peace with him and his posterity "so long as the sun and moon shall
endure."
On his return to England, among the friends who gathered around the ship
to bid him farewell, were groups of Indians with mournful brows, the
women holding up their little ones, that they might have one more sight
of the great and good man, whom they called their Father. Was not this
more acceptable to Heaven than the din of strife, and the false glory of
the conqueror?
So earnest was William Penn to convince his fellowmen that it was both
their duty and privilege to live in peace, that he travelled into
foreign countries for that purpose, using his eloquence, and knowledge
of various languages with considerable success. Peter the Great, when
studying the arts of civilization in England, was much interested by
visits from this teacher of Peace, who conversed fluently with him in
German. The young Czar listened with great attention and courtesy, while
he unfolded his system. He then earnestly requested that it might be
expressed for him in a few words, and William Penn wrote,
"Men must be holy, or they cannot be happy; they should be few in words,
peaceable in life, suffer wrongs, love enemies, and deny themselves:
without which, faith is false; worship, formality, and religion,
hypocrisy."
The future Emperor of the Russians, though not a convert to the doctrine
of the Quakers, regarded it with so much respect, that he repeatedly
attended their meetings, evincing deep and interested attention. To his
mind, the theory of peace seemed beautiful, yet he considered it
impossible that wars should be prevented. He did not believe that
contending nations could be made to settle their differences without an
appeal to arms, or that their anger might be soothed by the mediation of
a friendly people, as a good man makes peace between offended
neighbours. It did not occur to him that a Christian ruler might mediate
with the soothing policy of the patriarch Abraham to his wrathful
kinsman:
"Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, or between my
herdsmen and thy herdsmen, for we be brethren."
The Liberated Fly.
A Fly was struggling in a vase of ink,
Which with my feathery quill-top I releas'd,
As the rope saves the drowning mariner.
I thought at first the luckless wight was dead,
But mark'd a quivering of the slender limbs,
And laid him on a paper in the sun,
To renovate himself.
With sudden spasm
Convulsion shook him sore, and on his back
Discomfited he lay. Then, by his side
I strew'd some sugar, and upon his breast
Arrang'd a particle, thinking, perchance,
The odour of his favourite aliment
Might stimulate the palate, and uncoil
The folded trunk.
But, straight, a troop of friends
Gather'd around him, and I deem'd it kind
To express their sympathy, in such dark hour
Of adverse fortune. Yet, behold! they came
To forage on his stores, and rudely turn'd
And toss'd him o'er and o'er, to help themselves
With more convenience. Quite incens'd to see
Their utter want of pitying courtesy,
I drove these venal people all away,
And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to exclude
Their coarse intrusion.
Forthwith, they return'd,
And through his palace peer'd, and, round and round
Gadding, admission sought: yet all in vain.
And so, a wondrous buzzing they set up,
As if with envy mov'd to see him there,
The untasted luxury at his very lips,
For which they long'd so much.
Then suddenly,
The prisoner mov'd his head, and rose with pain,
And dragg'd his palsied body slow along,
Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map,
Coast, islet, creek, and lithe promontory,
Blank as the Stygian ink-pool, where he plung'd
So foolishly. But a nice bath was made
In a small silver spoon, from which he rose
Most marvellously chang'd, stretching outright
All his six legs uncramp'd, and, opening wide
And shutting with delight his gauzy wings,
Seem'd to applaud the cleansing properties
Of pure cold water. Then with appetite,
He took the food that he had loath'd before;
And in this renovation of the life
Of a poor noteless insect, was a joy,
And sweet content, I never could have felt
From taking it away.
Still let us guard,
For every harmless creature, God's good gifts
Of breath and being; since each beating heart
Doth hide some secret sense of happiness
Which he who treadeth out can ne'er restore.
The Good Brother and Sister.
Jacob Bicks was a native of Leyden, in Holland, and born in the year
1657. His parents were religious, and gave strict attention to his early
education, and their efforts were rewarded. He became tenderly
conscientious, and in all his conduct sought to obey them and please
God.
When the plague raged in Holland, in 1664, he was seized with the fatal
infection. At first he seemed drowsy and lethargic, but during his
waking intervals, was observed to be engaged in prayer.
