduce his charities, as such generous giving might mar his fortune and bring him to want; but his unfailing reply was:— “I think there’s enough left to carry Martha and me through life, and some over. What we give to the poor, we lend to the Lord, and if a dark day comes, He will provide.”

A dark day did come, but it was not till after he had reached three-score and ten years. As old age advanced, his little farm had become less productive, and debts accumulated. Being forced to raise money, he had borrowed a thousand dollars of Eugene Harrington, giving him a mortgage on his house for security. The interest was regularly paid, and, with this Esquire Harrington was well satisfied; but he died suddenly, and his son, a merciless, grasping man, wrote to Mr. Randal, demanding payment of the mortgage. The old man asked for an extension of the time, but he pressed the demand, and threatened if it was not settled within a given time, to deprive him of his home. Mr. Randal was greatly distressed.

“Martha,” he said to his wife, “young Harrington is a hard man. He has me in his power now, and I fear he will not scruple to ruin me. I think I had better go and talk with him, and tell him how little I have. It may be he’ll pity two old people, and allow us better terms.”

“But, husband, you are not used to traveling, and Harrowtown is a hundred miles away, and you are old and feeble, too.”

“True, wife, but I can say to him a great deal more than I can write, and besides, Luke Conway lives there. I took an interest in him when he was a poor boy. Perhaps he’ll advise and help me, now that I’m in trouble.”

At last, seeing he felt that he must go, Martha reluctantly consented, and fitted him out with wifely care.

The next morning was warm and sunny for November, and Mr. Randal started for Harrowtown.

“Gideon,” called Mrs. Randal, as he walked slowly down the road, “be sure and take tight hold of the railing when you get in and out of the cars.”

“I’ll be careful. You take good care of yourself, Martha;” and, with a parting look, the old man hastened on to take the stage which was to convey him to the railroad station. But misfortune met him at the very outset of his journey. The stage was heavily loaded, and on the way, one of the wheels broke down, which caused such a detention that Mr. Randal missed the morning train, and the next did not come for several hours.

It was afternoon when he finally started. He was anxious and weary from long waiting;

and after three stations were passed, he began to ask questions.

“How long before we get to Harrowtown?” he inquired, stopping the busy conductor.

“We get there at half-past eight.”

Another question was upon Mr. Randal’s lips, but the conductor had hurried on. He looked around as if to appeal to some one else, but turned back, talking to himself. “Not get there till into the evening,” he said, “and pitch dark, for there’s no moon now. I shan’t know where to go.” The poor old man was sorely troubled.

Presently the conductor came back, and as he passed his seat, he stopped him again.

“Mr. Conductor, how shall I know when to get out? I’ve never been to Harrowtown, and I don’t want to get out at the wrong place.”

“Give yourself no concern,” was the polite reply. “I’ll tell you when we come to Harrowtown. I won’t forget you.”

Soothed by this assurance, Mr. Randal’s mind grew tranquil, and he finally went to sleep.

In the seat behind him sat a tall, handsome boy. His name was Albert Gregory.

He was bright and intelligent, but his well-featured face was spoiled by a wicked-looking eye and a hard, cruel mouth.

He saw the aged passenger fall asleep, and nudged his seat-fellow.

“Look there, John. By-and-by, I’ll play a joke on that old country greeny, and you’ll see fun.”

On rushed the swift express; mile after mile was passed; daylight faded, and the lamps were lit in the cars, and still the aged man slept, watched by his purposed tormentor, and the other boy who waited to “see fun.”

At length the speed of the train began to slacken, coming near a stopping-place. Albert sprang up and shook Mr. Randal violently.

“Wake up! Wake up!” he called, sharply, putting his mouth close to his ear. “This is Harrowtown. You must get off here.”

The old man, thus roughly roused, started from his seat and gazed around him, bewildered. The change from day to night, the unaccustomed waking on a moving train, the glare of the lights, added tenfold to his confusion.

“Wh—what did you say boy?” he asked, helplessly.

“This is Harrowtown. The place where you want to stop. You must get off. Be quick, or you’ll be carried by.”

