village from a distant part of the country in search of work; but he had
not been there long before he fell ill and died. It was a sad loss to
Janet and her mother, but God, who looks in pity on the widow and
fatherless, raised up for them many kind friends.
It was one evening, late in the autumn, that Janet sat at the door of
her mother's cottage. She had been told never to go far away from the
house, lest she should be lost. But on this evening, as she looked over
the fields, she saw some bright blue flowers near a bush; and as she was
very fond of making little nosegays of wild blossoms, she thought she
should like to pluck them. When these were gathered, there was still
further away a hedge with shining buds. "Oh," said she, "I should like
to have them to put with my blue flowers." In a moment she sprang
towards them, when a little bird was startled from its nest in the
hedge. "What a pretty creature!" she cried. "How I should like to see
where it will fly to!" And so she ran towards it, but the bird could fly
much faster than she could run. Soon it flew into the wood, and Janet
followed after it.
Thus we see how one wrong step leads to another. Dear children, beware
of the first temptation to acts of disobedience.
It was a cool evening, and the wind blew among the trees. A little rain
had begun to fall, and there were signs of a stormy night. Where had
little Janet wandered to? and where could she find a shelter should
there be a storm?
The sun now sank behind the hills, and night came on. Then it was
dark--quite dark; and her young heart beat quickly as the wind moaned
among the trees. She now felt that she had lost her way, and then sat
down to weep. She thought what a naughty child she had been in not
obeying her mother.
At last she cried herself to sleep. As soon as the daylight came again,
she awoke, and felt very hungry. But there was no nice breakfast ready
for her, and no loving mother to kiss her. She was alone in that great
wood.
Janet thought that it was no use for her to sit still, so she rose up,
and walked on, but not so fast as before, for her feet were cold, her
legs were stiff from lying on the damp ground, and she was weak from
want of food. Yet the more she went forward, the further she was from
home, for she was going quite another way from that path which led to
her mother's cottage.
After a time she came to a place where she saw some dark-looking people
seated on the outside of a little tent or camp. These were gipsies. At
first she was afraid; but what was a little girl to do in that wide
wood? So, thinking that they might be kind to her, she went to them, and
told how she was lost.
They told Janet to sit down by their fire, and then they gave her some
food out of a large iron kettle that hung from three upright sticks. The
poor girl stopped with them all that day, and at night she cried, and
asked them to take her home to her dear mother. But the gipsies looked
at one another, and then spoke in a whisper, so that she might not hear
what they said.
At last, the men and women took off Janet's nice frock, and put on her
an old ragged dress. They also rubbed her face, neck, and hands with a
dark juice, and then they told her that she must go with them, and she
should be in the place of one of their own little girls who had died.
The tent was now packed up, and put into a little cart, and all went
forward into a part of the country Janet had never seen before.
Now, poor child, all days were alike to her. She did not know Sunday
from any other day. She had no Sabbath School to go to, nor any good
books to read. Instead of the sweet hymns she used to hear sung, she now
only heard the vain and foolish songs of the gipsies. The Bible, which
her mother used to read to her every night and morning, was a Book
unknown to these wild people.
In what state of mind was Janet's mother all this time? The people of
the village, when they first heard of her loss, went in search of the
child. They took with them lanterns, and torches, and tin horns, to
sound as a signal, should they find the lost one. Onward they went; some
along the fields, and others into the wood; but hour after hour passed
away, and the little girl was not found.
Oh, what grief filled the widow's heart! "My child has fallen into the
river, and is drowned," she cried; "or has strayed into the woods, and
will be starved to death."
When all the people had come back with the sad tidings that no trace of
Janet could be found, she wept aloud.
Nearly twelve months passed away, but Janet was not happy with the
gipsies. "Take me to my mother," she often said with tears. "Oh, do let
me go home again!" They tried to please her with their wandering ways of
life, but she could find no pleasure in them. She used to sit on the
side of the road wherever they went, and look on every passer-by, to see
if she could find any one she knew. But no, all faces were strange. She
did not know that she was many miles away from her mother's cottage.
As time went on, the gipsies saw that Janet became very pale and ill.
She was so weak that they thought she would die. They then told her
that, in a few weeks, they would go back to the woods where they first
met with her, and that she should again see her mother. How did Janet
count the days and hours till the time came; and when they once more
reached the woods, she clapped her hands for joy.
