Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle Volume Four

The Pacific Press · No. 1059 Castro Street, Oakland, Cal. · 1881

NOTE TO THE READER.

The character of the reading matter of this series of volumes, and the object of the compiler in presenting them to the public, has been quite fully set forth in previous volumes. This one, filled with precious moral and religious lessons for the household, adds another to the series.

These lessons have been selected from many books and papers, with care to admit only the very best. And as it has seemed necessary to reject at least nine-tenths of what passes in the religious world as proper literature for the home circle, the compiler has been led to the conviction that those who purchase such works do not always get the worth of their money.

The value of a book consists very much in the fact that pure and elevating thought is expressed in its pages in a plain and direct manner, in as few words as will fully set forth the writer’s meaning. It has been our aim to present a series of books of this character. How well we have succeeded, the discriminating reading public must decide. COMPILER.

SABBATH READINGS

FOR

THE HOME CIRCLE.

THE HAPPY NEW YEAR.

“HAPPY New Year, papa!” The sitting-room doors were thrown open, and a sweet little girl came bounding in. Her cheeks were all aglow. Smiles played around her cherry lips, and her eyes were dancing with sunny light.

“Happy New Year, my sweet one!” responded Mr. Edgar, as he clasped the child fondly to his heart. “May all your New Years be happy,” he added, in a low voice, and with a prayer in his heart.

Little Ellen laid her head in confiding love against her father's breast, and he bent down

his manly cheek until it rested on the soft masses of her golden hair. To her it was a happy New Year's morning, and the words that fell from her lips were heart-echoes. But it was not so with Mr. Edgar. The cares of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, had, like evil weeds, found a rank growth in his heart, while good seeds of truth, which in earlier life had sent forth their fresh, green blades, that lifted themselves in the bright, invigorating sunshine, gave now but feeble promise for the harvest time.

No; Mr. Edgar was not happy. There was a pressure on his feelings; an unsatisfied reaching out into the future; a vague consciousness of approaching evil. Very tenderly he loved his little one; and as she lay nestling against him, he could not help thinking of the time when he was a child, and when the New Years were happy ones. Ellen loved no place so well as her father’s arms. When they were folded tightly around her, she had nothing more to desire; so she lay very still and silent, while the thoughts of her father wandered away from the loving child on his bosom to his own unsatisfied state of mind.

“For years,” he said within himself, “I have been in earnest pursuit of the means of happiness, yet happiness itself seems every year to be still farther in the distance. There is something wrong. I cannot be in the true path. My days are busy and restless, my nights burdened with schemes that rarely do more than cheat my glowing fancy. What is the meaning of this?”

And Mr. Edgar fell into a deep reverie, from which he was aroused by the voice of his wife, as she laid her hand upon his shoulder.

“A happy New Year, and many joyful returns!” she said, in loving tones, as she pressed her lips to his forehead.

He did not answer. The tenderly spoken good wishes of his wife fell very gratefully, like refreshing dew, upon his heart; but he was distinctly conscious of not being happy.

So far as worldly condition was concerned, Mr. Edgar had no cause of mental depression. His business was prosperous under a careful management, and every year he saw himself better off by a few thousands of dollars. Always, however, it must be told, the number fell short of his expectations.

“There is something wrong.” Mr. Edgar’s thoughts were all running in one direction. A startling truth seemed suddenly to have been revealed to him, and he felt inclined to look at it in all possible aspects. “Why am I not happy?” That was urging the question home; but the answer was not given.

After breakfast, Mr. Edgar left home and went to his store. As he passed along the street, he saw at a window the face of a most lovely child. Her beauty, that had in it something of heavenly innocence, impressed him so deeply that he turned to gain a second look, and in doing so his eyes saw on the door of the dwelling the name of Abraham James. There was an instant revulsion of feeling; and for the first time that morning Mr. Edgar remembered one of the causes of his uncomfortable state of mind. Abraham James was an unfortunate debtor who had failed to meet his obligations, among which were two notes of five hundred dollars each, given to Mr. Edgar. These had been placed by the latter in the hands of his lawyer, with directions to sue them out, and obtain the most that could be realized. Only the day

before—the last day of the year—he had learned that there were two judgments that would take precedence of his, and sweep off a share of the debtor’s property. The fact had chafed him considerably, causing him to indulge in harsh language toward his debtor. This language was not just, as he knew in his heart. But the loss of his money fretted him, and filled him with unkind feelings toward the individual who had occasioned the loss.

