THE LADIES' REPOSITORY.

CINCINNATI, MAY, 1843.

Original.

occur for the fulfillment of high requirements! How many Christians have passed to their final rest without the performance of its most common ordinances! They have given no alms, for they were of the poorthey have subscribed to no charity, for they have always eaten its bread-they have visited not the sick, for they have been among the smitten with a life's disease. Yet think not they were of those who have left

beneath the burden of life with a quiet brow-saddening not the hearts of others with a vain repining? Was not that bitter bread received with thankfulness, and the task of those who administered at their bed of long suffering made easy by the meekness of a spirit reluctant to exact and ready to return even the cold service of necessity with the smile of acknowledgment? They have then fulfilled the law-they have testified of Him whose rod and staff was their comforter-they have fulfilled their mission-they have been silent preachers of the Gospel of the Lord.

If, then, in the narrowest sphere of action, there are duties whereby all Christians may attest their vocation, let her not wait for the requirement of a great service. The incense that filleth earth and sky, goeth up from no mighty censer-the vast tribute is gathered from the myriad flowers that lift up their small cups to the dew. Never a day is added to the records of a human heart

SILENT PREACHING. WE are told of unwritten poetry, and we know that all nature breathes with it. We know, also, that it hath an eloquence and power which are drunk into the soul as are freshness and vitality into the leaf. There is not a sentient being in the great universe of man so cold, so dull, so tame, so gross, but that, at some time in his life's history, some passage of beauty, inno witness of their obedience. Did they not bend the vast tome of this unwritten poetry, hath stirred the "echoes of his heart." The written page may be to him as a sealed thing-"thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," but as a sound-he may mock the wreathed and consecrated altars of the god of song, and cast their bright garlands beneath his feet; but the spirit of poetry, breathing from hill, and vale, and mountain, and thrilling the earth and sky at all times and seasons, shall finally reach his heart, and settle there, with an abiding influence. Similar to this, in its silent and universally operative power, there is an influence which should prevail throughout the Christian world. We would call it by the term designated in our text; and while the watchmen lift up a loud voice amid the multitude, we would have it go forth in its wordless eloquence into the secret places of individual life and feeling. It should infuse its teachings into hearts that are sealed to the influences of the sanctuary, or that disregard or are denied its privileges. Ev-in which it may not send up its tribute. Let her reery creature who hath named the name of Jesus, member that, in the smallest instance in which she should labor to acquire the lore necessary for this silent neglects to fulfill this law of love, she hath failed in preaching; yet we deem that to the female Christian her mission. Hath she given pain by a word, or a look, it is assigned as an especial mission. "Go ye into the or a tone, or failed in giving comfort by any of these, world, and preach the Gospel to every creature;" and, where comfort might have been so given, she is recrein the words of one of our divines, "what man or ant to the law. But, alas! love, human love, is blind woman, in the remotest corner of the Creator's world, and inefficient, and hath a stammering tongue, and it can plead that Divine Mercy did not comprehend him knoweth not the heart it would comfort. It would or her in this commission?" But this is not done speak peace, and it jars the chord of sorrow-it would only by him who proclaimeth it from the altar. They give good gifts, and it oppresses the proud nature—it who have performed the least of his works of love would benefit by reproof, and it breaks the bruised have advocated the cause of the Father. Let her, reed. Yet let it not be discouraged. If it beareth no then, who is earnestly desirous of fulfilling his injunc-burden, what shall be its reward? If thou, my sister, tion, inquire what are his works; for it is in the per- lovest thy neighbor as thyself, thou wilt learn the nerve formance of these that her mission is to be fulfilled. that shrinketh from thy touch, for thou wilt tread softly She is to love her neighbor as herself; and in what with a gentle step, marking every tremulous thrill as way is this to be manifested? By the alms given to thou venturest into the chambers of feeling. Thou the poor?-the hours spent with the sick?-the aid wilt learn, too, to bear the pressure of a ruder step upon afforded to public charities and religious purposes? thine own, though they may bleed under the iron heel Yes, by all these, so far as adverse duties may permit; that tramples upon their holiest treasures. Thou wilt but not these alone. How poor-how inconsiderable- || forbear reproach; and the tear of forgiveness thou shedhow valueless do these items appear to the all that this dest over them shall fall also with a healing power on law of love embraces in its requisitions! What mighty the wounds they have inflicted. Thou movest, persacrifice, then, is required of her? How may she ful-haps, among those whose cold eye is upon thee, watchfill a law so comprehensive and so full of holiness? ing if thou bring not reproach upon the name thou In the ordinary walks of life, how few opportunities hast taken. Rebuke would but stir their enmity to VOL. III.-17

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SILENT PREACHING.

