Our Baby.
“The cup of life first with her lips she prest,
Found the taste bitter and declined the rest;
Averse, then turning from the face of day,
She softly sigh’d her little soul away.”
I MENTIONED in the last chapter that I had often seen the necessity of
deferring a subject previously prepared for the evening of our meeting,
and adopting, in its stead, a topic more appropriate to passing events.
As I consider this point of much importance, I am glad that my journal
can furnish an illustration.
One evening, in the year 1854, as we were putting aside our work, one of
the women reminded me that the day of our next meeting would be a
fast-day; and she asked if we were to assemble as usual. I replied,
“That as that day would be set aside for a special purpose, and one in
which we were all deeply interested, I thought it would be better for us
to make a point of all attending some place of worship, and uniting with
others in our prayers for the deliverance of our country from the great
evils which threatened it.”
Two or three voices exclaimed at once—“Then, if that is it, we shan’t go
nowhere.” “Why not?” I asked.
One of them replied—“My master never lets me go to any place. We have
neither of us ever been inside a church since we were married.”
Two or three of the others said that was just the case with them.
“How is it, then, that your husbands let you come here?”
“Why, ma’am, we goes on with our work here; and it helps us to get many a
nice bit of clothes, that we should have to go without if we didn’t get
them here, by paying a little at a time; and the children, too, you see,
ma’am, is mostly in bed before we come.”
“Do you not think that some of you could persuade your husbands to go to
church with you, for once?”
They shook their heads, and said they were afraid not. There were a few
in the room who said they would go, if they could. I told them, if they
would express to me what their wishes were, I would adopt any plan they
liked best. With the exception of about six or eight, they said they
would rather the meeting were continued as usual.
“If that is the case,” I replied, “I will be here at the usual time next
week, to meet any of you who cannot make it convenient to attend any
place of worship; but remember, we must have no work done. I should not
think that right on such a day.”
When I entered the room the following week, I found thirty of the poor
mothers assembled. We sat and chatted together for about a quarter of an
hour; for we felt, on that occasion, that we were not bound to observe
our rules with our usual strictness. I intended to read about our
Saviour’s entrance into Jerusalem, and to dwell particularly on the tears
He shed in the prospect of the destruction of that city, shewing from
this how unwillingly God allowed His judgments to descend upon a nation,
and that “He would rather they would turn from their wickedness and
live.” The rest of the evening I thought we could occupy in the relation
of a few anecdotes of soldiers, that had reached me from the seat of war.
I had just begun to read, when the door opened, and a woman, passing
hastily up the room, took her seat on a low box by the side of the fire.
She leaned forward, resting her head on her arms, and began to weep
bitterly. I looked up for an explanation. One of the women said, “She
lost her baby, ma’am, a day or two ago, and she takes on terribly about
it.” We all sat silently for some minutes, for we felt the sacredness of
the presence of grief; they were precious minutes to me, full of earnest
thought and feeling.
About ten months previous to the time of which I am speaking, this woman
first came amongst us, bringing her baby, then about six weeks old. I
thought I had scarcely ever seen so sweet a child; the expression of the
little face reminded me of something holier and purer than is usually to
be met with in this fallen world; and I did not wonder that it was said,
“Of _such_ are the kingdom of heaven.” I knew both the father and the
mother. The father was a genius of no common order, and, but for the
fatal habit of drinking, would have risen in the world. The mother had
known better days, and not having much spirit, she had too easily
resigned herself to her fate, and scarcely exerted herself as much as she
might have done, to avert the evils that surrounded her; consequently
their home was an unhappy one.
On the first evening of the introduction of these little ones, we are in
the habit of commending them in prayer to the especial care and
protection of our heavenly Father. I am afraid the prayer that night was
not mixed with faith, as it ought to have been. I remember thinking of
the home in which this child was to be trained, and of all the evil
influences to which he must be exposed; and I wondered _how_ he was to be
“led straight through this world of sin, and get to heaven at last.” I
thought of him “tossed on the tumultuous sea of human passions and
temptations, without any strong, kind hand to guide the helm;” and I
could have wept, as I prayed that he might be shielded from life’s bitter
trials and temptations.
“I long’d for that happy and glorious time,
The fairest, and brightest, and best,
When the dear little children of every clime
Shall come to His arms and be blest.”