No wonder that Mr. Edgar was unhappy. As he continued on his way, the angry impulse that quickened the blood in his veins subsided, and through the mist that obscured his mental vision, he saw the bright face of a child, the child of his unfortunate debtor. His own precious one was no lovelier, no purer; nor had her lips uttered on that morning in sweeter tones, the words, “A happy New Year, papa!”

How the thought thrilled him.

With his face bowed, and his eyes upon the ground, Mr. Edgar walked on. He could not sweep aside the image of that child at the window, nor keep back his thoughts from entering the dwelling where her presence

might be the only sunbeam that gave light in its gloomy chambers.

When Mr. Edgar arrived at his store, his feelings toward Mr. James were very different from what they were on the day previous. All anger, all resentment, were gone, and kindness had taken their place. What if Mr. James did owe him a thousand dollars? What if he should lose the whole amount of this indebtedness? Was the condition of the former so much better than his own, that he would care to change places with him? The very idea caused a shudder to run along his nerves.

“Poor man!” he said to himself, pityingly. “What a terrible thing to be thus involved in debt, thus crippled, thus driven to the wall. It would kill me! Men are very cruel to one another, and I am cruel with the rest. What are a thousand dollars to me, or a thousand dollars to my well-to-do neighbor, compared with the ruin of a helpless fellow-man? James asked time. In two years he was sure he could recover himself, and make all good. But, with a heartlessness that causes my cheek to burn as I think of it, I answered, ‘The first loss is always the

best loss. I will get what I can, and let the balance go.’ The look he then gave me has troubled my conscience ever since. No wonder it is not a happy New Year.”

Scarcely had Mr. Edgar passed the dwelling of his unfortunate debtor, when the latter, who had been walking the floor of his parlor in a troubled state of mind, came to the window and stood by his child, who was dear to him as a child could be to the heart of a father. “Happy New Year, papa!” It was the third time since morning dawned that he had received this greeting from the same sweet lips. Mr. James tried to give back the same glad greeting, but the words seemed to choke him, and failed in the utterance. As the two stood by the window, the wife and mother came up, and leaning against her husband, looked forth with a sad heart. Oh, no! it was not a happy New Year’s morning to them. Long before the dawn of another year, they must go forth from their pleasant home; and both their hearts shrunk back in fear from the dark beyond.

“Good morning, dear,” said Mr. James, soon afterward, as, with hat and coat and muffler on, he stood ready to go forth to meet

the business trials of the day. His voice was depressed, and his countenance sad.

The business assigned to that day was a painful one for Mr. James. The only creditor who had commenced a suit was Mr. Edgar, he having declined entering into any arrangement with the other creditors, coldly saying that, in his opinion, “the first loss was always the best loss,” and that extensions were, in most cases, equivalent to the abandonment of a claim. He was willing to take what the law would give him. Pursuant to this view, a suit had been brought, and the debtor, to anticipate the result, confessed judgment to two of his largest creditors, who honorably bound themselves to see that a pro rata division was made of all his effects.

The business of this New Year’s Day was to draw up as complete a statement as possible of his affairs, and Mr. James went about the work with a heavy heart. He had been engaged in this way for over an hour, when one of his clerks came to the desk where he was writing, and handed him a letter, which a lad had just brought in. He broke the seal with a nervous foreboding of trouble; for,

of late, these letters by the hands of private messengers had been frequent, and rarely of an agreeable character. From the envelope, as he commenced withdrawing the letter, there dropped upon the desk a narrow piece of paper, folded like a bill. He took it up with almost reluctant fingers, and slowly pressed back the ends so as to read its face and comprehend its import. Twice his eyes went over the brief lines, before he was clear as to their meaning. They were as follows:

“Received, January 1, 18—, of Abraham James, One Thousand Dollars, in full of all demands. “HIRAM EDGAR.”

