twelve years old. The boy had been fetched home from the house of a
relative who lived at a distance, and where he had attended a good
school, kept by a Protestant gentleman. He had gone through various
lessons with his father, and delighted him with the progress he had
made. They had read the fifteenth chapter of Luke, and retired to rest
full of joy; but before the next day dawned, the boy awoke to his
mother's heartrending cry, "Oh, my dear child, you have no more a
father! He is dead!"
Poor child! He felt he could not believe it. He ran to his father's bed,
kissed him, pressed his hands, and prayed that he might live. But it was
too true. The breath had fled, and only a lifeless corpse remained.
After such overwhelming sorrow, surely they needed the tenderest
sympathy; but only a few days elapsed before the parish priest (who had,
years before, tried to get their Bible away) called on them, and, after
a few cold words, he said that something was owing for the prayers that
had been offered for the departed, and he would be glad to receive it!
Poor Mrs. Chiniquy assured him that, although her husband had received a
considerable income as a notary, yet their expenses had been so heavy
that he had left her little besides debts. The house he had had built,
and the piece of land he purchased not long ago, were only half paid
for, "and I fear," said she, "I shall lose them both. I hope, sir," she
added, "that you are not the man to take away from us our last piece of
bread."
"But, madam," was the cruel answer, "the money for the masses offered
for the rest of your husband's soul must be paid!"
For some time the widow sat shedding silent tears. At length she raised
her tearful eyes, and said, "Sir, you see that cow in the meadow? Her
milk, and the butter made from it, form the principal part of my
children's food. I hope you will not take her away from us. If, however,
such a sacrifice must be made to deliver my poor husband's soul from
purgatory, take her as the payment of the masses to be offered to
extinguish those devouring flames."
"Very well, madam," said the priest, rising, and walking out.
They anxiously watched to see what he would do; and, to their horror, he
went straight to the meadow and drove away their useful and cherished
favourite. Poor Mrs. Chiniquy nearly fainted; and when able to speak,
she said--
"Dear child, if ever you become a priest, never be so hard-hearted
towards poor widows as are the priests of to-day."
Those words were never forgotten, as our next story will show.
Many years had passed. The child had become a man and a priest, when he
was invited to preach a course of three sermons in the church of a rich
curate. On the second day, walking with him to the parsonage, a very
poor, ragged, and miserable man took off his hat, and tremblingly
addressed the curate, saying--
"You know, sir, that my poor wife died, and was buried ten days ago; but
I was too poor to have a funeral service sung for her, and I fear she is
in purgatory. Almost every night I see her in my dreams in burning
flames, and she cries to me to help her. Will you be so kind as to sing
that high mass for her?"
"Of course," answered the curate. "Your wife is suffering in purgatory.
Give me five dollars, and I will sing the mass to-morrow morning."
The poor man replied that his wife had long been ill, and he was too
distressed to pay the money, and begged that five low masses might be
said for her. The priest told him he must pay five shillings for them,
but the wretched man declared he had no money, and that he and his
children were starving.
"Well, well," said the curate, "I saw two beautiful sucking pigs before
your house this morning. Give me one of them."
"Those pigs, sir," said the man, "were given me by a charitable
neighbour, that I might raise them for my children's food next winter.
They will surely starve if I give my pigs away."
Chiniquy could not wait to hear the conclusion of the shameful bargain.
He hurried away to his room, refused to take tea, and spent a sleepless
night wondering whether the Church of Rome could be the Church of
Christ. Next morning, he gave five dollars to the poor man, and went
breakfastless to church.
After preaching, he was led by the curate to his dining-room. The long
fast had made him very hungry, and the foremost dish was a delicious
sucking pig. He had cut a piece, and was just about to eat, when the
scene of yesterday flashed across his mind, and he inquired, "Was this
_that_ sucking pig?"
"Yes," replied the curate, with a hearty laugh, "it is just that. If we
cannot take the poor woman's soul out of purgatory, we will, at all
events, eat a fine sucking pig."
The priestly guests all joined in the laugh except Chiniquy, who, with a
burst of righteous indignation, pushed his plate away, and in a few
thrilling words told them what he thought of the whole proceeding. Of
course they were very angry; but the sucking pig was untouched by any
one.
Thus were Chiniquy's eyes gradually opened, and he "saw men as trees
walking," until the final touch gave him to "see all things clearly."
Lord, open Thou our eyes, and give us clearer and yet clearer light,
that we not only may forsake every evil way, but may follow Thee with
full purpose of heart.
