My mother's Bible, A memorial volume of addresses for the home

Contents

PAGE

Introduction 7

I. Setting Sail 59

Introduction

This book is the fulfilment of a promise made to myself and to God, as I watched by the death-bed of my mother. It was my purpose then to print for private distribution, some brief account of my mother's life and character; first, as the tribute of a grateful son to the memory of a sainted mother, and second with the hope that the testimony thus given to her cheerful, godly, and unselfish life might be not only a comfort to those who knew her, but a help to others who in trials and comparative obscurity are seeking to lead brave and holy lives.

When my plan became known among my parishioners, past and present, they requested me to change my purpose sufficiently to present a book for general circulation by adding, to the memorial of my mother, such addresses and sermons as might harmonize with some general

8 INTRODUCTION

plan. I have assented to this request, because I could thus secure a larger hearing for my simple tribute, and with the hope of influencing* through the printed page some who are yet in the formative period of their lives, but whom I can no longer reach from the pulpit.

In my dedication I have coupled my mother's name with my churches. I do this because she had visited me in each of my parishes at Acushnet, Mass. ; Broadway, Chestnut Street, and Trinity, Providence ; and Winthrop Street, Boston ; and was greatly interested in all the details of my work. Every day, morning and evening, she was accustomed, with my father, to spend a season in prayer, that God might specially bless the church for which I labored. To the influence of these earnest prayers I believe is largely due the measure of success in winning souls to Christ and upbuilding the church, which God has graciously permitted to attend the efforts of these twelve years of my ministry.

The thought running through the book is, Christianity and the Home. The larger part of the addresses are to young people. The circum-

INTRODUCTION 9

stances of my pastorates, particularly that of Trinity Church, whose Sunday school numbered more than twelve hundred members, have been such as to lay upon me particular obligations in this direction. I have not, however, confined myself entirely to the young. There has always been a warm place in my heart for old people, and I trust some things I have written here will be a comfort to them in their peculiar trials. I have sought to present something which may be helpful from the cradle to the grave. The two biographical addresses and the Memorial Address are in line with the others. "Whispers from White field's Tomb " should inspire our young men with a like devotion and a willingness, if called, to enter the Christian ministry. The vindication of prayer by a coolheaded man of affairs like Stanley ought to help the faith of all. I hope the Memorial Address may stimulate that patriotism which should be a characteristic of every true Christian.

I have selected those addresses and sermons which are in line with my plan, and many of which have been honored in the salvation of souls. No attempt has been made to gain a

10 INTRODUCTION

reputation for scholarship or eloquence: these are simple talks out of my heart to men whose souls I love. I speak to the home because I am satisfied that the great need of the times is home religion. It is time to set up the family altar. I urge it as one who has seen its power.

I acknowledge, in a general way, my obligation to many writers for the young, from whose books I have received helpful suggestions. Among these are Smiles, Matthews, Talmage, Geikie, Mann, Munger, Gladden, and others.

This book is sent forth as a tribute to my mother; and to the end that it may help some souls in the voyage of life, I ask upon it the blessing of my Mother's God.

First among the influences which have formed my life, I must mention the character of a mother. . . .

As I think of her life and all it had to bear, I see the absolute triumph of Christian grace in the lovely ideal of a Christian lady. I never saw her temper disturbed ; I never heard her speak one word of anger, or of calumny, or of idle gossip. I never observed in her any sign of a single sentiment misbecoming to a soul which had drunk of the water of life, and which had fed upon manna in the barren wilderness. The world is better for the passage of such souls across its surface ; they may seem to be as much forgotten as the drops of rain which fall into the barren sea, but each raindrop adds to the volume of refreshing and purifying waters.

The healing of the world Is in its nameless saints. A single star Seems nothing, but a thousand scattered stars Break up the night, and make it beautiful.

TNSTEAD of a formal and extended analysis -*- of my mother's character, I shall allow such incidents and characteristics as best reveal her real self to take their natural place in the following addresses, and thus to tell incidentally the manner of her life. I may, however, be permitted here to tell the simple story of that life, and, since most of these addresses were given prior to her death, to speak of the quiet victory of her closing hours.

