number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues, stood
before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, and
palms in their hands. And one of the elders answered, saying unto me,
What are these which are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they?
And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said to me, These are they
which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and
made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the
throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that
sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more,
neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any
heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them,
and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes” (Rev. vii. 9, 13-17).
“_Lord, carest thou not that we perish!_”
How oft is the cry of despair,
When affliction’s waves roll,
And the agonized soul
Scarce can utter its anguish in prayer!
Yet the Saviour is watching beside us,
His eye cannot slumber nor sleep;
The bark which he guides,
Where his presence abides,
Can never be wrecked on the deep!
Oh! how soon would our inward fears vanish,
Our souls smile at perils without,
Could we hear his mild love
Thus our terrors reprove,—
“_Ye of little faith, why did you doubt!_”
Lord, make us trust ever in thee,
Though our frail bark by tempests be driven;
Till thy sovereign will
Bid the rude waves “_be still!_”
And we rest in the haven of heaven!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: HE THAT LOVETH PLEASURE SHALL BE A POOR MAN. Prov. 21]
VIII.
THE SABBATH-TREE.
It was on a bright Sunday afternoon that the teacher, Willy Thorn, on
returning from church, met three of his scholars sauntering towards one
of the London parks. They perceived his approach at some little distance,
and instantly began to conceal in their pockets something that they had
been carrying in their hands. Their nearness to a very tempting stall,
upon which fruit and sweetmeats were sold, made Willy guess too truly the
cause of the hasty movement. He thought it better, however, at first to
take no apparent notice of the fact that the boys had been breaking the
Fourth Commandment by buying upon God’s holy day.
“Well, my lads,” said Thorn, when he came up to them, “you are going, I
see towards the park. I will go with you; we will enjoy the fresh air and
bright sunshine together, and perhaps have a little discourse, which may
be profitable as well as pleasant.”
The boys were usually very fond of the society of Willy Thorn; but just
now, with their pockets full of cakes and nuts, they would have preferred
being without it. However, no objection was made; they reached the park,
and seated themselves under the shade of a large tree, for the sun was
hot, and the shelter of the foliage was pleasant on that sultry afternoon.
Willy Thorn looked upwards at the leafy boughs which hung above him,
through whose screen a long bright ray, here and there, pierced like a
diamond lance. “This tree has put an allegory into my mind,” said he.
“Boys, are you in the mood for a story?”
A story was always welcome, and in the expectation of being amused, the
scholars half forgot that their teacher’s presence was delaying their
intended feast.
“Methought,” began Thorn, “that I had a dream; and in my dream I beheld
a large and venerable tree. It was several thousand years old—so you
may imagine its size; but it showed no signs of age; its leaves were as
fresh, its fruit as abundant, as when the Israelites of old encamped
under its refreshing shade. This tree was called the SABBATH-TREE. It was
given by its Lord as one of the richest blessings which was ever bestowed
upon man. Freely might all partake of its fruit; but all were forbidden
by a voice Divine to break even the smallest bough from the sacred tree.
“I saw in my dream that many thronged to the spot where the Sabbath-tree
rose, like a beautiful green temple, in the midst of the plain; and I
stood aside to mark the effect of its fruit on those who came to gather
it. It strewed the ground in some places so thickly, that it shone like a
carpet of gold.”
“I suppose,” said Bat Nayland, one of the boys, “that the fruits of the
Sabbath-tree are,—going to church, praying, praising, and reading the
Bible?”
Thorn smiled in assent, and continued: “I saw one haggard man come, faint
with hunger, to the spot. He threw himself down on the soft grass, and
fed eagerly on the nourishment freely provided. And I marked joy on his
pale face as he ate of the fruit of the Sabbath-tree, and I remembered
the holy words, _Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after
righteousness, for they shall be filled_.
“I saw an aged woman reach the tree. She was so feeble that she had
hardly power to stoop to gather the fruit; but as she tasted it, her
strength returned, her bent form became more erect, she walked with a
firmer step, and I remembered that it is written, _They that wait upon
the Lord shall renew their strength_.
“Next, a miserable sufferer approached; on his countenance was an
expression of pain. He was sick—grievously sick of the malady of sin,
fatal to all who cannot find a cure. But he knew the healing powers of
the tree. He fed, and even as he fed health returned to his faded cheek,
the anguish of his soul passed away, and the sufferer found himself
whole.”