"This," said he, "gives me comfort in my distress."
Perceiving that he suffered pain, he was asked if he would like again to
see the physician.
"No," he earnestly answered, "I wish to have him no more. The Lord will
help me, for I well know that He is about to take me to himself."
"Dear child," said his father, "this grieves us to the heart."
"Father," answered the meek sufferer, "let us pray. The Lord will be
near for my helper."
After prayer, he spoke with a stronger and more joyful voice, his
parting words,
"Come now, father and mother, come and kiss me, I feel that I am to die.
Farewell, dear parents, farewell, dear sister, farewell all. Now shall I
go to heaven, and to the holy angels. Remember ye not what is said by
Jeremiah, 'Blessed is he who trusteth in the Lord.' I trust in Him, and
lo! he blesseth me. 'Little children, love not the world, for it passeth
away.' Away then with the pleasant things of the world, away with my
toys, away with my books, in heaven I shall have a sufficiency of the
true wisdom without them."
"God will be near thee," said the father. "He shall uphold thee."
"It is written," answered the child, "that He giveth grace unto the
humble. I shall humble myself under His mighty hand, and He will lift me
up."
"Hast thou indeed, so strong a faith, my dear son?" asked the afflicted
father.
"Yes," said the dying boy, "He hath given me this strong faith in Jesus
Christ. He that believeth on Him hath everlasting life, and shall
overcome the wicked one. I believe in Jesus Christ, my Redeemer. He will
never leave nor forsake me. He will give me eternal life. He will let me
sing, 'Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth.'"
Then, with his failing breath, they heard upon his lips the softly
murmured prayer, "Lord, be merciful to me a poor sinner," as with a
trusting smile his spirit passed away, just as he had completed his
seventh year.
His sister, Susanna, seven years older than himself, was smitten by the
same terrible pestilence, a few weeks after his death. She had been from
the beginning a child of great sweetness of disposition, attentive to
her studies, and so faithful in her religious duties as to be considered
an example for other young persons, and even for older Christians.
Bending beneath the anguish of her disease, like a crushed and beautiful
flower she sustained herself and comforted others with the words of
that Blessed Book, in which was her hope.
"If Thy law were not my delight, I should perish in this my affliction.
Be merciful to me, oh Father! be merciful to me a sinner, according unto
thy word."
Fixing her eyes tenderly upon her mourning parents, she said,
"Cast your burden upon the Lord. He shall sustain you. He will never
suffer the righteous to be moved. Therefore, dearest mother, be
comforted. He will cause all things to go well that concern you."
Her mother answered with tears,
"O, our dear child, God, by his grace, hath given me great comfort in
thee, in thy religious temper, and thy great attention to reading the
Scriptures, prayer, and pious discourse, edifying us as well as thyself.
He, even He Himself, who gave thee to us, make up this loss, if it be
His pleasure to take thee away."
"Dear mother, though I must leave you, and you me, God will never leave
either of us. Is it not written, Can a woman forget her child? Yea, she
may forget, yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee upon
the palms of my hands. Oh! most comfortable words, both for parents and
child."
Fatigued with speaking, she fell into a deep slumber, and on awaking,
asked what day it was. She was told it was Sabbath morning.
"Father, have you commended me to be remembered in the prayers of the
Church?"
"Yes, my daughter."
"This comforts me. For I have learned to believe that the effectual
fervent prayer of the righteous availeth much."
She had a peculiarly warm and grateful love for her teachers and pastor,
and a veneration for all ministers of the Gospel. She delighted to
listen to their conversation wherever she met them, and counted any
attention from them as an honour. But now, she would not consent that
they should approach her, lest they might take the fearful disease that
was hurrying her to the tomb.
"I will not expose their valuable lives," she said. "I cast myself
wholly upon the mercies of God. His word is my comforter."
Her knowledge of the Scriptures was uncommon. She had committed large
portions of it to memory, which gave hallowed themes to her meditation,
and naturally mingled with her discourse in these solemn, parting
moments.
She felt a deep desire for the progress of true religion, whose worth
she was now able more fully to appreciate than in the days of health.
