Our Gift - Teachers of the School Street Universalist Sunday School, Boston
SUMMER THOUGHTS.
A FABLE.
I suppose most of the readers of this little volume have been in the
country the past summer. As you beheld the green grass, the fine
spreading trees, and the beautiful flowers that sprang up in your
pathway, perhaps the feeling came over you that you could be far happier
in the country than in the city. We are very apt to suppose that change
of place will produce a more delightful state of feeling; forgetting
that in a little time we should become familiar with all these objects,
and then we return again to our former selves.
Precisely so it is with children in the country. They come to this busy
city, and eagerly gaze at the varied shows which attract the eye, and
would prefer to exchange situations with _you_; but by and by they
become wearied with sightseeing, and the home they have left rises
before them as a pleasanter abode than any other dwelling, however rich
or elegant. Thus they learn to be _happy at home_; and this is a most
valuable attainment.
But, in order to be permanently happy, we must have something to do.
There are other lessons to be learned besides those we commit in the
schoolroom. The whole world, indeed, is a school, and we are daily
committing our tasks. These teachings are preparations for our future
happiness.
You have all noticed the growth of a tree. At first, only a little twig
springs out of the ground. And so with the flower. You deposit only a
tiny seed; but in a little time a shoot springs up, and by natural but
slow processes the twig becomes a large shady tree, and the shoot a
beautiful blooming flower. Though they grow very slowly, yet they never
_rest_. Day and night the hidden processes are going on which help to
promote their growth. Just so it is with the minds of children. They are
daily acquiring those habits which will eventually make the whole sum of
their characters. But then, great care is requisite how they form these
characters; that they may spring up in fair proportions, making their
possessors worthy members of society.
I will illustrate this by a fable, which occurred to me as I walked over
the beautiful garden of a friend, with whom I spent a few weeks the past
summer. We will suppose, for our present purpose, that the flowers have
an articulate voice.
A stately dahlia grew in a cultivated garden. There were many of the
same species of flowers, but no other had the peculiar variegated tints
of this particular one. Every one, in passing by it, was attracted by
its beauty. It seemed as if vain of flattery, although we know it had no
ears to hear, for every day it seemed to increase in size and beauty.
With its lofty head, it gained a supremacy above all its neighbors, and
the heavy shower and furious wind failed to soil its petals or bend its
graceful form.
Away off in the farther corner of the garden, under a hedge, bloomed a
simple white clover. It was entirely unheeded by the multitude, although
it gave a sweetness and fragrancy to the air, which made the invalid
stop to inhale it. In its modesty it bloomed, in its lowly bed it sought
no observation, and was passed by as a simple white clover. By and by
the mower's scythe passed that way and levelled it among common grasses.
It was gathered in the general mass of hay, and became a part of the
sustenance of the master's cattle.
The dahlia was plucked by the horticulturist, and placed in a glass
receptacle, among kindred flowers, where it was gazed at for a time;
then it faded and was thrown among common rubbish. During their lifetime
we will suppose them to have conversed together.
"I," said the dahlia, "am queen of this garden. I attract every eye that
passes; while you, little clover, are hidden by the tall grass, and
liable to be crushed at any moment."
"Well," replied the clover, "let it be so _now_; but look at our _final
end_. You will be placed in a glass, plucked from your native stem,
where you will wither and die as a worthless thing; while I shall be
felled by the scythe, after I have reached my maturity, and then a
thousand tiny seeds will I strow around me; so that, another reason, I
shall bloom all about the hedges, and my usefulness will be appreciated.
And pray where will you then be?" The dahlia blushed, and hung its head
for shame.
Here, children, is a fable designed to illustrate pride and humility.
Which appears the most beautiful, because the most useful? I know you
will prefer humility to pride. If so, you must remember that the
peculiar traits you now cultivate are forming within you the one or the
other. By a thousand little kind acts, you can diffuse happiness in your
homes; and all the while you are disseminating these virtues, you are
acquiring these lasting graces, in _yourselves_, which will spring up,
like the violet and sweet clover, leaving a fragrancy and beauty
wherever you have trodden.
A TALK WITH THE CHILDREN.
