"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy
might."--Eccles. ix. 10.
"Watch and pray."--Matt. xxvi. 41.
"The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through
God to the pulling down of strongholds; casting down imaginations,
and every high thing that exalteth itself against the _knowledge_
of God."--2 Cor. x. 4, 5.
"Ah! Louis, _this_ is home," exclaimed Reginald, as, after the
embraces in the hall, they entered the pleasant drawing-room. It _was_
home, home with all its sweet associations and dear beings; and, in
a few minutes, Reginald and Louis had run all over the house for the
pleasure of seeing "the dear old places;" had shaken hands with the old
servants, given nurse a kiss, and, having finished by wakening Freddy
from his first sleep, returned to the drawing-room, where tea was ready.
It was a very pleasant tea that night. Every one had so much to say,
and there was so much innocent mirth--all agreed it was worth while
going away from home, for the pleasure of returning. Gradually the
broad yellow light faded from the wall, table, carpet, and window;
and, the gray twilight usurping its place, little Mary was obliged
to leave her seat on her father's knee, and with many kisses was
marshalled up stairs by nurse and Neville.
When Neville returned, the happy party sat round the open window
watching the bright stars in their trembling beauty, and the half-moon
rise over the dark trees, whitening their tops, silvering the water,
and casting the deep shadows into deeper darkness. There was something
in the still beauty that hushed the speakers, and at last only a low
remark was now and then made, until Louis asked his mother to walk out
into the garden. Mrs. Mortimer at first pleaded the heavy dews as an
excuse, but the request was so urgently pressed by Reginald and Neville,
and a large shawl and pair of clogs being procured, they sallied forth,
Neville and his father first, then Reginald and Miss Spencer, and lastly,
to his great satisfaction, Louis and his mother.
"I am so fond of moonlight, mamma," said Louis.
"I think most people are," replied his mother.
"I wonder what is the reason that moonlight is so much sweeter than
sunlight," said Louis.
"Do you like it better?" said his mother.
"I don't know that I like it _better_," replied Louis; "but it always
seems so quiet and soothing. I always liked moonlight when I was a very
little boy--but I thought very differently about it then."
"How so?" asked his mother.
"Oh! mamma, I thought it was very beautiful, and I felt a strange
sort of feeling come into my mind--a sort of sad happiness: and
sometimes I thought of fairies dancing in the moonlight; and when
I grew older, I used to think a great deal of nonsense, or try to
make poetry, and I called the moon 'Diana,' and 'queen of night'--and
imagined a great deal that I hardly like to tell you, about lovers
walking in moonlight."
"And your feelings are quite changed now?" asked his mother.
"Oh, yes! quite, mamma, it only seems more soothing, because I feel
as if I were alone with God. Does it not seem to you, mamma, as if we
see something of heaven in these lovely nights? I often wonder whether
the bright stars are the many mansions our Saviour speaks of. Oh! mamma,
what an immense thought it is to think of all these bright worlds
constantly moving--either suns themselves with their planets revolving
in ceaseless circles, or else themselves going round some bright sun!"
"And, perhaps," added his mother, "that bright sun carrying all its
attendant worlds round some larger and brighter sun, whose distance
is too great to be calculated. By the aid of powerful telescopes may
be seen in the extremity of our firmament, appearances which those who
have devoted themselves to this glorious science have decided are other
firmaments, each one containing its countless systems. Oh! Louis, God
is infinite--what if these wondrous creations have no limit, but circle
beyond circle spread out to all eternity! We may see the infinity of
our Maker in the smallest leaf. There is nothing lost. What we destroy
does but change its form."
"Mamma, I once remember cutting a bit of paper into halves--that is to
say, I first cut it into halves, and then cut one half into halves and
so on, till my scissors would not divide the little bit. I was very idle
that day, but I remember thinking that if I could get a pair of scissors
small enough I could cut that speck up _forever_--and even if there only
happened to be a grain left, I could not make that nothing."
Louis paused; he was lost in thoughts of wonders that human imagination
cannot grasp: the immensity and mystery of the Almighty's works.
