sadness. She had once been the most thoughtless child in the school, full
of mischief, full of gaiety, never thinking of God. Her heart had been on
earth—her only wish had been to enjoy herself. Much trouble and sorrow
had she given to her gentle teacher, much grief to her pious parents; for
she had laughed at good advice, and cared little for punishment. But now
the gay child had grown thoughtful: a text heard at church had struck
her, and sunk deep into her heart: “Be not deceived; God is not mocked:
for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth
to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth
to the Spirit, shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting” (Gal. vi. 7,
8). What had she been sowing for eternity? She thought of her neglected
Bible, her broken Sabbaths, words of untruth and of unkindness, her
mother disobeyed, her teacher disregarded! Could God forgive her after
all that she had done? Would he ever admit her to heaven? She feared
that her sins were too many to be pardoned. This fear was her cross. Oh!
praised be God for the precious inscription upon it: “The blood of Jesus
Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin” (1 John i. 7). Jesus said, “Him
that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out” (John vi. 37).
Blessed are they who thus mourn for sin, _for they shall be comforted_.
Blessed is the sorrow that worketh repentance! Blessed are they who so
bear the cross that they shall inherit the crown!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BUY THE TRUTH AND SELL IT NOT. Prov. 23:23.]
XI.
THE TWO COUNTRIES.
When walking through the streets of London, have you not sometimes met
a party of strangers, and felt sure that they belonged to another land,
because they spoke not the English tongue? Had you listened to them, you
would not have understood them; they conversed in the language of their
own country.
My young friend, _what language do you speak_? If I knew but that, I
should soon guess to what country you belong.
Perhaps you answer, “I am English. I know no language but my own.” True,
in one sense you are English, and you may thank God for it! You were
born in England, and here may spend all the years or days of your mortal
life. But your real country is in another world, where you will _live for
ever_! Thousands and millions of years may pass, but you will be still
remaining in the country which you have chosen. So, again I ask, What
language do you speak? To what country do you belong?
[Illustration: FOREIGNERS.]
The one is a bright and glorious place, where sorrow and pain are
unknown. Its citizens are angels and redeemed saints, who, with shining
crowns and harps of gold, rejoice before the throne of God. The language
which they speak is TRUTH.
The other country is too terrible to describe. Happiness never enters
there, but pain, grief, and remorse abide for ever! Its inhabitants are
the tempter and his evil ones—hardened sinners who would not repent, who
chose the broad way that leadeth to destruction. And what is the language
which its citizens have learned? The language of Satan is FALSEHOOD.
O my dear young reader, with anxious love would I once more repeat my
question—let your heart answer it—_What language do you speak—to what
country do you belong?_
Yet, mistake me not. There are some whose lips were never stained with
falsehood, who yet cannot be counted among the citizens of heaven. The
proud, the self-righteous, who trust to their own merits, who love not
the Saviour who suffered for all,—these may have learned the language
of truth, even as foreigners may learn the tongue of our land; but they
belong not to the country of holiness and joy.
And others there are who have fallen into sin, whom the “father of lies”
has tempted and deceived; yet God’s mercy may prepare a heavenly home
even for them, if, believing and repenting, they turn to the truth. Thus,
St. Peter thrice uttered a terrible falsehood, but repented with bitter
tears, and, through the atoning blood of his Lord, was received into
heaven a glorious martyr.
But oh, dread a falsehood as you would dread a serpent; it leaves a stain
and a sting behind. If you have ever been led into this deadly sin,
implore for pardon, like St. Peter. Like St. Peter, when _next_ placed in
temptation, speak the truth firmly, faithfully, fearlessly; for truth is
the language of heaven.
There are four chief causes which lead to the guilt of lying—_folly_,
_covetousness_, _malice_, and _fear_. Examine your own life, and see if
any one of these has ever tempted you to utter a falsehood.
It was _folly_ which made Richard tell a traveller the wrong road when
asked the way to the next village. He thought little of the _sin_ of his
lie—it seemed to him but an excellent jest; but the jest cost a neighbour
his life! The stranger was a doctor, travelling in haste to attend a
patient who had been taken with a fit. Richard’s falsehood made the
medical man lose half an hour, when every minute was precious. Oh, what
anxious hearts awaited his arrival! But he _came too late_; he found the
sufferer at the point of death, with his desolate family weeping around
him!