I could not sleep that night without again committing this sweet child in
prayer to Him who “carries the lambs in His bosom.”
This mother and baby were so constant in their attendance, that we should
have suspected something wrong if they had not made their appearance. As
the baby grew, he became still more lovely; he smiled sweetly when he was
noticed, and we all loved him so much, that he was universally called
“_our_ baby.” I occasionally took him on my lap when I was reading, that
the mother might get on the faster with her work. He used to sit
quietly, making playthings of my fingers, or looking intently into my
face, that he might be ready with his sweet smile when he was noticed.
And it was for the loss of “our baby” that the poor mother’s tears were
flowing so fast. No wonder that many hearts there sympathised in her
grief; and thoughts, too deep for words, kept us silent. The mother was
the first to speak; she said—
“Ma’am, do you remember the first evening I brought him here? You looked
at him so, and said he was a pictur’ child.”
“Yes; I was just thinking of it.”
“We liked that name for him so much, it made his father think more of
him; he would watch him asleep in the cradle, and say, ‘Well, that is a
pictur’ child, if ever there was one.’ I never had nothing so good
belonging to me before, and I never shall again.”
“Do you remember a little while ago,” I remarked in reply, “when the
weather was so cold, telling me you feared the baby suffered for want of
warmer clothes than you were able to procure for him, and that the coarse
food, which was all you could get, did not agree with him?”
“Yes, I mind; he made me feel how bad it was to be poor. I never cared
about it so much before.”
“Supposing I had promised to take the baby into my house, and surround
him with every comfort, and care for him as for one of my own children,
would you have given him up to me?”
“Why—yes—I think I should, if I could have seen him very often; for
nothing troubled me so much as to see him suffer.”
“If I had taken him you would still have had to see him suffer; for
though I might have made him more comfortable than you could, I could not
have shielded him from the attacks of disease and death, But he is gone
now to a home where he will never suffer any more. The kind hand of his
heavenly Father has wiped away the tears that distressed you so much. As
the Scotch song says—
“‘There’s nae sorrow there, Jean;
There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean;
The day is aye fair, Jean,
In the land o’ the leal.’”
As soon as the mother could speak again for her tears, she said—
“Do you think, ma’am, he is gone there _for certain_? ’cause some of ’em
have been saying to-day that nobody goes to heaven, not even babes,
except they are ’lected.”
“That is quite true; but when Jesus died upon the cross, He did intend
all infants to be saved. He there atoned for the sin we inherit from our
first parents, which is the only sin with which an infant can be charged,
as no one can be said to break commandments until they understand what
commandments are. No one has so much cause to love the Saviour as
mothers of little children. Ages before our children were born, their
safety was provided for by the death of Christ. When you go home, I
should like you to take your Bible, and read the account of our Saviour’s
crucifixion; and as you are reading, just think—‘Now all this suffering
was to save _my baby_, amongst many others.’ God has told us that He is
_satisfied_ with the price Christ has paid for sin; therefore, of course,
there can be nothing else wanted. And just think of this for a
moment—God has given up _His Son_ to _suffer_ for us, that we may give
Him back our children to be _happy for ever_.”
“O ma’am, I am so happy to hear about it! You have made it clearer to my
mind than it ever was before.”
“I want to make it clear to you, also, that this Saviour, of whom we are
speaking, must be your Saviour, as well as the Saviour of your child; for
there is none other name given among men whereby any of us can be saved.”
“But, ma’am, you don’t mean that Christ’s dying has made it certain that
we shall all get to heaven!”
“Christ’s death was intended, and is sufficient in itself, to make all
safe for heaven; but there are many who will not accept this salvation.
Supposing, now that provisions are so high, I were to send to every man,
woman, and child in the Potteries, and say, that every day at one o’clock
I would have a good dinner provided for them at my house: I would take
care there should be room and abundance _for all_. It is said, there are
a thousand inhabitants in the Potteries. Supposing, out of this number,
only two hundred came. Some might be too proud to accept my kindness;
others, too busy in seeking food in other ways. But the most
extraordinary thing of all would be, that some should have forgotten all
about it. They would go on eating the most miserable food, suffering in
every way in consequence, and grumbling at their unhappy fate; while, if
they would only come to me, I would receive them, and give them abundance
of the best. Complaints might still reach my ears, how greatly the
people were suffering; but I should say—‘I really cannot help it; I have
done all I possibly can to prevent it. It grieves me very much to see so
many vacant places at my table—to see bread enough, and to _spare_,
whilst they perish with hunger. I wish they would come to me, instead of
suffering as they do.’ Now, this is just how it stands between us and
God. He wishes all men to be saved, and to come to the knowledge of the
truth. It is not the will of our Father, who is in heaven, that _one_
should perish. He has provided, by the death of Christ, for the
salvation of every one; and none that come unto Him will He cast out.