Dear children,--although I am _almost_ a stranger among you, yet I feel
a true interest in your welfare. It gives me great pleasure when I enter
the Sabbath school to meet your happy countenances and smiling faces.
Children, you do not assemble together for the purpose of passing an
hour that perhaps might pass unpleasantly elsewhere. It is for a higher
and nobler purpose. It is to gain useful and religious instruction from
the _Bible_, the best of all books. You should not be content with
learning and reciting your lessons, but you should try to remember what
you learn. And when you grow up to be men and women, you will never
regret it. It is in the _Bible_ that we are taught to love God, and all
mankind.
When we enter the Sabbath school, may we learn to say, To-day is the
Sabbath day, ever blessed and beautiful; welcome to its holy and happy
influence! Welcome, thrice welcome, the day of sweet repose, and sweeter
meditation. Spring is sometimes compared to childhood. In spring, when
the brooks fall gurgling down the mountain side, when the earth begins
to be covered with its verdant robes, when the birds are joyfully
singing around, the trees gently waving in the breeze, and all is gay
and gladsome, we sometimes wish that it could always be spring. So in
youth, we sometimes wish we could always be young; but it cannot be. But
as each season in its turn, spring, summer, autumn, and even winter,
clothed in its robes of snow, has its own pleasures, so each season of
life is wisely invested of God, with its own peculiar joys.
Though it is now spring-time, it will soon be autumn with you, when you
must impart that useful knowledge you will have gained in spring and
summer. Now is the time for you to store up that knowledge. If our
childhood and youth are rightly employed, age will compare no more
unfavorably, as regards its joys, with youth and middle age, than does
winter with spring. Endeavor, then, to acquire that useful knowledge
that will teach you so to live that you may set a good example to all
around you. Children, this beautiful world we live in was made for you.
It is filled with beauty, and when we look around upon it, our hearts
within us say, how great and good is our God! How wonderful are all of
his works! The beautiful in nature is all the production of his power.
He spoke this world into being, and decorated it with sun, moon, and
stars. Beauty and loveliness are stamped upon everything that he has
made. But no scene in the outward world transcends in loveliness the
Sabbath school, where the young come to receive Christian instruction.
And now, dear children, make this wise resolution; to love your Sabbath
school, your parents and teachers, all the world, and especially your
heavenly Father, better than you ever have before; and you will be
better and happier children.
UNCLE JIMMY.
It was Saturday afternoon. The boys were enjoying their sports, when one
of them espied Uncle Jimmy coming towards them. "Look, boys," said he,
"Uncle Jimmy is coming. We will ask him to stop and tell us some
stories."
Now Uncle Jimmy was a very aged man, bowed down with years, and so
feeble that he could not walk without the aid of his cane. When the
weather was mild, he used to take short walks, and the children were
always happy to see him. They all claimed the privilege of calling him
Uncle. One little boy ran forward to assist him, and led him to a seat
beneath a shady tree. Ball and hoop were soon forgotten, as they eagerly
pressed round the old man, to show him their respect; for he always had
a word for each of them.
"Do not let me interrupt your sports, boys; I am fond of seeing you at
your plays. I had once as many playmates as yourselves, and enjoyed them
as well."
The little boy who assisted him to his seat, replied, "We had rather
hear you talk to us, if you please, sir; for we have not seen you for so
long a time."
"True, true, I have been housed up, and it is rare, nowadays, that I
walk so far as this. I'm glad to see you all so well and happy. If you
wish to keep so, be always temperate, and do not neglect your duties.
Whenever conscience whispers to you, 'I have done my duty,' you will
enjoy the sports allowed you.
"I have now in my mind the memory of an old friend. It is indeed
pleasant to think of him. He was remarkable for his industry, even when
very young; yet at play he was as merry as the merriest of us. His mind
and his heart were in it. He became a very superior scholar. Some of you
may think that it was because he had superior talents, that he thus
excelled in scholarship. It is true, he had rare talents; but by his
industry he made every talent ten talents; and he always exercised his
powers for the good of others, for he was benevolent in his disposition.
I am proud to think of him, when in his prime. Young and old were
benefited by his instruction, and he was universally beloved and
respected; for he had become a useful preacher of the word of God, and a
devoted minister. His example of industry and perseverance exerted an
extensive influence upon others, and changed in some measure the whole
face of society in the community in which he lived."
