THE COUNTRY CHURCH. БТ THE EDITOR. So we descend; and winding round a rock, The floor Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, No spot on earth is like the home of our childhood. No scenes have a charm so undying. None so hard to forget. We may forget many other endearments to which we once clung with fondness; but has ever fame or power, prosperity or adversity, joy or sorrow, exile or roving, been able to banish from the memory of the uncorrupted the scenes of his early life. Though all the carth beside become a desert, barren, tasteless and cold, yet will this one spot remain an oasis of green things for the dejected traveller. Another spot may have as mild a sky above it, the stars may look as sweetly down upon it, the sun may rise as fair and set as gloriously over it, the evening breeze may hum past it with as sweet a vesper, a stream may glide as softly by it, the flowers may unfold as early, bloom as proudly, and fade as solemnly, yet only around one spot hangs the charm which gives to all these their deepest meaning-it is our childhood's home. There are our youthful sports recorded in every changeless scene. Every object has some tale to tell of earlier and happier years; and forms, as by magic touch, are called up on every side, presenting their claims to old acquaintanceship. Though our thoughts and feelings may have been changed by the fortunes of an eventful life, yet will they still harmonize with the music of life's first song, and joy anew in the returning raptures of childhood. Though there are many recollections of this kind which often almost make us wish to be a child again, yet there is one spot among these pleasant spots, one scene amid these sacred scenes, on which memory rests with peculiar vividness and delight. It is the old Country Church. This is a hallowed spot in the past. Ah, well we remember, how it stood ill-concealed amid a clump of trees, Where forests, sloped-from the silver flood It was literally a sunny spot, for the mountains on either side turned the rude rough storms high over it. Just back of the church a small brook murmured by, joyfully in springtime and dolefully in Autumn; yet either in its cheer or its sadness, it was in harmony with the place, 1857.] The Country Church. 229 for just on the farther side of it slept the silent dead, mournfully but in hope-its music in either case was welcome to the mourner who wept tears both of joy and of sorrow on its bank. A graveyard is a spot of solemn interest wherever it is found; but it is peculiarly so by the side of a country church No tread of busy feet, no sickening monotony of city life, ever disturbs this quiet city of the dead. Hear the earnest may meditate undisturbed; and whoever will may find aid in his endeavors to number his days, and impress himself with a just sense of life's vanities. Here the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the great and small, rest together in the common embrace of death There is not a tomb which we love more to visit than that of the snowy headed grandfather, who was long looked upon as the patriarch of the valley. Indeed he was the father of the old church itself-it was built principally through his zeal and liberality, and well he loved it. His seat was seldom empty on Sabbath Scarcely would it have seemed more odd if the minister himself had not been in his peace. In his week-day life every boy of the valley recollected him well-how he used to walk around the meadows and fields with cane in hand, now pulling up a useless weed, and by whiles laying up a rail that had fallen from the fence, regulating a stake, or casting a loose stone out of the road. Memory sees him, too, quite naturally in the familiar room where the clock stood, leaning over his often read Bible-for he searched the scriptures, and, as he used to say, found something new in it at every reading. Beyond the graveyard was a spot, half commons and half woods; and well we remember the tinkling sound of the bells among the shade trees there on a sultry summer noon as we rode past on the way to the mill. Birds, too, were there, but sparse in their songs, as if the place bespoke reverence. On week-days perchance you might hear some bird dolefully drumming on the roof of the old church. The owl, too, that boding bird of night, with his ghostly hooting amid those shades, would often make the timid mill-boy ride faster as he made his way homeward in the twilight of evening. On Sabbath really, or we imagined it, all around the place seemed held in a kind of religious awe-silence reigned, except when at intervals the twitter of a swallow, or the quick tap-tap of a sap-bird, was heard. It was pleasant on a summer Sabbath morning, when the snnbeams yet fall aslant through the branches of the big-trees, to see crowds emerge on all sides from the woods and by-paths. The lanes that led to the home of the wealthy farmer as well as the humbler winding foot-path that led on to the cottage of the poor and lowly, all sent forth their groups of tidy men, women and children-and all seemed to say, if they did not express it: How did my heart rejoice to hear In Zion let us all appear, And keep the solemn day. The spring, too, which belonged to this Country Church, we shall never forget. It gurgled from beneath a rock, and was overhung by a tall, wide spreading oak-tree, whose friendly limbs formed A bower beneath, through whose branches gleams The mellowed light in its fitful beams. Cool, clear and healthy, it oozed out of its secret source and rolled on [August, over its pebbly bed. There was the music of contentment, peace and joy in its gentle flow, or father down in its rippling laugh, when like the dance of the fairies, it descended over little cascades, making its way down the glen, under the bright sun, in evening's twilight, or beneath the light of the joyous moon. It is an image of early life, an emblem of innocence and purity. The boy when weary of his little frolics, sits down under some shady tree and drinks joy from nature, or from the fresh flow of his own innocent heart, but when his innocence is gone, he wanders as by a muddied stream, where nothing cheers or invites. mind seeks through the backward path for some emblem of innocence, Often when our joy and love, we are led to that well remembered spring close by the country church. Like Siloa's brook it flowed "fast by the holy oracle;" and still fresh as our last thoughts, are all its murmurs, as memory echoes them through the lapse of years back upon the heart. We still see the crowd of familiar faces ranged around it, while the kind, officious boy, takes special pride in dipping first for one and then for another the cooling drink. We see, one after the other arrive, greeting his neighbor with a grasp of the hand, drinking and passing off to the church or to some friendly shade. Meanwhile