It was _covetousness_ which made Sally declare that her fruit had
only been gathered that morning, when she knew it to be the refuse of
yesterday’s market. Did she forget that God’s eye was upon her—that her
words could not pass unnoticed by him—that she would have to answer for
them at the day of judgment?
It is _covetousness_ that makes Nelly stand begging in the streets,
telling to passers-by her pitiful tale of a father in hospital and
a family starving. Will the money which she gains by falsehood and
hypocrisy bring with it a blessing or a curse? Oh, “What is a man
profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or
what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” (Matt. xvi. 26).
It is _malice_ that makes Eliza invent strange stories of her neighbours.
She delights to spread a slander, or to give an ill name. She mixes a
little truth with a great deal of falsehood, and cares not what misery
she inflicts. Whom does she resemble? _Not_ the citizens of Zion. What
language does she speak? _Not_ the language of Heaven.
It was _cowardice_ which drew Peter into falsehood when asked who had
broken the china vase: he dreaded a blow; he _dared not_ speak the truth.
Do you not blush for him, little reader, who feared _man_ rather than
_God_?
How different is Margaret Lacy! Neither covetousness nor cowardice could
ever make her pollute her lips with a lie. She serves a God of truth; she
is learning on earth the language of heaven.
She was met one day returning, with a sorrowful step and tearful eye,
from a house to which she had gone to try for a place. “Well, Margaret,”
said Mrs. Porter, “why so sad? I fear that you have not succeeded.”
“No, indeed,” sighed the poor girl.
[Illustration: MARGARET AND MRS. PORTER.]
“And how was that? I thought that you were pretty sure of being settled
there comfortably.”
“Why,” replied Margaret, “the lady asked me why I had left my last place;
so I told her that both I and the cook had been sent away because a
bank-note had been lost in the house.”
“You were not so mad as to tell her that?”
“It was _the truth_,” calmly answered Margaret. “What else could I have
told?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Porter, “at that rate you will never get a place.”
“God help me!” said poor Margaret, meekly. “He will not let me starve for
obeying his word. I never touched the bank-note.”
“I believe you,” answered her neighbour; “for I do not think that you
ever spoke an untruth in your life.”
And Margaret _did_ get a place. Carter, the butcher, engaged her the next
day. “Say nothing against her to me,” he cried. “I know the girl; she
would sooner touch red-hot iron than money that was not hers. And as for
_truth_, I’d take her word against the oaths of a dozen!”
Once, as Margaret was cleaning out the parlour, not perceiving her
master’s new watch, which lay on the table concealed by a newspaper,
she threw it by accident down to the ground. Startled and alarmed, she
raised it and put it to her ear, longing to hear the regular beat, which
might show that it was unhurt. Alas! all was quite still—what mischief
she had done! Margaret dreaded her master, who was a passionate man; she
dreaded, perhaps, losing her place. She might have replaced the watch on
the table, and said nothing; its stopping might be thought accidental.
But Margaret would not stoop to _hide the truth_ any more than to tell a
lie. With a beating heart and a trembling hand she carried the watch to
her master, and confessed the whole truth. Was she dismissed or struck,
as she had feared that she might be? No; Carter, vexed as he was, could
not but admire her honesty and candour.
“Well, Margaret,” he cried, “were your life to depend on it, I don’t
believe you would buy life itself with a lie.”
Can this be said of you, reader? If not, oh, pray for forgiveness of your
sin, and for grace from _this hour_ to forsake it. May God enable you to
speak the truth from your heart, and to learn upon earth the language of
heaven!
[Illustration: THE HAND OF THE DILIGENT MAKETH RICH]
XII.
DO YOU LOVE GOD?
The following anecdote was given as _a fact_ by a clergyman at Hampstead,
in a sermon to children:—
A gentleman, travelling on a railway, was much struck by the vivacity
of a lovely little girl about five years of age, who, with her mother,
happened to be travelling in the same carriage, and he took a great deal
of notice of the child. About ten minutes before the train reached the
station at which the lady and her daughter were to alight, the little one
went up to the gentleman, and putting her lips close to his ear, asked
softly, “Do you love God?”
