Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing

Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness and conceit; and as to writing—in his opinion a man was never thoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in black and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in life, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry and integrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face as he exclaimed, "What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well, we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter. Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it shall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification."

He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume, which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhat surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one, the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12, and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty giver.

I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned his back, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered, and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last entrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old Royal Almanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer's ignorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the only impatient word I ever heard from his lips: "Do you wish our friend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of this lost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift. And what of it? Yesterday I did not care a straw for an almanac; but in a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. Every day has its to-morrow. Besides, I assure you it is a very improving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd of princes never mentioned in history, and of whom, up to this moment, I have never heard any one speak."

And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never failed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend happened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of its success, and would say to me at each time: "It appears I have made him a famous present." And thus the two guileless natures were content.

Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of poor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powers of motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at last, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued to smile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if his very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching his bed, inquired if he wished for a drink; he made a slight movement of his eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of the rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like a taper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished—he looked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I watched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his kindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day; he had entered on his eternal To-morrow.

TO AN ABSENTEE

O'ER hill and dale, and distant sea,
Through all the miles that stretch between,
My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would, though worlds should intervene.

Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks,
The farther we are forced apart,
Affection's firm elastic links
But bind thee closer round the heart.

For now we sever each from each,
I learn what I have lost in thee;
Alas! that nothing less could teach
How great, indeed, my love should be!

Farewell! I did not know thy worth;
But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized:
So angels walked unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognised.

THE WHITE DOVE

THE little Lina opened her eyes upon this world in the arms of her father, the good Gotleib. He kissed the child with a holy joy: "For," said he, "now is a thought of God fixed in an eternal form;" and he felt that a Divine love flowed into this work of the great God—this also thrilled his warm, manly heart with a wondrous love. He felt the inmost of his being vibrating as with an electric touch, to the inmost of the little new-born innocent. But the rapture of the young father was altogether imperfect, until he had sealed his lips in a love-kiss upon those of the fraulein Anna, who lay there so white and beautiful in the new joy of a young mother. Like an innocent maiden, she twined her arms around Gotleib's neck, and grew strong in the influx of warm life that flowed into her responsive cares of the husband of her heart. Then Gotleib held up the newly-born Lina, and the mother's lips touched the soft cheek of the tiny little one with a living rapture, as if all of Heaven were embraced in this heart-possession.

And Gotleib knelt by the bedside, and thanked God for the beautiful gift of love with a pious awe and holy joy—large tears stood in the eyes of Anna. As he rose from his reverent posture, he kissed off the bright tears even as the sun exhales dew-drops from a pure flower, and said,

"Dost thou weep for joy, sweet one?"

And Anna said,

"Once—not long since—I had a dream—a beautiful dream—that this day has been realized. I dreamed that I was in a quite heavenly place—yet the place was as nothing—it was the state—for I sat with an infant in my arms—a bright innocent little one—and, thou, dearest Gotleib, knelt beside me; and an angel-woman stood near us, in a soft heavenly glory, and said, in low musical, spirit-words—'Behold the fruit of the union of good and truth.' And then, methought, thou didst embrace me with a new joy of love, and whispered, 'an angel of God is born of us.' This little one is the dream-child, dear Gotleib."

Thus beautiful was the birth of the little Lina, who grew, daily, in a pure innocent loveliness. While she is expanding in the first days of her new, breathing, sensitive life, we will go back to the former life of Gotleib and Anna.

Gotleib Von Arnheim had first seen the light in this same small cottage, on the confines of the Black Forest of Germany. He was born with a large, loving heart. But the father and mother, and the dear God, were the only beings on whom his affections were fixed; for his sensitive nature shrank from the contact of the honest-hearted, but rough peasant neighbours, that made the little world of their simple life. But soon death came, and the good father left the earth for the beautiful Heaven-world. The little Gotleib missed his kind father; but his mother told him of the bright inner life, and how his father yet lived and loved him; and the heart of the boy was comforted: he felt a sense of elevation in having his father, whom he had known so familiarly here upon earth, now the companion of angels, and living in such a bright and beautiful world.