How will it fetter thy purpose, and misinterpret thy heart's true sympathy to those which beat under the squalid garb of destitution! Ah! that simple robe befits thee better-now I recognize thy mission. Thou canst now steal quietly, and not as a stranger, into that house of suffering-thou canst move through it as one who has but taken a sister's place in a stricken sister's household, and the pride which misery may drug to torpor, but which, nevertheless, lies yet coiled

stirred to strike its fang of poison. Thou wilt have carried healing, too, in thy careful ministerings; and when that restored family shall afterward behold thee at the supper of thy Lord, they shall say, "Is not this the sister of charity who visited us when we were afflicted? Who is He whom she worships? Let us go up into the temple of faith-let her people be our people, and her God our God." Well done, my sister, thou hast performed thy mission-thou hast preached Jesus, silently but not without power.

Many shapes and

Him thou servest; yet shall thy chastened bearing and gentle kindness speak of thine unobtrusive faith; and this silent preaching shall not be in vain, for they shall ponder upon the influence which, like soft shadow, hath mellowed, not extinguished thy spirit's light, and reflection shall lead them to its source. There are those, perhaps, dependent upon thy care, or upon thy instruction, whose derelictions of duty require thy early reproof. Yet stay! Let first the silent entreaty of thy look of love, or thy tear of sorrowing tender-in many a heart in the depths of penury, shall not be ness, make a place for thee in that erring heart, that thou mayest first unlock the fountains of penitence thou wouldst bid to flow. Thou hast one in thy service of humble station, and of the great family of unbelief; and thou wouldst that all thy household should serve the Lord. But her heart is shut to thy monitions. She is ignorant-she hath had no culture. Thy anxiety for the soul of which she is scarcely more conscious than the rock of the diamond it imbeds, but awakens her wonder, perhaps contempt. She regards it as a waste of thy trouble. She is poor-she is friendless-she is worn with labor-the present bears heavily upon her, and her mind hath no thought of the future. How shalt thou speak to that needy soul? If, truly, thou lovest her as thyself, thou wilt have a care for all, even her lightest sufferings-thou wilt watch over her daily welfare. Is it enough that thou payest her her full wages, and careth not whether they supply her needs? Assist her to apply them wisely-watch over the recklessness with which those of her station fling away health by unnecessary exposure-evidence that sympathy in her humble interests which shall cheer the cold joylessness of servitude. It needeth not thy bounty, it is better told by the accent of kindness-the softened disapproval-the cheerful praise, and the ready notice of the languid step and the heavy eye, betoken-love-she hath been shielded, like a delicate flower, ing sadness or disease. If thou hast done all this, then hath this silent preaching prevailed much; and if thou now talkest to her of Him who died upon the cross, she will say, "Thou hast ever cared for my good-thou hast given me much testimony of thy love. Weepest thou for my hardness of heart? Surely, then, thou knowest I have need of a Savior."

But still this work calls thee. tones of suffering are around thee. There is one now waiting in thy halls who is seeking employ. Hasten to her, for her voice is low and faltering. Look at her as thou listenest to her errand. There is a painful flush upon her otherwise pale cheek, that tells-alas! alas! for the term-of the shame of poverty. There is refinement in her tone and manner-there is sentiment breaking through the gathered tear that trembles but is not permitted to fall on her drooping eyelids. Needs she to say, "I am unused to ask for labor?" How distinctly does that shrinking form bespeak one all unused to the coarse breath of the world! She hath been accustomed to the indulgences and exemptions of wealth-to the holy and secluded shelter of protecting