[Illustration: THE CHILD’S QUESTION.]
The traveller, who apparently was not a devout man, was so startled by
the unexpected question, that he coloured to the roots of his hair; and
the child, seeing his confusion, and probably frightened at her own
boldness, retreated, and hid her face on her mother’s bosom until the
train stopped at the station.
But her solemn question had sunk deep into the mind of the traveller. “Do
you love God?” he repeated to himself again and again. For a long period
the words haunted him, till at length he was able to give to them the
only reply which a true Christian can give.
About two years afterwards, the gentleman happened to be in the
town at which he had left his little fellow-traveller on that
never-to-be-forgotten day. While passing along it, he fancied that he
saw at a window the face of the mother of the child. His desire to see
the little one to whom he owed so much was so great, that he could not
refrain from knocking at the door and introducing himself to the lady.
Upon seeing her, he inquired after her lovely child. The lady was dressed
in mourning. God had sent her heavy affliction; her sweet girl now slept
in the silent tomb. The mother took the stranger to a room, in which were
laid out various trifles which had belonged to her darling.
“It may interest you to see these,” she said; “these are all that remain
of my child.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed the traveller; “here am I!” and he related to the
wondering parent how the word spoken in season by those infant lips had
been the means of leading him to his God.
Even that feeble child had done her work for her Master before he called
her to her rest; even that feeble child had been given a soul to be her
“joy and crown of rejoicing for ever.”
O dear young reader! how would you now answer that whispered question,
“DO YOU LOVE GOD?” Could your heart give the reply, “_I love him because
he first loved us_”?
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ENTER NOT INTO THE PATH OF THE WICKED. Prov.]
XIII.
THE IMPERFECT COPY.
“Always busy at your drawing, Edwin?” said his elder brother Henry, as he
entered the school-room one morning.
Edwin looked up for a moment with a smile, and then went on tracing with
evident pleasure the outline of a face. His brother came behind him, and
looked over his shoulder; Edwin listened for his remarks, though without
ceasing to draw.
“You are taking pains, I see,” said Henry at last in a kindly tone; “but
I am afraid that you will have to use your india-rubber here, and here;
these lines, you may perceive, are not in good drawing.”
“I don’t see much wrong in them,” replied Edwin, suspending his pencil,
with something of vexation in his tone, for he had expected nothing but
praise.
“If you compare them with your study, you will perceive that all this
outline is incorrect. Where is the study?” asked Henry, looking in vain
for it on the table.
“Oh, it’s somewhere up-stairs,” said Edwin. “I remember very well what it
is like, and can go on without looking at it every minute.”
“Would you oblige me by bringing it?” said his brother.
Edwin went up-stairs, rather unwillingly, and soon brought down a
beautiful study; a face most perfect in form and expression.
Henry silently put the two pictures together. Edwin gazed with bitter
disappointment on his own copy, which but a few minutes before he had
thought so good.
“I shall never get it right!” Edwin exclaimed, in a burst of vexation;
and snatching up the unfortunate drawing, he would have torn it asunder,
had he not been prevented by his brother.
[Illustration: THE BROTHER’S CRITICISM.]
“My dear Edwin, you have doubly erred; first in being too easily
satisfied, and then in being too easily discouraged.”
“I shall never make it like that beautiful face!” cried the disheartened
boy.
“You need patience, you need help, you need, above all, often to look at
your copy.”
Edwin took up the pencil which he had flung down, and carefully and
attentively studied the picture. He found very much in his copy to alter,
very much to rub out; but at last he completed a very fair sketch, which
he presented, with a little hesitation, to his brother.
“I shall have this framed, and hung up in my room,” said Henry.
“Oh, it is not worth that!” exclaimed Edwin, colouring with pleasure and
surprise.
“Not in itself, perhaps,” replied Henry; “but it will serve often to
remind us both of an important truth which was suggested to me when I saw
you labouring at your copy.”
