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Nature has a voice to instruct, as well as charms to please. No one can walk over the surface of this earth, and gaze upon the objects and scenes that every where cluster around him, and not hear her instructive voice echoed upon his ear from ten thousand points, unless stupidity, or sin have sealed up his senses, and made him deaf as "the adder that stoppeth her ear, and will not hearken to the voice of charmers, charming never so wisely."

Providence, too, has a voice, that speaks with trumpet-tongue in the ear of those who watch the movement of human events—who regard the work of the Lord, and consider the operation of his hands. The fall of every leaf—the opening of every grave, the subversion of kingdoms—the overthrow of empires—every event transpiring around us, reads us a lesson full of deep and solemn instruction.

In the various and diversified developements of human character—whether contemplated in its rougher, or more polished state, there is a vast deal presented to view, from which an intelligent mind may gather very important elements of instruction.

One who keeps his eye out upon these various fields, will scarcely fail to glean something every day, either from nature, or Providence, or the different and ever varying phases of human character, that can be turned to a profitable account both for instruction and pleasure.

There are, however, different kinds of gleaning—and different kinds of gleaner. The caption to this chapter contains an implied pledge, that there is to be brought before the eye of the reader three successive gleaners.—And so we intend it shall be. We will at once introduce you to the first of the three.

Some sixteen hundred years before the first advent of the Lord's Anionted, there lived in Bethlehem a man of wealth and distinction. He possessed extensive flocks and herds, and fields, and all the usual resources of oriental riches. Palestine was then the land that flowed with milk and honey. Though there had been periods when for the sins of the people the heavens were shut, and the dews and rains withheld—till the blight of sterility seemed to have impressed its dreary iron aspect upon every smiling valley and sunny hill:—at the time to which we refer it was not so. That whole region then poured forth its productions most luxuriantly, for the blessing of the Lord was upon the land. And now the season of the barley harvest had arrived, and the reapers went forth with their sickles to cut down the bearded and bending grain.

This opulent citizen of Bethlehem, to whom we have referred, when the rising sun, ascending the deep blue arch of heaven and pouring its full orbed radiance over hill and dale, had drank up the dew drops of morning, rode forth into the country amid vine-clad hills, and beneath groves of olive and palm till he reached his own paternal estate. The bright luminary of day now poured down a full tide of heat and effulgence over the whole surrounding scene. The reapers were plying their glittering steel, and gathering the falling grain into sheaves. The sound of rustic music came upon his ears as he rode along through the fields. It was the song of the reapers. He approached them. They were his own hired servants. Though they were poor, and had to toil for their daily bread, their wealthy employer did not despise them. He was one who feared the Lord, and saw in every human form a brother. Kind were his words as he approached the reapers, and full of pious sentiment—for his salutation was, The Lord be with you.

Those sun-burnt and swarthy laborers, suspending for a moment their toil, respectfully and piously responded, The Lord bless thee. I know not what other pleasant discourse followed. An object of deep interest now presented itself to the rich owner of these grounds. In a distant part of the field was to be seen the slender and delicate form of a young female walking hither and thither to gather up the scattered heads of barley that had escaped the hand of the reaper. Then said he to his servant who was set over the reapers: Whose damsel is this? And he replied, It is the Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi.

That lone female, whose hand was gathering the scattered heads of barley, had known better days. She had been nursed in the lap of ease. She dwelt in Moab. A stranger came there. He had been reared near Siloa's sacred stream. He had been instructed in the divine law and his intellect had been beautified and expanded, and his heart softened and refined by its heavenly teaching. He was young and beautiful, and full of manly dignity. This interesting Moabitess saw the stranger. His dark lustrous eye met hers with an interest that mutually increased till love burned bright in both their bosoms. They were joined in wedded love, and her Mahlon was all her own! No, not all—for death, the insatiable archer, had fixed his eye upon him. Only a short period elapsed, and Mahlon was numbered with the dead! She saw his bright eye forever shut, and the dark grave closing over his pale, unbreathing corse.

Mahlon had a father, but he too had found a grave in that Moabitish land where they now sojourned. Mahlon had a brother, but that brother had fallen beneath the shaft of death, and his dust slumbered fast by the side of his dead father. Mahlon had a mother. Poor lone widow! Her name was once Naomi—pleasant, but now she chose to be called Mara—bitter—for the Almighty had dealt very bitterly with her. She had buried all she most loved in a stranger land. Why should she not now return to her native land—to the altars of her fathers—and the home of her childhood?

