Chapter II: Part 2

“After this I beheld, and, lo, a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues, stood before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, and palms in their hands. And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are these which are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they? And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said to me, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes” (Rev. vii. 9, 13-17).

“_Lord, carest thou not that we perish!_”
How oft is the cry of despair,
When affliction’s waves roll,
And the agonized soul
Scarce can utter its anguish in prayer!

Yet the Saviour is watching beside us,
His eye cannot slumber nor sleep;
The bark which he guides,
Where his presence abides,
Can never be wrecked on the deep!

Oh! how soon would our inward fears vanish,
Our souls smile at perils without,
Could we hear his mild love
Thus our terrors reprove,—
“_Ye of little faith, why did you doubt!_”

Lord, make us trust ever in thee,
Though our frail bark by tempests be driven;
Till thy sovereign will
Bid the rude waves “_be still!_”
And we rest in the haven of heaven!

VIII.

THE SABBATH-TREE.

It was on a bright Sunday afternoon that the teacher, Willy Thorn, on returning from church, met three of his scholars sauntering towards one of the London parks. They perceived his approach at some little distance, and instantly began to conceal in their pockets something that they had been carrying in their hands. Their nearness to a very tempting stall, upon which fruit and sweetmeats were sold, made Willy guess too truly the cause of the hasty movement. He thought it better, however, at first to take no apparent notice of the fact that the boys had been breaking the Fourth Commandment by buying upon God’s holy day.

“Well, my lads,” said Thorn, when he came up to them, “you are going, I see towards the park. I will go with you; we will enjoy the fresh air and bright sunshine together, and perhaps have a little discourse, which may be profitable as well as pleasant.”

The boys were usually very fond of the society of Willy Thorn; but just now, with their pockets full of cakes and nuts, they would have preferred being without it. However, no objection was made; they reached the park, and seated themselves under the shade of a large tree, for the sun was hot, and the shelter of the foliage was pleasant on that sultry afternoon.

Willy Thorn looked upwards at the leafy boughs which hung above him, through whose screen a long bright ray, here and there, pierced like a diamond lance. “This tree has put an allegory into my mind,” said he. “Boys, are you in the mood for a story?”

A story was always welcome, and in the expectation of being amused, the scholars half forgot that their teacher’s presence was delaying their intended feast.

“Methought,” began Thorn, “that I had a dream; and in my dream I beheld a large and venerable tree. It was several thousand years old—so you may imagine its size; but it showed no signs of age; its leaves were as fresh, its fruit as abundant, as when the Israelites of old encamped under its refreshing shade. This tree was called the SABBATH-TREE. It was given by its Lord as one of the richest blessings which was ever bestowed upon man. Freely might all partake of its fruit; but all were forbidden by a voice Divine to break even the smallest bough from the sacred tree.

“I saw in my dream that many thronged to the spot where the Sabbath-tree rose, like a beautiful green temple, in the midst of the plain; and I stood aside to mark the effect of its fruit on those who came to gather it. It strewed the ground in some places so thickly, that it shone like a carpet of gold.”

“I suppose,” said Bat Nayland, one of the boys, “that the fruits of the Sabbath-tree are,—going to church, praying, praising, and reading the Bible?”

Thorn smiled in assent, and continued: “I saw one haggard man come, faint with hunger, to the spot. He threw himself down on the soft grass, and fed eagerly on the nourishment freely provided. And I marked joy on his pale face as he ate of the fruit of the Sabbath-tree, and I remembered the holy words, _Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled_.

“I saw an aged woman reach the tree. She was so feeble that she had hardly power to stoop to gather the fruit; but as she tasted it, her strength returned, her bent form became more erect, she walked with a firmer step, and I remembered that it is written, _They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength_.

“Next, a miserable sufferer approached; on his countenance was an expression of pain. He was sick—grievously sick of the malady of sin, fatal to all who cannot find a cure. But he knew the healing powers of the tree. He fed, and even as he fed health returned to his faded cheek, the anguish of his soul passed away, and the sufferer found himself whole.”

“I thought,” said the eldest of the boys, “that there was but _one cure_ for sin!”

