Look for a moment into this alms-house. Poor people, the wretchedly poor, who were rendered at last, by long destitution utterly unable to work with the rude elements of life, which lay like broken useless tools around them, are gathered here for rest, that they may gain strength for a renewal of their conflict! For a few weeks, and perhaps a longer time, they may dwell in this comfortable shelter, and partake of food, not gathered from the refuse of rich men’s tables—they may partially rest from their hard, unsatisfactory, unproductive labor. Let us hope that Sunlight may not speak vainly to them now, as every day she livens up their new home, let us hope they may understand the cheering messages she brings to them, and as they learn more of the goodness and justice of their Creator than they have ever yet had time to learn, perhaps with more of hope and resignation they will endure their burden. It were well to go through necessity to a poor-house, even if we can find no other school in which to learn the grand lesson of endurance and continuance in well-doing; there, perhaps, it would not be impossible to understand the messages dear Sunlight delivers every day to our unappreciating, slow-hearing minds.
Notwithstanding all our boasted democracy, there is scarcely a being on the face of the earth who embraces with quite such heartiness its principles, and so understands its precepts as—Sunlight. How graciously her hand is laid on the matted locks of those children of want; how lovingly and earnestly is her kiss imprinted on their toil-grimmed faces—how radiantly her smile envelops them. Ah! well-a-day! would there were in human hearts as much of genuine love! No sham-tenderness, nor aristocratic, cold-blooded, repelling fondness, is there in her embracing, stronger than a human heart’s beating is that which proclaims the life that is in her!
See now in this other place, where helpless orphans are collected and cared for, children whose parents have died and left them helpless and dependent on the bounty of the world; Sunlight has not forgotten them either. Kindly hands and charitable hearts have gathered these little ones from hovels of sin, and sorrow, and shame, and nurtured by the good and the wise, in early manhood and womanhood they will be prepared to struggle for themselves, and to bear their own life-burden.
Day after day the affectionate Sunlight visits these assembled little ones, and adds her cheerful blessing to that which God has already pronounced on them, whose love has prompted them out of their abundance to support and comfort the destitute and friendless.
And there is another place teeming with human life, where this good friend of earth and her children comes daily, but where there are very few who may welcome her smiling approach, but few to know certainly of her departure when she is gone. This is the home for the blind.
How many are the fair young faces and graceful, gentle forms and innocent hearts, how frequent are the kindly words in that place; and yet, alas! how small the power to see and know the beauty of the world; how few the eyes to behold the approaching of the fair daughter of the sun! The blind live there, but Sunlight does not shun them! When she enters their dwelling-place unsummoned, and only attended by that glory with which God has adorned her, they may, it is a fact they often do, know that something blessed and heavenly is nigh, because they feel it in their enlivening senses, in the warmth of her caressing. But they may not touch her hand; and when they speak to her she does not answer them; and so they know she is not a mortal, but a spirit who may not speak with an audible voice to them—a spirit though which loves and blesses them!
Let us follow on further in her path, where polished doors are fastened against the intruding world. It is a home of fashion, but from the parlor windows no token of life are seen. The blinds are closed—the dwelling looks uninhabited. But there is life within, ay, and death, too! Around the silver door-knob, and circling the door-bell handle, where the hands of the wealthy and gay have so often rested, (but very rarely those of the poor and needy,) there is wound a scarf of crape, and mournfully the death-token flutters in the morning air. For two days scarcely a form has entered those doors; the sufferers within, however much they may have rejoiced in display in former days, have no wish that there may be spectators to their sorrow.
Yet there is one—a not often heeded guest, though a seldom failing one—who comes to them now they cannot shut her out; she longs to utter some soothing and consoling word. She penetrates to the very scene of their grief. She looks into the silent chamber where the father and mother are weeping over their only child—the child of whom they had made an idol, whom God, who hath said “thou shalt have no gods but me,” hath taken away from them. They have with their own hands laid their child in her coffin, ere long they will see her borne away from them forever; so it is with unutterable sorrow they stand beside that little one and gaze on her pale face. The blinds are closed, and the curtains partly drawn, but through an open shutter the Sunlight enters the darkened room, and drawing near to the bereaved parents, she lays her hand, oh, so gently on the forehead of the child!
The clustering curls which fall upon that brow seem almost illuminate beneath the pressure of that hand—and the mother’s tears fall faster as she looks on the beautiful little one that will be so soon hidden away from the pleasant day-light and the hopes of life. But as the father looks, his sorrow is abated, his voice is lifted up, there is hope in its tone, he says, “Mary, let us weep no longer over our child, her spirit has already won a brighter crown than that the sunlight lays upon her head.”
And the mother’s grief becomes less wild, and humble is the voice with which she makes answer,