One morning, she was found bathed in tears, and when the cause was
inquired, exclaimed,
"Have I not cause to weep? Our dear minister was taken ill in his pulpit
this morning, and went home very sick. Is it not a sign of God's
displeasure against our country, when such a faithful pastor is
smitten?"
She had shed no tear for her own severe pains, but she bemoaned the
sufferings of others, and the afflictions that threatened the Church. Of
her own merits she entertained a most humble opinion, and would often
repeat with deep feeling,
"The sacrifices of God are a contrite heart. A broken and a contrite
spirit He will not despise. I desire that brokenness of heart which
flows from faith, and that faith which is built upon Christ, the only
sacrifice for sin."
Waking from a troubled sleep, she said in a faint voice,
"O dear father, dear mother, how very weak I am."
"God in his tender mercy," said the sorrowing parents, "strengthen your
weakness."
"Yea, this is my confidence. A bruised reed will He not break, and the
smoking flax will He not quench."
Her parents, surprised and moved at a piety so far beyond her years,
could not refrain from a strong burst of tears at the affliction that
awaited them in her loss. Greatly grieved at their sorrow, she soothed
them and argued with them against its indulgence.
"Oh! why should you so weep over me? Is it not the good Lord that takes
me out of this miserable world? Shall it not be well with me, through
all eternity? Ought you not to be satisfied, seeing God is in heaven,
and doeth whatsoever he pleaseth? Do you not pray every day, that His
will may be done? Should we not be content when our prayers are
answered? Is not extreme sorrow murmuring against Him? Although I am
struck with this sad disease, yet because it is His will, let that
silence us. For as long as I live, shall I pray, that _His will, and not
mine_, be done."
She then spoke of the plague that was raging throughout the country with
violence, and said she chose to consider it as the especial allotment of
the Almighty, and not, as some supposed, the result of disorder in the
elements. After a pause, she added,
"This is the day appointed for explaining the first question in the
Catechism. Were I able to meet with the class, I should hear, that
whether in life or death, a true believer is the Lord's. Then be
comforted, for whether I live or die, I am his. Oh! why do you afflict
yourselves so? Yet, with weeping came I into this world, and with
weeping must I go out. But, dear parents, better is the day of my death,
than the day of my birth."
She requested her father to go to those who had instructed her in
religion, and catechized her, and thank them in the name of a dying
child, and tell them how precious was the memory of their words, now in
the time of her extreme distress. She desired, also, that her gratitude
might be expressed to those who had taught her, when very young, to read
and work, and to all who had at any time shown her kindness and
attention. When he told her of the satisfaction he had enjoyed in her
proficiency in the various branches she had pursued, especially in her
study of the Bible, her readiness to express her thoughts in writing,
her constant filial obedience, and reverence for the ordinances of
religion, she replied with a touching humility and sweetness,
"I bless God for granting me the means of education, and the example of
such parents and ministers. This is a far better portion than gold, for
thus have I been enabled to comfort myself from His Holy Book, with a
comfort that the world could never have afforded."
"My child," said her mournful father, "I perceive that you are very
weak."
"It is true, Sir, and my weakness increases. I see that your affliction
also, increases, and this is a part of my affliction. Yet be content, I
pray you, and let us both say with David, 'Let me now fall into the hand
of the Lord, for his mercies are great.'"
She besought her parents not to indulge in immoderate grief, when she
should be taken away. She adduced the example of the King of Israel, who
after the death of his child, arose, and took refreshment, saying, "He
is dead. Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not
return to me." So ought you to say, when I am no longer here, 'Our
child is well.' Dear mother, who has done so much for me, promise me
this one thing before I die, not to sorrow too much for me. I am afraid
of your great affliction. Consider other losses. Remember Job. Forget
not what Christ foretold: 'In the world ye shall have tribulation, but
be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.'"
While thus comforting those whom she loved out of the Scriptures, it
seemed as if she herself attained greater confidence of faith, for she
exclaimed with a joyful voice:
"Who shall separate me from the love of Christ? I am persuaded, neither
life, nor death, nor angels, principalities, nor powers, nor things
present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other
creature. Behold, Death is swallowed up in victory."