“True, most true,” replied Thorn, with an approving look; “but in due observance of Sabbath duties, we learn how to seek and where to find that cure.

“I had watched in my dream, with a rejoicing heart, thousands gathering the precious fruit, and receiving nourishment, strength, and healing; but now, alas! my attention was attracted by yet greater multitudes, who thronged to the spot only, as I became painfully aware, to break and injure the beautiful tree. Some enemy had hung up a hatchet on its trunk, with _Disobedience_ marked on the handle, and of this numbers made very free use to cut down large boughs from the tree.

“‘I am going on a jovial merry-making in the country,’ cried one; ‘I and my family shall have a treat. I want some wood to mend up my broken car.’

“‘Hold!’ exclaimed the youth who had been healed, attempting to stay the hand of the Sabbath-breaker; ‘are there not _six_ groves nigh at hand?—had you not better cut what you want from them?’

“‘No!’ cried the man impatiently, swinging the hatchet aloft; ‘there is no tree so convenient as this!’ and for the sake of a little pleasure in the country with merry companions, he cut a branch from the Sabbath-tree!

“Then came a woman with a face full of care. She had not faith to trust in him who clotheth the lilies, and provideth for the ravens. ‘I want wood for a stall,’ said she, ‘whereon to sell my sweetmeats. I must earn some more pence for my living; necessity owns no law;’ and taking the hatchet of Disobedience, she also brought down a leafy bough, treading under foot as she did so a quantity of the ripe, precious fruit. Not content with thus breaking the Sabbath herself, she demanded that those who bought at her stall should each bring, in addition to their money, a fagot stolen from the holy tree!”

When Thorn came to this part of his story, his scholars glanced consciously at each other. They all now felt convinced that their teacher was aware that they had been buying from a stall on Sunday.

“It was grievous,” continued Thorn, “to see what multitudes trampled on the Sabbath fruit, broke away twigs, snapped branches, to help on their business or aid their amusements. Some wanted wickets for cricket, one man required a handle for his spade; and though a very little delay would have enabled them to procure wood from a lawful quarter, they were too thoughtless, too covetous, or too impatient to reverence the Sabbath-tree.

“But soon I beheld in my dream, that while none could faithfully partake of the fruit without benefit, none without injury could break off a single branch. As I watched, much did I marvel to see how disobedience brought down punishment! The man who had repaired his car by Sabbath-breaking, had little pleasure from his intended treat. As he was driving from a public-house, suddenly a wheel of the vehicle came off, he and his party were flung out on the road, and sorely bruised by the fall. In some cases, the wood so unlawfully taken appeared to turn at once into dust! The man digging with his Sabbath spade, found it suddenly snap asunder, and the splinter ran into his hand, inflicting a terrible wound.”

“Oh, but how could that be?” exclaimed one of the boys. “Many a fellow goes larking on Sunday, and the wheel of his car never comes off! I don’t know what this part of your story can mean.”

“It means,” replied Willy gravely, “that disobedience to God, the wilful breaking of his holy commandment, unless the sin be repented of and _renounced_, is certain to bring punishment in another world, and _very frequently also in this_. There are multitudes of lost, miserable sinners, who may trace their first steps on the path of ruin to _breaking the Sabbath of God_. No one ever yet, on his death-bed, could say that he _really profited_ by money so gained, or that he had no reason to regret a pleasure gained by disobeying his Maker’s command.

“The poor woman who sold sweetmeats, I found in my dream, was not long in suffering the penalty of disobedience. In one of the fagots so sinfully laid upon her stall, the serpent Remorse had lain coiled, unnoticed, unseen! As she was counting her unholy gains, made by not only sinning herself, but causing others to sin, the fierce reptile darted at her breast!—with difficulty was the serpent torn from its hold, and the poor sufferer sank on the ground, bleeding, fainting, trembling at her danger, and weeping for her sin! It was some time before she was able feebly to creep to the spot where comfort and healing might yet be procured by a proper use of the fruits of the Sabbath-tree.