Ah, life had to him such an inner beauty; and, when still, dreamy moments of leisure intervened between his work and play, he revelled in such dreams of fancy, as lent light and life and joy to his whole being. But the death of the kind father had not only carried the boy's fancy to the other world; it was also drawing the mother's heart away to the fair spirit-land. Gotleib saw his mother's face growing thin and pale; he knew that she was weak—for oftentimes, in the long winter evenings, as he read to her from the holy word of God, her hand would drop wearily with the raised spindle, and she, who was never before idle, would fold her hands in a quiet, meek resignation. At such times a tremour would seize the boy's heart. The mother saw it; and, one night, when his fixed tender gaze rested on her, she raised her spiritual eyes to his, and said,

"Dear Gotleib! thou wilt yet have the good God to love."

"Ah, mother! mother!" cried the boy, "wilt thou, too, leave me?"

His head was bowed upon her knees in bitter grief, the desolation of earth was spread like an impenetrable pall over his whole future. Suddenly he looked up, full of a strange, bright hope, and said,

"Mother, I too may die."

Then the mother put off her weakness, and long and loving was the talk she held with her dear boy. She told him that from a little one he had ever loved God; that the first word he had ever pronounced was the name of the Holy One. She had taught him to clasp his tiny baby hands and look up and say "God," ere any other word had passed his lips. She had named him Gotleib, because he was the love of God to her, and he was to be a lover of God. As she talked, the boy grew strong and calm, and said,

"Yet, oh, my mother! God is so great for the heart of a small child. God is so high and lifted up in the far heavens, that I feel myself but as a tiny blade of grass that looks up to the far sun—dear mother! the earth will be too lonely; ah, there is no hope but in death."

"No, my son," said the mother, "there is a beautiful hope for the earth also. I will tell you what will make you love God more truly than ever."

The boy was fixed attention.

"Thou didst not know, dear Gotleib, that when God created thee a strong, brave boy, He also created a tender, gentle little maiden, like unto thee in all things, save thou wert a boy and she a maiden. Thou wert strong and able to work, and she gentle and born to love thee."

"Where is she?" inquired the excited Gotleib.

"I know not," replied the mother. "But God knows, and He will watch over the two whom He has created, the one for the other; and, on earth, or in heaven, the two will meet. Is it not better, then, not to wish to die, but to leave all things to the will of God? For what if thy little maiden is left alone upon the earth, and there is no strong, manly heart upon which she may lean, and no vigorous arm to labour for her, how will her spirit droop with a weary, lonely sadness? No, my son, live! and the joy of a most beautiful, loving companionship, may yet be thine. The earth will not be desolate ever to thy orphan heart, with this beautiful hope before thee."

Thus, in the cold wintry night of a dark sorrow, did the good mother plant a living seed of truth, that afterwards sprang up into a vernal flowery Eden, that bloomed in the boy's heart with an eternal beauty.

When the early spring came, Gotleib looked calmly and lovingly on the beloved mother, who was leaving for the inner world. Death was beautiful to him now; it was simply the new birthtime of a mature, living soul.

The spirit of the mother's love seemed to linger over the home of his childhood, and it was a great sorrow to leave the cherished spot; but, his mother told him he was to seek a brother of hers in the distant town of Heidelberg. As Gotleib turned from the now voiceless home of his parents, a fervent desire arose in his heart that he might again be permitted to dwell beneath this sheltering roof and amidst its living associations.

The boy went forth into the unknown world, with a living trust in his heart in the great God. His was a simple, childish faith, born of his love—to him God was not a mystery. It was a Divine personality he loved. Jesus had walked the earth, and his father and mother also—all were now spirits, none the less to be loved and trusted than when upon earth; but now they were to him in transcendent states of glory. The Lord Jesus, as being infinitely great and glorious, was the alone One to whom he now looked for help—though ever as he knelt to pray to GOD, he felt that his angel-mother bowed with his spirit, and by her prompting beautiful words of humiliation and praise came to him, that he himself could never have thought of; hence the affections of his heart all grew up into the inner spirit-world.