QUESTIONS WITH ANSWERS.
What is earth, sexton? A place to dig graves.
What is earth, rich man? A place to work slaves.
What is earth, grey-beard? A place to grow old.
What is earth, miser? A place to dig gold.
What is earth, schoolboy? A place for my play.
What is earth, maiden? A place to be gay.
What is earth, seamstress? A place where I weep.
What is earth, sluggard? A good place to sleep.
What is earth, soldier? A place for a battle.
What is earth, herdsman? A place to raise cattle.
What is earth, widow? A place of true sorrow.
What is earth, tradesman? I'll tell you to-morrow.
What is earth, sick man? 'Tis nothing to me.
What is earth, sailor? My home is the sea.
What is earth, statesman? A place to win fame.
What is earth, author? I'll write there my name.
What is earth, monarch? For my realm 'tis given.
What is earth, Christian? The gateway of heaven.
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LORD'S GRACIOUS DEALINGS WITH
MARY STUBBS,
WHO DIED AT GODMANCHESTER, DECEMBER 19TH, 1887, AGED
TWENTY-FOUR YEARS.
We cannot say when, or by what means, the Lord first implanted the seed
of eternal life in our sister's soul; but as in nature, so in
grace--there is first the dropping of the seed, then the blade and the
ear, and after that, the full corn in the ear; the full corn in many, as
in our sister's case, not appearing until they are laid down by a fatal
disease.
By letters which I received from her the last few years, I had a hope
the seed was sown from the love which she manifested to the truth and
people of God. At the same time, many of her words and actions
manifested much impatience, showing that she was a child of fallen Adam,
and that she was under another influence than the Holy Spirit of God.
This was a trial to us, giving us many errands to the throne of grace,
not knowing what the end might be; and not only was it a grief to us,
but also to herself.
Some months ago, writing to me, she said, "I feel so very unhappy. I
wish I had never been born, for I do not feel fit to live, nor yet fit
to die."
Her sister, with whom she lived, says, "Once or twice before her last
affliction have we found her weeping, after she returned from the house
of God--once especially, when Mr. Oldfield spoke from the words, 'Thou
shalt preserve me from trouble,' at which time she seemed sorely tried;
and referring to it on her dying bed, said, 'Satan did tempt me so then;
but what a mercy God preserved me! I felt that, if I had died then, I
must have been lost.'"
At another time she found her in great distress, and, inquiring the
cause, she said, "I feel so ill! I do not think I shall live long, and I
know I am not prepared to die."
About three weeks after this, she went to St. Ives' anniversary, and
heard Mr. Hull preach from the text, "In this place will I give you
peace." The words seemed to have an abiding-place in her heart, and
proved a promise to her in her affliction. They were as "bread cast upon
the waters, found and enjoyed after many days." When she returned from
St. Ives, she looked quite ill, and said, "It seems as though I am not
to go anywhere and enjoy myself."
A few weeks after this, she took to her room, which she never left
again. But, as her bodily strength decreased, she became more and more
anxious about eternal things, and said to her sister and one of the
members, who were sitting with her, "I do not think I shall get better.
If I was sure I should go to heaven, I should not mind dying; but I keep
thinking of all my past sins, and all that I have done and said. Do you
think the Lord will forgive?" and with great earnestness she exclaimed,
"Oh, do tell me--do you think He will forgive all my sins, and take me
to heaven?" They told her they felt sure, if the Lord had made her sins
a burden to her, and enabled her to beg of Him to cleanse her in His
precious blood, He would, in His own time, answer her petitions, and
they encouraged her to give Him no rest until He spoke home peace and
pardon to her soul.
On Saturday, November 12th, Mr. Oldfield called to see her. She asked
him if he thought the Lord would forgive her. He assured her that, if
the Lord had made her long for His pardoning love, He would appear for
her. He had sweet liberty in prayer on her behalf, and, having read at
her request the twenty-seventh Psalm, he inquired if she had any
favourite hymns. She replied, "Yes--'There is a fountain filled with
blood.'" He remarked, "The dying thief felt he needed that fountain, and
so do you and I, Mary." She answered, "Yes, we do."
In the evening, two of her sisters came to see her, and she exclaimed,
"What! are you both come so far to see me? I am not worthy," and burst
into tears.