But we must _come_. Just as certainly as those poor people would lose
the benefit of my dinner if they did not come, so shall we lose the
benefit of the great salvation provided, if we do not come.”
All present seemed much interested in this conversation, and several
began to ask me questions. One woman told me that some ladies had called
at her house some time ago, and inquired particularly if her children had
been baptized; telling her, that if they had not, they had no chance of
being saved.
“That can’t be true, can it, ma’am?” she asked.
“If it were, it would, indeed, be a lamentable fact; for how many
children there are who are born and die, without the possibility of being
baptized. This often happens at sea, for instance; and sometimes,
especially in the country, where the distances are great, it is not
unusual for an infant to die before there is time to obtain any minister
of religion to administer the ordinance. How very imperfect would be the
salvation which God has provided for us, if our reception of it was made
at all to depend upon circumstances that we could not always control!
Think for a moment, again, of the comparison I was using just now.
Supposing, when I sent out my invitation for the people to come and dine
at my house, I should say, ‘Though you may come, I cannot admit you
inside the house, unless you bring a card of admission with you.’ I
should mention where these cards could be procured; but when applying for
it, you might find that the person, whose business it was to provide
them, was ill, or not at home, or something might prevent his attending
to you till it was too late; and, consequently, you must lose the benefit
of my dinner. You would say, and justly, ‘Why, she is deceiving us in
professing to provide for our wants.’ It is of no use the dinner being
there, if there are obstacles which we cannot remove in the way of
getting at it. And God would have deceived us, too, in saying—‘The blood
of Jesus Christ cleanseth from _all_ sin,’ if there were still something
left for us to do. And Christ hath deceived us in saying on the
cross—‘It is _finished_,’ when all the time He knew, that if we were not
baptized by an ordained minister of religion, all that He had done and
suffered for us would be worth nothing. There are few errors at which I
feel so indignant as this. It is so dishonouring to our heavenly Father,
and it is such a reflection both upon the wisdom and justice of Him whose
work is perfect.”
“Then, ma’am, isn’t it any consequence whether children are baptized or
not?”
“I am glad you asked me that question; for I should have been sorry for
you to have gone away with the idea that it was of no consequence. Do
any of you know what circumcision means?”
No one knew; it was simply a _word_ in their minds, unconnected with any
ideas. At last, one woman said she thought it was something that the
Jews did.
“When I was talking to you about Abraham, a little while ago, do you
remember my telling you that God had called him away out of an idolatrous
country; because He intended, from Abraham and his children, to raise up
a nation, in which the knowledge of Himself should be preserved? God
then commanded Abraham, that he and all his children—meaning all the
Jewish nation—should be circumcised; intending, by setting this mark upon
them, to shew that they were a distinct people, and not intended to mix
with any other nations of the world. From that time, until the advent of
our Saviour, every male child amongst the Jews was circumcised on the
eighth day after its birth.
“After the resurrection of our Saviour, He commanded His apostles to go
into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. It was no
longer to be confined to this one nation. Christ had died for _all_, not
for the Jews only: and all must hear this good news. Circumcision was a
painful rite; and as Christ had suffered for us, He no longer enjoined
this upon His followers: in its stead, the simple, beautiful, and
expressive ordinance of baptism was instituted; and all who call
themselves Christians should thankfully use it, as making a line of
separation, as it were, between them and the heathen world, as the Jews
used circumcision to distinguish themselves from the idolatrous nations
by which they were surrounded.
“When, therefore, we take our infants to be baptized, it is as if we
said—‘I call the Church and the world to witness that I desire for my
child that he may be brought up in the faith and practice of a Christian.