Presently he added, "I cannot imagine it, mamma, my mind seems lost
when I try to think of _forever_. But there is a little hymn you used
to teach me that I cannot help thinking of--I often think of it--it was
the first I ever learned:
''Twas God, my child, that made them all
By His almighty skill;
He keeps them that they do not fall,
And rules them by His will.
How very great that God must be!'"
HYMNS FOR INFANT MINDS.
"Do you remember learning that hymn?" said his mother; "I should have
thought it had been too long ago."
"Oh, no, mamma. I remember once very distinctly, you had drawn up the
blind that I might look at the stars, and you leaned over my crib, and
taught me that verse. Mamma, even when I did not love God, I used to
like to hear _you_ tell me Bible stories and hymns sometimes, but I
did not think much of them after they were over; but now, almost every
thing reminds me of something in the Bible; or seems a type or a figure
of some of our heavenly Father's dealings with us."
"That is what the Apostle says," replied Mrs. Mortimer: "'The weapons
of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty, through God, to the pulling
down of strongholds; casting down imaginations, and every high thing
that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God; and bringing into
captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.' Your imaginations
before were not according to the will of God; you never saw any thing
lovely in Him, but now He has become 'altogether lovely' in your eyes;
every imagination that is contrary to His will is subdued, and all
brought into obedience to Him. And are you not far happier?"
"Indeed I am; oh, how much more happy!" said Louis: "but, dear mamma,
I do not wish you to think that I am always so happy, because that
would not be true. Very often, I seem almost to forget that I am a
child of God, and then, nothing awakens those happy feelings."
"I do not suppose you are always so happy, my dear boy. It is too
often the case with Christians, that instead of drawing their pleasures
from the fountain of life, they imagine that they can make cisterns of
their own; they look to the comforts around them, to the friends God has
given them, for satisfaction; and numberless other things have a tendency
to draw their minds from their heavenly Father, which must inevitably
destroy their peace of mind. But how sad it should ever be so! we have
only ourselves to blame that we are not always happy. A Christian should
be the most joyous creature that breathes."
"Dear mamma, how many pleasant conversations I have had with you!"
said Louis, affectionately kissing his mother's hand, as it lay on his
arm. "They have been some of my sweetest hours. It makes me so happy to
talk of God's love to me."
"An inexhaustible subject," said his mother: "'Then they that feared the
Lord, spake often one to another; and the Lord hearkened and heard it;
and a book of remembrance was written before Him, for them that feared
the Lord, and thought upon his name. And they shall be mine, saith the
Lord of Hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels.'
"Our favorite poet has expressed your feelings very beautifully:
'Oh, days of heaven, and nights of equal praise,
Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days
When souls drawn upward, in communion sweet
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat;
Discourse, as if released and safe at home,
Of dangers past and wonders yet to come;
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast
Upon the lap of covenanted rest.'"
COWPER'S "Conversation."
"Come, I think I must order you in," said Mr. Mortimer, who came up
with the others, just as these lines were finished. "These nocturnal
perambulations will not improve your health, my love; and it is past
prayer-time already. What a sweet night!"
"I am afraid I have been a little imprudent, but it was a temptation
when the dear boys pressed me so earnestly; our first night at home too,
after so long a separation."
"Mamma's very carefully wrapped up," said Neville.
"And it's so deliciously warm," said Reginald.
"Well, let us not increase the evil," said Mr. Mortimer.
They presently re-entered the drawing-room, and the servants being
summoned, Mr. Mortimer read prayers, and the boys went to bed.
The weather being generally wet for the next fortnight, all the in-door
resources were drawn upon by the young people of the Priory, and time
seldom hung heavily on their hands. I do not mean to say that there was
never a moment wasted; on the contrary, Louis had many lazy fits. It
must be allowed that in holiday time, when no one is expected to do
much regularly, there are great temptations to be idle, and boys are
apt to forget that it is not particularly for parents and teachers'
good that they are exhorted to make the most of their time.
Louis' father and mother gave him many gentle reminders of his failing,
and many were the struggles which he had with his dreamy indolence.