Hurriedly, now, did Mr. James unfold the letter that accompanied this receipt. Its language moved him deeply :—

“ABRAHAM JAMES, ESQ., Dear Sir: I was not in a right state of mind when I gave directions to have a suit brought against you. I have seen clearer since, and wish to act from a better principle. My own affairs are prosperous. During the year which has just closed, my profits have been better than in any year since I started business. Your affairs,

on the contrary, are unprosperous. Heavy losses, instead of fair profits, are the result of a year’s tireless efforts, and you find yourself near the bottom of the wheel, while I am sweeping upward. As I think of this, and of my unfeeling conduct toward you in your misfortunes, I am mortified as well as pained. There is an element in my character which ought not to be there. I am self-convicted of cruelty. Accept, my dear sir, in the inclosed receipt, the best reparation in my power to make. In giving up this claim, I do not abandon an item that goes to complete the sum of my happiness. Not a single comfort will be abridged. It will not shrink the dimensions of my house, nor withdraw from myself or family any portion of food or raiment. Accept, then, the New Year’s gift I offer, and believe that I have a purer delight in giving than you in receiving. My best wishes are with you for the future, and if, in anything, I can aid you in your arrangements with creditors, do not fail to command my service. “Most truly yours,” HIRAM EDGAR.”

For the space of nearly five minutes Mr. James sat very still, the letter of Mr. Edgar

before him. Then he folded it up, with the receipt inside, and placed it in his pocket. Then he put away the inventories he had been examining, and tore up several pieces of paper, on which were sundry calculations. And then he put on his warm overcoat and buttoned it to the chin.

“Edward,” said Mr. James, as he walked down the store, “I shall not return this afternoon. It is New Year’s Day, and you can close up at two o’clock.”

It cost Mr. Edgar a struggle to write the receipt in full. A thousand dollars was a large sum of money to give away by a single stroke of the pen. Love of gain and selfishness pleaded strongly for the last farthing; but the better reason and better feelings of the man prevailed, and the good deed was done. How light his heart felt, how suddenly the clouds were lifted from his sky, and the strange pressure from his feelings! It was to him a new experience.

On the evening that closed the day, the first evening of the New Year, Mr. Edgar sat with his wife and children in his elegant home, happier by far than he was in the morning, and almost wondering at the change

in his state of mind. Little Ellen was in his arms, and as he looked upon her cherub face, he thought of a face as beautiful, seen by him in the morning, at the window of his unfortunate debtor. The face of an angel it had proved to him; for it prompted the good deed from which had sprung a double blessing. While he sat thus, he heard the door-bell ring. In a few minutes the waiter handed in a letter. He broke the seal, and read :—

“MY DEAR SIR: This morning my dear little Aggy, the light of our home, greeted me with a joyous ‘Happy New Year.’ I took her in my arms and kissed her, keeping my face close to hers, that she might not see the sadness of mine. Ah, sir! the day broke in gloom. The words of my child found no echo in my heart. I could have wept over her, if the strength of manhood had not risen above the weakness of nature. But all is changed now. A few minutes ago the ‘Happy New Year’ was flowing to me from the sweet lips of my child, and the words went thrilling in gladness to my heart. May the day close as happily for you and yours,

as it is closing for me and mine. God bless you! “ABRAHAM JAMES.”

Mr. Edgar read this letter twice, and then handed it, without a word, to his wife.

The story, to which she listened eagerly, was briefly told. When Mr. Edgar had finished, his wife arose, and, with tears of love and sympathy in her eyes, crossed over to where he was sitting, and throwing her arms around his neck, said, “My good, my generous husband! I feel very proud of you this night. That was a noble deed; and I thank you for it in the name of our common humanity.”

Never had words from the lips of his wife sounded so pleasantly in the ears of Mr. Edgar. Never had he known so happy a New Year’s Day as the one which had just closed. And though it saw him poorer than he believed himself in the morning, by nearly a thousand dollars, he was richer in feeling—richer in the heart’s unwasting possessions—than he had ever been in his life.

WHO IS THY FRIEND?

WHO is thy friend? The man that shares thy pleasures In banquet hall or beauty’s witching bowers; He that will dance with thee to folly’s measures, And make no reckoning of the squandered hours— To whom the revel and the game is all? These are the friends that help men to their fall.