Many more stories did Uncle Jimmy relate to the children, which I have
not time to repeat now. The afternoon was far spent ere any of them
wearied of hearing him; and many a good lesson did they receive, which I
trust was as "good seed, sown on good ground." I trust my little readers
will as readily listen to the counsels of the aged, and as respectfully
heed their advice, as did these children. In this way, you will give
promise of becoming wise and good.
The children waited on Uncle Jimmy to his home; and, when they left him,
he prayed God to bless them.
THE CHILD'S DREAM OF HEAVEN.
Mother, I dreamed of heaven;
And all around were choirs of angels, singing
Hymns of praise; and children joining hands,
And looking so bright and happy, that I wished
I could be always with them. And in their midst
The Savior stood and blessed them, saying,
"Suffer little children unto me to come."
Then all around were flowers so sweet, dear mother,
That the whole air seemed filled with fragrance, and
The birds were warbling sweetest songs of love.
The sky was fairer than our sky, dear mother;
And the sunshine seemed more bright; and as it beamed
Upon the angels' forms, they looked as though
All made of light. And then I looked for those
That left us, who, you said, had gone to heaven,
To join the angels round the throne of God.
There I saw sister, and my little brother
We long since buried in the dark, cold ground,
Whom I had thought I never more should meet.
They looked, dear mother, as they used to look,
When they were well and happy; ere disease
Had robbed them of their beauty, or death's seal
Fastened upon their features. And their faces
Beamed with a brightness never seen before.
I asked if they were happy, and if I
Could join them; or if they would return
To us again; and told them, mother dear,
How lonely we had felt since they departed,
And left us in our grief; and how we missed
Their pleasant voices and their merry laugh;
For though you said 'twas wrong to wish them back,
I could not think but you would welcome them.
They were too happy in their angel home,
To think of coming back to earth again;
And neither, said they, could I stay with them,
Because my time was not yet come. But they
Would look upon us from their high abode,
And ask our Saviour's blessing on us both;
And soon his arms would open, and his voice
Would call on us to follow them; and they
Would welcome us to those bright realms above,
Where they, with angels, now have found a home;
Where all shall find a home, a resting-place,
After the toils of earth. Where skies are bright,
And spring forever reigns. Where flowers shall bloom
In never-fading freshness, nor be touched
By winter's frost. And, more than all, where love
Unites all hearts in one great brotherhood,
Nor separation comes to break the chain.
THE INFLUENCE OF SABBATH SCHOOLS.
"Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined,"--is an adage as true as
it is ancient. One's character, happiness, and usefulness, during his
whole life, depends, in no small measure, upon early education. The
child taught to disregard the Sabbath, and lightly to esteem the
instructions of the Sabbath school, grows to manhood devoid of aught
that can entitle him to the society and respect of the good and
virtuous. With a soul shrouded in midnight darkness, he gropes his way
through life, and at the grave sinks into oblivion, "by none esteemed,
by all forgot." However we may hope for such a soul, through the mercy
of God, as we surely do, it is not now qualified to enter upon and fully
appreciate the purity and joys of Christ's kingdom.
We seldom hear of the execution or imprisonment of one who regarded in
youth the Sabbath school. Indeed, I think it impossible for one who has
been successfully taught to reverence and to love the teachings of Jesus
of Nazareth, to become an outcast from society. It is true, envy, with
its envenomed tongue, and malice, with its still more poisonous breath,
may assail even such a one; but their shafts will fall harmless at his
feet. The shield of his soul they cannot pierce. They cannot eradicate
from the heart the influence of the high and holy lessons which it
received in youth. Its many sources of enjoyment they cannot destroy.
Pleasant and important, therefore, are the duties of teachers. The
directing of tender affections, and the development of youthful powers,
are intrusted to their hands. If they perform their duties faithfully,
they may have the satisfaction of seeing the pupils of their charge
useful among men, devoted to right, and obedient unto God. Such an
office is lovely. It is more than lovely, it is holy. It blesses him who
fills it. It exalts his affections, ennobles his purposes, and enlarges
his heart.
