Part 4

Amy Blackstone never spoke of her cross; she bore it in silence without complaining. Her father was a drunkard—her mother never entered the house of God. If she heard the name of the Holy One uttered in her home, it was but in an oath or a profane jest. She never complained, as I have said; for, while others would have been complaining, she was praying. Fervently did she pray for her unhappy parents—fervently for herself, that evil example might not draw her from God. Many a silent tear she shed over her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us” (Rom. viii. 18).

All pitied Ellen Payne, for her cross was sharp. A lingering, painful disease had taken the strength from her limbs, the colour from her cheek. She never rejoiced in one waking hour free from pain, and often the night passed without sleep. The doctors gave no hope, medicine no relief. She had nothing to look forward to but pain, increasing pain, till she should sink into an early grave. This was her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life” (Rev. ii. 10).

Jane White had been a deserted child; she had never known a parent’s care. She seemed one of the neglected, despised ones of earth, with none to love her, and none to love. She felt lonely and desolate. This was her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up” (Ps. xxvii. 10).

Ann Brown lived with her aunt. Few of the girls were better dressed, or seemed more comfortably provided for, than she. Had she, then, no cross to bear? Yes; for she dwelt with a worldly family, who laughed at her for being “righteous overmuch.” When she would not join in profaning the Sabbath—when she showed that she cared not for gay dressing or ill-natured gossip—she became the object of ridicule and scoffs, more painful to bear than blows. This was her cross; but sweet was the inscription upon it: “If ye suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are ye: and be not afraid of their terror, neither be troubled” (1 Pet. iii. 14).

Mary Wade’s cross was in the depth of her own heart—the struggle to conquer a passionate, violent temper. She desired to obey God, she wished to live to his glory; but sin seemed too strong for her; she yielded to temptation again and again, until she was almost in despair. Her health had been bad when she was an infant; much of her peevishness and impatience were owing to the effects of this. But no one seemed to make allowance for natural infirmity; her companions did not like her; and, worst of all, she felt that she was sinning, and bringing discredit on the Christian name. Poor child! hers was an unpitied cross; but there was hope in the inscription upon it: “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. x. 13).

Elizabeth Brown was a sad little girl, but none knew the cause of her sadness. She had once been the most thoughtless child in the school, full of mischief, full of gaiety, never thinking of God. Her heart had been on earth—her only wish had been to enjoy herself. Much trouble and sorrow had she given to her gentle teacher, much grief to her pious parents; for she had laughed at good advice, and cared little for punishment. But now the gay child had grown thoughtful: a text heard at church had struck her, and sunk deep into her heart: “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit, shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting” (Gal. vi. 7, 8). What had she been sowing for eternity? She thought of her neglected Bible, her broken Sabbaths, words of untruth and of unkindness, her mother disobeyed, her teacher disregarded! Could God forgive her after all that she had done? Would he ever admit her to heaven? She feared that her sins were too many to be pardoned. This fear was her cross. Oh! praised be God for the precious inscription upon it: “The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin” (1 John i. 7). Jesus said, “Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out” (John vi. 37).

Blessed are they who thus mourn for sin, _for they shall be comforted_. Blessed is the sorrow that worketh repentance! Blessed are they who so bear the cross that they shall inherit the crown!

XI.

THE TWO COUNTRIES.

When walking through the streets of London, have you not sometimes met a party of strangers, and felt sure that they belonged to another land, because they spoke not the English tongue? Had you listened to them, you would not have understood them; they conversed in the language of their own country.

My young friend, _what language do you speak_? If I knew but that, I should soon guess to what country you belong.

Perhaps you answer, “I am English. I know no language but my own.” True, in one sense you are English, and you may thank God for it! You were born in England, and here may spend all the years or days of your mortal life. But your real country is in another world, where you will _live for ever_! Thousands and millions of years may pass, but you will be still remaining in the country which you have chosen. So, again I ask, What language do you speak? To what country do you belong?

The one is a bright and glorious place, where sorrow and pain are unknown. Its citizens are angels and redeemed saints, who, with shining crowns and harps of gold, rejoice before the throne of God. The language which they speak is TRUTH.

The other country is too terrible to describe. Happiness never enters there, but pain, grief, and remorse abide for ever! Its inhabitants are the tempter and his evil ones—hardened sinners who would not repent, who chose the broad way that leadeth to destruction. And what is the language which its citizens have learned? The language of Satan is FALSEHOOD.