On Sunday, November 13th, she said but little during the day, but still
kept begging of the Lord to forgive her all her sins, and take her to
heaven; and in the evening He answered her prayer, and sweetly spoke
home peace and pardon to her heart. She exclaimed, "Jesus has pardoned
all my sins! Yes, yes, He has told me so! I am so happy! Oh, so happy!
Jesus! Jesus! Thou art precious to my soul! Oh, come and take me! I long
to be with You, dear Jesus!" and, with solemn sweetness, she added,
"'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort
me.'
"Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared,
Unworthy though I be,
For me a rich, a free reward,
A golden harp for me.
"Jesus is 'the Chiefest among ten thousand, and the altogether lovely.'"
Thus she laid, blessing and praising His dear name till she was
completely exhausted.
Early the next morning she said, "I am still on this bed of affliction.
The Lord has spared me one more day, but I hope He will soon come and
fetch me. I do so long to go, but
"I must wait a little longer,
Till His appointed time,
And glory in the knowledge
That such a home is mine.
"Yes, 'that such a home is mine!' I shall wear a white robe there, and
sing 'Hallelujah! Hallelujah!'
"Yes, loudest of the crowd I'll sing,
Whilst heaven's resounding mansions ring
With shouts of sovereign grace."
On Monday, November 14th, I and my brother visited her for the first
time. She was at first overcome, but soon revived, and said, "I am so
pleased to see you both. I asked the Lord to spare me to see you all
before I died. How kind He is to hear me!"
I spent, altogether, the greatest part of four days with her, and those
will be reckoned amongst the happiest days of my life, though mixed with
sorrow at the thought of losing one made doubly dear by the sweet
manifestation of the spirit of Christ in her. We could but look on and
say, "What hath God wrought!" she herself saying, "I am not the one I
was once, but am a new creature in Christ Jesus, for the Lord has heard
my prayers, and forgiven all my sins, and now I know I am going to
heaven," her countenance at the same time beaming with joy.
On Tuesday, November 15th, she asked her eldest brother to read to her--
"When languor and disease invade
This trembling house of clay,
'Tis sweet to look beyond our cage,
And long to fly away,"
which she much enjoyed.
On Wednesday, November 16th, she said to me, "Oh, Joseph, I feel Jesus
is all around me, and I know He is soon coming to take me home. I am so
happy, and waiting to go to my home of eternal rest."
Turning to those present, she said, "You do not mind parting with me,
now you know I am going to heaven, do you?" and, seeing us in tears, she
said, "I cannot think what you have to grieve about. If I were not going
to heaven, then you might grieve."
At times she seemed completely lost to all around, and was in sweet
communion with God, and laid blessing and praising His dear name. The
following are only a few of the sweet words that fell from her
lips--"Oh, Jesus, I am so happy! Thou art precious to my soul. I long to
be with Thee, dear Jesus--not that I wish to leave my brothers and
sisters, only to come to Thee. I can leave everything to come to Thee,
dear Jesus. Come and fetch me. Fetch me soon, if it is Thy will; but if
I must wait a little longer, give me patience to wait Thy time."
At other times, she would repeat with sweet feeling her favourite hymns
and chapters, amongst which were, Psalms xxiii., xxvii., and ciii.; and
hymns, "How sweet the name of Jesus sounds," "There is a fountain filled
with blood," and "Father, whate'er of earthly bliss." The last verse of
the latter seemed particularly precious to her--
"Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine
My life and death attend;
Thy presence through my journey shine,
And crown my journey's end."
One morning, she wished her books, &c., brought to her, that she might
give us each a parting gift, saying, "Keep them in remembrance of me,
when I am gone to heaven to be with Jesus."
On Wednesday, November 16th, in the evening, Mr. Oldfield again saw her.
She spoke very freely to him, and said, "Won't it be nice to depart and
be with Jesus?--much better than remaining here. I think He will soon
come and fetch me. He has pardoned all my sins. Yes, He told me so." He
read John x. at her wish, and spoke in prayer, which she much enjoyed
and spoke of afterwards.
When I was about to leave her, she said, "I want you all to sing, 'How
sweet the name of Jesus sounds,'" which we did, she joining with all the
strength she had, her face being radiant with joy.
Another morning she awoke, and commenced singing several sweet hymns.
Truly she experienced the words of Isaiah, "Thou wilt keep him in
perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee."
One Sunday she said, "How I should love to get to chapel! If I ever went
again, I should like to be baptized; but I do not think I shall have
strength to go any more. No; Jesus is going to take me to Himself. How
kind of Him! Don't you think so? I do."