“While the poor woman was in sorrowful penitence, doing all that lay in her power to show her regret for the past, the boys who had purchased at her stall—who had wilfully broken the Sabbath, not to supply real wants, but to indulge their own greedy inclinations—”

“I’ll tell you what _one_ of them did, sir!” exclaimed Bat Nayland, springing up from the ground: “he just emptied his pockets of what he had bought, said that he was heartily ashamed, and seeing an old lame beggar near, he gave every crumb of his purchases to him!”

And suiting his action to his words, off darted the boy, and astonished a ragged old man on crutches, by bestowing upon him at once all his cakes and his nuts!

Dear young readers! if any of you have been tempted to disobey your Master’s commandment, by buying on the day which the Lord hath set apart for himself, oh, consider it not as a trifling transgression.

Resolve with prayer henceforth never to break the smallest twig from the Sabbath-tree, but to feed on its sacred fruits with faith, and hope, and love. Be assured, then, dear children, that they will become sweeter and sweeter to your taste, and prepare you for the enjoyment of that _Tree of Life which is in the midst of the paradise of God_.

IX.

THE WHITE ROBE.

“What was that noise in the street?” exclaimed Mrs. Claremont, laying down the pen suddenly. Ella sprang to the window.

“O mother, something must have happened! some accident! there is a crowd collecting round a poor little girl!”

“We may be of some use!” cried Mrs. Claremont, and she and her daughter were at the street door in a few seconds.

“What is the matter? is any one hurt?” inquired the lady of a milk-woman who was standing looking on.

“A child knocked down by a horse, I believe, ma’am. They should take the poor thing to the hospital.”

Mrs. Claremont waited to hear no more; the crowd made way for her, and she was soon at the side of a young girl who was crying violently, and the state of whose crushed bonnet and soiled dress showed that she had been down on the road.

“I don’t think there’s any bones broken, only she’s frightened,” observed a baker among the spectators; “I saw the horse knock her down as she was crossing the road.”

“Come this way, my poor child, out of the crowd,” said Mrs. Claremont, leading the little girl towards the house; “we will soon see if the injury is severe.”

The weeping child soon stood in the hall; hartshorn and water was brought to her by Ella, but on tasting it, the girl pushed it away in disgust, in a peevish and irritable manner. In vain Mrs. Claremont sought for any trace of injury; the road had been soft after much rain, and not a scratch nor a bruise appeared; yet still the girl cried as if in agony of pain or of passion.

“Where are you hurt?” inquired Ella soothingly; the child only answered by a fresh burst of tears.

“I am thankful that no harm seems done,” said Mrs. Claremont.

“There is harm!” sobbed the girl; “all spoiled, quite, quite spoiled!”

“What is spoiled?”

“My dress, my beautiful new dress!” and the ladies now observed, for the first time, the absurd and unsuitable manner in which the child had been clothed. Now, indeed, her finery was half covered with mud; but the pink bonnet, though crushed, the white dress, though stained and torn, the gay blue necklace, and hair in curl-papers, showed too plainly the folly of the wearer.

“What is your name?” inquired Ella.

“Sophy Trimmer.”

“Where does your father live?”

“He lives just round the corner.”

“You should be very thankful that your life has been spared,” said Mrs. Claremont.

Sophy did not look at all thankful, she only glanced sadly down on her torn dress, and whimpered, “Just new on to-day.”

“You remind me,” said the lady, “of a story which I read in the papers some years ago. A lady was going in a vessel to Scotland, and carried with her a quantity of jewels to the value of a thousand pounds. She thought so much of these jewels, that she was heard to say, that she would almost as soon part with life itself as lose them. An accident happened to the vessel on the way to Scotland; the water rushed into the cabins, and the poor lady was taken out drowned.”

“That is a shocking story,” said Sophy.

“She could not carry her jewels with her to another world. But there is one ornament which even death itself has no power to take away.”

“What can that ornament be?”

“An ornament more precious than the crown of the Queen, ‘the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is, in the sight of God, of great price’ (1 Pet. iii. 4). The poorest may wear this—the rich are poor without it. O my child, care not to appear fair in the eyes of your fellow-mortals, but in the sight of God; your ‘adorning, let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible’” (1 Pet. iii. 3, 4).

“What do you mean by ‘corruptible?’” said Sophy.