I beseech you, that are here assembled, to unite with me in prayer to
Almighty God, that, through the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, He will
grant to this child that thing which by nature he cannot have; that he
may be baptized with water and the Holy Ghost, and received into Christ’s
holy Church; and that I may have grace given me so to train my child that
he may be a blessing to the world as long as he lives, and, finally,
through the righteousness provided by the death and sufferings of our
blessed Saviour, may come to the land of everlasting life and happiness,
and dwell in His bright presence for ever.’”
This explanation, although it was broken up and illustrated in a way that
it would be tedious to repeat here, was not perfectly intelligible to
them at first; but as they asked questions about it, a clearer light
seemed gradually to dawn upon their minds. One woman said she “always
had a-done it, but never had no _thought_ in her mind about it before.”
We concluded the evening by reading of the little children who were
brought to Jesus; and then, in united prayer, we commended the sorrowing
mother to Him who came to comfort Martha and Mary concerning their
brother. We thanked Him for the loan, though so short, of this sweet and
lovely child, whose mission on earth seemed to have been to awaken in its
mother a purer and holier nature. And we thanked Him, too, that “ere sin
could blight, or sorrow fade,” the Good Shepherd, who had laid down His
life for this lamb of the flock, had resumed the care of this precious
one, had spared him the contest of life, and taken him to Himself, to be
safe and happy for ever.
I always feel tempted, when reviewing my journal, to linger over the
narrative of the “Fast-day evening.” I recall how we sat and talked till
the daylight had faded into twilight, and then we watched the fire as its
flickering blaze occasionally rested on the placid face of some infant
sleeping on its mother’s lap. I recall, as if it were but yesterday, the
earnest and fixed attention, with which this company of mothers listened
to the glad tidings of a Saviour for their little ones. Had He been
presented to us as _our_ Saviour only, we must have loved Him; but how
much more when we realised that, at such infinite cost, He had stretched
forth His hand to save those dearer to us than life, from everlasting
destruction!
Some of the women that were there still speak of this evening with
pleasure; and there was joy in the presence of the angels of God, that
night, over more than one sinner that repented.
I have occasionally taken much pains to make the _doctrines_ of religion
somewhat clear to them. It might not in every case be so necessary; but
in this neighbourhood, where the enemy is more than usually busy in
“sowing tares,” it is of great importance that they should be enabled to
give a reason for the hope that is in them.
The vicinity of Notting Hill has, unfortunately, been selected by the
Roman Catholics as the scene of their most active operations. Whilst I
write, I hear from my open window the sound of “busy workmen” employed on
the rising walls of a nunnery of great size and importance. They have
just purchased a piece of land in Pottery Lane, once the celebrated
Cut-throat Lane, on which they intend building school-rooms. Only a few
days ago, I was told that a poor woman had called, seeking relief. On
finding she was a stranger to me, and being already overdone with similar
cases, I sent a message by the servant, that I was truly sorry for her,
but it was not then in my power to attend to her case. Her reply to the
servant was, “Ah! the Roman Catholics is coming amongst us, and they’ll
never stand by and see us poor people suffer, like you Protestants do.”
Whatever distinctions may prevail in the various sections among
Protestants, we surely all agree in this, that we are looking for
salvation simply and entirely through the merits of our Lord and Saviour
Jesus Christ.
Compared with _this_, the points on which we differ are few and
unimportant, affecting principally what we may call our outside
life—belonging to the “wood, hay, stubble” that attaches to the present
imperfect state of things, and, if not at last burnt with fire, will, at
least, be lost sight of, when, instead of seeing through a glass darkly,
the mind grasps the astonishing and overwhelming meaning of being _saved
to the uttermost_.
A voice from the enemy’s camp has reached us, that their great hopes of
success rest upon the disunion amongst the ranks of Protestants. God
grant that these hopes may be disappointed! In times of national
calamity, when homes and hearths are threatened by the invasion of a
foreign foe, the people are exhorted to let no private consideration, no
respect for individual property, _nothing_, in fact, prevent their rising
as with the heart of one man, to fight manfully for the defence of their
king and their country. Let us, it would be said, only expel this common
foe, and mere personal matters can be arranged afterwards.
And now that the foe is bearing down with such a threatening aspect upon
the interests of our Master’s kingdom, is it still to be said—“The
children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of
light?” Is it too much to expect that we should work for Him, who _died_
for us?