It was again the autumn of the year, and the reapers were at work in the
fields. They were very busy, for they were afraid that a storm was
coming on. It was just such a cloudy evening as that when Janet was
lost. They had cut down all the corn at the lower part of one of the
fields, and had just reached a corner which lay against the entrance to
the wood, when who should they see but a little gipsy girl. She ran as
well as she could, for she was very feeble, towards them, crying, "I am
Janet! My name is Janet Bruce. Oh, carry me home to my mother!"
The reapers stopped in their work, and one of them caught the girl up in
his arms, and looking for a moment in her face, shouted out, "Yes, it is
she! It is Janet herself!" There could be no mistake, for though she had
grown taller, and her dress was ragged, and her face was brown, they
knew her again in a moment.
The work of the day was soon over, and a seat of boughs of trees was
quickly made, into which they put Janet; then two of the strongest men
raised her upon their shoulders, and carried her towards her own dear
home. Some went before--men, boys, and women--and some followed after;
and as they went they sang aloud for joy.
The glad tidings soon reached Janet's cottage, and the mother rushed
forward to meet her child. But we cannot tell you what were the feelings
of the poor widow as she clasped Janet once more in her arms. The gipsy
dress was taken off, and better clothes put on, and like the father in
the parable, the widow said, "This my child was dead, and is alive
again; and was lost, and is found."
And so it is when a sinner is brought by the Holy Spirit to return to
God. With shame and sorrow he says, "Father, I have sinned." But God,
who is rich in mercy, is ready to forgive. He will, for Christ's sake,
hear prayer. Through His precious blood He will pardon sin. He will take
off the ragged garments of sin, and put on the white robe of Jesus'
righteousness, and receive coming sinners as His children. Then what
sounds of joy are heard in heaven, when those who were lost are brought
home to dwell for ever in their Father's house!
Dear child, through the fall you are _lost_. Have you been truly brought
as a penitent to Christ? If so, you are _found_.
Do not forget this--all the while any one knows not what it is to come
to Christ for mercy and pardon, he is lost. But the moment a sinner is
truly brought to the cross of Christ for salvation, he is found. Are you
among the lost or among the found?
THE DEAR OLD TIMES.
It is interesting to look over household and personal accounts of, say,
a hundred and fifty years ago. Some of these, which deal with the
expenses of Mr. Gervase Scrope, and of his son Thomas, both of
Cockerington, Lincolnshire, lie before me; and from them I find that "my
dark-coloured cloth suit, trimmed with silver buttons and loops, was
made November 21st, 1730, and cost in all L17 17s. 6d."
This included two pairs of breeches. The cloth for the suit cost 18s. a
yard; but Mr. Scrope had a cloak in 1732, the cloth of which cost L1 2s.
a yard. In 1729, however, he procured a cheap knockabout suit of clothes
for L9 0s. 6d.
Economy seems to have been necessary, for in 1731, "Tommy had a pair of
breeches made out of an old scarlet riding-coat of mine."
Boots and wigs were both dear; so also were hats. The squire's
window-tax in 1748 amounted to L2 17s.
Only in the matter of certain articles of food were the old days cheaper
than the new. In 1754, eight lbs. of veal cost 2s. 4d., or 31/2d. per
lb.; a tongue cost 1s. 10d.; 31 lbs. of round and rump of beef cost
12s., or about 41/2d. per lb.; a leg and saddle of mutton cost 4s. 7d.;
a quarter of lamb cost 1s. 6d.; 22 lbs. of pork were bought for 5s. 6d.;
and rabbits ranged from 6d. to 1s. a couple, according to size. But
coffee was 6s. a lb., and lump sugar was 10d. Soap at this time cost 7s.
6d. a stone.
Bread was sometimes cheap, but whenever war broke out, the price always
went up to a terrible height, and much misery and distress must have
resulted.
In 1886, the average price of wheat in England was 39s. 4d. per imperial
quarter; in 1810 it was 106s. 5d.; and in 1801 it was 119s. 6d.; or more
than three times as much as it was two years ago. Those were indeed dear
old times.--_Cassell's Saturday Journal._
POINTS TO BE AIMED AT.
P unctual be throughout the day;
O bedient to superiors;
I ndustrious in every way;
N ot haughty to inferiors:
T ruthful in word, and trim in dress;
S hun folly, and for wisdom press.
J. B.
ALL who now colour for show will hereafter be shown in their true
colours.
WHAT A PRIEST THOUGHT OF ROMAN CATHOLIC MIRACLES.
