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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 “THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS.”

Their blood is shed

In confirmation of the noblest claim—
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth;
To walk with God; to be divinely free.
Yet few remember them. They lived unknown
Till persecution dragged them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew
——No marble tells us whither.
Cowper.
 THE DAY OF LIFE.

The morning hours of cheerful light,

Of all the day are best;
But as they speed their hasty flight,
If every hour is spent aright,
We sweetly sink to sleep at night,
And pleasant is our rest.
And life is like a summer day,
It seems so quickly past;
Youth is the morning bright and gay,
And if ’tis spent in wisdom’s way,
We meet old age without dismay,
And death is sweet at last.

Jane Taylor.
 GILBERT HUNT.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Longfellow’s Village Blacksmith.

There lives in the city of Richmond, Virginia, a very venerable and

highly respected negro blacksmith, named Gilbert Hunt. For more
than three-score years he has pursued his humble calling; and even
now, at the advanced age of seventy-seven years, the merry ring of
Gilbert’s anvil is among the first things that break the stillness of the
morning. His shop is situated on one of the most busy streets in the
city; and long before the stores are opened, or the busy hum of
human voices heard, the lively glow of the blacksmith’s fire and the
unceasing blowing of his bellows, whisper in the ear of many a tardy
young man—Be diligent in business.

Thus has he lived and labored through the weary days of many a
long year. Though time has plowed many a deep furrow across his
dusky brow, though his head is covered with the almond-tree
blossoms of age, though those that look out of the windows are
darkened, though the doors are shut in the streets, though the silver
cord has been worn almost to its last thread, yet Gilbert Hunt
remains still healthy and robust, retains the cheerfulness of youth,
and seems to feel that his work on earth is far from being
accomplished.
 His dark countenance, while in conversation, is lighted up with a
happy smile, and you cannot help feeling, as you look upon the old
and grey-headed man, what a precious promise that beautiful old
hymn expresses when it says,

“E’en down to old age, all my people shall prove

My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;
And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,
Like lambs, they shall still in my bosom be borne.”

The eventful life of this aged blacksmith, together with his vivid
remembrance of bygone days, renders an hour spent in his company
very pleasant.

’Tis true, his name is unknown both to fortune and to fame; for
but few stop, in this cold world of ours, to pay the deserved meed of
praise to humble, unpretending merit.

“Far from the madd’ning crowd’s ignoble strife,

His sober wishes never learned to stray—
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
He kept the noiseless tenor of his way.”

But to return to our first intention. Gilbert Hunt was born in the
county of King William, (Va.,) about the year 1780; came to the city
of Richmond when seventeen years of age; learned the trade of a
carriage-maker, at which he worked for a considerable length of
time, and by constant industry and close economy laid by a sufficient
amount of money to purchase his freedom of his master. In 1832, he
determined to emigrate to Liberia; and in February of that year, left
Virginia. He remained in Africa eight months, and having travelled
some five hundred miles into the interior, returned to the coast and
embarked for home. His reception, on arriving at Richmond, was one
which would have done honor to any conqueror or statesman, so
highly was he respected by the citizens. “When I reached
Richmond,” to use his own language, “the wharves were crowded
with all classes and conditions of people; I was invited to ride up
town in a very fine carriage, but preferred a plainer style, and came
up in a Jersey wagon, seated on my trunk.” Since that time, nothing
of special interest has transpired in the life of this truly remarkable
man. “Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,” he has followed with
unpretending simplicity of character his accustomed labor. Success
seems not to make him proud, nor failure to discourage him. He has
made a sufficient amount of money to enable him to spend the
evening of his life in quiet retirement, but his place at his shop is
seldom, if ever, vacant.

For more than half a century he has been a consistent member of

the Baptist Church; thus teaching us, would we have the needed
blessings of life added to us, we should seek first the kingdom of
God and His righteousness.

The event which invests the name of Gilbert Hunt with more than
ordinary interest, is the active part which he took at the burning of
the Richmond theatre in 1811.