Afterwards, she spoke of the shortness of human life, quoting passages
from the Bible, and of the necessary law of our nature, appointing that
all who are born must die. Wisdom far beyond her years, flowed from her
lips, for she had early sat at the feet of Jesus, and learned his holy
word.
"And now, what shall I say? I cannot continue long, for I feel much
weakness. O Lord, look upon me graciously, have pity upon me. I know
that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon
the earth. Dearest parents, we must shortly part. My speech faileth me.
Pray for a quiet close to my combat."
She expressed, at various times during her sickness, the most earnest
solicitude for the souls of many of her relatives, solemnly requesting
and enforcing that her young sister should be religiously educated.
Throwing her emaciated arms around her, she embraced her with great
affection, and desired that the babe of six months old might be brought
her once more. With many kisses she took her last farewell, and those
who stood around the bed were greatly affected at the tender parting of
these affectionate children.
"I go," said the dying one, "to heaven, where we shall find each other
again. I go to Jesus Christ. I go to my dear brother, who did so much
cry and call upon God, to the last moment of his breath. I go to my
little sister, who was but three years old when she died. Yet when we
asked her if she would die, she answered, 'Yes, if it be the Lord's
will: or I will stay with my mother, if it be His will; but yet, I know
that I shall die and go to heaven and to God.' Oh! see how so small a
babe could behave itself so submissively to the will of God, as if it
had no will of its own. Therefore, dear father and mother, give the Lord
thanks for this his free and rich grace: and then I shall the more
gladly be gone. Be gracious, then, O Lord, unto me, also: be gracious
unto me. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my
sin."
Prayer was offered for her, and her spirit seemed anew refreshed with a
sense of pardon and reconciliation to her Father in heaven. She
conversed with pleasure of the last sermon that she had been permitted
to hear in the house of God, little supposing at that time, her mortal
sickness was so near. With surprising accuracy, she quoted several texts
that had been used in the different parts of that discourse, proving
with what profound attention she had listened, and how perfectly her
retentive powers were preserved to the last.
She lay some time, absorbed in mental devotion, and then raising her
head from her feverish pillow, besought her parents to forgive the
errors of her childhood, and every occasion throughout her whole life,
wherein she had grieved them or given them trouble. Then, with a clear
judgment, she addressed herself to the only unfinished business of
earth, the distribution of her books and other articles that she had
considered her own. To her little brother she made an earnest request,
that he would never part with the copy of 'Lectures on the Catechism,'
that she gave him, but study it faithfully for her sake, and in
remembrance of her. Being seized with a sharp and severe pain in her
breast, she said that she felt assured her last hour drew nigh. Her
parents, suppressing their grief, repeated their hope and trust, that
God would support her in the last dread extremity.
In a dying voice, yet clear and animated by unswerving faith, she
replied,
"He is my shepherd. Though I walk through the dark valley of the shadow
of death, shall I fear when _He_ comforteth me? The sufferings of this
present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be
revealed.
My end approacheth. Now shall I put on white raiment, and be clothed
before the Lamb with a spotless righteousness. Angels are ready to carry
me to the throne of God." Her last words were,
"Lord God, into thy hands, I commend my spirit. Oh Lord! be gracious, be
merciful to me a poor sinner."
Thus fell asleep, on the evening of the first of September, 1664, at the
early age of fourteen, one, who for profound knowledge of the pages of
Inspiration, judgment in applying them, love of their spirit, and faith
in their promises, might serve as an example not only to those of her
own age, but to Christians of hoary hairs. This good brother and sister
teach, both in life and death, the priceless value of religious nurture,
and of the fear and love of God, infused into the tender truthful
heart.
The Waiting Child.
She lay, in childhood's sunny hour,
The loving and the fair,
A smitten bud, a drooping flower,
For death was with her there.
One only unfulfilled desire
Oppress'd her heart with care:
"Make smooth the ocean waves, dear Lord,
And home my mother bear."
Up rose that prayer, both night and day,
Heaven heard the tender claim,
The favour'd ship its haven found,
The absent mother came;
So then, like dove with folded wing.