“That which time can destroy. Nothing in this world lasts for ever: flowers bloom and decay; the fruit which was delicious one week, the next is only fit to be thrown away; the loveliest face grows wrinkled; the finest form must soon turn to dust in the tomb.”

“I don’t like to think of such things,” said Sophy; “they make me sad.”

“They would make us sad, indeed, were this world _our all_. But we look forward, in faith, to a place where there is no corruption, no change, no death, because _no sin_; we hope to wear white robes in heaven which will never be defiled with a stain. Do you know, Sophy, what makes them so white?”

Sophy shook her head.

“We are all weak and sinful, less fit to appear before a holy God in our own righteousness, than you are to enter the Queen’s palace in those soiled garments. It is ‘_the blood of Jesus Christ which cleanseth from all sin_;’ through his merits, and his mercy, you may appear spotless before the judgment-seat of God, if you believe in him now, and ‘_keep yourself from idols_.’”

“I have nothing to do with idols,” said the girl peevishly.

“More perhaps than you think. _Anything that you love better than the Lord_ is an idol. The miser loves money best; that is his idol.”

“Like old Levi, who half starves himself to scrape up pence,” interrupted Sophy.

“The ambitious man makes power his idol—some make their children their idols.”

“Like Mrs. Porter, who—”

“Hush,” said Mrs. Claremont, “you have nothing to do with the idols of your neighbours; try and find out what is your own.”

“I do not think that I have any.”

“Do you then love God with all your heart? Is it your chief business to serve him; your greatest delight to do his will?”

“No; of course, I like to amuse myself like other people.”

“Have you ever given up _any one_ thing to show your love to him who made you?”

Sophy looked vexed, but made no reply.

“Whom do you like best to please? Whom do you like best to serve? Have you no idol which you decked out this very morning in all the finery which you could collect?”

“I suppose that you mean _myself_.”

“Yes; _self_ is the idol of the vain, their hopes and joys are bound up in self, therefore their hopes and joys are amongst the corruptible things which must pass away. O my young friend, the foolish pleasures which you felt this morning in these fanciful clothes, in one moment was changed to pain; and but for the mercy of God, your own poor body might now have been lying crushed and lifeless. Why rest your happiness upon that _which cannot last_, and which may, any hour, be taken away from you for ever?”

“Gay, gaudy clothing always gives me a feeling of pain when I look upon it,” observed Ella; “I believe that with so many it has been the first step to misery here and hereafter.”

“It is like the gay bait on the hook,” said her mother, “not in itself deadly, but covering a fatal snare. Oh, ‘love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever’” (1 John ii. 15, 17).

X.

CROSSES.

There was unusual silence in the little Sunday school when Ella Claremont, its gentle teacher, entered it for the first time in deep mourning. All had known of her sorrow; all had heard that her brave young brother had died of wounds received in battle in a far distant land. They thought of him whom they had seen some few months before so bright and happy, with a smile and a kind word for all, now lying cold in his bloody grave; and there was not a heart in the school-room which did not feel sorrow and sympathy.

Ella could not at first address her school; her words seemed choked; the tears gathered slowly in her eyes; but she found strength in silent prayer, and spoke at length to her pupils, but in a trembling voice.

“Dear children, I have had much sorrow since we last met and talked of the joys of heaven—a beloved brother has, I trust, through Christ’s merits, joined the bright hosts rejoicing there. But should not I meekly bear the cross which my heavenly Father sees good to send me? To every one passing through this life is given a cross—a trial to bear. To some it is so light that they scarcely feel it; with others so heavy that it bows them to the dust. Each of you knows, or will know, its weight. But let none be afraid nor cast down. The cross prepares for the crown. There is something from God’s Word inscribed on every cross; and if we have but faith to read it, it makes the heavy, light; and the bitter, sweet! ‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord’ (Rev. xiv. 13), is the inscription on mine.”

Every one passing through life has some cross to bear! Yes; amongst those young girls assembled in the school-room there were some whose trials were deep, who had much need to read the inscription to make them endure the burden.