Shall she go alone? No—not while Mahlon's widow lives. The hour of parting came. Her two daughters-in-law—for both of her sons had taken them wives in the land of Moab—had already accompanied her several miles on her way to the land of her nativity. But the moment of separation had now come! They stood under a cluster of palms—a cool, refreshing spring sent forth its waters which flowed and gurgled along beside them. All nature smiled around them, but their hearts were sad. This widowed, childless mother—after a long painful struggle of silent feeling, said unto her two daughters-in-law, go return each to your mother's house. The Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead and with me. Then she kissed them each. And they lifted up their voice and wept. How could they part? They said, surely we will return with thee unto thy people.—And she said—nay—I have nothing to offer you: I go back to my country stript of friends, and substance. Therefore turn again my daughters, why will ye go with me?

The deep fountains of feeling were again broken up, and they again lifted up their voices and wept. Then Orpah clasping the mother of her buried Chilion in her arms, fell on her neck, and, sobbing long and loud, kissed her and bid her a final adieu.

Not so the beautiful, but now faded and care-worn Ruth. Hers was a love stronger than death. Many waters could not drown it. She refused to separate herself from the mother of him she had loved. They still lingered under the shade of the clustering palms. Orpah had taken her final leave, and her retiring form had now vanished from their view. The sad widowed mother, now preparing to start on her way, again addressed Ruth, still lingering at her side—Behold thy sister-in-law has gone back unto her people, and unto her gods. Return thou after thy sister-in-law.

But the fair and lovely Moabitess nobly replied—Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. So onward they two went together to the holy land. It was the beginning of the barley harvest when they reached Bethlehem. They were quite destitute, and scarcely knew how they were to provide themselves with the means of subsistence. But the eternal God in whom they trusted, and who feeds the fowls of the air, clothes the grass of the field, and decks the expanded petals of the lily with hues more brilliant and beautiful than those reflected from the shining robes of royalty—had not forgotten the poor—had not forgotten to insert in his law when ye reap the harvest of your land—thou shalt not wholly reap the corners of the field, neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest. * * * Thou shalt leave them for the poor and stranger: I am the Lord your God. This divine injunction was reiterated again and again. When thou cuttest down thine harvest in thy field, and hast forgot a sheaf in the field, thou shalt not go again to fetch it: it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless, and for the widow; that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the works of thine hands. Here was a merciful provision for the poor. The devoted Moabitess who had left country and home for her love to Naomi, was not backward in offering to go forth to glean in the field after the reapers. It was on this errand, that she walked into the country, and patiently toiled beneath the rays of the scorching sun.

It was while thus engaged, that Boaz, the rich Bethlehemite, came to his reapers, and first saw the lovely stranger. How she afterwards sped, those acquainted with the sacred story need not be told. It only remains for us to add, that she gleaned in the field until even, and beat out all that she had gleaned: and it was an ephah of of barley. And she took it up and went into the city; and her mother-in-law saw what she had gleaned; and she brought forth and gave to her that she had received after she was sufficed. And her mother-in-law said unto her, Where hast thou gleaned to-day? and where wroughtest thou? blessed be he that did take knowledge of thee!

This is the first of the three Gleaners. The story of the two that follow will be much shorter.

Circumstances, several years since, led the writer to spend a few days in a secluded little village, in a very retired and beautiful part of the country. It was in the month of August, when the indications of summer were seen on every side—the wheat fields were ready for the hand of the reaper, and during the livelong day there seemed no cessation to the tide of heat that came flowing down from the sun, overwhelming the broad earth and every creature that moved upon it with his fervid influence. The early dawn of morning, and the hour of twilight at the decline of day, seemed to be the only seasons, when one could walk forth with any comfort, to enjoy the rural scenery, that the hand of the Creator had spread with surpassing loveliness around this spot. These seasons were not allowed to pass unimproved. The first morning that I walked forth—while the grey twilight still lingered on hill and dale—casting a sombre, dusky aspect over surrounding objects, as I passed along, refreshed by the fragrant breath exhaled from the fields, cheered by the notes of the feathered tribe who were chanting their early matin lays, and enamored with the glorious scene pencilled on the eastern sky, which brightened and kindled into broader lines of orient radiance every step I took, and every moment I gazed, I saw a young lad, some twelve or thirteen years old, passing by me with a brisk step, but stooping every now and then, to gather up some straws of wheat, that lay scattered along the road. The occurrence, however, awakened no particular attention, and would have been forgotten, had not the same thing been observed in the evening. In returning to my lodgings, after a ramble over the fields on the evening of the same day, I met this boy with quite a bundle of wheat under his arm, moving with a quick step, but stopping every now and then to gather up a single straw that lay in the road.