The noise of the brakes, and the distracted attention of the passengers on reaching a new station, possibly ignorance of the real locality on the part of those near enough to have heard him, prevented any correction of the boy’s cruel falsehood. Mr. Randal knew it was not the conductor who had aroused him; but, supposing Albert to be some employee of the road, he hurried to the car door with tottering steps. The name of the station was called at the other end, as unlike as possible to the name of “Harrowtown,” but his dull ears did not notice it. He got off upon the platform, and before he could recover himself or knew his error, the train was in motion again.

Albert was in ecstasies over the success of his “joke,” and shook all over with laughter, in which, of course, his companion joined. “Oh dear! that’s too good for anything!” he cried, “ain’t it, John?”

John assented that it was very funny indeed.

Neither of the boys noticed that the seat

lately occupied by poor deceived Mr. Randal had just been taken by a fine-looking middle-aged man, wrapped in a heavy cloak, who appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts, but really heard every word they said.

They kept up a brisk conversation, Albert speaking in quite a loud tone, for he was feeling very merry. “Ha, ha, ha!—but I did think the old fool would hear the brakeman call the station, though. I didn’t suppose I could get him any further than the door. To think of his clambering clear out on the platform, and getting left! He believed every word I told him. What a delicious old simpleton!”

And having exhausted that edifying subject for the moment, he presently began to brag of his plans and prospects.

“I don’t believe you stand much of a chance there; they say Luke Conway’s awful particular,” the middle-aged stranger heard John remark.

“Pooh! shut up!” cried Albert. “Particular! That’s just it, and makes my chance all the better. I’ve brought the kind of recommendation that a particular man wants, you see.”

“But there’ll be lots of other fellows trying for the place.”

“Don’t care if there’s fifty,” said Albert, “I’d come in ahead of ’em all. I’ve got testimonials of character and qualifications from Prof. Howe, Rev. Joseph Lee, Dr. Henshaw, and Esquire Jenks, the great railroad contractor. His name alone is enough to secure me the situation.”

At this juncture, the strange gentleman turned around and gave Albert a quick, searching glance. But the conceited boy was too much occupied with himself to notice the movement, and kept on talking. Now and then the thought of the victim whom he had fooled seemed to come back and tickle him amazingly. “Wonder where the old man is now. Ha, ha! Do you suppose he has found out where Harrowtown is? Oh, but wasn’t it rich to see how scared he was when I waked him up? And how he jumped and scrambled out of the car! ’Pon my word, I never saw anything so comical.”

Here the stranger turned again and shot another quick glance, this time from indignant eyes, and his lips parted as if about to utter a stern reproof. But he did not speak. Some hidden motive withheld him.

We will now leave Albert and his fellow-travelers, and follow good Gideon Randal.

It was quite dark when he stepped from the cars, and he inquired of a man at the station, “Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Aaron Harrington?”

“There’s no such man living here, to my knowledge,” was the reply.

“What, isn’t this Harrowtown?” asked Mr. Randal, in great consternation.

“No, it is Whipple Village.”

“Then I got out at the wrong station. What shall I do?” in a voice of deep distress.

“Go right to the hotel and stay till the train goes in the morning,” said the man, pleasantly.

There was no alternative, Mr. Randal passed a restless night at the hotel, and at an early hour he was again at the station, waiting for the train. His face was pale, and his eye wild and anxious. “The stage broke down, and I missed the first train,” thought he, “and then that boy told me to get out here. I’ve made a bad beginning and I’m afraid this trip will have a bad ending.”

There were other passengers walking to and fro on the platform, waiting for the cars to come.

One was a plain-featured, honest-looking boy, who had been accompanied to the station by his mother. Just before his mother bade him “good-by,” she said, “Lyman, look at that pale, sad, old man. I don’t believe he is used to traveling. Perhaps you can help him along.”

Soon a loud, prolonged whistle was heard. The cars were coming.

“Allow me to assist you, sir,” said Lyman Dean to Mr. Randal, as the train stopped; and he took hold of his arm, and guided him into a car to a seat.