the hour for service arrives. The whisper is soon circulated from group to group: "The minister comes!" In a moment all swarm toward the church. The spring, the shade trees, and the graveyard, whither some lately bereaved had gone to unburden themselves of a sigh or a tear-all are forsaken; and now out of that rural sanctuary ascends the voice of psalm and prayer, as earnestly and sincerely as beneath Gothic arches-and as well heard in heaven! "Though the Lord be high, yet hath he respect to the lowly; but the proud he knoweth afar off." "The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise." Even now that we worship no more in that country church, its scenes still come up before us in "memory's mellowing glass." To it our heart returns as the exiles thoughts travel to his home. Nor would we exchange the sacredly pleasant remembrances of that spot with its scenes, for "the mines of Ind," or lose the fragrance which from it is still breathed around our heart for all the spices of "Araby the blessed." ANGRY WORDS. POISON drops of care and sorrow, Angry Words! Oh, let them never 1857.] Stick to your Business. 231 STICK TO YOUR BUSINESS. BY J. V. E. Ir is the duty of every person to be engaged in some lawful and useful business. As "Idleness," said Rev. Matthew Henry, "is the devil's anvil, on which he hammers out many temptations," nothing but proper active engagement, will guard us against such evil. Man is constituted for business. He can never be happy without doing something. The blessings of peace of mind and health of body, are connected with activity; and unless we give that as a sacrifice to nature, the happy incense of elasticity of spirit and firmness of muscle, will not be ours. The decree, "in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread," cannot be reversed, without man suffering inexpressible loss. But while most persous agree to this, they seem after all, not to have a clear sense of the manner in which the blessing of employment can only be fully realized. Instead of endeavoring to find out what their Creator has called them to do and fitted them to engage in, they are constantly shifting from one business to another, and hence never become truly adapted to any. We say adapted. There is something in this. A transition from one thing to another, will mostly be attended with a feeling of strangeness and awkwardness. For example, a young man who has been raised a farmer, will, in leaving the plow, and out-door life, feel a sense of unhappiness at first in confining himself to a shop, for the purpose of learning a trade. But by perseverance, and patience, if he is a all adapted to that business, he will soon begin to feel at home, and enjoy himself as much as in the field. The human constitution must have time to adapt itself to new positions. And this it must do, or one situation could not be changed for another. We often hear the expression, "I could not follow that business, or be engaged in that profession." Why not? Because you are not adapted to it by preparatory training The shoemaker on his bench, is as happy, as the farmer in his field. The physician, the minister, and lawyer, doubtless feel as contented in their professions, as the mechanic or merchant at his business. But if a person was to study medicine a year, theology a year, law a year, be a farmer a year, a printer a year, a mechanic a year, and so on, changing his position continually, from mental to physical labor, not continuing long enough in one place to become adapted to it. little wonder if he is neither happy nor successful. As places, where we reside long, become homes to us, so with our engagements. If we continue in them a sufficient length of time, we get a kind of love for them, which leads us to prize them above any other. The man of the world no doubt thinks he would not like to be a minister. He sees so much self-denial necessary; so much faith and patience required; so much of what he may think dry study; but if he had the heart which a minister should have to do good, and feel the pleasures arising from the cultivation of his finer feelings, and better nature, he would think otherwise. So too, the farmer, mechanic, and merchant, no doubt thinks I would not like to be a physician or school-teacher, but although they see much in the life of the physician, that by itself, would be unpleasant and tend to make a person feel anything but happy, yet the interest that the mind becomes inspired with in the contemplation of the human system, and the desire created in a generous and merciful man to alleviate suffering, are calculated to make him fully happy in his business. So we might go on, and enumerate the thoughts which occupy the minds of many persons, with reference to professions and businesses different from their own. We would advise every young reader of the Guardian, to endeavor to come to a conclusion as soon as possible, what business or profession he is desirous to engage in; then to betake himself to it and stick to it. Suffer not yourself to imbibe a changing, unsettled habit of passing from one business to another. You never can be happy by so doing; and if you allow yourself to be carried about to and fro, too long, you will find it almost impossible to get settled down in contentment. There are many in the world that have made themselves unhappy in this way. They have wandered from one thing to another, until they scarcely know what they want to engage in. We say again, seek some lawful and worthy engagement early, and stick to it. The income or success may not be very rapid, but perhaps the more sure. The man that is accumulating property at a regular, though slow rate, is in a more sure condition to gain a fortune, than the speculator, who advances at unnatural strides, and often falls into the arms of poverty as suddenly. It is only by sticking to business that success is sure. So also in study; we must make it our business and stick to it, if we would succeed. We cannot speculate with mind, as with dollars. It is only by perseverance and by regular habits of thought, and investigation, and study, that the mind can be improved, and much wisdom gained. The idle, wandering, careless student, will never have much knowledge. Some will not work, because they cannot get rich in a few months or years; and some will not study, because they cannot become learned in a short time; such, we may say, act contrary to sound reason, and will live and die unhappy and ignorant, and perhaps in want, just because they did not stick to their business. Stick to your business then, young friend, whether it be of a mental or physical nature, and you must succeed in your reasonable wishes. CHEERING WORDS. "AMID the busy crowd That thronged the daily mart, A whisper in the tumult thrown, It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death." |