alike from the tempest and the glare of life. What hath reduced her to this? It matters not. Death and change are for ever busy in every land, and thousands, like her, are going forth daily from the halls of wealth, and the shelter of affection, to seek their bread. "God in his mercy tempers the wind that blows on the newshorn lamb." Cold, cold, and pitiless is the world they Thus encouraged, thou mayest look around thee yet are driven forth to encounter. But thou, my Christian further for thy Father's work. There is suffering near sister, hast thou no robe of love to fling around them? thee, in perhaps its most frequent form-sickness unto How lookest thou on her who is standing before thee? death hath entered the abode of poverty. Thy wo- Rememberest thou that love only can heal her sorrows? man's heart hath quickly responded to the call, and thy I see thy heart bleedeth; and perhaps thou thinkest hand hath already prepared the comforts thy abundance anxiously what are her needs, that thou mayest supply affords. But thy vocation demands something further. them. But venture not the slightest token of thy open Why, O, my Christian sister!-thou who goest forth charity! The nerves of pride which lay unperceived upon thy mission in the name of the crucified Lord-in her sheltered heart have been all laid bare by the why is thy carriage waiting to bear thee to that place storm that tore away its support. Give her but the of wretchedness? Wouldst thou that the proud rum-employment she seeks-give it at once and confidingble of its wheels should startle the ear of those who ly; and stay her yet a little-perhaps she is a mother, are without bread? Let it be put back for a more and her little ones are gathered round a cold hearth, fitting occasion. Thy feet will be more welcome in and her board is empty, and it will suit thy convenithat miserable abode, bearing the dust or the mire of ence better that she take the price now-for it will subthy walk. And stay yet a moment further. That serve thy secret purpose-and the matter should be setcostly dress fitteth not thine errand. Bethink thee!tled as a thing of course. And so it is done, and that

the bitter sufferings, the long endurance, the patient watchfulness that are her peculiar allotment

"the woman's tasks, in which her youth, Her bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmarked."

pale face is already something brighter, and she leaves thee with a lighter step; for He who, for hidden purposes, chasteneth a mother's heart, so deeply leaves it mercifully accessible to joy in the slightest means of giving comfort to her children. And while this brief communion held, hast thou not had the means-with-But something more even than all these is required in out charity-of evidencing a dearer and holier kindness? If thy tones indicated respect and confidence if, observing her weary step, thou drewest her into thy own room, and strovest, by gentle and winning converse, to lure her yet a little while to rest-if thou leadest the way to remarks fitted to the refinement of her former habits, thus tacitly acknowledging thy appreciation of their character-if in all thy manner there was something denoting the kind of interest which the cultivated and sensitive daughter of sorrow should awaken-then hast thou given comfort. Thou hast left a sense of sympathy on that heart, that shall soften its proud reserve, and fit it, ere another inter-heavily upon her strength. Have her work-day cares view, for thy further influence. And so thou shalt win thy way into its suffering depths, and she herself, learning thy faith from thy works, shall ask thee, "Which is the way to Jesus, whom thy soul loveth, for I, too, would find him?"

the life of the Christian mother. She should move among her children with that silent influence which is the fulfillment of her calling. She hath, perhaps, reverently taught them, as their lips "learned from her's soft utterance," the words of prayer. She may have led them early and often to the sanctuary. She hath bent nightly beside their couch, and taught them to commit their young spirits to Him who had drawn around them the soft curtains of the night. Yet even to this something must be superadded in her daily walk and influence. Her lines may not have fallen in pleas ant places, and the weary struggle of life may draw