O my dear young reader, with anxious love would I once more repeat my question—let your heart answer it—_What language do you speak—to what country do you belong?_

Yet, mistake me not. There are some whose lips were never stained with falsehood, who yet cannot be counted among the citizens of heaven. The proud, the self-righteous, who trust to their own merits, who love not the Saviour who suffered for all,—these may have learned the language of truth, even as foreigners may learn the tongue of our land; but they belong not to the country of holiness and joy.

And others there are who have fallen into sin, whom the “father of lies” has tempted and deceived; yet God’s mercy may prepare a heavenly home even for them, if, believing and repenting, they turn to the truth. Thus, St. Peter thrice uttered a terrible falsehood, but repented with bitter tears, and, through the atoning blood of his Lord, was received into heaven a glorious martyr.

But oh, dread a falsehood as you would dread a serpent; it leaves a stain and a sting behind. If you have ever been led into this deadly sin, implore for pardon, like St. Peter. Like St. Peter, when _next_ placed in temptation, speak the truth firmly, faithfully, fearlessly; for truth is the language of heaven.

There are four chief causes which lead to the guilt of lying—_folly_, _covetousness_, _malice_, and _fear_. Examine your own life, and see if any one of these has ever tempted you to utter a falsehood.

It was _folly_ which made Richard tell a traveller the wrong road when asked the way to the next village. He thought little of the _sin_ of his lie—it seemed to him but an excellent jest; but the jest cost a neighbour his life! The stranger was a doctor, travelling in haste to attend a patient who had been taken with a fit. Richard’s falsehood made the medical man lose half an hour, when every minute was precious. Oh, what anxious hearts awaited his arrival! But he _came too late_; he found the sufferer at the point of death, with his desolate family weeping around him!

It was _covetousness_ which made Sally declare that her fruit had only been gathered that morning, when she knew it to be the refuse of yesterday’s market. Did she forget that God’s eye was upon her—that her words could not pass unnoticed by him—that she would have to answer for them at the day of judgment?

It is _covetousness_ that makes Nelly stand begging in the streets, telling to passers-by her pitiful tale of a father in hospital and a family starving. Will the money which she gains by falsehood and hypocrisy bring with it a blessing or a curse? Oh, “What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” (Matt. xvi. 26).

It is _malice_ that makes Eliza invent strange stories of her neighbours. She delights to spread a slander, or to give an ill name. She mixes a little truth with a great deal of falsehood, and cares not what misery she inflicts. Whom does she resemble? _Not_ the citizens of Zion. What language does she speak? _Not_ the language of Heaven.

It was _cowardice_ which drew Peter into falsehood when asked who had broken the china vase: he dreaded a blow; he _dared not_ speak the truth. Do you not blush for him, little reader, who feared _man_ rather than _God_?

How different is Margaret Lacy! Neither covetousness nor cowardice could ever make her pollute her lips with a lie. She serves a God of truth; she is learning on earth the language of heaven.

She was met one day returning, with a sorrowful step and tearful eye, from a house to which she had gone to try for a place. “Well, Margaret,” said Mrs. Porter, “why so sad? I fear that you have not succeeded.”

“No, indeed,” sighed the poor girl.

“And how was that? I thought that you were pretty sure of being settled there comfortably.”

“Why,” replied Margaret, “the lady asked me why I had left my last place; so I told her that both I and the cook had been sent away because a bank-note had been lost in the house.”

“You were not so mad as to tell her that?”

“It was _the truth_,” calmly answered Margaret. “What else could I have told?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Porter, “at that rate you will never get a place.”

“God help me!” said poor Margaret, meekly. “He will not let me starve for obeying his word. I never touched the bank-note.”

“I believe you,” answered her neighbour; “for I do not think that you ever spoke an untruth in your life.”

And Margaret _did_ get a place. Carter, the butcher, engaged her the next day. “Say nothing against her to me,” he cried. “I know the girl; she would sooner touch red-hot iron than money that was not hers. And as for _truth_, I’d take her word against the oaths of a dozen!”

Once, as Margaret was cleaning out the parlour, not perceiving her master’s new watch, which lay on the table concealed by a newspaper, she threw it by accident down to the ground. Startled and alarmed, she raised it and put it to her ear, longing to hear the regular beat, which might show that it was unhurt. Alas! all was quite still—what mischief she had done! Margaret dreaded her master, who was a passionate man; she dreaded, perhaps, losing her place. She might have replaced the watch on the table, and said nothing; its stopping might be thought accidental. But Margaret would not stoop to _hide the truth_ any more than to tell a lie. With a beating heart and a trembling hand she carried the watch to her master, and confessed the whole truth. Was she dismissed or struck, as she had feared that she might be? No; Carter, vexed as he was, could not but admire her honesty and candour.

“Well, Margaret,” he cried, “were your life to depend on it, I don’t believe you would buy life itself with a lie.”