“Thank you, my boy. I’m getting old and clumsy, and a little help from a young hand comes timely. Where are you going, if I may ask?”

“To Harrowtown, sir. I saw an advertisement for a boy in a store, and I’m going to try and get the situation. My name is Lyman Dean.”

“Ah? I’m sure I wish you success, Lyman, for I believe you’re a good boy. You are going to the same place I am. I want

to find Aaron Harrington, but I’ve had two mishaps. I don’t know what’s coming next.”

“I’ll show you right where his office is. I’ve been in Harrowtown a good many times.”

Half an hour later, the brakeman shouted the name of the station where they must stop. Lyman assisted Mr. Randal off the train, and walked with him to the principal street. “Here’s Mr. Harrington’s office,” said he.

“Oh, yes, thank you kindly. And now could you tell me where Mr. Luke Conway’s place of business is?”

“Why, that’s the very gentleman I’m going to see,” said Lyman. “His place is just round the corner, only two blocks off.”

Mr. Randal looked deeply interested. He turned and shook the boy’s hand, warmly. “Lyman,” he said, “Mr. Conway knows me. I am coming to see him by-and-by. I am really obliged to you for your politeness, and wish I could do something for you. I hope Mr. Conway will give you the situation, for you deserve it. If you apply before I get there, tell him Gideon Randal is your friend. Good-by.”

Fifteen minutes after found Lyman waiting in the counting-room of Luke Conway’s store. Albert Gregory had just preceded him. The merchant was writing, and he had requested the boys to be seated a short time, till he was at leisure. Before he finished his work, a slow, feeble step was heard approaching, and an old man stood in the doorway.

“Luke, don’t you remember me?” The merchant looked up at the sound of the voice. Then he sprang up from his chair and grasped the old man’s hands in both his own. “Mr. Randal! Welcome, a thousand times welcome, my benefactor!” he exclaimed. And seating his guest on the office lounge beside him, Mr. Conway inquired after his health and comfort, and talked with him as tenderly as a loving son. It was evident to the quick perception of the merchant that the good old man’s circumstances had changed, and he soon made it easy for him to unburden his mind.

“Yes, Luke, I am in trouble. Aaron Harrington owns a mortgage on my farm, and I can’t pay him, and he threatens to take my home,” said Mr. Randal, with a

quivering lip. “I went to his office, but didn’t find him, and I thought maybe you’d advise me what to do.”

“Mr. Randal,” answered the merchant, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “almost thirty years ago when I was cold, and hungry, and friendless, you took me in and fed me. Your good wife—God bless her!—made me a suit of clothes with her own hands. You found me work, and you gave me money when I begun the world alone. Much if not all that I am in life I owe to your sympathy and help, my kind old friend. Now I am rich, and you must let me cancel my debt. I shall pay your mortgage to-day. You shall have your home free again.”

Mr. Randal wiped great hot tears from his cheeks, and said, in a husky voice, “It is just as I told Martha. I knew, if we lent our money to the Lord, when a dark day came, he would provide.”

The reader can imagine the different feelings of the two boys, as they sat witnesses of the scene. The look of derision, that changed to an expression of sickly dismay, on Albert’s face, when the old man came in and was so

warmly greeted by the merchant, was curiously suggestive. But his usual assurance soon returned. He thought it unlikely that Mr. Randal would recognize him in the daylight, and he determined to put on a bold front.

For a minute the two men continued in conversation. Mr. Conway called up pleasant reminiscences of “Aunt Martha,” his boy-life on the farm, and the peace and stillness of the country town. He thought a railway ride of a hundred miles must be a hardship for a quiet old man. “It was a long way for you,” he said, “Did you have a comfortable journey?”

“Well, I can’t quite say that. First, the stage broke down and delayed me. Then I slept in the cars, and a boy played a trick on me, and waked me up, and made me get out at the wrong station, so I had to stay over night in Whipple Village. To tell the truth I had a good deal of worriment with one thing and another, getting here; but it’s all bright now,” he added, with a radiant face.