Who is thy friend? The man that for his winning To power or place hath need of thine or thee; Who will not fear thy risk, or blame thy sinning, So it but speed his fortune’s growing tree; Whose praise is large, whose promise larger yet? These are the friends that fail us and forget.

Who is thy friend? The man of truth and trust, In gladness near, in sorrow nearer still; To thy faults generous, to thy merits just, Thy help to every good from every ill, Whose love for the world’s hate might make amends? Alas for it! this life hath few such friends.

Who is thy friend? The best; the least regarded, In faith unfailing, and in love unchanged Through all the changeful years, though ill rewarded, Give Him thy heart, so long and far estranged; And from the broken reeds of earth ascend, To seek in Heaven thine everlasting Friend. (18)

A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE.

I HAVE stood on the top of a high mountain when the sun was up in heaven filling the world with his glorious light. As I gazed around and beneath, I saw clouds ridged and rolling like the billows of the sea. I saw them far off and far beneath, advancing toward the rocky height on which I stood. In the distance they seemed like mighty masses of Parian marble, white as the drifted snow in the noonday sun. It was a delight to watch their ever-changing beauty as they sailed on the viewless air. The play of imagination easily transformed them into the white thrones of the cherubim; then again they seemed like the streaming banners of the armies of Heaven; and now, behold chariots of fire and horses of fire advancing with such restless might as to sweep away the summits of the eternal hills in their march.

By and by they approached and smote the sides of the mountain far beneath, and then

rolled upward swiftly, silently, till they reached the summit and shut out the light of the sun with their shadow. And then the bright forms, which seemed so mighty and glorious in the distance, proved to be nothing but a driving, darkening mist—a mere mass of shapeless vapor—disfiguring everything with its touch, and leaving no trace of beauty for the eye to rest upon while it went sweeping by. But in a moment the mist was gone. Again the sun shone clear and bright upon the bald mountain. Again I could see the cloud as it rolled down the rugged steep till the air was of sufficient density to bear its weight. Then, again, it put on the shape and hues of glorious beauty, and sailed away in serene and gentle majesty upon the wings of the wind.

And I said aloud, in the solitude, This is a picture of life. So do all the forms of temptation appear, fascinating in the distance, and worthless in possession. When the tempter allures from afar, we see an angel form, and his voice sounds like the music of Heaven. But when he comes near, and we give him our hand, we feel the clutch of a demon, and we hear a voice that mocks at our misery.

The rewards of worldly ambition, and the indulgences of worldly pleasure, seem so precious and beautiful, when seen afar, that we cannot wait to make them our own. But when they come near, and we grasp at the tempting prize, we fill our hand with the mist, and we draw it back to our bosom wet with the chill of death. When the gilded shadow which dazzled our vision, and awakened our hope, has come near and proved to be only such stuff as dreams are made of, then it passes away, and often, in the distance, it seems again as brilliant and alluring as before. If we would not spend our life in the chase of phantoms that lead to bewilder, and dazzle to blind, we must turn our yearning hearts to Him who is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever. We must climb so high up the mount of faith that the clouds of doubt and fear will never darken our minds nor deceive our hearts.

THE HILLS OF THE LORD.

He hath made them the haunt of beauty, The home elect of his grace; He spreadeth his mornings on them, His sunsets light their face.

His winds bring messages to them, Wild storm-news from the main; They sing it down to the valleys, In the love song of the rain.

They are nurseries for young rivers, Nests for his flying cloud, Homesteads for new-born races, Masterful, free, and proud.

The people of tired cities Come up to their shrines and pray; God freshens again within them, As he passes by all day.

SHE OUTLIVED HER USEFULNESS.

Not long since, a man in middle life came to our door, asking for “the minister.” When informed that he was out of town, he seemed disappointed and anxious. When questioned as to his business, he replied, “I have lost my mother; and as this place used to be her home, and as my father lies here, we have come to lay her beside him.”

My heart rose in sympathy, and I said, “You have met with a great loss.”

“Well, yes,” he replied, with hesitancy, “a mother is a great loss in general; but our mother had outlived her usefulness. She was in her second childhood, and her mind had grown as weak as her body, so that she was no comfort to herself, and was a burden to everybody. There were seven of us, sons and daughters; and we agreed to keep her among us a year about. But I have had more than my share of her; for she was too feeble to be moved when my time was out,

and that was more than three months before her death. But then she was a good mother in her day, and toiled very hard to bring us up.”