Edwin looked in surprise at his brother, who thus proceeded to explain
his words:—
“We, dear Edwin, as Christians, have all one work set before us: to copy
into our lives the example set us by a heavenly Master. It is in the
Bible that we behold the features of a character perfect and pure. But
how many of us choose rather to imagine for ourselves what a Christian
should be like! We aim low; we are content with little progress; we
perhaps please ourselves with the thought of our own wisdom and goodness,
while every one but ourselves can see that our copy is wretched and
worthless.”
“What are we to do?” asked Edwin.
“We must closely examine the study set us in the Bible; we must compare
our lives with God’s law; and we shall then soon find enough of weakness
and sin to make us humble ourselves before God. When we read of the
meekness and gentleness of Christ, we shall be ashamed of our own passion
and pride; when we find how holy was our great Example, we shall be
grieved to think how unlike to him we are.”
“We can never make a good copy,” sighed Edwin; “we may just give up the
attempt at once.”
“You judge as you did when you wished to tear up your picture in despair,
as soon as you saw how imperfect it was. No, no, my dear boy; I say to
you now, as I said to you then, you need _patience_, you need _help_,
help from the good Spirit of God; and, above all, you need to look often
at your study, to keep the character and work of your Lord ever before
your eyes.”
“But if I do my best, I shall still fall so short!”
“I know it,” said Henry gravely; “but feeling that you never can reach
perfection here, should not prevent your aiming at it. God will complete
his work in the hearts of his servants, not on earth, but in heaven.
There the copy, feebly commenced below, shall be made a likeness indeed!
For what says the Word of God: _We know that when he shall appear we
shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is_!”
“To see the Lord, and to be made like him; it seems too much to hope
for!” cried Edwin.
“It is not more than God has promised,” replied Henry, “to those who come
to the Saviour by faith. Worthless as our copy is in itself, it will be
glorified, made beautiful, made perfect; and will be raised to a place of
honour in the mansions of our heavenly Father!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XIV.
A STORY OF THE CRIMEA.
I daresay that you have heard of the war in the Crimea. Perhaps you have
a father or a brother in the army, and have often listened to stories
of the brave and noble conduct of our soldiers on the terrible field of
battle. I am going to tell you of one of the bravest and noblest actions
that happened during the whole course of the war, though my hero never
drew a sword nor fired a musket at the Russians.
After the fearful battle of Alma, when the victory had been won by the
English and the French, after the cannon had ceased to roar or the foe
to fight, a long painful task remained for the victors—to attend to the
wounded and to bury the dead.
At last our poor sufferers were removed to the ships, and only mounds of
earth showed where hundreds of the killed lay in their bloody graves; and
the army was ready to move on to attack the enemy in another place.
But more than seven hundred poor fellows were still stretched on the
ground—not, like the dead, beyond reach of earthly pain, but covered with
wounds and gore—some with their legs and arms shot away, some unable to
move, groaning in terrible agony, and wishing in vain for death to put an
end to their misery.
And who, do you think, were these wounded men? They were Russians, and
our enemies! Their bayonets had been red with the blood of our brave
soldiers; they had fired the shots which made so many widows and orphans
in England. And now, what was to be done with all these miserable
sufferers? Our army could not carry them along with it; they must be left
behind. Poor helpless Russians! if none dressed their wounds, they must
perish; if none gave them food, they must starve.
There was a British surgeon, of the name of Thomson, who resolved to
separate himself from all his friends, to stay behind to take care of his
wounded enemies. We may fancy that he had a long struggle in his mind
before he could decide upon this generous act. Selfishness might whisper
to him many reasons for leaving the poor Russians to their fate.
“What!” we can imagine some friend saying to the surgeon, “would you
remain here alone in the midst of enemies, some of whom, it is said, have
even fired at Englishmen who were bringing them relief. If the Tartars
should attack you, who will defend you? You cannot depend upon these
wounded Russians. Then think of the labour which you are undertaking. No
one man can possibly dress the wounds of seven hundred; you can only help
a few, or die yourself of fatigue. No, be wise; leave these wretched men
to the chance of some of their own people coming to assist them; you know
that there is not one amongst them who would not have willingly killed
you, had it been in his power.”