On November 26th, being her eldest sister's birthday, she wished us to
get a card for her. One being selected with the words, "The Lord will
bless His people with peace," she said, "Yes, that is the peace Mr. Hull
spoke of at St. Ives, and God has given me that peace."
In presenting the card, she said to her sister, "Take it from me. It
will be the last present I shall give you on your birthday. Before
another I shall be in heaven.
"Yes, I shall soon be landed
On yonder shores of bliss;
There, with my powers expanded,
Shall dwell where Jesus is."
During the night she remarked, "How good Jesus is in taking me away so
gently! I thought, after all I have done and said, I should suffer much
more. My sufferings are nothing to what Christ suffered on the cross."
The next day Mr. Oldfield came, and she wished him to read Psalm
ciii.--"Bless the Lord, O my soul"--and the hymn commencing, "My hope is
built on nothing less." He commented on the last verse, and spoke of the
robe prepared for her, and the glory that awaited her in heaven.
On Monday, November 28th, with deep feeling, she said--
"E'er since by faith I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die."
One day, her doctor said he thought her a little better. When she was
told, she burst into tears, and said, "Oh, I do not want to get better!
Dear Jesus, do come and take me!
"Weary of earth, myself, and sin,
Dear Jesus, set me free!
And to Thy glory take me in,
For there I long to be."
Another time she said, "I think I shall soon reach my journey's end now.
Won't it be nice when my last day comes? I did not think I should be
taken first, but I do now. I wonder who will be the next? Jesus knows. I
should like to have on my tombstone, 'To depart and be with Christ is
far better,' and I hope Mr. Oldfield will bury me; but it little matters
about my body. I shall be singing in heaven when they are putting my
poor body in the grave."
The last time Mr. Oldfield visited her she could say but very little to
him, her cough being so incessant. He read Psalms cxv. and cxvi., and
remarked, "The heathen have no God to cry to in their affliction, but
you have. What a mercy!
"When your poor, lisping, stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave,
Then, in a nobler, sweeter song,
You'll sing His power to save.
"You have had a foretaste of heaven here, haven't you?" She answered,
"Yes, I have."
At times her sufferings seemed more than she knew how to bear, and
caused her to become impatient; but afterwards she would express much
sorrow for it, and beg earnestly of the Lord to forgive her, and enable
her to bear all He should see fit to lay upon her, adding, "My
sufferings are nothing to what Christ suffered."
On Sunday, December 18th, she said but little during the day, but in the
evening she wished the hundredth Psalm to be read, and the hymn, "Oh,
bless the Lord, my soul."
Between eleven and twelve o'clock at night she said to her sisters, "I
think I shall go to-night. Yes, I feel sure I shall." They asked her if
she still felt happy, and if Jesus was precious. She answered, "Yes!
yes!
"My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness."
Turning to them, she said, "Good-bye, good-bye. Say 'Good-bye' to all
for me. I am going home! home! home! I am going home!"
She then fell asleep, to awake in a happier world, "where the inhabitant
shall no more say, I am sick; and where they that dwell therein shall be
forgiven their iniquity."
She was interred at Godmanchester on December 26th, 1887, many of the
friends and scholars of the Sunday School being present.
Truly, "the memory of the just is blessed."
J. S.
BIBLE SUBJECTS FOR EACH SUNDAY IN APRIL.
April 1. Commit to memory Psa. xciv. 1.
April 8. Commit to memory Psa. xciv. 2.
April 15. Commit to memory Psa. xciv. 21.
April 22. Commit to memory Psa. xciv. 22.
April 29. Commit to memory Psa. xciv. 23.
A CHINAMAN applied for membership in a San Francisco Baptist Church. In
answer to the question, "How he found Jesus?" he is reported to have
answered, "I no find Jesus at all; He find me." There is a great deal of
theology as well as evidence of religion in his answer.
A FAMOUS DOG.
In 1779, a young dog, who apparently had no master, came, no one knew
how, to Caen, France, and met there a regiment of grenadiers starting
for Italy. Urged on, apparently by destiny, he followed them. He was, to
all appearance, a common street cur, dirty and ugly, but he had such a
bright expression and seemed so intelligent that they did not hesitate
to take him.
His new companions forced him to act as sentinel, to obey orders, to
keep step, to become accustomed to the sound of fire-arms, to obey roll
call, and all other duties the soldiers were called upon to perform. He
received and ate his rations with them, and lived in every respect as
his regiment was commanded to do.