Without looking at the face of the heartless man, I directed him to the house of a neighboring pastor, and returned to my nursery. I gazed on the merry little faces which smiled or grew sad in imitation of mine,—those little ones to whose ear no word in our language is half so sweet as “mother,”—and I wondered if that day could ever come when they would say of me, “She has outlived her usefulness.” “She is no comfort to herself, and a burden to everybody else!” And I hoped that before such a day should dawn, I might be taken to my rest. God forbid that I should outlive the love of my children! Rather let me die while my heart is a part of theirs, that my grave may be watered with their tears, and my love linked with their hopes of Heaven.

When the bell tolled for the mother’s burial, I went to the sanctuary to pay my only token of respect to the aged stranger; for I felt that I could give her memory a tear, even though her own children had none to shed.

“She was a good mother in her day, and toiled hard to bring us all up.” “She was no comfort to herself, and a burden to everybody!” These cruel, heartless words rang in my ears as I saw the coffin borne up the aisle.

The bell tolled long and loud, until its iron tongue had chronicled the years of the toil-worn mother. One—two—three—four—five. How clearly and almost merrily each stroke told of her once peaceful slumber in her mother’s bosom, and of her seat at nightfall on her weary father’s knee. Six—seven—eight—nine—ten—rang out the tale of her sports upon the green-sward, in the meadow, and beside the brook. Eleven—twelve—thirteen—fourteen—fifteen—spoke more gravely of school-days, and little household joys and cares. Sixteen—seventeen—eighteen—sounded out the enraptured visions of maidenhood and the dream of early love. Nineteen—brought before us the happy bride. Twenty—spoke of the young mother, whose heart was full to bursting with the new, strong love which God had awakened in her bosom.

And then stroke after stroke told of her

early womanhood—of the loves, and cares, and hopes, and fears, and toils, through which she passed during those long years, till fifty rang out harsh and loud. From that to sixty each stroke told of the warm-hearted mother and grandmother, living over again her joys and sorrows in those of her children and children’s children.

Every family of all the group wanted grandmother then. And the only strife was who should secure the prize. But hark, the bell tolls on! Seventy—seventy-one—two—three—four. She begins to grow feeble, requires some care, is not always perfectly patient or satisfied. She goes from one child’s house to another, so that no place seems like home. She murmurs in plaintive tones, that after all her toil and weariness, it is hard she cannot be allowed a home to die in; that she must be sent, rather than invited, from house to house. Eighty—eighty-one—two—three—four. Ah! she is a second child. Now “she has outlived her usefulness, she has now ceased to be a comfort to herself or anybody.” That means she has ceased to be profitable to her earth-craving and money-grasping children.

Now sounds out, reverberating through our lovely forest, and echoing back from our “hill of the dead,” eighty-nine! There she lies now in the coffin, cold and still. She makes no trouble now, demands no love, no soft words, no tender little offices. A look of patient endurance—we fancied, also, an expression of grief for unrequited love, sat on her marble features. Her children were there, clad in weeds of woe, and in irony we remembered the strong man’s words, “She was a good mother in her day.”

When the bell ceased tolling, the strange minister rose in the pulpit. His form was very erect, and his voice strong; but his hair was silvery white. He read several passages of Scripture expressive of God’s compassion to feeble man, and especially of his tenderness when gray hairs are on him and his strength faileth. He then made some touching remarks on human frailty, and dependence on God, urging all present to make their peace with their Creator while in health, that they might claim his promises when heart and flesh failed them.

“Then,” he said, “the eternal God shall be thy refuge, and beneath thee shall be

the everlasting arms.” Leaning over the desk, and gazing intently on the coffined form before him, he then said, reverently: “From a little child I have honored the aged; but never till gray hairs covered my own head, did I know truly how much love and sympathy this class have a right to demand of their fellow-creatures. Now I feel it. Our mother,” he added, most tenderly, “who now lies in death before us, was a stranger to me, as are all of these, her descendants. All I know of her is what her son has told me to-day, that she was brought to this town from afar, sixty-nine years ago, a happy bride; that here she has passed most of her life, toiling as only mothers ever have strength to toil, until she had reared a large family of sons and daughters; that she left home here, clad in the weeds of widowhood, to dwell among her children, till health and strength left her. God forbid that conscience should accuse any of you of ingratitude or murmuring on account of the care she has been to you of late.