disturbed the serenity of her soul? Hath her brow, so lately bent over them in prayer, attested even the momentary dominance of fretfulness and passion? Then hath that prayer faded from their memory. Alas, poor feeble mother! thou forgettest how much dew and sunBut while the mission of the female Christian ex- shine are needed to ripen the germ of piety thou hast tends through all the several and remotest relations of striven to plant in those infant hearts! Awake, O, life, among those with whom her lot is most immedi- thou to whom is given the nurture of the deathless ately and permanently cast, its influence should fall soul, awake to the intense watchfulness of thy heavencontinually, as the dew falleth with a gentle dropping ly calling! Tremblest thou for, and pleadest thou thy through the long watches of the night. In the char-insufficiency? Ask for aid at his hands whose eye acter of wife and mother, the Christian is called upon yet more solemnly for the exercise of her mission. Yet it is here we witness the most frequent and mournful failure. The tribute which goeth up from her heart is here gathered from the minute details, the impalpable manifestations, the slight observances, which, in their separate offering, by the eye of man, pass by all unnoticed. But these lapse one by one from her life's altar, with a stealthy failing, like the sands of the glass, and the sum of their odors is not rendered. The sleepless vigilance which they require, the pure faith in the soul, kept undimmed by the damps of earth, like the fire of the Magian temples, burning on-burning ever-after years. When thy hand no longer smooths their a faithful light to the end—these are perhaps as difficult of attainment as the crown of the martyr. There is a sustaining might in the consciousness, however meek, of great Christian effort. The soul knoweth its trial and its weakness, and it girdeth itself up to its strength. It trims the lamp of its faith, and calls, in a loud voice, on Him who will not fail it in its need. But the ordeal past, and it forgets its Helper-it droopeth wearily, and sleepeth on its watch.

sleepeth not, nor beholdeth dimly for the darkness. Then shall the soft light of thy countenance, as thou goest to thy allotted tasks, and thy cheerful submission to untoward circumstances, beholding thy Maker's will in all things, bear continually into the hearts of thy children thy acknowledgment of thy Lord. The depth and holiness which the contemplation of their immortal natures shall impart to thy instinctive love, strengthening thee to subdue the impulses of a vain fondness, and bearing thee up with a lofty purpose for their eternal good, shall leave its sense upon their memory. It shall rise upon their souls as a distinct image, in long

pillow, and thy voice calls them not from its slumbers, in the visions of the night they shall behold thee; and thy look of love, so full of heavenward teachings, shall solemnize their being. In the haunts of vice, in the flush of guilty pleasure, in the forgetfulness of all else holy, thou shalt stand beside them with that steadfast eye, and they shall ask whence comes this power that is upon my soul, and from whose rebuke I cannot escape?

The domestic affections, constituting as they do the Perhaps, in thy domestic character, thou hast been purest fountains of our human nature, have in them-called upon to experience the sharp pang of unrequited selves much of a sanctifying influence on woman's life. And, not to dwell on the different forms of these affections, answering to all the relations of home, it may be affirmed that a mother's love especially, the strongest and holiest of earthly impulses, having less alloy of selfish purpose, can bear her up and sustain her through

affection, and the bitter, bitter breath of unkindness from him upon whom thou hadst poured out the treasures of thy heart's fondest trust. The husband of thy youth may have forgotten his early vow to cherish, and turned from thee, coldly and mockingly, to the paths of madness and folly. Now, indeed, thou needest the

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THE METAPHYSICIAN.

Original.

THE METAPHYSICIAN.*

BY THE EDITOR.

arm of thy Savior! Earth has no support for thee! When thy husband, the father of thy children, forsakest thee, thou canst lean on no other arm save that of Jesus. Thou mayest breathe thy sorrows to no other ear-thou mayest seek no pity but his. Yet shall that be sufficient to sustain thee, and leaning upon the THE altar scene described in the preceding number, arm of thy Beloved, thou shalt still be able, before thy may seem to the reader extravagant even for a camp children, to give testimony of his loving kindness. meeting. If so, we will not dispute the point. Say it Thou hast given the highest manifestation of thy obe- was extravagant; or, in other words, that there was dience to his law of love, in thy daily forgiveness of more excitement manifested than was philosophically him, thy greatest enemy, whose foot is upon thy heart; necessary to secure the moral results which followed. and beholding this, and drawing in the silent preaching In the case of such admission, why was not Mr. L. of thy uncomplaining life, shall they not go out un-offended and repulsed? As he had heard them deharmed from the influence of a father's example, bear-scribed, and as his imagination had pictured them, he, ing in their hearts the germ which shall be "wrought above all men, had lothed these disorders. What could to power" in God's own season? For it is said, "He suddenly have made over his nice sense of proprietythat goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, his taste-to an approving, or at least to a sympathetic shall come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves interest in these "wild" proceedings? That a state of with him." mind had occurred to him, differing from all he conceived possible in such circumstances, is indisputable. How happened it? He had neither sought nor avoided it; for even its possibility had never once occurred to him. As the trout the angler's bait, he had approached the place without suspicion that any thing was there, except a little food for vulgar levity or inquisitive curiosity. Two hours had scarcely passed, and he had experienced a solemn conviction of the error of this opinion. He was now in moral duresse. With a bearded hook in his jaws, his mind seemed to be plunging all round about, vainly seeking disentanglement, while every fitful effort heightened the torture of his conscience, and increased the force of its misgivings.