The next morning, the circumstance had quite passed out of my mind, till suddenly and unexpectedly the form of this boy again appeared before me. He was still occupied in the same manner. He seemed in a great hurry, and yet he stooped to pick up every straw that lay in his path. I felt an unusual curiosity to learn his history, and the motives that influenced his conduct. Upon inquiry, I was made acquainted with the following facts. This lad was an orphan boy, who resided in an old cottage, about a mile distant from where I met him, with an aged grand-mother, who was blind, and very poor. Her children had all gone down to the grave, and this boy was the only representative of her family. The old blind cottager, was one who trusted in the Lord, and believed that he did all things well. She tried to train up her child to a life of industry and early piety. He was a promising lad and seemed disposed to aid his aged grand parent, and contribute to her comfort by every means in his power. Every evening he would read to her out of God's holy book, and in the day he sought some occupation by which he could contribute to her maintenance. At the time I fell in with him, he was in the employ of a wealthy farmer, assisting in securing the wheat harvest. This farmer resided in the outskirts of the village, while the broad fields which he cultivated, lay abroad in lengthening expansion and beauty in the immediate vicinity of his dwelling. Several of his barns were contiguous to his dwelling, so that the wheat when harvested, was principally conveyed from the field where it grew, along the road on which I had taken my walks, to these barns. Hence as one loaded wane after another was driven along, the whole road became strewed with heads and stalks of wheat. This lad, to whom I have referred, rose a half an hour earlier in the morning to go on his way to his daily toil, and lingered a half an hour later at evening on his way homeward to his nightly couch, in order to gather up these wheat stalks that had fallen by the way. These wheat gleanings thus gathered up by the way he every night carried home with him and subsequently threshed, and by steady perseverance in this course was able to obtain a considerable quantity of grain, to afford bread both for himself and his aged grand parent. Was not this a beautiful instance of filial piety? This is the story of our second gleaner—one who gleaned by the way.

Some twelve years since, it was our happiness, to have met a very remarkable man, who seemed to live for one single purpose. He possessed naturally great strength and brilliancy of intellect. While yet a child, a highly gifted mother had laid her plastic hand upon his character, and so directed his education as to bring out the highest powers of his mind in symmetrical development. Thus through the educational advantages he enjoyed, he was prepared to make large attainments, and to gather much information from every field of knowledge through which he walked. As he grew up, he became furnished with most ample stores of learning. He had the power to instruct and to please, and was eminently fitted to act upon other minds. Added to all this—he was a Christian. He had felt the power of a Saviour's love, and had consecrated himself to his service. To him had been committed the ministry of reconciliation, and he was acting as the legate of the skies—the ambassador of the King of kings. This was his business. All the powers of his mind were consecrated to the work of winning souls to Jesus. He still moved around in society. He was still the charm of every circle in which he was found. He did not always speak upon religion. He did not always stand before his fellow men in the attitude of a preacher. He travelled; for his health required it. He walked out into the fields. He looked abroad over the face of nature. He moved amid the circles of his fellow men. He engaged in literary pursuits and scientific investigations. But he pursued nothing to the neglect of ministerial duty. And from every circle in which he moved, from every scene he witnessed, from every company he met, from every field he trod, from every object to which he turned his eye, from every investigation in which he engaged, he gleaned something, by which to throw new charms around religion, and enable him to reach minds through new channels. He never for one moment lost sight of his great business—but was all the time steadily moving forward to the attainment of the object for which he lived and laboured. All his pursuits—all his enjoyments, all his recreations, were made to contribute at least indirectly to the furtherance of that great object. Like the wheat gleaning boy, he went to his daily labour, and relaxed no effort in the business of prosecuting prescribed ministerial duties, yet while going to and from these duties, he GLEANED BY THE WAY. Every flower that spread its expanded petals before his eye, every breath of music that fell upon his ear, every dew drop that glittered in the beams of morning, every little tiny insect that flitted across his path, every landscape that stretched before him, every mountain and hill that pointed upward to heaven, every forest and stream on which his eye rested, every star that hung out its golden lamp on the sable curtain of night, every interview of friendship, every vicissitude of life, every incident of travel, every occurrence whether pleasing or painful, presented to his enriched intellect some new aspect of thought, from which he could glean materials for the instruction of other minds. Thus he gleaned by the way. And through these gleanings he acted upon a thousand minds, that he could not otherwise have reached. He has gone to his reward. He sleeps in the silent sepulchre. But though dead, he yet speaketh. A thousand flowers gathered by his hand from the fields of literature and the scenes of active life, and by his hand planted in the garden of the Lord, still remain, and from their contiguity to Siloa's sacred font, and the blood-stained cross, they bloom with brighter tints, and richer fragrance, and still lead many to approach and fix their eye on that blessed cross, and ultimately to feel its transforming power. This is the history of our third gleaner. And from the history of the three, our readers will be at no loss to determine what suggested to us the idea of entitling this volume gleanings by the way.