"_After the working of Satan with all power, and signs, and lying
wonders._"--2 THESSALONIANS ii. 9.
In the autumn of 1836, the Marine hospital of Quebec, in Canada, was
filled with patients suffering from ship typhoid fever, and so deadly
was the disease that, by the following spring, a number of the officials
and servants of the institution had also been smitten, and died.
Chiniquy had hitherto been spared, although in constant attendance on
the patients, but in May, 1837, he was attacked with the fearful
disease. His life was despaired of, and the last Sacraments were
administered to him. He could not speak. His tongue became like a piece
of wood, and all that could be given him was a little cold water,
dropped with much difficulty through his teeth.
On the thirteenth night of his illness, he heard the doctors whisper,
"He is dead, or nearly so," and they left the room. A deep horror seized
him. An icy wave seemed to creep over his whole frame, and a terrible
vision rose before his mind. A pair of scales stood before him. His sins
were in one scale; his good works and penances in the other; and all his
righteousness seemed but a grain of sand compared with a mountain load
of guilt, and to God he dared not cry for mercy. But he thought of two
saints--St. Anne, who was believed to have cured hundreds of cripples,
and St. Philomene, who was just then the favourite saint of Rome. To
these he cried, with all the earnestness of his failing soul, and soon a
bright vision came before him of an aged, grave lady, and a young and
beautiful one, the latter distinctly saying to him, "You will be cured."
The vision then disappeared, but the fever had gone also. The crisis was
over. He was hungry, and asked for food, which was at once given him,
and he ravenously ate the dainties prepared, while the friendly priests
gathered round him joyfully, and sang a hymn of praise.
Of course they believed that the saints had cured him, and the Roman
Catholic doctors shared their idea; but a Protestant physician denied it
altogether, and in a kind manner he tried to prove that no miracle had
been wrought, but that returning health came from natural causes, by the
will and blessing of God.
Chiniquy was unwilling, however, to change his mind on the subject, and,
true to the vow he made in the hour of fear, he got a splendid picture
painted, at a cost of L50, representing his vision as he lay seemingly
on the bed of death.
Three months later, he was in the house of the curate of St. Anne, a
cousin of his, and he showed him the picture he intended to exhibit in
the church next day. But, to his surprise and grief, his older relative,
instead of sharing his belief, laughed heartily at his folly, asking him
how he, as a man of sense, could possibly believe in such a miracle.
Chiniquy reminded him of all the crutches hanging in St. Anne's Church,
belonging to the cripples she had cured, which remark gave rise to
another burst of laughter on the curate's part. But, sobering down, he
seriously declared that, having carefully watched these so-called cures,
he had found that ninety-nine out of every hundred were impostures, the
hundredth one being an honest belief, but a superstitious and fancied
one.
These pretended cripples were nearly always lazy beggars, who knew that
their seeming lameness would get them pity and money, and, when tired of
that game, they would make a begging tour, telling all their helpers
that they were going to the church of St. Anne, to pray for the use of
their legs.
They at last arrive there, pay from one to five dollars to have a mass
said for them, and then, in the midst of the ceremony, just as they
receive the wafer, there is a cry of joy. They are cured, and they leave
their crutches behind as witnesses of their cure. They then return, and
tell all who will listen as they go along, receiving fresh gifts from
them until they get home again, to take a farm and settle down with
their dishonest gains.
"Such," said the curate, "is the true history of the ninety-nine
miracles. In the hundredth case the man is really cured, because he was
really afflicted; but his nerves were wrought upon just as I was once
cured of a dreadful toothache by seeing the dentist put his instrument
on the table. I took my hat and left, and the dentist laughed heartily
every time he met me afterwards.
"One of the weakest points of our religion is the ridiculous miracles
said to be wrought by the relics and bones of saints. For the most part,
they are the bones of chickens or sheep; and were I a Pope, I would
throw all these Pagan mummeries to the bottom of the sea, and would
present to the eyes of sinners nothing but 'Christ and Him crucified' as
the Object of their faith, just as the Apostles of Jesus do in their
Epistles!"
They talked together in this strain till two o'clock in the morning, and
then Chiniquy was too puzzled and sad to sleep.
Next morning, multitudes came to see his picture, and hear about his
cure, which he long afterwards believed to be a miracle. Soon after he
had finally left his priesthood, however, he again caught the fever,
while visiting a dying man, and again on the thirteenth day the malady
took a favourable turn; but this time he had felt happy in the prospect
of dying, and the vision he saw at the crisis of the disease was not St.