Can this be said of you, reader? If not, oh, pray for forgiveness of your sin, and for grace from _this hour_ to forsake it. May God enable you to speak the truth from your heart, and to learn upon earth the language of heaven!

XII.

DO YOU LOVE GOD?

The following anecdote was given as _a fact_ by a clergyman at Hampstead, in a sermon to children:—

A gentleman, travelling on a railway, was much struck by the vivacity of a lovely little girl about five years of age, who, with her mother, happened to be travelling in the same carriage, and he took a great deal of notice of the child. About ten minutes before the train reached the station at which the lady and her daughter were to alight, the little one went up to the gentleman, and putting her lips close to his ear, asked softly, “Do you love God?”

The traveller, who apparently was not a devout man, was so startled by the unexpected question, that he coloured to the roots of his hair; and the child, seeing his confusion, and probably frightened at her own boldness, retreated, and hid her face on her mother’s bosom until the train stopped at the station.

But her solemn question had sunk deep into the mind of the traveller. “Do you love God?” he repeated to himself again and again. For a long period the words haunted him, till at length he was able to give to them the only reply which a true Christian can give.

About two years afterwards, the gentleman happened to be in the town at which he had left his little fellow-traveller on that never-to-be-forgotten day. While passing along it, he fancied that he saw at a window the face of the mother of the child. His desire to see the little one to whom he owed so much was so great, that he could not refrain from knocking at the door and introducing himself to the lady. Upon seeing her, he inquired after her lovely child. The lady was dressed in mourning. God had sent her heavy affliction; her sweet girl now slept in the silent tomb. The mother took the stranger to a room, in which were laid out various trifles which had belonged to her darling.

“It may interest you to see these,” she said; “these are all that remain of my child.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed the traveller; “here am I!” and he related to the wondering parent how the word spoken in season by those infant lips had been the means of leading him to his God.

Even that feeble child had done her work for her Master before he called her to her rest; even that feeble child had been given a soul to be her “joy and crown of rejoicing for ever.”

O dear young reader! how would you now answer that whispered question, “DO YOU LOVE GOD?” Could your heart give the reply, “_I love him because he first loved us_”?

XIII.

THE IMPERFECT COPY.

“Always busy at your drawing, Edwin?” said his elder brother Henry, as he entered the school-room one morning.

Edwin looked up for a moment with a smile, and then went on tracing with evident pleasure the outline of a face. His brother came behind him, and looked over his shoulder; Edwin listened for his remarks, though without ceasing to draw.

“You are taking pains, I see,” said Henry at last in a kindly tone; “but I am afraid that you will have to use your india-rubber here, and here; these lines, you may perceive, are not in good drawing.”

“I don’t see much wrong in them,” replied Edwin, suspending his pencil, with something of vexation in his tone, for he had expected nothing but praise.

“If you compare them with your study, you will perceive that all this outline is incorrect. Where is the study?” asked Henry, looking in vain for it on the table.

“Oh, it’s somewhere up-stairs,” said Edwin. “I remember very well what it is like, and can go on without looking at it every minute.”

“Would you oblige me by bringing it?” said his brother.

Edwin went up-stairs, rather unwillingly, and soon brought down a beautiful study; a face most perfect in form and expression.

Henry silently put the two pictures together. Edwin gazed with bitter disappointment on his own copy, which but a few minutes before he had thought so good.

“I shall never get it right!” Edwin exclaimed, in a burst of vexation; and snatching up the unfortunate drawing, he would have torn it asunder, had he not been prevented by his brother.

“My dear Edwin, you have doubly erred; first in being too easily satisfied, and then in being too easily discouraged.”

“I shall never make it like that beautiful face!” cried the disheartened boy.

“You need patience, you need help, you need, above all, often to look at your copy.”

Edwin took up the pencil which he had flung down, and carefully and attentively studied the picture. He found very much in his copy to alter, very much to rub out; but at last he completed a very fair sketch, which he presented, with a little hesitation, to his brother.

“I shall have this framed, and hung up in my room,” said Henry.

“Oh, it is not worth that!” exclaimed Edwin, colouring with pleasure and surprise.

“Not in itself, perhaps,” replied Henry; “but it will serve often to remind us both of an important truth which was suggested to me when I saw you labouring at your copy.”

Edwin looked in surprise at his brother, who thus proceeded to explain his words:—

“We, dear Edwin, as Christians, have all one work set before us: to copy into our lives the example set us by a heavenly Master. It is in the Bible that we behold the features of a character perfect and pure. But how many of us choose rather to imagine for ourselves what a Christian should be like! We aim low; we are content with little progress; we perhaps please ourselves with the thought of our own wisdom and goodness, while every one but ourselves can see that our copy is wretched and worthless.”