Enwrapp'd in calm content,
A mother's kiss upon her lips,
She to her Saviour went.
The Adopted Niece.
Those who have extended to lonely orphan hearts the protection of home,
and a fostering kindness, are often repaid by the most tender and
grateful affections. A peculiarly striking instance of this kind
occurred in the case of an adopted niece of the Rev. John Newton, of
London, England. Suddenly bereaved of her parents and an only brother,
she found the arms of sympathizing relatives open to receive her, as a
trust and a treasure. She had just entered her twelfth year when she
came to them, and was possessed of an agreeable person, a lively
disposition, with a quick and inventive genius. Her judgment and sense
of propriety were advanced beyond her years, but her most endearing
qualities were sweetness of temper and a heart formed for the exercise
of gratitude and friendship. No cloud was seen upon her countenance, and
when it was necessary to overrule her wishes, she acquiesced with a
smile.
To her uncle and aunt, her returns of affection were ardent and
touching. She was watchful not to offend, or interfere with their
convenience in the slightest degree, and often said, with her peculiarly
sweet tones, "I should be very ungrateful if I thought any pleasure
equal to that of pleasing you."
Her health, which had been for some time frail, began, in a year or
two, sensibly to decline, with marked hectic symptoms. Whenever she was
able, she patiently employed herself with her needle or book, her guitar
or harpsichord. Though she knew no hour of perfect ease, she was
remarkably placid and cheerful, and attentive to the wishes and comfort
of others. If at any time the severity of pain caused a silent tear to
steal down her cheek, and she saw that her uncle or aunt observed it,
she would instantly turn to them with a smile or kiss, and say,
"Do not be uneasy. I am not so very ill. I can bear it. I shall be
better presently."
Her religious education had been early attended to by her parents; and
the excellent relatives who supplied their place, saw with the deepest
gratitude the strengthening of her faith, for support in the season of
trial. She said to her aunt,
"I have long and earnestly sought the Lord, with reference to the change
that is now approaching. I trust He will fit me for himself, and then,
whether sooner or later, it signifies but little."
Sufferings the most acute were appointed her, which medical skill was
unwearied in its attempts to mitigate. To her attentive physician who
expressed his regret one morning, at finding her more feeble than on the
previous day, she replied,
"I trust all will be well soon."
Her spirit was uniformly peaceful, and her chief attention of an earthly
nature seemed directed to the consolation of those who were distressed
at her sufferings. The servants, who waited on her from love, both night
and day, she repeatedly thanked in the most fervent manner, adding her
prayer that God would reward them. To her most constant attendant, she
said,
"Be sure to call upon the Lord. If you think He does not hear you now,
He will at last. So it has been with me."
As the last hours of life drew nigh, she had many paroxysms of agony.
But her heart rested on the Redeemer. To one who inquired how she was,
she sweetly answered,
"Truly happy. And if this is dying, it is a pleasant thing to die."
In the course of her illness, to the question of her friends if she
desired to be restored and to live long, she would reply, "Not for the
world," and sometimes, "Not for a thousand worlds." But as she
approached the verge of heaven, her own will seemed wholly absorbed in
the Divine Will, and to this inquiry she meekly answered,
"I desire to have no choice."
For the text of her funeral sermon, she chose, "Blessed are the dead who
die in the Lord," and also selected an appropriate hymn to be sung on
that occasion. "Do not weep for me, dear aunt," she tenderly said, "but
rather rejoice, and give praise on my account."
As the close of her last day on earth approached, she desired to hear
once more the voice of prayer. Her affectionate uncle, who cherished for
her the love of a father, poured out his soul fervently at the Throne of
Grace. Her lips, already white in death, clearly pronounced "Amen," and
soon after added, "Why are his chariot-wheels so long in coming? Yet I
hope he will enable me to wait His hour with patience."
Fixing her eyes on her mourning aunt, it seemed as if the last trace of
earthly anxiety that she was destined to feel, was on her account. To
one near her pillow, she said in a gentle whisper.
"Try to persuade my aunt to leave the room. I think I shall soon sleep.
I shall not remain with you until the morning."