In going to Italy, Moustache crossed St. Bernard, at the cost of unknown
hardships, and encamped with the regiment above Alexandria. It was here
that he was to accomplish his first great feat of arms. A detachment of
Austrians, hidden in the Valley of Balbo, advanced in the night to
surprise the grenadiers, and was heard by this vigilant dog as he was
making his rounds. The soldiers were awakened by his barking. In a
moment every one was on foot, and the enemy dislodged. To reward
Moustache, the colonel had his name inscribed on the regimental roll,
and ordered that he should have every day the ration of a soldier. He
ordered that there should be put on his neck a collar bearing the name
of the regiment, and the barber was ordered to wash and comb him every
week.
Some time afterwards there was a slight engagement, and Moustache
conducted himself very bravely. He here received his first wound--a
bayonet thrust in the shoulder. It must be said here that Moustache was
never wounded except in front.
About this time he quarrelled with the grenadiers and deserted, because
they had left him tied in the garrison. Taking refuge with a company of
chasseurs, he saw a disguised Austrian spy enter the French camp.
Moustache, forgetting the insult he had received, welcomed the stranger
by springing at his throat with much fierceness. This action astonished
all at first, but they had time for reflection, and then remembered the
sagacity of the faithful dog. The stranger was arrested, searched, and
found to be a spy.
Moustache continued the series of his exploits. At the battle of
Austerlitz, seeing the colour-bearer surrounded by enemies, he flew to
his rescue, defended him as well as he could, and when the soldier fell,
pierced with bullets, enveloped in his colours, Moustache, seizing with
his teeth that part of the glorious flag which he could get, fairly flew
past the enemy, and brought back to his company the blood-stained
remnants. It must be said here that a charge of musketry had taken off
one of his legs. This saving of the flag brought him merited honour.
They took off the collar he wore, and Marshal Lannes ordered that they
should put on him a red ribbon, with a copper medal, bearing this
inscription on one side--"He lost a leg at the battle of Austerlitz, and
saved the colours of his regiment." On the other side it
read--"Moustache should be loved and honoured as a brave French dog."
As it was easy to recognise him by his ribbon and medal, they decided
that, in whatever regiment he should present himself, he should receive
the portion of a soldier.
He took part yet in several battles, and among others that of Essling
(1809). He made with the dragoons two campaigns, and the brave dog
fought every time he had the opportunity. He always walked in front on
the alert, barking when he heard any noise, and could not find out the
cause. In the Sierra Morena mountains, he brought back to camp the horse
of a dragoon who had been killed. It is said that at several times he
showed this same act of intelligence.
He made his last campaign with the artillery, and was killed at the
battle of Badajoz, on March 11th, 1811, at the age of twelve years. They
buried him on the spot where he fell, with his medal and his ribbon. On
the stone which served as his monument they wrote--"Here lies
Moustache." These simple words are more eloquent than the most pompous
epitaph.
FLESH-EATING PLANTS.
It is said that there are about a hundred kinds of flesh-eating plants
all the world over, and of these, three--the sundew, butterwort, and
bladderwort--grow in this country.
The member of this species best known to British botanists is the
sundew. The leaves of this plant resemble in shape a flat spoon, and the
surface of their blades is covered with stout, erect, hair-like objects,
each with a roundish head, which is surrounded with a sticky fluid.
Flies are the usual prey of the sundew. When one of these insects
touches the blade of a leaf of the plant, the sticky points detain it,
and the edges of the blade begin bending towards the centre, and
continue to so fold themselves until the fly is entirely enveloped by
them. After remaining in this position for many hours, or even days, the
leaf gradually resumes its original shape, and an examination will show
that nothing remains of the fly but the hard parts--as the wings, outer
skin, &c. The rest of the insect has been dissolved in the sticky
secretions, and absorbed by the plant.
Several of these plants have been placed near one another, and some have
been covered by fine gauze, so that no flies could be caught by their
leaves. The superiority of the plants that have been left in their
natural state has clearly proved that a supply of animal food is not
only advantageous, but almost necessary to them. (See Psalm civ. 24.)
"DRAW ME."
"_No man can come to Me except the Father, which hath sent Me, draw
him._"--JOHN vi. 44.
"_Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out._"--JOHN vi. 37.
"_I am the Door._"--JOHN x. 9.
"_Draw me, we will run after Thee._"--SOLOMON'S SONG i. 4.