Dr. Thomson may have heard words such as these, but they did not change
his generous resolution. The British army marched away; he and his
soldier-servant remained behind, saw their friends and comrades all
disappear in the distance, and then turned to their noble but sickening
work,—binding up the ghastly wounds of their enemies.
[Illustration: NOBLE WORK.]
Do you not think that Dr. Thomson deserved a rich reward for all this?
I do not doubt that he has received a reward, but not from man, for
his labours of love shortened his life. In a few days the generous,
self-devoted surgeon followed to the grave the brave soldiers who died
fighting for their Queen. And shall not his name be honoured as well as
theirs? We trust that he died prepared for the great change, full of
faith and hope as well as charity; and we may also trust that some of
those whose lives he had been the means of saving lived to know their
Saviour, and to serve God upon earth, and that they will one day meet
their generous friend in heaven.
But it is not of Dr. Thomson that I would speak to you now, but of One of
whose mercy and love all the noblest deeds of his servants are but as a
faint, dim shadow.
And first let me ask you, dear child, Do you know what _sin_ is, that
from which all sorrow comes? It is sin that causes cruelty and strife
in the world. It is _sin_ that gives a worse wound than any sword or
cannon-ball; for they may destroy the body, but _sin destroys the soul_.
And now let me ask you another question: Do you know that we are all by
nature wounded by sin; that we are all unable to help ourselves, even
like those poor Russians; that if left to ourselves we must all die—I
mean, _lose the everlasting life of heaven_?
Yes; this was the state of the whole world. It was all lying in
wickedness, therefore lying in danger; and not one of us could have been
saved—_no, not one_—had not the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, taken
pity on our sad state, and left heaven and all its glory, its light, and
its joy, to come and labour to help miserable sinners. Not only did he
labour, but he _died_ to save us; he suffered himself to be nailed to
the cross, that he might heal the wounds which sin had made, and give us
health and life never-ending!
But perhaps you will say: “I do not think that I am among the wounded. I
do not think that I need any one to save me.”
Oh! my child, have you ever thought over your life, or recalled your
actions, words, and thoughts, during _one_ day? Have you never been
disobedient to a parent, or unkind to a companion? Has your mouth never
spoken words that were ill-natured or false? Have you never been proud,
discontented, or selfish? Does not your conscience tell you that you have
been wounded by sin? Now, let me tell you how you may find healing.
And, first, you must _believe on the Lord Jesus Christ_; you must believe
that he _died for sinners_, and that he is willing to save all who ask
him for pardon and mercy.
Then you must be sorry for and leave off your sins, praying to God to
help you to amend. A child who says that he repents, and then goes and
sins just as readily as before, is like a wounded man who, when the
surgeon has dressed the injured place, tears off the bandage and will not
let it heal.
And oh! you must love the Saviour with your whole heart. Can you help
loving him who has loved you so much? Think of the glory which he left;
was it not left for you? Think of the blood which he shed; did it not
flow for you? Think of the death which he endured; was it not borne for
you?
[Illustration: THE FEAR OF THE LORD IS THE BEGINNING OF WISDOM. Prov.
ix. 10]
XV.
“I HAVE A HOME, A HAPPY HOME!”
I have a home, a happy home,
And friends to love me there;
With daily bread
I still am fed,
Have still warm clothes to wear;
I’ve health and strength in every limb,—
How grateful should I be!
How shall I show my love to Him
Who shows such love to me!
Many are blind, or deaf, or lame,—
I hear the sweet birds sing,
Can bound along
With joyful song,
Can watch the flowers of spring.
No wasting pain my eye to dim,
From want and sickness free;
How shall I show my love to Him
Who shows such love for me!
And blessings greater still than these
A gracious God has given,—
The precious word
Of Christ our Lord,
To guide my feet to heaven.
Among the shining cherubim
I trust my home shall be;
How shall I show my love to him
Who shows such love to me!
My God! I am a feeble child,
Oh, teach me to obey;
With humble fear
To serve thee here,
To watch, and praise, and pray!
My love is weak, my faith is dim,
But grace I ask from thee,
That I may prove my love to him
Who loved and died for me!
[Illustration: FINIS]