We add a brief account of this sad occurrence, as related by

Gilbert himself, feeling there are but few eyes which can read it
without moistening with tears.

“It was the night of Christmas, 1811. I had just returned from
worship at the Baptist church, and was about sitting down to my
supper, when I was startled by the cry that the Theatre was on fire.
My wife’s mistress called me, and begged me to hasten to the
Theatre, and, if possible, save her only daughter,—a young lady who
had been teaching me my book every night, and one whom I loved
very much. The wind was quite high, and the hissing and crackling
flames soon wrapt the entire building in their embrace. The house
was built of wood, and therefore the work of destruction was very
short. When I reached the building I immediately went to the house
of a colored fiddler, named Gilliat, who lived near by, and begged
him to lend me a bed on which the poor frightened creatures might
fall as they leaped from the windows. This he positively refused to
do. I then procured a step-ladder and placed it against the wall of
the burning building. The door was too small to permit the crowd,
pushed forward by the scorching flames, to get out, and numbers of
them were madly leaping from the windows only to be crushed to
death by the fall. I looked up and saw Dr. —— standing at one of the
top windows, and calling to me to catch the ladies as he handed
them down. I was then young and strong, and the poor screaming
ladies felt as light as feathers. By this means we got all the ladies
out of this portion of the house. The flames were rapidly
approaching the Doctor. They were beginning to take hold of his
clothing, and, O me! I thought that good man who had saved so
many precious lives, was going to be burned up. He jumped from
the window, and when he touched the ground I thought he was
dead. He could not move an inch. No one was near that part of the
house, for the wall was tottering like a drunken man, and I looked to
see it every minute crush the Doctor to death. I heard him scream
out, ‘Will nobody save me?’ and at the risk of my own life, rushed to
him and bore him away to a place of safety. The scene surpassed
any thing I ever saw. The wild shriek of hopeless agony, the piercing
cry, ‘Lord, save, or I perish,’ the uplifted hands, the earnest prayer
for mercy, for pardon, for salvation. I think I see it now—all—all just
as it happened.” And the old negro stopped to wipe away a tear
which was trickling down his wrinkled cheek.

“The next day I went to the place where I had seen so much
suffering. There lay a heap of half-burnt bodies—young and old, rich
and poor, the governor and the little child—whose hearts were still
fluttering like leaves. I never found my young mistress, and suppose
she perished with the many others who were present on that
mournful occasion. I thought there would never be any more
theatres after that.” The old man was silent; his tale was told; tear-
drops were standing in his eyes.
 Should any of my readers desire to learn more of the history of
this venerable old negro, the simple sign of

Gilbert Hunt,
Blacksmith,

which still hangs over his door, will direct them to his lowly shop,
and guarantee a warm welcome at his hands.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat, and slow;
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like his mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
 How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught:
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Longfellow.
 SKETCHES FOR YOUNG MEN.
NOTE.
Finding in my portfolio a number of sketches not considered entirely
suited to the class for whom my little volume is intended, I have
determined to add them in the form of an appendix, with the hope
that they may prove interesting and instructive to persons of
maturer years.

The Author.
 SKETCHES FOR YOUNG MEN.

THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.

No. 1.

It has long been a mystery to us that the Bible is so little read, so

poorly appreciated. A few hurried snatches in the morning, the
shortest psalm in the evening, to a very great extent constitute the
Bible reading of many who even profess and call themselves
Christians. The prolific press is daily pouring forth issues of aids to
Scripture reading; the most gifted intellects, both of this and other
lands, are using all their powers to make the Bible the text-book of
the age; but in vain. There seems to have arisen, in the minds of
many, an insatiable desire for something new, something stirring,
something calculated to arouse their stupified faculties.

Persons will pore, hour after hour, over the pages of some trashy
novel, while the Bible—its pages glittering with golden truths—its
chapters glowing with a Saviour’s love—lies unopened for weeks,
yea, months; its clasps blackened by canker—its cover thick with
dust.