Clarinda ( Healy) Goodell was born in Dudley, Mass., July 20, 1812. She was of Puritan ancestry, and her ancestors had lived in the town of her birth from the time of its settlement. An accident in her childhood was nearly fatal, and she felt the painful effect of it all her life. Passing along a pathway where a lighted candle had been carelessly left, her clothing took fire, and before it could be extinguished she was teru ribly burned. She lost the use of her limbs and the power of speech, and did not recover these for several years. A naturally strong constitution enabled her to regain to a fair degree the use of her powers, although her health was never good. The death of her father when she was five years old left her mother with three children to care for, — Becca, afterward the wife of Waldo Williams, a woman of strong religious character and marked ability, who is now living in the eighty-seventh year of her age ; and Hezekiah who was accidentally shot when a youth. Her mother was a woman of affairs, and she so managed her business interests that a comfortable dower remained to each daughter. The strictest economy had been practised during these years, and had come to be a part of the life of the family. They were taught that it was not only unwise to be in the least degree wasteful, but also that it was a religious duty to be economical. This feeling remained with mother all her life, although it was only exercised that her own might not want, and that she might have more to give to others.

June 15, 1836, she married Warren Goodell, of Woodstock, Ct., and began housekeeping in the house where she was born, and which she never left for any length of time. Of this union five sons were born, four of whom are still living. Her husband began the manufacture of shoes, and continued it with varying success until the failures of 1857 swept away what little he had accumulated. From this he attempted to rally ; but the war soon came on, and two of his sons left for the front. Soon after the business was given up. While mother was never able to work rapidly, she seemed to work incessantly. Her lamp was the last in the viltage to go out at night, and the first to be lighted in the morning. Her patience in the hard conditions of life was simply marvellous. Every detail of the home life was religiously attended to. Rarely could she be induced to go beyond her own door save to the church she loved. Her natural habit of mind was hopeful and cheery, and no one entered her presence without feeling at ease. A more guileless and unselfish spirit never walked the earth. I never knew her to speak an unkind word, much less an angry one. When some personal gossip was retailed in her presence, she would go quietly on with her work, and if appealed to for her opinion would invariably defend the accused, or, if that were impossible, would say, " You know we must speak well of people as long as we can, and when we cannot it is better to be silent." Bishop Mallalieu says of her, in an obituary in Zion's Herald, " In her was richly manifested the fruit of the

Spirit. Love, joy, peace, longs uffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance, abounded in her daily life and conversation." Although keeping so closely to her home, she was interested in every reform and all matters of public weal. That she was a patriot at heart is evidenced by the answer she gave when some one asked how she felt when her three boys came to talk with her about enlisting in ' 61. " I felt very badly that it was necessary for them to go, but if they had not spoken to me about going I should have spoken to them." Remembering her love for her country, I have the more readily given place in this volume to a patriotic address.

Next to her love for her home was her devotion to the church. Father was a Methodist, and mother before her marriage was a member of the Congregational Church. Even then her soul was greatly exercised and disturbed by the Calvinism of the day. She heard the Methodists preach free salvation, she read their books, and came shortly through the force of her convictions to become a Methodist, and that at a time when it cost something to do so. There was no Methodist church in town, but father and mother were anxious that one should be erected. They offered the lot next to their own dwelling, and the offer was accepted. Until the little church was built, services were held in their house. It was a happy day for them when their efforts were crowned with success, and they could worship in a Methodist church. For forty years father was its sexton, as well as class-leader and local preacher. There were men of gigantic faith in that church, and more men have gone from it into the ministry than from any other church with which we are acquainted. Through removals and death the congregation was broken up, and no regular services are now held there. The building may go to decay ; but Methodism may well thank God that it has had an existence, for the men converted at its altars are giving to God of their substance enough to build many such churches every year. Some of us love the old church still, because it was our birthplace, and because every board and timber was consecrated by the prayers of godly men and women.