Sometimes, when in accordance with a plan laid down by his mother's
advice, he sat down to study for a stated time, he would open the book,
and, after leaning over it for half an hour, find that he had built
himself a nice little parsonage and school, and established himself
a most laborious and useful minister in the prettiest of villages. At
other times he was a missionary, or an eminent writer, and occasionally
a member of Parliament. Then, at other times, he must draw the plan of a
cottage or church, or put down a few verses; and sometimes, when he heard
the clock strike the hour that summoned him to his studies, he had some
excessively interesting story to finish, or very much preferred some other
occupation.
"Now, Louis, my dear, there is ten o'clock."
"Yes, mamma, I will go directly."
"Directly," in some persons' vocabulary, being an ambiguous term,
another quarter of an hour saw Louis in the same place, quite absorbed.
"Louis, Louis!"
"Yes, mamma." And Louis got up, book and all, and walked across the
room, reading all the way. After knocking his head against the door,
and walking into the library instead of into the school-room, he at
last found himself at the table where his writing-desk stood, without
any further excuse, but there he stood for a minute or two reading,
and then, still continuing, felt for his key, and slipped it along the
front of his desk for some time in the most absent and fruitless manner.
Being obliged, at length, to lay aside the book, he unlocked the desk,
and opening it, laid the dear volume thereon, and read while he carried
his desk to another table. Then a few books were fetched in the same
dawdling way, Louis all the while persuading himself--foolish boy--that
he was merely occupying the time of walking across the room in reading.
A few minutes more, and a chair was dragged along, and Louis seated.
Then he reluctantly laid his book down open beside him and commenced.
It would be tiresome to say how often when the dictionary or something
else had to be referred to, a half page or more of the story was read,
and to remark how equally Louis enjoyed his amusement and profited by
his study. He was finally overwhelmed with confusion when his father,
entering the room, came and looked over his shoulder, making some remark
on the economy of time exhibited in thus ingeniously blending together
his work and play without profiting by either.
"But indeed, papa, I don't know how it is; I made up my mind to be
very industrious, and I was very steady yesterday."
"You put me in mind of a story of a man who made a vow to abstain from
frequenting beer-shops, and who, on the first day of his resolution,
passed several successively, until he came to the last that lay on his
way home, when he stopped and exclaimed, 'Well done, Resolution! I'll
treat you for this,' and walked in."
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Louis, laughing.
"Don't you think this looks very much like treating resolution?"
said his father, taking up the open book.
"I can't tell how it is, papa," said Louis, looking ashamed. "I assure
you I did not mean to waste time; I cannot help being interested in
stories, and unless I leave off reading them altogether, I don't know
what to do."
"As reading stories is not a duty," said his father, "I would certainly
advise your leaving off reading them if they interfere with what is so
clearly one; but do you not think there is any way of arranging your
affairs so as to prevent a harmless recreation from doing this?"
"I can't depend upon myself, papa. If it were Reginald, he could
throw his book down directly, and do at once what he ought, and so
would Neville, but it is quite a trouble to me sometimes even to
bring my thoughts to bear upon dry studies, particularly mathematics,
which I hate."
"I allow there is some difference of constitution; Reginald is not so
fond of reading as you are, and has naturally more power of turning his
attention from one subject to another; but this power may be acquired,
and if you grow up with this inclination to attend only to those things
for which you take fancies and fits, you will not be a very useful
member of society; for it must always be remembered that consistency
is essential to a useful character, and that without it, though many
may love, few will respect you."
"I wish I could be like Neville; he is like a clock, and never lets any
one thing interfere with another, and he always has time for all he wants
to do, and is never in a hurry and flurry as I am; I think he has nothing
to struggle with."
"Indeed, my dear Louis, he has. Neville has as many faults as the
generality of boys, but you must not forget how much longer he has
begun the good fight than yourself; and the earlier we begin to
struggle against the corruptions of our nature, the easier the task
is; but, Louis, instead of wishing yourself like Neville, or any one
else, think how you may approach most nearly to the high standard of
excellence which is placed before us all."
