Chapter II: Preface

To those who have happened to read my two former volumes, "Pictures of St. Paul," and "Pictures of St. Peter in an English Home," the Hartley Brothers will already be familiar, for this little work is a sequel to their story. There would have been more symmetry in my arrangement, could I have given the third book the title of "Pictures of St. John," but this could not be accomplished. We know too little of the career of "The Apostle of Love" to treat his history in the same way as the histories of "The Apostle of Faith" and "The Apostle of Hope;" while St. Peter and St. John are so often mentioned together in the Gospels, that much going over ground already trodden would have been rendered inevitable. All that the writer has been able to do is to try to represent the spirit of the disciple whom Jesus loved, as exhibited in those who in modern days tread in his steps. As the Bible itself may be said never to grow old, so the characters of those of whom we read in the Bible are reproduced, generation after generation, in such as are followers of the early Christians. We look on such plants in our gardens now as Adam himself may have tended; in like manner the fruits of the Spirit never die out, they reappear in every age; love, joy, peace are perennial wherever true Christianity exists.

A.L.O.E. may once more remind her readers that she is a Missionary, only employing her pen as supplementary work to humble labours amongst the natives of India, to help on that work by supplying her purse. If writing interferes with evangelisation, the pen ought at once to be laid aside; but practically it does not interfere: it is a handmaid, and not a rival.

And so A.L.O.E. sends forth this book, this child of her old age, to do such humble work as the Lord may permit it to do, looking to Him for the blessing without which all labour is vain.

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

FROM A. L. O. E.

OFTEN, at the festive season, young people want some new amusement to give pleasant occupation in wet days, and during dark evenings. A.L.O.E. has written this little poem to supply such a want; if well learned by heart, and clearly recited, it may make children's parties go off more pleasantly, and, it is hoped, more profitably also. A.L.O.E.'s dear young readers—and perhaps families of old readers also—may welcome this small New Year's Gift, sent across the wide sea from a Missionary's home in India.

(The Old Year comes to bid good-bye to certain, young people.)

OLD YEAR.

When first, my young friends, I came to this place,
('Twas almost a twelvemonth ago),
With joy you beheld my merry young face,
Though my beard is now white as the snow.
I gave each a book, on its pages to trace
A journal, as days onward flow;
Now what's in it writ,
Let me look upon it,
For I very much want to know.

CHORUS OF YOUNG PEOPLE.

Oh! What's in it writ,
Let us look upon it,
We all very much want to know.

FIRST BOY.

In my book there's a great deal of pleasure and fun,
Ninety-nine games I played, yes, and three matches won!
A ball came and hit me right in the eye,
I was made for three days in darkness to lie,
But I jumped up again, for I "never say die!"
I lost one whole day in a troublesome thicket;
There's little put down but of racing and cricket!

OLD YEAR.

Oh! Look at your pages, look at them, do!
The idle fish-insect has nibbled them through.
Let play have its place—
The game and the race,
But duty comes first in a noble boy's case.

SECOND BOY.

My book tells a great deal of lessons and work,
For I go at my reading and sums—like a Turk,
Make nothing of Grammar, noun, pronoun, or verb;
My hand-writing, too, you will please to observe.
Oh! Was I not proud when I got the first prize,
Overcoming a chap I dislike and despise!
My greatest delight was to see his surprise,
For he counted himself so exceedingly wise.
He'll never beat me, if for ever he tries!

OLD YEAR.

Oh! Quick turn aside,
Such pages to hide,
They are blotted all o'er with ill-nature and pride!

SICK CHILD.

I've been so long ill, I've had little to write,
For months it was pain, both by day and by night;
I tried to be patient, indeed I did try
Not to give so much trouble, and never to cry,
But sometimes a tear came, and sometimes a sigh!
Oh! How much I owe to my dear Mother's care,
Her smiles and her soothing, her sweet words of prayer!
I'm sure, but for her, I'd have died in my pain,
But I'm getting so well and so happy again!
I think you will find,
On each page, underlined,
That God is so good, and my Mother so kind!

OLD YEAR.

And sickness, we find,
Left a blessing behind,
The rose-leaves of patience, a spirit resigned.

A GIRL.

My journal looked much like a milliner's bill,
With lace and with lappets, with flounce and with frill,
With choosing and trying,
And fitting and buying,
To fashions applying,
The looking-glass eyeing,
'Twas all rather frivolous, there's no denying.
A spark fell on my book,
Oh! Look at it, look!
'Tis almost as black as a raven or rook!

ALL.

Oh! Look at it, look!
'Tis a cinder-like book,
There's nothing to show for the time which it took!

A LAD.

I scarcely remember a word that I wrote;
There was nothing to praise, and little to note;
Three hundred and sixty-five days went so fast,
I scarce could believe when we came to the last.
But many a blunder and fault there has been.

OLD YEAR.

I cannot find one, they are blotted out clean.
I see against sin you have manfully striven,
Each fault was mourned over, confessed and forgiven,
Then effaced by the blood-purchased mercy of Heaven.
But other things stay, quite forgotten by you,
In bright golden letters they flash on the view;
I think that the hand of some kind angel wrote
The actions you thought were too trifling to note.
Let others now read them, as they will appear
In the glorious Day, when the whole world shall hear.

FIRST BOY READS—

Three hundred times written—"took care of young brother."

SECOND BOY READS—

And hundreds of times—"went on errands for Mother."

GIRL READS—

Dropped last shilling (unseen) in Miss'nary box.
(Alas! All mine went in trimming my frocks!)

SICK CHILD.

Oft, when I was ill, he watched by my side,
I ate all the fruit his wee garden supplied,—

FIRST BOY.

My time spent in play, in hard work he employed.

SECOND BOY.

Though he won no prize, my success he enjoyed.

GIRL.

All those gold dots stand for praises and prayer,—
My book is but ashes—and his is so fair!

SICK CHILD.

I think even angels with pleasure will look
On the bright shining lines in that beautiful book!

OLD YEAR.

O children! My moments are passing away,
But hear the last words which the Old Year can say.
You will soon a new book, on a new year, begin,
Pray God to preserve it from records of sin!
Oh! Ask that His grace may your spirits pervade,
Whether working or playing, in sunshine or shade,
That the Lord and His angels with pleasure may look
On the bright shining lines in each beautiful book!

THE

HARTLEY BROTHERS;

OR,

THE KNIGHTS OF SAINT JOHN.