“When you go back to your homes, be careful of your example before your own children; for the fruit of your own doing

you will surely reap from them when you yourselves totter on the brink of the grave. I entreat you as a friend, as one who has himself entered the evening of life, that you may never say in the presence of your families nor of Heaven, ‘Our mother had outlived her usefulness. She was a burden to us.’ Never, never! A mother can never live so long as that! No; when she can no longer labor for her children, nor yet care for herself, she can fall like a precious weight on their bosoms, and call forth by her helplessness all the noble, generous feelings of their hearts.”

Adieu, then, poor toil-worn mother. There are no more days of pain for thee. Undying vigor and everlasting usefulness are thine inheritance.

Oh, pass ye by the aged With gentle step and slow; They have the burden of years to bear, And the tide of their life is low. Speak kindly as ye greet them, For their world is dim and cold, And a beaming look from a youthful heart Is the sunlight of the old.

SOMETIME.

SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set, The things which our weak judgment here have spurned— The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet— Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue, And we shall see how all God's plans were right, And how, what seemed reproof was love most true.

And if sometime, commingled with life’s wine, We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within, and all God’s workings see, We could interpret all its doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key.

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart; God’s plans, like lilies, pure and white, unfold; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart— Time will reveal the fragrant heart of gold. And if, through patient toil, we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest— Where we shall clearly know and understand; I think that we will say, “God knows the best.”

CONSECRATED HOMES.

It is a sad fact that in many households, nominally Christian, there is no family altar and no household recognition of God. The Bible is an unopened book, and there is no open acknowledgment of allegiance to God, the Father in Heaven. A godless, prayerless household is a terrible spectacle, especially when there is an outward profession of better things. The evils are magnified many fold where there are young children. What can compensate for the sweet and tender influences of well-conducted family worship on the minds and hearts of the little ones? Parents who omit it not only provoke the wrath of the Lord, but neglect the best and most natural means of religious education.

It was not an idle superstition that bade the simple-minded, devout Norwegian girl flee from the house where she had engaged service, because there were no “prayers in the house.” A prayerless soul is a fearful anomaly. But a home, where children are born and nurtured and reared, where loved

ones sicken and suffer and die, where in the eyes of the children the father should be the type of the “All-Father in Heaven,” and the mother the ideal of all that is tender and affectionate and devout, where all precious memories should be garnered like hidden treasures, and where all pure and holy influences and associations should pervade the very air—with no open Bible and no voice of song, prayer, or praise—what shall we say of that home! One can hardly conceive it possible that such a home could exist in a Christian land.

We allude to family worship as a religious educator. One can hardly over-estimate the power of this service over young hearts, if wisely and earnestly conducted.

A daughter of irreligious parents spent not long since a few months in a Christian home. Selected passages of Scripture, usually the readings connected with the current Sabbath-school lessons, were read, each member taking a verse in course. Not seldom there was some familiar talk and comment on the passage and the Sabbath lesson. Then a song, and then all bowed, in brief and simple thanksgiving and prayer for daily grace

and protection. The gay young girl soon found the God thus honored and worshiped in this house to be her God and Saviour. Not long after, another daughter, gay, cultured, and highly educated, spent a few weeks in this humble home. She, too, was sweetly won to the religion so magnified in the house in which she was a guest. Going to her own home she preached Christ to her mother, and now all three are rejoicing in the Lord. These girls attribute their conversion to the indirect yet powerful appeal that day by day came to their hearts and consciences from these simple, ordinary services of family religion.

We fear that pastors and Christian teachers are not watchful and faithful in giving instruction touching this matter, especially in the case of young people just setting up their home. Habits of neglect once formed, are not easily overcome. Starting right at the outset is often a guarantee of life-long fidelity. We need nothing so much as consecrated homes.

Continue reading: A HEAVY BURDEN.