“What are we to do?” asked Edwin.

“We must closely examine the study set us in the Bible; we must compare our lives with God’s law; and we shall then soon find enough of weakness and sin to make us humble ourselves before God. When we read of the meekness and gentleness of Christ, we shall be ashamed of our own passion and pride; when we find how holy was our great Example, we shall be grieved to think how unlike to him we are.”

“We can never make a good copy,” sighed Edwin; “we may just give up the attempt at once.”

“You judge as you did when you wished to tear up your picture in despair, as soon as you saw how imperfect it was. No, no, my dear boy; I say to you now, as I said to you then, you need _patience_, you need _help_, help from the good Spirit of God; and, above all, you need to look often at your study, to keep the character and work of your Lord ever before your eyes.”

“But if I do my best, I shall still fall so short!”

“I know it,” said Henry gravely; “but feeling that you never can reach perfection here, should not prevent your aiming at it. God will complete his work in the hearts of his servants, not on earth, but in heaven. There the copy, feebly commenced below, shall be made a likeness indeed! For what says the Word of God: _We know that when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is_!”

“To see the Lord, and to be made like him; it seems too much to hope for!” cried Edwin.

“It is not more than God has promised,” replied Henry, “to those who come to the Saviour by faith. Worthless as our copy is in itself, it will be glorified, made beautiful, made perfect; and will be raised to a place of honour in the mansions of our heavenly Father!”

XIV.

A STORY OF THE CRIMEA.

I daresay that you have heard of the war in the Crimea. Perhaps you have a father or a brother in the army, and have often listened to stories of the brave and noble conduct of our soldiers on the terrible field of battle. I am going to tell you of one of the bravest and noblest actions that happened during the whole course of the war, though my hero never drew a sword nor fired a musket at the Russians.

After the fearful battle of Alma, when the victory had been won by the English and the French, after the cannon had ceased to roar or the foe to fight, a long painful task remained for the victors—to attend to the wounded and to bury the dead.

At last our poor sufferers were removed to the ships, and only mounds of earth showed where hundreds of the killed lay in their bloody graves; and the army was ready to move on to attack the enemy in another place.

But more than seven hundred poor fellows were still stretched on the ground—not, like the dead, beyond reach of earthly pain, but covered with wounds and gore—some with their legs and arms shot away, some unable to move, groaning in terrible agony, and wishing in vain for death to put an end to their misery.

And who, do you think, were these wounded men? They were Russians, and our enemies! Their bayonets had been red with the blood of our brave soldiers; they had fired the shots which made so many widows and orphans in England. And now, what was to be done with all these miserable sufferers? Our army could not carry them along with it; they must be left behind. Poor helpless Russians! if none dressed their wounds, they must perish; if none gave them food, they must starve.

There was a British surgeon, of the name of Thomson, who resolved to separate himself from all his friends, to stay behind to take care of his wounded enemies. We may fancy that he had a long struggle in his mind before he could decide upon this generous act. Selfishness might whisper to him many reasons for leaving the poor Russians to their fate.

“What!” we can imagine some friend saying to the surgeon, “would you remain here alone in the midst of enemies, some of whom, it is said, have even fired at Englishmen who were bringing them relief. If the Tartars should attack you, who will defend you? You cannot depend upon these wounded Russians. Then think of the labour which you are undertaking. No one man can possibly dress the wounds of seven hundred; you can only help a few, or die yourself of fatigue. No, be wise; leave these wretched men to the chance of some of their own people coming to assist them; you know that there is not one amongst them who would not have willingly killed you, had it been in his power.”

Dr. Thomson may have heard words such as these, but they did not change his generous resolution. The British army marched away; he and his soldier-servant remained behind, saw their friends and comrades all disappear in the distance, and then turned to their noble but sickening work,—binding up the ghastly wounds of their enemies.

Do you not think that Dr. Thomson deserved a rich reward for all this? I do not doubt that he has received a reward, but not from man, for his labours of love shortened his life. In a few days the generous, self-devoted surgeon followed to the grave the brave soldiers who died fighting for their Queen. And shall not his name be honoured as well as theirs? We trust that he died prepared for the great change, full of faith and hope as well as charity; and we may also trust that some of those whose lives he had been the means of saving lived to know their Saviour, and to serve God upon earth, and that they will one day meet their generous friend in heaven.

But it is not of Dr. Thomson that I would speak to you now, but of One of whose mercy and love all the noblest deeds of his servants are but as a faint, dim shadow.