Dear reader, are you in trial? Have you known what it was to weep when you had none to comfort you—to wish that the weary day were over, or the more weary night at an end—to wonder why God sent you such sorrows? For you I now write down what were the crosses of some of the children in Ella’s school; for you I write down what were the inscriptions upon them. Perhaps you may find amongst them the same trial as your own, and feel strengthened to bear your cross.

Mary Edwards was very poor—hers was a heavy cross. One of seven children, and her father blind; often and often had she come to school faint with hunger and sick at heart. But for the kindness of friends, the family would have been half-starved. Mary had never known what it was to have a blanket to cover her; very seldom had she been able to eat till she was satisfied; her clothes had been mended over and over again, to keep them from falling to pieces; ill did they protect her when the cold wind blew through the broken pane, or found its way through the crevices in her miserable hut. Yet Mary had comfort in the midst of her poverty; she remembered him “who, though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor.” She had read the inscription on her cross: “Hath not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised to them that love him?” (James ii. 5). And Mary would meekly repeat the hymn of good Bishop Heber:—

“The cross our Master bore for us,
For him we fain would bear;
But mortal strength to weakness turns,
And courage to despair.
Then pity all our frailty, Lord,
Our failing strength renew;
And when thy sorrows visit us,
Oh, send thy patience too!”

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.

And first let me ask you, dear child, Do you know what _sin_ is, that from which all sorrow comes? It is sin that causes cruelty and strife in the world. It is _sin_ that gives a worse wound than any sword or cannon-ball; for they may destroy the body, but _sin destroys the soul_.

And now let me ask you another question: Do you know that we are all by nature wounded by sin; that we are all unable to help ourselves, even like those poor Russians; that if left to ourselves we must all die—I mean, _lose the everlasting life of heaven_?

Yes; this was the state of the whole world. It was all lying in wickedness, therefore lying in danger; and not one of us could have been saved—_no, not one_—had not the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, taken pity on our sad state, and left heaven and all its glory, its light, and its joy, to come and labour to help miserable sinners. Not only did he labour, but he _died_ to save us; he suffered himself to be nailed to the cross, that he might heal the wounds which sin had made, and give us health and life never-ending!

But perhaps you will say: “I do not think that I am among the wounded. I do not think that I need any one to save me.”

Oh! my child, have you ever thought over your life, or recalled your actions, words, and thoughts, during _one_ day? Have you never been disobedient to a parent, or unkind to a companion? Has your mouth never spoken words that were ill-natured or false? Have you never been proud, discontented, or selfish? Does not your conscience tell you that you have been wounded by sin? Now, let me tell you how you may find healing.

And, first, you must _believe on the Lord Jesus Christ_; you must believe that he _died for sinners_, and that he is willing to save all who ask him for pardon and mercy.

Then you must be sorry for and leave off your sins, praying to God to help you to amend. A child who says that he repents, and then goes and sins just as readily as before, is like a wounded man who, when the surgeon has dressed the injured place, tears off the bandage and will not let it heal.

And oh! you must love the Saviour with your whole heart. Can you help loving him who has loved you so much? Think of the glory which he left; was it not left for you? Think of the blood which he shed; did it not flow for you? Think of the death which he endured; was it not borne for you?

XV.

“I HAVE A HOME, A HAPPY HOME!”

I have a home, a happy home,
And friends to love me there;
With daily bread
I still am fed,
Have still warm clothes to wear;
I’ve health and strength in every limb,—
How grateful should I be!
How shall I show my love to Him
Who shows such love to me!

Many are blind, or deaf, or lame,—
I hear the sweet birds sing,
Can bound along
With joyful song,
Can watch the flowers of spring.
No wasting pain my eye to dim,
From want and sickness free;
How shall I show my love to Him
Who shows such love for me!

And blessings greater still than these
A gracious God has given,—
The precious word
Of Christ our Lord,
To guide my feet to heaven.
Among the shining cherubim
I trust my home shall be;
How shall I show my love to him
Who shows such love to me!

My God! I am a feeble child,
Oh, teach me to obey;
With humble fear
To serve thee here,
To watch, and praise, and pray!
My love is weak, my faith is dim,
But grace I ask from thee,
That I may prove my love to him
Who loved and died for me!