Do we not see the fruit of this labor in our own school? In the kindness
and love of the children for each other, in their faithfulness in the
duties of the school, and in their respectful and affectionate bearing
towards their teachers and all others, do we not recognize some of the
fruits of Sabbath school culture? And may we not expect that such
children will be beloved, honored, and useful among men?
Do we not also see some of the fruits of these influences in the
fraternal regard of teachers for each other, in their devotion to their
duties as teachers, and in their distinguishing virtues as Christians?
Have we not, especially, seen the fruit of these influences in the
enduring patience, calm hopefulness, and cheerful trust, of one of our
number whom we have just followed to her resting-place? The Lord
make us faithful, that our end may be like hers.
MEMORY.
"O Memory! thou wak'ner of the dead!
Thou only treasurer of vanished past!
How welcome art thou, when bright hope is fled,
And sorrow's mantle o'er the soul is cast!
Back o'er those days too beautiful to last,
Thy gentle hand will lead the saddened thought;
And though the tears may trickle warm and fast,
Yet thy sweet pictures with such peace are fraught,
The heart, beguiled, exclaims, 'This is the fount I sought.'"
Memory! Who has not felt its influence! Who of us would wish to part
with its delights and quiet teachings! Beautifully adapted is the
twilight hour to the cherishing of the recollections of the past. It is
then that the hum of busy life is hushed, and all nature seems resting
from its toil. Then, in undisturbed peace, rise before us the loved ones
we have cherished, and whose memories, like guardian angels, always
attend us. We recall every affectionate word and kindly deed, however
trivial or little heeded at the time. And how sweet then are our
thoughts, and our recompense, if we have never caused them an unhappy
moment! Half the bitterness of affliction is removed by such blessed
memories. Then let us make them ours. Let us so live that it shall be
possible for us to cherish them. Then will they bring to us many happy
hours, and sweet solace to the suffering heart. Each moment, as it flits
by, enters its record upon the tablet of memory, to be read with joy or
sorrow at some future moment.
Then let each moment find some worthy deed to perform, or kind word to
be spoken, that shall cause a glow of pleasure and satisfaction when
memory recalls it. All memories are not alike pleasing; yet each may
have its mission to perform. Past sin may bring pain with its
recollection. It comes as a warning, lest we should transgress again.
If, then, we would treasure up for ourselves pleasant memories for the
future, we must guard well the present moment.
It is equally cheering to feel that we ourselves have a place in the
memory of our friends. What a motive it should be to us, then, to live
in such a manner that their memory of us may be as "the memory of the
just," which the Scriptures declare to be "blessed."
SELFISHNESS.
The selfish man wrongs himself in attempting to wrong others. In filling
his pockets unjustly with gold, he drives away joy from his soul. He
forgets his relationship to angels, and only remembers his affinity to
brutes.
TROUBLE.
Worldly trouble is the tonic of the soul. Affliction at once humbles us
and gives us a relish for spiritual food. Those providences which teach
us the insufficiency of earth, make us lean on heaven.
REVENGE.
Revenge is the putting out of one's own eyes for the sake of putting out
the eyes of another.
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
In admiring the virtues and moral excellence of one who holds a high
rank in society, who fills a distinguished place in the State, or
occupies a responsible seat in the halls of science or in the church, we
are liable to be swayed in our judgment. His social position is a kind
of magnifying lens, through which all his virtues are viewed. But when a
comparatively obscure individual from the humbler walks of life claims
our attention, we are better able to estimate his virtues at their true
value.
Such a one we meet with in the subject of this brief sketch. Miss Hannah
S. Shedd was born in Boston, February 5, 1826. The death of her father,
preceded as it was by the death of her mother, left her an orphan at the
age of eight years. She was the second of three surviving children by
their father's second marriage, all of whom were left in charge of a
half sister, who was the eldest of five children by a former marriage,
and who was all to them that a mother even could be.
One of the parents was an Episcopalian in sentiment, the other a
Universalist. The elder children were attendants upon Universalist
worship in the School street Church, while the younger attended one of
the Baptist churches of the city. Hannah, the subject of our sketch,
continued under the influence of Baptist doctrines and worship until
about fifteen years of age, when at her own earnest solicitation she was
permitted to attend the Universalist church, and become a member of the
School street Universalist Sunday school.