“You shall go with me to my house and rest, as soon as I have dismissed these boys,”

said Mr. Conway, earnestly; and turning to Albert and Lyman, who anxiously waited, he spoke to them about their errand.

“I suppose you came because you saw my advertisement?”

“Yes, sir,” replied both, simultaneously.

“Very well. I believe you came in first. What is your name?”

“I am Albert Gregory, sir. I think I can suit you. I’ve brought testimonials of ability and character from some of the first men—Esquire Jenks, Rev. Joseph Lee, Dr. Henshaw, and others. Here are my letters of recommendation,” holding them out for Mr. Conway to take.

“I don’t want to see them,” returned the merchant, coldly. “I have seen you before, I understand your character well enough for the present.”

He then addressed a few words to Lyman Dean.

“I should be very glad of work,” said Lyman. “My mother is poor, and I want to earn my living, but I have n’t any testimonials.”

“Yes, you have,” said old Mr. Randal, who was waiting for an opportunity to say

that very thing. And then he told the merchant how polite and helpful Lyman had been to him.

Mr. Conway fixed his eyes severely upon the other boy. The contrast between him and young Dean was certainly worth a lesson.

“Albert Gregory,” said the merchant, “I occupied the seat in the car in front of you last evening. I heard you exultingly and wickedly boasting how you had deceived a distressed old man. Mr. Randal, is this the boy who lied to you, and caused you to get out at the wrong station?”

Mr. Randal looked earnestly at Albert. “I declare! Now I remember him. It is! I’m sure it is.”

It was useless for Albert to attempt any vindication of himself. His stammered excuses stuck in his throat, and he was glad to hide his mortification by an early escape. Crestfallen, he slunk away, taking all his “testimonials” with him.

“Lyman,” said Mr. Conway, kindly, “I shall be very glad to employ you in my store. You shall have good pay if you do well, and I am sure you will. You may begin work at once.”

Lyman’s eyes danced with joy as he left the counting-room to receive his instructions from the head clerk.

Mr. Conway paid to Mr. Harrington the money owed him by Mr. Randal, and a heavy load was lifted from the good old farmer’s heart. He remained a visitor two or three days in Mr. Conway’s house, where he was treated with the utmost deference and attention. Mr. Conway also purchased for him a suit of warm clothes, and an overcoat, and sent his confidential clerk with him on his return journey to see him safely home. Nor was good Mrs. Randal forgotten. She received a handsome present in money from Mr. Conway, and a message full of grateful affection. Nothing ever after occurred to disturb the lives of the aged and worthy pair.

Albert Gregory obtained an excellent situation in New York, but his false character, and his wanton disregard of others’ feelings and rights, made him as hateful to his employers as to all his associates, and he soon found it desirable to seek another place.

He has changed places many times since, and his career has been an unhappy one—another example of the penalty of frivolous habits and a heartless nature.

Lyman Dean is now a successful merchant, a partner of Mr. Conway, and occupies a high position in society, as an honorable, enterprising man.

LIVED IN VAIN.

Though we climb fame’s proudest hight, Though we sit on hills afar, Where the thrones of triumph are; Though all deepest mysteries be open to our sight, If we win not by that power For the world another dower— If this great Humanity share not in our gain, We have lived our life in vain.

Though we revel in sweet dreams; Though with poet’s eye we look Full on Nature’s open book, And our spirits wander, singing with the birds and the If we let no music in [streams; To the world of grief and sin— If we draw no spirit heavenward by the strain, We have lived our life in vain.

Though our lot be calm and bright; Though upon our brows we wear Youth, and grace, and beauty rare, And the hours go swiftly, singing in their flight; If we let no glory down Any darkened life to crown— If our grace and joyance have no ministry for pain, We have lived our life in vain.