“I thought,” said the eldest of the boys, “that there was but _one cure_
for sin!”
“True, most true,” replied Thorn, with an approving look; “but in due
observance of Sabbath duties, we learn how to seek and where to find that
cure.
“I had watched in my dream, with a rejoicing heart, thousands gathering
the precious fruit, and receiving nourishment, strength, and healing;
but now, alas! my attention was attracted by yet greater multitudes, who
thronged to the spot only, as I became painfully aware, to break and
injure the beautiful tree. Some enemy had hung up a hatchet on its trunk,
with _Disobedience_ marked on the handle, and of this numbers made very
free use to cut down large boughs from the tree.
“‘I am going on a jovial merry-making in the country,’ cried one; ‘I and
my family shall have a treat. I want some wood to mend up my broken car.’
“‘Hold!’ exclaimed the youth who had been healed, attempting to stay
the hand of the Sabbath-breaker; ‘are there not _six_ groves nigh at
hand?—had you not better cut what you want from them?’
“‘No!’ cried the man impatiently, swinging the hatchet aloft; ‘there is
no tree so convenient as this!’ and for the sake of a little pleasure in
the country with merry companions, he cut a branch from the Sabbath-tree!
“Then came a woman with a face full of care. She had not faith to trust
in him who clotheth the lilies, and provideth for the ravens. ‘I want
wood for a stall,’ said she, ‘whereon to sell my sweetmeats. I must earn
some more pence for my living; necessity owns no law;’ and taking the
hatchet of Disobedience, she also brought down a leafy bough, treading
under foot as she did so a quantity of the ripe, precious fruit. Not
content with thus breaking the Sabbath herself, she demanded that those
who bought at her stall should each bring, in addition to their money, a
fagot stolen from the holy tree!”
When Thorn came to this part of his story, his scholars glanced
consciously at each other. They all now felt convinced that their teacher
was aware that they had been buying from a stall on Sunday.
“It was grievous,” continued Thorn, “to see what multitudes trampled on
the Sabbath fruit, broke away twigs, snapped branches, to help on their
business or aid their amusements. Some wanted wickets for cricket, one
man required a handle for his spade; and though a very little delay would
have enabled them to procure wood from a lawful quarter, they were too
thoughtless, too covetous, or too impatient to reverence the Sabbath-tree.
“But soon I beheld in my dream, that while none could faithfully
partake of the fruit without benefit, none without injury could break
off a single branch. As I watched, much did I marvel to see how
disobedience brought down punishment! The man who had repaired his car by
Sabbath-breaking, had little pleasure from his intended treat. As he was
driving from a public-house, suddenly a wheel of the vehicle came off,
he and his party were flung out on the road, and sorely bruised by the
fall. In some cases, the wood so unlawfully taken appeared to turn at
once into dust! The man digging with his Sabbath spade, found it suddenly
snap asunder, and the splinter ran into his hand, inflicting a terrible
wound.”
“Oh, but how could that be?” exclaimed one of the boys. “Many a fellow
goes larking on Sunday, and the wheel of his car never comes off! I don’t
know what this part of your story can mean.”
“It means,” replied Willy gravely, “that disobedience to God, the
wilful breaking of his holy commandment, unless the sin be repented of
and _renounced_, is certain to bring punishment in another world, and
_very frequently also in this_. There are multitudes of lost, miserable
sinners, who may trace their first steps on the path of ruin to _breaking
the Sabbath of God_. No one ever yet, on his death-bed, could say that he
_really profited_ by money so gained, or that he had no reason to regret
a pleasure gained by disobeying his Maker’s command.
“The poor woman who sold sweetmeats, I found in my dream, was not long in
suffering the penalty of disobedience. In one of the fagots so sinfully
laid upon her stall, the serpent Remorse had lain coiled, unnoticed,
unseen! As she was counting her unholy gains, made by not only sinning
herself, but causing others to sin, the fierce reptile darted at her
breast!—with difficulty was the serpent torn from its hold, and the poor
sufferer sank on the ground, bleeding, fainting, trembling at her danger,
and weeping for her sin! It was some time before she was able feebly to
creep to the spot where comfort and healing might yet be procured by a
proper use of the fruits of the Sabbath-tree.