Into this church my mother's heart was built. When it prospered, she rejoiced; when it languished, her eyes were a fountain of tears. In other places I shall speak of that devotion and Christian living at home which make my father and mother the highest ideal of the Christian I have ever met. Because our house was literally under the droppings of the sanctuary, it became the rendezvous, between morning and afternoon services, of all who came from a distance. It was mother who prepared the cup of tea for the woman with a headache, who found the proper medicine for the suffering child, who provided a lunch for the hungry boy, who entertained the preachers who came on exchange, who gave the presiding elder the best the house afforded, while father led his horse to oats in the barn. On Wednesday afternoon a woman's prayer-meeting was held in our house which mother led for many years ; and on Saturday night the chairs were set around the kitchen against the wall, the lamps put on either side of the clock on the shelf, and we were ready for the class of which father was leader. I see them gather. Oh, that I could hear them as of old ! Aunt Sally, whose husband, Rev. Hezekiah Davis of precious memory, had swept through the gates like an Elijah years before ; Uncle Henry, who shouts as the chairs are filled and others brought in, " Glory to God ! see the troops gather ! " These are gone home, and only the children remain. With such scenes as these my sainted mother and devoted father are always associated in my mind.

Mother greatly enjoyed the church papers and magazines. The ZiorCs Herald and the Guide to Holiness she especially prized. When her children received remembrances from her, at Christmas or other times, a Guide would frequently be found in the package, and we knew mother felt that to be the most valuable of her gifts. I have in my possession nearly a score of note-books which mother filled with choice religious thoughts, some of them original, and others copied from her range of reading. Her hands trembled in the last years of her life, so that it was with difficulty she could write ; and yet here are scores of pages carefully written out, the blessed truth of the words making her forget the pain of the effort. Here are a few of the sentences to which I open.

" Divine providences are dark, but the divine promises are light." " The gate is too strait to carry through one sin." " No craft, however small, was ever wrecked on the ocean of love." " Can I pray before beginning it, is a good test of doubtful actions." " We are apt to see God more in his judgments than in His mercies."

I pass with regret over the many precious incidents from long years which crowd my mind. These, which are so full of comfort to me, I cannot touch, save as I do it incidentally in pages which are to follow.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate

Is privileged above the common walks

Of virtuous life, quite on the verge of heaven."

Mother grew weaker rapidly during the summer months of 1890, and we all beheld it with alarm. We came to see, during the late autumn da}^s, that the time had come for the reapers who are the angels. One after another, her sons came, on notice of her weakness, and for many days watched together around her bed day and night. " The Lord bless them, every one of them ; they make my last days happy," said the dying mother. Her aged sister also sat often with them. For such an hour mother had been preparing for sixty years. Death had laid aside every terror, and it was more like the hush preceding a coronation than like an hour of mourning. She longed to be with Jesus, and said again and again, " Why does the chariot wait so long ? " Her religious life had not been marked by exuberance of joy, but rather by great peace. Her last hours were in harmony with this. When father asked, " Do you feel happy ? " she replied with emphasis, " I feel my soul stayed on God." She had often spoken in life about dying grace, and had been fearful that she might not receive it. "I said long ago I was afraid God wouldn't give me patience. But He gives me far beyond what I expected."

" Sing to me," she said ; and we sang, " Jesus, Lover of my soul," and then another hymn, composed by her life-long friend, Dr. Jefferson Hascall, —

" My latest sun is sinking fast, My race is nearly run ; My strongest trials now are past, My triumphs are begun."

"How can we live without you, mother?" cried one of her sons, through his sobs.

"You'll have a mother in heaven," was her truthful and comforting answer.

But the end was drawing near, and it came as gently as the sun goes down. He who led her to the marriage altar fifty-four years before held her wrinkled hand. Her sons stood around her bed. The last prayer had been said, and ended with her triumphant " Amen ! " Slower and slower, fainter and fainter, ran the life-current, until at last the weary wheels of life stood still. And there, just below the room where she was born and next to the room where she was married, her pilgrimage on earth ended. At rest, the peace of God in all her looks ! It seemed as if, when the gates opened for her departing spirit, something of the glory fell upon the face of clay ; for when we arose from prayer her husband said, "She never looked more beautiful."

On the day appointed, her sons bore her away, and, within sight of the home and the church so loved of her soul, on a matchless Indiansummer day, they laid her to rest.

Thus have I kept my promise, and fulfilled the words which I would write over her grave,

" Her children arise up and call her blessed."

T HESITATE to speak publicly upon so per- -*- sonal a theme. Contending emotions stir my heart, — thankfulness for the teaching and associations of a holy life, sorrow that all this can be henceforth but a memory. Two thoughts constrain me to hide my own emotions so far as I can, and give to you this chapter out of my life : first, that I may pay some humble tribute to the memory of my now sainted mother, and second, that I may show, to the glory of God, the wonderful power of this blessed Book to instruct and sustain. Influenced by these motives, I hope I may voice for the good of some soul a message from this silent witness which I bring here to-night, — My Mother's Bible !