Though for weary years we toil; Though we gather all the gold From the mines of wealth untold, Though from farthest shores of ocean we have brought What at the last is won [the spoil; If we hear not God’s “Well done?” If the world’s want and sorrow be not lessened by our We have lived our life in vain, [gain;

Though we be, in heart and hand, Mighty with all foes to cope, Rich in courage and in hope, Fitted as strong laborers in the world to stand— If with these we right no wrong What avails it to be strong? If we strengthen not the weak, raise not the bowed again, We have lived our life in vain.

To the giver shall be given— If thou wouldst walk in the light Guide the erring to the right; They shall deck a starry crown for thee in heaven. For, in blessing we are blest And in labor find our rest. If we bend not to our life work, heart, and hand and brain. We have lived our life in vain.

“MY HOUSE” AND “OUR HOUSE.”

THESE houses are opposite each other in a beautiful suburban town. “My house” is large and handsome, with a cupola, and has a rich lawn before it. It is surrounded by a broad piazza, and graced and shaded by ancestral elms and huge button-wood trees. Its barns and stables are large and well-filled; its orchards are gorgeous with fruit, in the season, and the fields around it seem alive with golden grain that waves in the wind. Everything about the place tells of long continued prosperity. The rich old squire who lives there rides about with fine horses, and talks a great deal to his neighbors about “my house, my orchards, and my horses.”

His wife is evidently the lady of the region. She was a model housekeeper and dairywoman in the days when they worked the farm, and is now an oracle on many questions. She, too, talks of “my house, my horses, and my estate.”

These persons each brought property to the other, and the two interests had, unfortunately, never flowed together and formed one estate as they should have done; so there were always two separate interests in the house.

Of course the property belonged, legally, to both; but as each had a snug little fund laid away, the question was always to be settled, if repairs were to be made, or horses or furniture bought, who should pay for it.

It seemed but proper to the husband that carpets, and sofas, etc., should be bought by his wife; also the cows, as the lady was at the head of the house. But she said, “You walk on the carpets, sit on the sofas, and eat the cream and butter just as much as I do, and I see no reason why you should not, at least, help to pay for them.”

Such discussions often occurred, but, on the whole, each upholds the interest of the other against outsiders, and gets along without open rupture. They ride about in better dress than their neighbors, they receive and return visits, and are called the leading family in town.

But “my house,” as some have named the

great square mansions, is nobody’s house but its owners’. No guest who could not return hospitality in equal style is asked to tarry for a night there. All ministers sojourning in the place are directed by them to the humble parsonage for entertainment. Every weary, homeless wanderer is pointed to the distant almshouse; and a neighbor’s horse or cow which has strayed from its own enclosure, is at once put into pound by the squire’s man.

If an appeal is made for any benevolent object the squire says, “Go to my house and ask my wife to give you something.” She, in turn, points the applicant to the field or the orchard, and says, “Go down there and ask my husband to give you something.” So one puts it on the other, and nothing is given; and neither the town nor the world is the better for their living.

This is the way things are done at “my house.”

Across the street, under the shadow of two wide-spreading elms, stands a very modest cottage nestled in vines and flowers, with curtains drawn up to let in the light of God’s blessed sun, and an ever-open door with a

great chair in full view, holding out its time-worn arms, as if to invite and welcome in the weary passer-by. The birds are always remembered here in their times of scarcity, and so in token of their gratitude, they gather in the trees and carol out sweet and merry songs by way of paying their bills.

God’s peace, as well as his plenty, rests on this place, and while its owners call it, in their hearts, “God’s house,” they speak of it to others, always as “our house.”

Twenty-five years ago a sturdy, brave-hearted young mechanic bought this one acre of land, and with his own hands dug and walled a cellar, at times when he had no work to do for others. When he had earned an additional hundred or two dollars he bought lumber and began to build a house. People asked him what he was going to do with it, and he replied that if he should live to finish it, he was going to live in it.

Well, in two years the house was finished, to the last nail and hook. Then he went away, as it was thought, for a wife. In a week he returned, bringing with him some neat household furniture, and three persons instead of only one.

He did bring a wife—a bright-eyed, merry-hearted young girl—and also two aged women “our mothers,” as he called them.

The first night in the house they dedicated their humble home—“our house” to God, and in the name of the Lord they set up their banner, praying that ever after this his banner over them might be love.