“While the poor woman was in sorrowful penitence, doing all that lay in
her power to show her regret for the past, the boys who had purchased at
her stall—who had wilfully broken the Sabbath, not to supply real wants,
but to indulge their own greedy inclinations—”
“I’ll tell you what _one_ of them did, sir!” exclaimed Bat Nayland,
springing up from the ground: “he just emptied his pockets of what he had
bought, said that he was heartily ashamed, and seeing an old lame beggar
near, he gave every crumb of his purchases to him!”
[Illustration: THE LAME BEGGAR.]
And suiting his action to his words, off darted the boy, and astonished
a ragged old man on crutches, by bestowing upon him at once all his cakes
and his nuts!
Dear young readers! if any of you have been tempted to disobey your
Master’s commandment, by buying on the day which the Lord hath set apart
for himself, oh, consider it not as a trifling transgression.
Resolve with prayer henceforth never to break the smallest twig from the
Sabbath-tree, but to feed on its sacred fruits with faith, and hope, and
love. Be assured, then, dear children, that they will become sweeter and
sweeter to your taste, and prepare you for the enjoyment of that _Tree of
Life which is in the midst of the paradise of God_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: HE THAT WALKETH UPRIGHTLY WALKETH SURELY. Prov. 10:9]
IX.
THE WHITE ROBE.
“What was that noise in the street?” exclaimed Mrs. Claremont, laying
down the pen suddenly. Ella sprang to the window.
“O mother, something must have happened! some accident! there is a crowd
collecting round a poor little girl!”
“We may be of some use!” cried Mrs. Claremont, and she and her daughter
were at the street door in a few seconds.
“What is the matter? is any one hurt?” inquired the lady of a milk-woman
who was standing looking on.
“A child knocked down by a horse, I believe, ma’am. They should take the
poor thing to the hospital.”
Mrs. Claremont waited to hear no more; the crowd made way for her, and
she was soon at the side of a young girl who was crying violently, and
the state of whose crushed bonnet and soiled dress showed that she had
been down on the road.
“I don’t think there’s any bones broken, only she’s frightened,” observed
a baker among the spectators; “I saw the horse knock her down as she was
crossing the road.”
“Come this way, my poor child, out of the crowd,” said Mrs. Claremont,
leading the little girl towards the house; “we will soon see if the
injury is severe.”
The weeping child soon stood in the hall; hartshorn and water was brought
to her by Ella, but on tasting it, the girl pushed it away in disgust,
in a peevish and irritable manner. In vain Mrs. Claremont sought for
any trace of injury; the road had been soft after much rain, and not a
scratch nor a bruise appeared; yet still the girl cried as if in agony of
pain or of passion.
“Where are you hurt?” inquired Ella soothingly; the child only answered
by a fresh burst of tears.
“I am thankful that no harm seems done,” said Mrs. Claremont.
“There is harm!” sobbed the girl; “all spoiled, quite, quite spoiled!”
“What is spoiled?”
[Illustration: THE SPOILED DRESS.]
“My dress, my beautiful new dress!” and the ladies now observed, for the
first time, the absurd and unsuitable manner in which the child had been
clothed. Now, indeed, her finery was half covered with mud; but the pink
bonnet, though crushed, the white dress, though stained and torn, the gay
blue necklace, and hair in curl-papers, showed too plainly the folly of
the wearer.
“What is your name?” inquired Ella.
“Sophy Trimmer.”
“Where does your father live?”
“He lives just round the corner.”
“You should be very thankful that your life has been spared,” said Mrs.
Claremont.
Sophy did not look at all thankful, she only glanced sadly down on her
torn dress, and whimpered, “Just new on to-day.”
“You remind me,” said the lady, “of a story which I read in the papers
some years ago. A lady was going in a vessel to Scotland, and carried
with her a quantity of jewels to the value of a thousand pounds. She
thought so much of these jewels, that she was heard to say, that she
would almost as soon part with life itself as lose them. An accident
happened to the vessel on the way to Scotland; the water rushed into the
cabins, and the poor lady was taken out drowned.”
“That is a shocking story,” said Sophy.
“She could not carry her jewels with her to another world. But there is
one ornament which even death itself has no power to take away.”
“What can that ornament be?”