"But, father, how can I? What must I do?" sighed Louis. "You cannot
tell how difficult it is to keep good resolutions. I fear I shall
never be any better."
"What is the grace of God, my boy?" said Mr. Mortimer, laying his hand
on Louis' shoulder; "tell me, what is the grace of God?"
"God's favor and help," replied Louis.
"And to whom is this promised?"
"To all who will ask for it, father."
"And will you say you can do nothing? Oh, my dear son! God is a God of
all grace, and can give to each of us what we need for every emergency.
Without Him, we can, indeed, do _nothing_, but with _Him_ we may do
_all things_; and blessed be His name for this unspeakable gift by which
He works in man a gradual restoration to more than his primeval condition.
Called with a holy calling, my boy, seek to glorify God in every little
affair of life; take your religion into these unpleasant studies, and
you will find them pleasures."
"But, father, there is one thing I want to say. Often when I pray,
I do not seem able to do things that I wish and ought."
"There may be two reasons for that," replied his father. "The first, that
you are not sufficiently in earnest in your petitions; and next, that you
imagine that your prayers are to do all, without any exertion on your
part--that the mere fact of having asked the help of the Almighty will
insure you a supernatural ease and delight in performing these duties,
forgetting that, while we are in this world we have to fight, to run
steadily forward, not to sit still and expect all to be smooth for us.
We must show diligence unto the end--we must watch as well as pray.
You remember the parable of the withered hand?"
"Yes, father."
"And you remember that our Lord commanded the man to stretch forth his
hand. He might have pleaded that it was powerless; but no, the Lord had
given him power at the moment he desired him to exert it; and just so to
every Christian, God is a God of all grace, and will give to each of us
the peculiar grace we need; but we must not lock it up and imagine it
to be efficacious without exertion on our part."
Louis was silent for some minutes. At length he turned his face up to
his father, and said--
"What would you advise me to do?"
"What do you think yourself would be best?" said his father. "Think
always _after_ earnest prayer for divine guidance, what seems right
to do, what the Bible says, and how it will be to the glory of your
Saviour; then, when you have made up your mind as to the rectitude
of any plan of action, let your movements be prompt and decided,
and do not leave the silly heart any room to suggest its excuses and
modifications. Your judgment may sometimes err, but it is better for
the judgment than the conscience to be in fault. Be assured that if
you thus acknowledge God in all your ways, He will direct your paths."
Louis paused another moment, and said--
"Will you take that book, father, and not let me have it any more to-day,
as it has interfered so much with my study; and I will try to be more
industrious. I will finish my Prometheus and Euclid, and the projection
of my map, and then, perhaps, I shall be ready for the reading."
Mr. Mortimer shook his head as he held up his watch before his
son's eyes--
"Too late, Louis. The time is lost, and something must be missed to-day."
"Then, papa, I will do my Greek, and go to the reading, and then,
instead of amusing myself after lunch, I will do the other things--and
please take that book away with you."
"I had rather leave it," said Mr. Mortimer. "You must learn to act for
yourself and by yourself. You do not expect to be always a boy, and if
these weaknesses are not checked now, you will grow up a weak man, sadly
dependent upon external influences and circumstances. Put the book out
of your way by all means, but let it be your own act. And now I will
leave you to do your work, for I see you have done very little, and
that little very ill."
When his father had left the room, Louis put the book on a shelf, and,
turning his back to it, set himself to work with earnest determination.
He rewrote what he had done so badly, took great pains with the new
edition, and had the satisfaction of receiving his father's approval
of his work in the evening. After lunch his disagreeable Euclid was
completed, and the map finished, and Louis refrained steadily from
looking at the book for the rest of the day; nor did he, though sorely
inclined, open it the next day until he could do so with a safe
conscience.
For the remainder of the holidays Louis adhered to his resolution;
but I do not mean to say he trusted on his own resolution: that he
had found, by painful experience, to be a broken reed. In dependence
upon an Almighty helper, he steadily endeavored from day to day to
perform what was required of him in his station and circumstances,
and found his reward in peace of mind and consciousness of growing
in grace.