A THOUGHTLESS boy of fifteen, who had heard the Bible and the Christian
profession treated lightly, imbibed the poison of skepticism. He had
come to think that religion was only a name, and that the followers
of Christ were a gloomy people, denying themselves this world's
enjoyments and receiving no equivalent. It chanced one day that he was
sent on an errand to a lady, of whom his parents would often speak
compassionately, as one who had but a little while to live.
"Poor Mrs. S.," they were wont to exclaim, "how dreadful must it be
to her to know that she must leave her beautiful home, her babe and
husband. But," they would add, "she is a church-member,—wonder of she
is sustained in her great trouble."
The son called on Mrs. S. With pleased emotions, for he was a lad of
fine taste, he looked at the dwelling and out-grounds. Wealth had
here lavished its stores in adorning and furnishing a home where,
it would seem, scarcely a wish was ungratified. The garden was a
paradise of rare plants and flowers. Within, the foot pressed the
richest carpets, luxurious chairs and lounges invited repose, while
the elegant library contained the choicest productions in literature.
A fair babe, the picture of health, lay sleeping in its pretty cot. He
glanced at the costly house and dimpled child, and then at the sick
woman, and thought how terrible a thing it is to die amid such scenes.
He expected that the countenance of the death-doomed wife and mother
would reflect his feelings. But no. That saintly expression, such as
beautifies those only who have been purified by suffering, and "look
not at the things that are seen and temporal, but at the things that
are unseen and eternal," lighted up her face. An ever-present smile,
sweet and heavenly beyond any thing he had ever seen, spoke of her
deep, spiritual joy. It overwhelmed him with surprise. "This, this,"
said an inward voice, "is what Christianity does for Death's victims!"
There is, there must be, he felt, reality in that which can give
happiness under circumstances so forbidding. That smile followed him,
an unanswerable witness for Jesus, till he was led to seek the dying
Christian's Saviour. "A smile—a simple smile convinced me," he would
afterwards say.
In a rural town in Maine lived a Mr. B., an openly irreligious man. His
custom was, when his neighbors were at public worship on the Lord's
day, to take his fishing-rod or gun, and stroll about the fields and
woods in search of amusement. One hot summer day, starting on his
accustomed ramble, his course led him by the village church. The
pastor, a devoted, godly minister, now in glory, had just risen to name
his text. The Sabbath-breaker passed on ere it was announced. But the
door of the sanctuary being open on account of the heat, his glance
within met that of the man of God. Those calm, unworldly eyes, with
their "holy expression," as the transgressor subsequently stated, shot
conviction to his heart, and he found no peace till he found it beneath
the sin-atoning cross.
A faithful pastor,* who made much of "the lambs," was in the habit of
taking a little girl, the daughter of a parishioner, on his knee when
he called, and teaching her a hymn to sing. He taught her those lines
from Watts, commencing,—
"Earth has engrossed my love too long."
* Rev. J. Newton Brown.
She had a clear, rich voice, and when the family would sing those
words her bird-like notes might be heard above all the rest. One day
she came in from play, hot and fevered—scarlet fever had seized her,
and she soon faded from earth, to be folded in the arms of the "chief
Shepherd." Many years passed. With her death the stanzas ceased to
be sung and were seldom thought of. An older brother, who had grown
to manhood, read infidel books, forsook the house of God, and became
a caviller at religion. His business called him to a distant town,
and having a taste for music, he became a member of a choir, still
unchanged in his feelings towards Christianity. One Sabbath the
officiating clergyman gave out the hymn already referred to. While
engaged in singing it, suddenly he seemed to hear that child-voice
ringing out, in cadences of angelic sweetness, her favorite lines,—
"Earth has engrossed my love too long;
'Tis time I lift mine eyes
Upward, dear Father, to thy throne,
And to my native skies."
Each word uttered with thrilling distinctness to his ear, he was
lifted above his skepticism, heaven became a reality, the gospel a
divine power. Overcome by emotion, he sat down before the song had
ended,—melted, subdued, humbled, tearful. After his conversion he would
often allude to that hour as one of deep and vivid impression. Little
did that loving pastor think what he was doing for that brother when
the fair-haired girl sat in his lap committing those verses.