Anne, or St. Philomene, but a dozen bishops, dagger in hand, rushing on
him to take his life. He thought he turned on them and slew them, and
with this the fever left him. He asked for food, and speedily recovered,
and then he knew that it was the Lord who had forgiven all his
iniquities, who had also healed his diseases, without the aid of any of
the saints of Rome, and the snare which had long held him captive was
broken. He no longer sought the aid of departed saints in heaven, any
more than he thought of again praying for souls in purgatorial fires.
The Word of God was henceforth his only guide. May the religion of the
Bible only, be our religion also.--_Jottings on "The Life and Work of
Father Chiniquy," by Cousin Susan._
COUNTING THE COST.
There are some curious stories respecting Fra Rocco, the celebrated
preacher of Naples. On one occasion, it is related, he preached a
penitential sermon, and introduced so many illustrations of terror that
he soon brought his hearers to their knees. While they were thus showing
every sign of contrition, he cried out--
"Now, all of you who sincerely repent of your sins, hold up your hands."
Every man in the vast multitude immediately stretched out both his
hands.
"Holy Archangel Michael," exclaimed Rocco, "thou who with thine
adamantine sword standest at the right of the judgment-seat of God, hew
me off every hand which has been raised hypocritically."
In an instant every hand dropped, and Rocco, of course, poured forth a
fresh torrent of eloquent invective against their sins and their deceit.
[True repentance is given by Jesus Christ, the exalted Prince and
Saviour. All other is but mere show, and unavailing before God.--ED.]
A HEART without a gift is better than a gift without a heart.
JUVENILE GEMS.
The subjects of these memoirs--Ann Jane Woolford, George Woolford, and
Hephzibah Woolford--were born in the beautiful town of Cheltenham,
August 20th, 1840, January 28th, 1842, and February 14th, 1846.
The names of their parents were George and Ann Woolford, both members of
the Church assembling for worship in Bethel Chapel, Cheltenham.
In all, four children shared their affection, interested their
solicitudes, listened to their counsels, and knelt at their domestic
altar.
Upon three out of the four the grave closed in comparative infancy; and,
believing the "kindness and love of God our Saviour toward man" appeared
to them, the bereaved mother, partly to indulge in a subject of mournful
interest, and partly to record the gracious dealings of God, drew up,
with her own hand, the subjoined narrative:--
GEORGE.
"My eldest child, George Woolford, was attacked by scarlatina on October
16th, 1851, from which he partially recovered, but died the following
month.
"Perceiving his soul 'drawing nigh unto the grave, and his life to the
destroyers,' I remarked, 'It will do you no harm to think of death,
seeing we must all die.' With tears in his eyes he exclaimed, 'Oh,
mother, I am afraid I shall not go to heaven.' I asked _why_ he thus
feared. His answer was, 'I am afraid the Lord will not forgive me.' I
said, 'My dear, the Lord is ready to forgive _all_ who from their hearts
are sorry for their sins; and I hope the Holy Ghost will enable you to
pray for divine forgiveness.' He seemed much affected by these remarks,
but said he was too ill to talk or listen to me.
"In great earnestness (and I believe under divine influence) I entreated
God to grant me the great favour of informing me whether my dear boy was
interested in the everlasting covenant, which is 'ordered in all things,
and sure.'
"About two or three days after, he commenced a conversation by saying,
'Mother, I am afraid I shall not go to heaven. I have been such a
sinner. I am afraid I am so great a sinner that the Lord will not save
me. I have done so many things that are sinful, and they come into my
mind and make me grieve.' I repeated several portions of the Holy
Scripture, to which he listened in great earnestness, and then inquired,
'But, as I have not long to live, will the Lord forgive me after putting
it off so long?' I answered in the affirmative, and mentioned the dying
thief, assuring him the Lord was as willing to pardon him as He had been
to pardon that malefactor. This relieved his mind, and he asked for his
Testament to read.
"A few days after, while I was gazing intently on him, he meekly
exclaimed, 'Do not look at me so, my dear mother. It almost breaks my
heart.' I said, 'My dear boy, do you ever _pray_?' He answered, 'I _try_
to do so; but do not know that I pray _aright_.' I remarked, 'If it is
from your heart, the Lord will answer it in His own time, for the prayer
of necessity is that in which He delights.'