The influence upon her feelings of the change in regard to a place of
worship, was very marked. She was naturally inclined to religious
meditation and reflection, but was never satisfied with what she had
been accustomed to hear. Nor can she be regarded as singular, in this
respect. However true it may be that Christianity is adapted in its
simplicity to the susceptibilities of the young--and I believe this is
eminently true--it is equally true, that the ordinary partialist
interpretations of it are not thus adapted to their susceptibilities.
The young are not satisfied with these. The clearer their perceptions,
and the more comprehensive their thought, the greater is their
dissatisfaction. It was so with Hannah, even when but a child.
But when the hungerings of her soul found their appropriate aliment in
the ministrations of the venerable Hosea Ballou, then the sole pastor of
the church to which she turned for peace, the change was in the highest
degree salutary. Her satisfaction was very great. She also found great
pleasure in accompanying her eldest sister to the Rev. Mr. Streeter's
Friday evening meetings; and so highly did she prize these religious
privileges, that she could scarcely submit to be deprived of them for a
single evening or Sabbath without shedding tears.
Her natural amiability and generosity of disposition--a generosity
especially marked in her demeanor towards her eldest sister, who had
become a mother to her--made the Universalist interpretation of
Christianity to be to her indeed the "bread of life." Not only did she
seek for this spiritual nutriment in the regular ministrations of the
sanctuary and in the conference meeting, but she turned also to the
Sabbath school with the same fond devotion to Christian truth.
During the connection of the Rev. Mr. Soule with the School street
Society, he established a Bible class, of which Miss Shedd became one of
the earliest members. She has often spoken to the writer of this of the
great profit she was conscious of having derived therefrom. She was also
one of the earliest members of the class formed by the present junior
pastor of the Society, Rev. Mr. Miner, and in the discharge of her
duties in that capacity she showed uncommon clearness of perception, and
not a little vigor of thought.
At the age of fourteen she left school and took up the needle that she
might aid her sisters in gaining for the family an honorable
maintenance. She has been known to ply the needle with all diligence
till ten o'clock at night, and then turn to her Sunday school book to
make preparation for the Sabbath. If this is an example of too severe
application to toil, it shows at the same time a devotion to spiritual
culture in the highest degree commendable.
Strict integrity and a strong sense of justice characterized her even in
her childhood. A little circumstance bearing upon this point I will
relate. She had been to an apothecary's shop for some medicines, and on
reaching home found that she had received back more change than was due.
Of her own accord she proposed to return it, nor would she willingly
delay for a moment the performance of so manifest an act of justice. She
received from the apothecary the highest encomium, and a reward for her
integrity. In all her transactions she showed the same scrupulousness in
matters of right, and thus became a bright example for all children to
imitate.
She was not less remarkable for her obedience to the wishes of her
sister, than for her regard for justice. She not only obeyed, but obeyed
readily and cheerfully. And so sensible is that sister of her great
excellence in this respect, now that she has passed away, that she
cannot speak of her but with the deepest emotion.
She seemed to have very little power to bear disappointment. Her
feelings were very tender, and her sensibilities great. Disappointment,
therefore, brought the ready tear to her eye; and solicitous affection,
if possible, removed the pressure which had caused it. But some of the
later revelations of her life indicated rare ability to endure
disappointment, and to cherish hope even in the audience-chamber of
death. Thus will it appear in the end that her heart was full of
Christian confidence and holy trust.
In the course of June, 1850, it was observed by her friends that her
health was manifestly declining. She was advised to leave her employment
at once, and seek in relaxation and change of scene the reestablishment
of her health and the restoration of her accustomed vigor. Accordingly
accompanied by her brother, she spent some three weeks of the month of
July in various parts of Maine; but health did not come back to her.
Disease was too deeply seated to be beguiled away.
She returned to her home but to languish and die. When the news of her
mortal illness reached the Sabbath school, in which she had now been a
faithful and beloved teacher for about a year, it produced the most
intense interest and solicitude. All felt that a dearly beloved sister
had become the victim of the destroyer. That, however, which was a
source of unmingled grief in the beginning, became a sanctifying power
in the end.