" What household thoughts, around thee as their shrine, Cling reverently! of anxious looks beguiled, My mother's eyes upon thy page divine

Each day were bent: her accents gravely mild Breathed out thy lore; whilst I, a dreamy child,

Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away To some lone tuft of gleaming spring flowers wild, Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play, 23

Some secret nest; yet would the solemn Word, At times with kindlings of young wonder heard,

Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be A seed not lost, for which in darker years O book of Heaven ! I pour with grateful tears

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee! "

But here is the old family Bible. Not one with double clasp, gilt back, and full morocco binding, with colored marriage certificate, and two pages for photographs ; not the kind which is enveloped in its own dignity, and seems to say to any who would venture to open its stiff clasps, " I am only to be looked at. The Bible they read is in grandmother's room." A hundred years ago they read less about the Bible, and more out of the old Book itself.

The imprint of this book proves it to have been born with the opening of the present century. After grandmother had begun housekeeping at the old Black Tavern, grandfather brought it from Philadelphia, on his way home from Washington, whither he had been to make application for a patent for the first water-loom in America. This was just at the beginning of of the War of 1812. The title-page reads: " Printed and published by Matthew Carey, No. 122 Market St., Phil. Embellished with three maps and twenty-seven Historical Engravings." Four generations have admired those wonderful engravings ; and on some of them is left the imprint of the too-eager hands of youth. A generation has passed since we looked at them with mother's finger to point out each well-known picture, and her sweet lips to tell again the oft-repeated story. Here is Moses in the bulrushes ; Isaac on the altar, and Abraham with one hand on his son's head, while in the other he holds the sacrificial knife. An angel is just appearing in the corner, while on the other side a lamb is disclosed in the thicket. Looking on a little, David is seen with his harp of solemn sound, and, farther still, the minor prophets appear. In the New Testament the wise men kneel by the infant Jesus, and offer their spices, and gems. In the temple the wonderful child confutes the doctors. Here he sits — sweetest picture of all — with his hand on the head of a little child. Again, from the judgment-hall, buffeted and despised, the Christ goes forth to his crucifixion.

Measured by certain laws which we have learned in wiser but less happy years, these plates are not a great success ; but we have never seen any line engravings in store or museum which have so profoundly moved us, or left upon our hearts such abiding impressions. Here is the old family record, some of its entries made nearly eighty years ago. The handwriting is as angular and exact as the lives of the men who wrote here the simple annals of birth, and marriage, and death. It is quite the fashion in certain quarters in our city to sneer at the rigid exactness of our Puritan ancestors. In answer we say, men judge of laws and systems, as well as of trees, by their fruits. While our grandfathers' ways were ofttimes unlovely, they produced a civilization which has become the marvel of the world, and made New England the synonjmi of highest mental and moral achievements on two continents.

The ancestors of both father and mother came to this State with Gov. Winthrop, two hundred and fifty years ago. The records of this old book go back to 1729. Here are the good old Bible names of Joseph, Lemuel, and Hezekiah, Rebecca and Mary; and in two short lines the brief history of each is told.

But this old book is chiefly of value now for records of quite another kind, — records which tell of the soul's experiences rather than the simple passage of time. Fifty years ago my grandmother lay dying, and gave this book into my mother's hand. So, for a half century, it has lain on the stand in the living room, within easy reach. It watched the soft hands which turned its pages become hard with toil, and then began to tremble with the weight of years. It saw bright eyes grow dim, and glasses laid upon the open page. It watched the children come and go, smiling upon us in its silent way as it disclosed its pictures to our boyish gaze ; admonishing us in the temptations of youth, and speaking tenderly to us, like an old friend, as we went back to its pages after the lapse of years. Time ploughed its ridges in the graveyard, — some for blossoms, and some for the tall and bearded grain, — still this book lay in its place, and whispered its messages of hope and immortality. I have often heard mother tell how her baby who died before I was born, when he saw her weeping, as she came back from the churclryard, threw back this very cover and cried out, as if he read the words, " The Lord he is God, the Lord he is God ! " The dust could not gather on its covers, for the duties of no day were begun until the family had turned to it for comfort, for wisdom, and for help. It saw the children go, one after another, until father and mother were alone. There they sat side by side, as they did fifty years before. Their chairs are close together; the old man holds the aged hand as lovingly as he held the hand of his bride, while in tender tones, this old book open upon her lap, she reads the words of life. A few years ago they decided to read the book in regular succession, and mark each chapter as they read ; and here you may see over every chapter five marks, and six as far as the Book of Samuel. So in the afterglow of life they sat and read through five times this book, which David said shall be " a lamp unto my feet." Is it any wonder that they could say, "At eventide it is light " ?