“An ornament more precious than the crown of the Queen, ‘the ornament of
a meek and quiet spirit, which is, in the sight of God, of great price’
(1 Pet. iii. 4). The poorest may wear this—the rich are poor without it.
O my child, care not to appear fair in the eyes of your fellow-mortals,
but in the sight of God; your ‘adorning, let it not be that outward
adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on
of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is
not corruptible’” (1 Pet. iii. 3, 4).
“What do you mean by ‘corruptible?’” said Sophy.
“That which time can destroy. Nothing in this world lasts for ever:
flowers bloom and decay; the fruit which was delicious one week, the
next is only fit to be thrown away; the loveliest face grows wrinkled;
the finest form must soon turn to dust in the tomb.”
“I don’t like to think of such things,” said Sophy; “they make me sad.”
“They would make us sad, indeed, were this world _our all_. But we look
forward, in faith, to a place where there is no corruption, no change, no
death, because _no sin_; we hope to wear white robes in heaven which will
never be defiled with a stain. Do you know, Sophy, what makes them so
white?”
Sophy shook her head.
“We are all weak and sinful, less fit to appear before a holy God in our
own righteousness, than you are to enter the Queen’s palace in those
soiled garments. It is ‘_the blood of Jesus Christ which cleanseth from
all sin_;’ through his merits, and his mercy, you may appear spotless
before the judgment-seat of God, if you believe in him now, and ‘_keep
yourself from idols_.’”
“I have nothing to do with idols,” said the girl peevishly.
“More perhaps than you think. _Anything that you love better than the
Lord_ is an idol. The miser loves money best; that is his idol.”
“Like old Levi, who half starves himself to scrape up pence,” interrupted
Sophy.
“The ambitious man makes power his idol—some make their children their
idols.”
“Like Mrs. Porter, who—”
“Hush,” said Mrs. Claremont, “you have nothing to do with the idols of
your neighbours; try and find out what is your own.”
“I do not think that I have any.”
“Do you then love God with all your heart? Is it your chief business to
serve him; your greatest delight to do his will?”
“No; of course, I like to amuse myself like other people.”
“Have you ever given up _any one_ thing to show your love to him who made
you?”
Sophy looked vexed, but made no reply.
“Whom do you like best to please? Whom do you like best to serve? Have
you no idol which you decked out this very morning in all the finery
which you could collect?”
“I suppose that you mean _myself_.”
“Yes; _self_ is the idol of the vain, their hopes and joys are bound
up in self, therefore their hopes and joys are amongst the corruptible
things which must pass away. O my young friend, the foolish pleasures
which you felt this morning in these fanciful clothes, in one moment was
changed to pain; and but for the mercy of God, your own poor body might
now have been lying crushed and lifeless. Why rest your happiness upon
that _which cannot last_, and which may, any hour, be taken away from you
for ever?”
“Gay, gaudy clothing always gives me a feeling of pain when I look upon
it,” observed Ella; “I believe that with so many it has been the first
step to misery here and hereafter.”
“It is like the gay bait on the hook,” said her mother, “not in itself
deadly, but covering a fatal snare. Oh, ‘love not the world, neither the
things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the
Father is not in him. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof:
but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever’” (1 John ii. 15, 17).
[Illustration: WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWETH THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP]
X.
CROSSES.
There was unusual silence in the little Sunday school when Ella
Claremont, its gentle teacher, entered it for the first time in deep
mourning. All had known of her sorrow; all had heard that her brave young
brother had died of wounds received in battle in a far distant land. They
thought of him whom they had seen some few months before so bright and
happy, with a smile and a kind word for all, now lying cold in his bloody
grave; and there was not a heart in the school-room which did not feel
sorrow and sympathy.
Ella could not at first address her school; her words seemed choked;
the tears gathered slowly in her eyes; but she found strength in silent
prayer, and spoke at length to her pupils, but in a trembling voice.
“Dear children, I have had much sorrow since we last met and talked of
the joys of heaven—a beloved brother has, I trust, through Christ’s
merits, joined the bright hosts rejoicing there. But should not I meekly
bear the cross which my heavenly Father sees good to send me? To every
one passing through this life is given a cross—a trial to bear. To some
it is so light that they scarcely feel it; with others so heavy that it
bows them to the dust. Each of you knows, or will know, its weight. But
let none be afraid nor cast down. The cross prepares for the crown. There
is something from God’s Word inscribed on every cross; and if we have
but faith to read it, it makes the heavy, light; and the bitter, sweet!
‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord’ (Rev. xiv. 13), is the
inscription on mine.”
Every one passing through life has some cross to bear! Yes; amongst those
young girls assembled in the school-room there were some whose trials
were deep, who had much need to read the inscription to make them endure
the burden.
Dear reader, are you in trial? Have you known what it was to weep when
you had none to comfort you—to wish that the weary day were over, or the
more weary night at an end—to wonder why God sent you such sorrows? For
you I now write down what were the crosses of some of the children in
Ella’s school; for you I write down what were the inscriptions upon them.
Perhaps you may find amongst them the same trial as your own, and feel
strengthened to bear your cross.
Mary Edwards was very poor—hers was a heavy cross. One of seven children,
and her father blind; often and often had she come to school faint with
hunger and sick at heart. But for the kindness of friends, the family
would have been half-starved. Mary had never known what it was to have
a blanket to cover her; very seldom had she been able to eat till she
was satisfied; her clothes had been mended over and over again, to keep
them from falling to pieces; ill did they protect her when the cold wind
blew through the broken pane, or found its way through the crevices in
her miserable hut. Yet Mary had comfort in the midst of her poverty; she
remembered him “who, though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became
poor.” She had read the inscription on her cross: “Hath not God chosen
the poor of this world rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom which
he hath promised to them that love him?” (James ii. 5). And Mary would
meekly repeat the hymn of good Bishop Heber:—
“The cross our Master bore for us,
For him we fain would bear;
But mortal strength to weakness turns,
And courage to despair.
Then pity all our frailty, Lord,
Our failing strength renew;
And when thy sorrows visit us,
Oh, send thy patience too!”
Amy Blackstone never spoke of her cross; she bore it in silence without
complaining. Her father was a drunkard—her mother never entered the house
of God. If she heard the name of the Holy One uttered in her home, it was
but in an oath or a profane jest. She never complained, as I have said;
for, while others would have been complaining, she was praying. Fervently
did she pray for her unhappy parents—fervently for herself, that evil
example might not draw her from God. Many a silent tear she shed over
her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “I reckon that the
sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the
glory which shall be revealed in us” (Rom. viii. 18).
All pitied Ellen Payne, for her cross was sharp. A lingering, painful
disease had taken the strength from her limbs, the colour from her cheek.
She never rejoiced in one waking hour free from pain, and often the night
passed without sleep. The doctors gave no hope, medicine no relief.
She had nothing to look forward to but pain, increasing pain, till she
should sink into an early grave. This was her cross; and this was the
inscription upon it: “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a
crown of life” (Rev. ii. 10).
Jane White had been a deserted child; she had never known a parent’s
care. She seemed one of the neglected, despised ones of earth, with none
to love her, and none to love. She felt lonely and desolate. This was
her cross; and this was the inscription upon it: “When my father and my
mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up” (Ps. xxvii. 10).
[Illustration: ANN BROWN.]
Ann Brown lived with her aunt. Few of the girls were better dressed, or
seemed more comfortably provided for, than she. Had she, then, no cross
to bear? Yes; for she dwelt with a worldly family, who laughed at her
for being “righteous overmuch.” When she would not join in profaning
the Sabbath—when she showed that she cared not for gay dressing or
ill-natured gossip—she became the object of ridicule and scoffs, more
painful to bear than blows. This was her cross; but sweet was the
inscription upon it: “If ye suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are ye:
and be not afraid of their terror, neither be troubled” (1 Pet. iii. 14).
Mary Wade’s cross was in the depth of her own heart—the struggle to
conquer a passionate, violent temper. She desired to obey God, she wished
to live to his glory; but sin seemed too strong for her; she yielded
to temptation again and again, until she was almost in despair. Her
health had been bad when she was an infant; much of her peevishness and
impatience were owing to the effects of this. But no one seemed to make
allowance for natural infirmity; her companions did not like her; and,
worst of all, she felt that she was sinning, and bringing discredit on
the Christian name. Poor child! hers was an unpitied cross; but there
was hope in the inscription upon it: “There hath no temptation taken you
but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer
you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation
also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. x. 13).