"On the Lord's Day before his death he appeared much better, ate a
hearty dinner, and remained up till between four and five in the
afternoon, when he exclaimed, 'Oh, mother, I am afraid my breath is
getting bad again.' After several hours of great suffering, he cried
out, 'Dear Lord, take me--do take me!' Hearing him thus call upon the
name of the Lord, I approached him softly, and in soothing terms
expressed my gladness at finding he was not afraid to die. 'No, dear
mother,' he said, 'I am not afraid to die. I am happy now.' I inquired,
'Do you love the Lord?' 'Oh, yes,' was his ready answer, and immediately
ejaculated, 'Dearest Lord, take me--take me--take me!' a great many
times.
"His pains becoming stronger, he said, 'Dear mother, do pray the dear
Lord to take me!' I did so; and when risen from my knees, he said,
'Thank you, my dear mother. I hope the Lord will answer your prayer,'
and then added, 'Oh, my dear, dear Lord, do take me! Take me from this
world now. I do not want to live here. Take me with my next breath. This
moment, dear Lord, take me.'
"Observing the state of his mind, I put this question to him--'My dear
boy, do you think the Lord has washed you in His blood, and clothed you
in His precious righteousness?' 'Oh, yes, I do, mother,' was his prompt
reply.
"His pains abating, he remarked, 'How kind the Lord is to me! I shall
never be able to praise Him enough.' I said, 'My dear, you will have the
countless ages of eternity to praise Him in.' He said, 'I want to go.' I
answered, 'Pray for patience, that you may wait the Lord's time.' 'I am
not impatient, but my pains are great,' was his meek reply, and he began
entreating the Lord to remove him from this sinful world.
"A short time after this, he exclaimed, 'Oh, that precious Book, the
Bible!' I answered, 'It is indeed a precious Book. It tells us of a
Saviour, who washed you and me in His precious blood!' He said, 'Yes';
and added, 'Pray for Him to take me soon. Do, dear mother,' &c.
"Expressing a desire to kiss my hand, I gave him one. He held it very
tightly, and kissed it several times. I asked him if he thought he had
been a little sinner or a great one. Surprised by this question, and
apparently hurt, he replied, 'Oh, mother, a _great_ one--a _great_ one.'
"Overhearing a part of my conversation with his aunt, he said, 'Oh,
mother, do not ask the Lord to let me live. I want to die. I would not
live half a second.'
"Shortly after, he repeated a similar prayer, wished to see his father,
kiss him, and take his leave of him, which he did in an affectionate
manner. He then inquired what o'clock it was, and being disappointed,
cried out in a tone of thrilling solemnity, 'O Lord of Hosts, come and
take me!' Shortly afterwards he exclaimed, lifting up his eyes and hands
to heaven, 'I think I am dying. Pray again, dear mother, that the Lord
may take me.' Persuaded of his interest in Christ, I was enabled to
resign him, and much as I loved him, actually entreated the Lord to
fetch him away. When this was over, he said, 'Thank you, my dearest
mother. I hope the Lord will answer all your prayers before long.'
"At another time, he remarked, 'How good the Lord is to me, is He not?'
And again, 'My sufferings are great, but they will soon be over, for I
shall soon be with the Lord'; and in a manner I cannot describe,
exclaimed, 'Oh, dear Lord Jesus Christ, and Holy Ghost, come and take
me.'
"Not long after, he remarked, 'I shall soon go now. Something has broke
in my head. You may send for some one to lay me out.'
"After a short interval he complained of shortness of breath, and
proceeded to call upon the Lord in a sweet manner, but in a short time
suddenly exclaimed, 'Now I know I shall soon be gone, for two things
have broke within me. Does not my voice get weaker?'
"After giving directions about his books, he again complained of his
distresses, and I remarked, 'The way to the kingdom was through much
tribulation.' He requested that I would pray for patience; and upon
being reminded that the Lord loved him too well to detain him one moment
beyond the appointed time, he said, 'Oh, why is He so long in coming?
Dear Lord, come _now_!'
"Referring him to some of the Lord's children who had suffered fire and
sword, but were now in glory, I added, 'You will soon be with them, and
have ten thousand smiles from your Redeemer, with love in every smile.'
This seemed to refresh his spirit, and I continued, 'One moment with
Christ will more than recompense for all your pain.' He said, 'Oh, yes.
Come, dear Lord, and take me!'