And years passed in the good town of Heidelberg, years that brought blessings to the orphan boy as they flew. The God in whom he trusted had provided for him—had awakened a friendly kindness in many warm hearts. And Gotleib, who was at first designed by his relatives to spend his days over the shoemaker's awl and last, at length found himself, by his own ardent exertions and the helpful kindness of others, a student in the University. This was to him a most pure gratification—not because of a love of learning, not because of ambition, to attain a position before his fellow-men. Oh! it was quite otherwise with the good youth—he had one object in life. The hope that his dying mother had awakened in his heart was the guiding star of all his efforts. That little maiden created for him, and to be supported by him! The image was ever before him. Yes, he was a student for a high and noble use. Science was to be to him the instrument of a life of love and blessedness. To do good to others, and thus to provide for the maiden, was what led him to the arduous study of medicine.

It mattered not that cold and hunger and toil all bound him in an earthly coil. The warm, hopeful heart has a wonderful endurance. The delicate, attenuated form of the young student seemed barely sufficient to hold the bright and glowing spirit that looked out from his soft eyes, when he received his degrees. The desire of his life was growing into a fruition; and when he returned to his poor lodgings, a sense of freedom, of gratitude, and of delight, crowned his yet barren life. To work! to work! seemed now the one call of his being; but, whither was he to go? There was the childhood's home, to which his heart instinctively turned; but, alone and desolate, he could not dwell there. Gotleib had not forgotten his mother's lessons; he knelt and prayed to God for guidance. Even as he kneels, and feels his spirit in the sunshine of God's presence, there is a knock at the door, and the good Professor Eberhard enters. He has marked the student in his poverty and toil, and feels that he will now hold out a helping hand to the young beginner. As professor of anatomy, he needs the quick eye and delicate hand of an expert assistant.

Gotleib looked upon the Herr professor as Heaven-sent, and in a few days was installed in all the luxury of a life of active use.

Years passed away, and (sic) Gotlieb Von Arnheim sighed with a man's full heart for a woman's sympathy and responsive affection. He had seen bright eyes gleam and soft cheeks flush at his approach, and he had looked wonderingly into many a sweet face. But he had not yet seen the little maiden of whom his mother spoke—who was to be the reflex of himself. All these German maidens were altogether different from—and his heart remained unsatisfied in their presence. He felt no visions of eternity as he looked into their friendly faces.

Sometimes hope almost died out. But his trust in God seemed to forbid the death of this sweet hope. Often he said, "the good God would not have created this intense desire in one so wholly dependent upon Him, were he not intending to satisfy it." At all events, he thought—"If the maiden is not upon earth, she is in heaven." So he worked and waited patiently.

The wintry winds were howling, as it were, a wild requiem over the lordly ruins of the crime-stained castle of Heidelberg. Cold, and bitter, and clear was the starry night, when the weary Gotleib issued out of the Herr professor's warm house to answer the late call of a sick woman. Gotleib looked up into those illimitable depths where earths and suns hang suspended, to appeal to the material perceptions of man that this is not the alone world—the alone existence. The silent bright stars comforted the earth-wearied heart in which the day's toil had dimmed the spirit's perception. Gotleib stepped on bravely through the frosty darkness, and said hopefully to himself,

"There is yet another world—another life than this."

And now he stood before the house in which his services were needed. He entered a chamber, whose bare poverty reminded him of his student days. But far sadder was cold poverty here, for a lady lay on a hard couch before the scantily furnished grate, and her hollow cough, and the oozing blood that saturated her white handkerchief, rendered all words unnecessary.

A young girl, with blanched cheek and tearless eye of agony, knelt by the wan sufferer. Gotleib felt himself in the sphere of his life's use; cold and fatigue were alike gone. The sick and almost dying woman seemed to revive under his touch—it was as if strength flowed from the physician into the patient. His very presence diffused an air of hope and comfort through the desolate apartment, and the kind serving-girl, Bettina, who had guided him to the humble lodging, seconded all his active efforts to produce warmth and comfort, and soon returned with one of his prescriptions—an abundance of fuel for the almost exhausted grate. The cheerful blaze threw its strong light upon the young girl, who at first knelt in hopeless grief beside her dying mother.

What was it that thrilled the heart of Gotleib, as he looked upon this young maiden? Was it her beauty? No! he had seen others more beautiful. Was it her sorrow? No! he had seen others quite as sad. But, whatever it was, Gotleib felt he had met his destiny; the fulness of his being was developed to him; and, all unconsciously, the maiden turned to him as the Providence of God to her. She seemed to rest her troubled heart upon his strong understanding. He said her mother would not die immediately, and she grew calm.