They will nestle in their bosoms the sin-stained pages of Byron—

not knowing his slime is polluting, his poison infecting, the purest
affections of their hearts, while a stream of living water is gushing
from this ever full and overflowing fountain of Truth. In the one are
found waters of Marah; in the other, sweet, soul-inspiring, soul-
cheering streams, whose supply is never wanting, whose freshness
never departs.

You cannot inflict greater punishment on some persons than force

them daily to read a portion of God’s word. To them it is as a root
out of dry ground, having no form or comeliness. Notwithstanding
this, we find in the Bible every thing that is attractive and lovely.
Viewed as a literary production, aside from its inspiration, there is no
work, ancient or modern, which is marked by such variety of style—
such beauty of diction—such sublimity of sentiment. Its writers are
taken from all classes and conditions of life—from the shepherd boy
that watches his father’s flocks on the grassy hill-sides of Judea, to
the king, the golden magnificence of whose court, and unerring
wisdom, attracted the notice of Arabia’s queen—from the humble
fisherman who mends his nets on the shores of “deep Galilee,” to
the talented scholar of the learned Gamaliel.

The rich and the poor, the aged and the young, the wise and the
ignorant, the pastor and his people, can all discover in its pages
something to suit their respective situations. In fact, from Genesis to
Revelation, it is filled with truths simple enough for the prattling child
—deep enough for the profoundest scholar.

What sublime simplicity characterizes the Pentateuch! what

melodious notes fall upon the ear, like “sweet music from some far-
off isle enchanted,” as the sweet Psalmist of Israel sweeps the
chords of his thrilling harp! what rapt, impassioned eloquence bursts
from prophetic souls as they picture the future glory of Immanuel’s
kingdom, or paint the awful scenes of that wrathful day,

“When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,

The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!”

Rural Retirement, Va.

 THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.

No. 2.

Turn to the New Testament. How touching those simple narratives!

Hard indeed must be the heart of him who can read without deep
emotion, that truly affecting account of the return of the prodigal
son to the father of his early love, the home and scenes of his
childhood.

Behold that aged man, as with tottering step, forgetful of the

pressing weight of his many years, he runs to meet his poor
wayward boy, clasps him to his yearning bosom, falls on his neck
and kisses him.

Stand beside the grave of Lazarus; look at those loving sisters of

Bethany, as with throbbing hearts and swollen eyes they gather
around the last resting-place of that much-loved and only brother. Is
your heart more unfeeling than the heart of Him of whom it was
said, “Behold how he loved him?” If not, then moisten his grave with
a tear of sympathy for those heart-stricken sisters; for it is not
unmanly to weep,—

“That noble gift! that privilege of man.”

Let us leave these scenes, so well calculated to sadden the heart

and moisten the eye, and turn to others of a far different nature.

Look at that stranger standing on Mars Hill. ’Tis true he is not

commanding in person; neither is his speech in itself eloquent; but
there is an electric current which continually passes from his soul to
his eye, making it to flash with dazzling brilliancy.

With the deep blue sky as his canopy, and standing where
Socrates once stood, he begins one of the most highly finished and
closely argued orations on record.

With kindling features and burning ardor, he enters at once into

the mysteries of his subject,—The nature of God. What eloquence!

“It wields at will that fierce democracy.”

John Milton has truly remarked: “There are no songs comparable

to the songs of Zion; no orations equal to those of the prophets; no
politics like those which the Scriptures teach.”

But there is another feature in this precious Book to which we

would briefly direct your attention.

The Characters.—A young man, dressed in the plain garb of a

husbandman, is wandering over the rugged sides of mount Ephraim
in search of his father’s cattle. Exposure to wind and storm has
rendered his frame robust, his tread firm and steady. Fearless
courage sits enthroned on his peerless brow; stubborn resolution,
untiring energy, prompt decision, all beam from a countenance,
which, though bronzed by the ardent frown of the summer’s sun, yet
is none the less attractive for the noble qualities which it so plainly
displays. But it is the commanding appearance of his person, the
symmetry of his form, which first unconsciously draws the attention.
As the oak of the forest lifts its head far above the surrounding
trees, so does the dauntless crest of this choice young man rise
head and shoulders above his companions.