Thy mission is finished, and in the language which, in the sublime conception of faith and genius,* has been given to a sculptured mother, rising through the marble of her tomb, thou shalt answer to the call of the resurrection, "Here I am, Lord, with the children thou gavest me."

CHILD'S RELIGION.

In some prosperous inroads that the Syrians, under Naaman's conduct, have made into the land of Israel, a little maid is taken captive; she shall attend on Naaman's wife, and shall suggest to her mistress the miraculous cures of Elisha. A small chink may serve to let in much light; her report finds credit in the court, and begets both a letter from the king, and a journey of his peer. While the Syrians thought of nothing but their booty, they bring happiness to the house of Naaman: the captivity of a poor Hebrew girl is a means to make the greatest lord of Syria a subject to God. It is good to acquaint our children with the works of God, with the praises of his prophets. Little do we know how they may improve this knowledge, and whither they may carry it; perhaps the remotest nations may light their candle at their coal, even the weakest intimations may not be neglected; a child, a servant, a stranger may say that which we may bless God to have heard.-Bishop Hall.

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A MOTHER'S TENDERNESS. How little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while living! How heedless are we, in childhood, of all her anxieties and kindness! But when she is dead and gone; when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts; when we learn how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us in our misfortunes; then it is that we think of the mother we have lost.

Tomb of Madame Langhan,

Will it be charged that this was a morbid state of mind? Descend, then, from the genus to the species, and define this morbid state. What passion was diseased? Mr. L. was not a coward. He had no predisposition to religious apprehensions. He had heard, from childhood up, the most moving descriptions of the woe and wail of undone souls. These, though enforced with appeals of chastened eloquence well adapted to his mental susceptibilities, had produced no saving influence. Yet now, amidst scenes which seemed only calculated to provoke his quick disgust, or move his mind to merriment, he was "pricked in the heart." Was it not by the Holy Spirit?

The frame of Mr. L.'s mind can scarcely be described. It was nearest to a state of wonder. He had no longer any fixed opinions in regard to what he now first saw, namely, the "disorders of Methodism." The confusion of his mind set afloat all his preconceived views of religion. This confusion arose from the stirrings of his heart. He was smitten. And the blow had reached and wounded "the inward parts." Had he been questioned, he could not have explained either the source or the seat of the disorder-nor how, nor perhaps why he was pained. But whatever he might or might not have answered, the uneasiness of

* Continued from page 104.

THE METAPHYSICIAN.