Is it strange that they were familiar with the Bible, or that we who loved them prize beyond gold the pages turned so often by tender, trembling hands ?

It was mother's custom to write opposite a passage the name of the preacher who had used it for his text in the little church at home. These make up an interesting record. Some of the preachers are now pastors of great churches, secretaries, and bishops, and many of them have passed to the church triumphant above.

But I prize the old book most for the heart history which is written here. As I open it, I read on the title-page, in the handwriting of my mother, " O Book of Life, how blest thou art ! " There are many tear-marks upon these yellow pages, for they were often read when crape was on the door, or some precious life hung trembling in the balance. In 1861 my brothers bade their mother good-by, and marched to the field of battle. After one of those fearful battles in the Wilderness, the youngest was reported wounded. In a little time a telegram came from Washington, " If you wish to see your son alive, come at once." Father took the next train for the capital ; and mother, feeble and almost broken-hearted, betook herself to prayer. It was in that day of awful anxiety that this old book, wet with tears, lay open in her lap, and she left her testimony to a Christian's faith by putting in brackets that triumphant strain from the 23d Psalm, " Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil ; for thou art with me ; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." Some years ago I read at home a chapter at morning prayers. It was the fortyfirst chapter of Isaiah. Mother stopped me at the tenth verse and said, " Isn't the word precious written there ? " " Yes," I replied, " how came it? And how happened you to remember it ? " " I can never forget it," she said. " It will be forty years next spring ; father had gone away to preach [they never called each other by any name but father and mother] and would not be back for three months.

That was years before you were born. I had four boys, the youngest two years old. It seemed to me I could not bear the burden of my anxiety and loneliness, and in my agony I went to the Bible, as I had so often done before. I opened the book, and put my finger on the page at random, and that was where it rested, ' Fear thou not ; for I am with thee ; he not dismayed, For I am thy God ; I will strengthen thee ; yea, I ivill help thee ; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." It was then that I wrote the word precious there. I have never been the same woman that I was before that reading. Whenever I am troubled or in sorrow, one look at the verse and the pencil mark comforts me." Last month I met the man who was then her pastor, and he spoke of the marvellous change which came into her life, a change so marked that all the church felt it. Though she had shrunk from public speech up to this time, at the next prayer-meeting she led in prayer, and it was a second Pentecost. Her pastor relates that a class-leader touched him and said, " What a power! She prays like an angel from heaven! " Thus, throughout this book are scattered these triumphant vindications of the promises of God, proven in the thick of the battle. They were strong enough before ; but is it nothing that they bear my mother's attestation, " Tried and found true " ? In sickness, for she hardly knew a day without pain for forty years ; in the parting from friends, for she had followed many to the churchyard, and often looked upon these pages through a mist of tears ; in the loss of property, for she had suffered much at the hands of her friends ; in burdens without number, for she had many and peculiar trials, — in all these sorrows she had written here, to last as long as these old pages endure, the triumphant exclamation of the dying Joshua concerning the promises of God, " Not one thing hath failed thereof."

This old book carries me back a generation, to those delightful Sunday afternoons in my childhood. I remember how I stood at her side, and and looked up in her sweet face. It was wrinkled even then, but the wrinkles were the marks of smiles and not of frowns. She thought so much of heaven that her eyes unconsciously followed her thought ; and in every hour of meditation they were turned upward, till she bore upon her brow the marks of hopeful expectancy. It was under such circumstances that I learned the sweet stories of the Bible, and heard about the Christ who loved little children. Thus we hallowed the Sabbath in our humble home. With mother's arms around my neck, and my head against her shoulder, I could not fail to love the words she read, "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you" In tired, lonely hours I am fain to say, —