Such is the person and character of him who was chosen as the
first king of Israel; and as Pallas, “over the head and shoulders
broad” of Ulysses,
 “Diffused grace celestial, his whole form
Dilated, and to statelier height advanced,
That worthier of all reverence he might seem
To the Phæacians,”

so God endowed the son of Kish, in order that he might better

command the respect of those over whom he was called to preside.

Time does not suffice to notice in detail his anointing by the

venerable Samuel, nor the swelling tide of human beings which
rolled along the streets of Mizpah, on the day of his proclamation,
nor how the enemies of Israel were swept before his stalwart arm,
like chaff before the whirlwind.

Thus far Saul presents one of the noblest specimens of filial

obedience, of daring bravery, of unreserved submission to the will of
God, to be found in sacred history.

But his heart becomes elated at his unparalleled success, and the
remainder of his life is a series of heaven-daring presumption, of
flagrant disobedience, of detestable faithlessness, of unmanly
cowardice; his bosom swells with arrogant pride—that invariable
precursor of destruction—which paves his way to the most
ignominious of deaths—that of a cowardly suicide.

“Then wish not o’er his earthly tomb

The baneful night-shades’ lurid bloom
To drop its deadly dew;
Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn,
That rudely binds his turf forlorn,
With spring’s green swelling buds to vegetate anew.”

But only remember that one act of indiscretion will blast a lifetime
of virtue and usefulness; and remember also how essential it is that
we be true to our God, true to our country, true to ourselves.
Rural Retirement, Va.
 THE LAMP AND THE LANTERN.

No. 3.

There is one other character, noticeable for none of those traits which
mark the life of Saul; yet of an order to which no one, we think, will
be unwilling to pay deserved tribute,—which next claims our
attention.

Two men—the one in the prime of manly vigor, the other has
passed the ordinary limits of human life—are standing on the banks
of the Jordan. The one is arrayed in royal garments, the other in a
pastoral garb,—for during many a long year has he led his flocks
beside the still waters, and made them to lie down in the green
pastures of Gilead.

The snows of four-score years have fallen softly upon his head,
and his “brow has grown wrinkled like the brown sea sand from
which the tide of life is ebbing.” The friends of his youth are asleep
with their fathers; the playmates of his childhood have also been laid
in the cold and silent sepulchres of Nebo or Pisgah. With the Poet he
exclaims,

“They are all dead now:

I’m old and lonely.”

He is blind.
 “Thus with the year
Seasons return. But not to him returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev’n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom or summer’s rose,
Or flocks or herds, or human face divine.”

To him taste has lost its sweetness; music, its melody.

David—for it is he who wears the robes of royalty,—insists on his

aged friend accompanying him to Jerusalem.

Noble-hearted old Barzillai replies, that he will go a little way with

him beyond Jordan, but adds, “Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn
back again, that I may die in mine own city, and be buried in the
grave of my father and my mother.”

How beautiful! how touching! how true to nature!

The winter of age is not severe enough to wither the blossoms of

youth!——

A storm is raging on the sea of Galilee; the heavens are black with
clouds; the moaning of the billows, as they dash against the sides of
the vessel, falls on the ear with a peculiar loneliness; the winds are
howling fearfully through the rigging; an occasional flash of
lightning, as it darts athwart the waters, reveals to the eye many a
face pale with fear, and many a form struggling nobly with the
furious elements.

There is on that vessel an old weather-beaten sailor, whose home

is the bosom of the lake. Hardship and exposure have rendered him
perfectly reckless as to danger. His brow shows no signs of fear; his
noble heart throbs only with emotions of fearless daring.

A familiar voice is heard above the fury of the winds, the roar of
the waves.
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