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his mind could not be concealed. The Doctor saw it, || the protecting statute should be read, and the congreand, though hardened, he was not uninterested to see gation warned against disorderly behavior. Mr. L. the sharer of his pleasures so taken by surprise. For was called upon to execute this service. He declined. once he was truly in a dissatisfied-it might be said—But the invitation was repeated in a very urgent mana serious mood. "For once," we say; because serious- ner, and the Doctor adding his solicitations, and offerness was neither his habit, nor his tendency. This an ing to "stand by him," he assented. observing stranger would easily have inferred from his A horn gave a few loud blasts, and in a short time expressive physiognomy. On his face were so plainly the songs and prayers were hushed. Mr. L., with his pictured the mischiefs of his heart, that it was difficult companion and the preachers, ascended the stand, and to behold him and not divine his temper. He was full || sat where he had an opportunity to observe the regulaof wit, and sophistry, and guile. None knew better tions for public worship. Throngs of people were how to play a part, and to conceal the hand that played gathering from all directions, and silently dropping into it—none knew better how to enjoy the ripening plot. their seats. Their eyes were generally directed toward He had a vigorous, perverted intellect. In religion he the stand. Mr. L. thought that he himself was the was, by turns, every thing, and, of course, at heart object of universal and inquiring observation. Some nothing. He discarded revelation, ridiculed devotion, mistook him for a preacher just arrived; but many and presumed that God (if God there were) was busy knew him, and others had received hints as to his real enough about his own affairs, without "impertinently character, and his dislike of camp meetings. Not interrupting the quiet and pleasures of mankind." He knowing what could be his errand in the stand, they dreaded no such "impolite and troublesome interfer- watched him, of course, with inquisitive curiosity. He ence." He presumed Deity was not so "consummate was not in a state of mind to overlook this demonstraa tyrant that he would create corrupt or sinful beings tion. He felt a certain moral nakedness within him merely to torture them in hell." which rendered these prying glances unacceptable. He moved backward on his seat, which was crowded, and partially screened himself behind the person of the

embarrassed, till he seemed like a culprit at the grand assize, brought forth and exposed to the whole universe. At the very crisis of this inconvenient state he was told to "proceed." The assembly was now waiting in perfect order and stillness. With a paper containing a lease of the ground, and a volume of the New York statutes, Mr. L. advanced to the front of the stand, and with a perturbation which was manifest to all, proceeded to explain the legal rights of the worshipers, and the liabilities of those who should disturb them.

The Doctor had not always been so reckless of religion. His youthful cogitations were by turns somewhat devout; but he suffered his growing passions-Doctor. But he still grew more and more uneasy and not his reason to remodel his pliant creed. His heart had ministered moral poison to his brain, till both were charged with the infection. One result was the loss of all philanthropic sympathies-a dreadful hardening of the heart. This had increased upon him in the progress of his life, till he had nearly become a stranger to pathetic states of mind; so that when propriety demanded it, his countenance was reluctant to put on a shade of gravity. At this time his humor faltered of its own free accord. But his features were more comical from the opposite and mixed emotions they betrayed. That archness, so habitual, still lurked, as it were, in the corners of his face, while the unwelcome graver sympathies, which were "pilgrims and strangers" in his bosom, seemed to be timidly invading his heart, and spreading their half unfurled banners over his resisting, agitated countenance. Happy for him (for he died a hopeless death) had he then resigned himself to the wooings of the Spirit!

Mr. L. was not regardless of the Doctor's manner; for his pride was interested to find in the bosom of his obdurate, infidel companion, such emotions as had suddenly sprung up within his own. Of course, when a shade of slight concern spread along the lines of the Doctor's changing countenance, it gave Mr. L. lively satisfaction. Little was said by either. The crisis was on one side too painful for metaphysics, and on the other too grave for wit and ridicule.

Whether the scene at the altar be deemed extravagant or not, a strange concern about religion was spread abroad amongst the people. It checked the rudeness of impiety, and hushed all profane disorder. It now seemed that the restraints of law were needless; but to make the matter absolutely sure, it was concluded that

The embarrassment of Mr. L. was, perhaps, the remote means of his conversion. It surprised many, and was ascribed at once by a large proportion of the pious to incipient conviction. What followed? While he stood before them a mark for the arrow, hundreds of prayers ascended to God in his behalf. For the incidents of that hour Mr. L. was heard, in after life, to praise God.

But to conclude:-Mr. L.'s views of camp meetings were known abroad. The irreligious, of course, surmised that he would speak professionally, while in his private feelings he would condemn "such delusions." It is not to be supposed that he himself premeditated any grave defense of camp meetings. He proposed to expound the statute and retire from observation. But as he proceeded he grew confident, and went on to say that this was his debut upon a camp ground, that he had looked for repulsive exhibitions, but that the very things which, in description, had disgusted him, appeared inoffensive to the eye. He then spake to the disorderly, assuring them that "he who had the cowardice to interrupt these solemnities was too mean to be cursed by any decent man."

(To be continued.)