Many a family moves into a new home and asks God to come in and prosper them, and take up his abode there; but they do nothing to draw him thither. They begin for self, and go on for self; and sometimes God leaves them to themselves.

But the young owners of “our house”—the children of “our mothers”—made their little home His home and the home of His poor and feeble ones. “Our mothers” now laid down the weapons of toil over which they had grown gray, and came out of the vale of honest poverty into the sunshine of plenty. Their hearts grew warm in this gift of double love. They renewed their youth.

In their first days at their children’s home, one of “our mothers” spoke of “Henry’s new house,” when he checked her saying, “Never call this my house again. I built it

for God and for all of you, and I want it always called ‘our house.’ There is yet one thing I want done here before I shall feel that I have made my thank-offering to God for the health and strength and the work which have enabled me to build and pay for this house. I promised then that no stranger or wanderer should ever go hungry or weary from this door. You have made sure of a neat and sunny room for our friends. Now I want a bed, a chair, and a table put in the shed-chamber for such strangers as we cannot ask into the house. I want also to fill the little store-closet under the back stair-way with provisions to give the needy. They will then not be our own; and if at any time we should be short of money, we will not be tempted to say, ‘I have nothing to give.’ I want to live for more than self, and I know you all share the feeling. I want to feel that God is here, and to live as if we saw him and were all under his actual guidance and care, and that he sees and approves our way in life.”

Thus was “our house” opened, and thus was it kept—a home sanctified to humanity and to God.

The years rolled away not without changes, but peace and plenty still reign in the modest home whose owners are looked up to by all the townspeople—rich as well as poor—as friends and benefactors; for all men alike need human sympathy and comfort.

The young carpenter of twenty-five years ago, is now a prosperous builder in the great city near his home. He could afford to erect and occupy a house worth four times what the cottage cost. But he loves the place and cannot tear himself from it. He has added more than one L to it, and he has refurnished it, and brought into it many articles of taste and luxury.

When asked why he does not build a house more in accordance with his means, he replies:—

“No house could be built which would be like ‘our house.’ I can never forget the night we and our mothers dedicated it to God in prayer and simple trust; and ever since that night I have felt as if we were dwelling in the secret of his tabernacle, under the shadow of the Almighty. We might have a larger and more fashionable house, but it would bring a weight of care

on its mistress, and steal the time she has made sacred to others. No other house could have the memories this one has; no other house be hallowed as this has been by the prayers of the holy and the blessings of the poor.”

And so the family still live on and are happy in “our house.” Still the pastor’s weary wife is relieved of church company, for, from force of habit, all ministers and others on errands of good, draw up their horses before the well-filled stable, and ring, for themselves, at this open door. Still the poor are fed from that store-closet under the back stair-way; still the wanderer—though he be a wanderer in a double sense—rests his weary head in that shed-chamber.

The squire wonders at the builder, because he lives in such a modest way compared with his means, and says, “If I were he, I’d be ashamed of that cottage which was all well enough when he was a young journeyman.”

The builder wonders what the squire does with all that great house, and why, when half a dozen rooms are empty there, he doesn't allow himself the pleasure of company,

and of sheltering strangers and getting the blessing they bring.

The squire’s wife peeps through her fine curtains, and says, “I wonder that pretty and intelligent woman hasn’t more taste. She might live like a lady if she pleased, and dress as I do; but she pokes on just as she began, and dresses no better than the minister’s wife, and has a rabble of poor, forlorn creatures whom I wouldn’t let into my house, nor into my wood-shed, running after her for food and clothing, and nobody knows what.”

So, you see, “my house” is literally “my house,” and “our house” is God’s house.

TWO WAYS TO LIVE.

THERE are two ways to live on earth; Two ways to judge, to act, to view; For all things here have double birth, A right and wrong—a false and true!

Give me the home that kindness seeks To make that sweet which seemed small; Where every lip in fondness speaks, And every mind has care for all.

Continue reading: OUT OF THE WRONG POCKET.