Illustration: Mrs. MacDougall glanced at her mothermrs. macdougall glanced at her mother(p.8).
mrs. macdougall glanced at her mother(p.8).
"Stupid little thing! isn't there some of it torn off? and when you put the words in it's easy enough to read. I've put them in to myself. First of all, it's about Aunt Nannie dying, isn't it?"
"I s'pose it is," Duncan agreed; "and it's writ by Uncle Richard, isn't it?"
"If you call him Uncle Richard. I say it's our father what wrote it—yours and mine, Duncan."
Duncan stared at her in puzzled silence. "But Aunt Nannie was our Aunt Grosvenor, wasn't she?" he asked.
"If you call her Aunt Grosvenor. I say she was our mother. I'm sure she was," said Elsie.
"Our mother!" Duncan said, under his breath. "What do you mean, Elsie?"
"The letter says something about two little babies," Elsie began.
"Does it?" Duncan asked. "I didn't hear it."
"Well, it says, the 'little things,' and that's the same; and it's all about sending them to AuntNannie's native place. Well, this is Aunt Nannie's native place; and who were the two little things, eh?"
"I'm sure I dunno," Duncan said slowly.
"Well, they weren't Robbie, were they? Then, who were they? Why, you an' me, of course. It says 'the girl' somewhere, an' of course that's me. So now, isn't the letter about us? an' that's why granny was so afraid of losing it. Do you see now, little silly? It's plain enough."
"But why did they?" murmured Duncan.
"That's the funny part of it. They ought to have told us. Why didn't she?"
"Who?"
"Why, Robbie's mother, of course. She isn't our mother, an' I'm not going to call her mother; I shall call her 'she.' You can call her what you like. Why does she pretend to be our mother when she isn't? It's different with granny, 'cos she's our granny right enough. Didn't I hear her say 'Meg 'ud rue it?' It's a shame to have made a secret of it."
Duncan had been turning it over in his poor little mind. He formed ideas very slowly, but there was often more sense in them when formed than in the quick conclusions of cleverer children.
"But if Uncle Grosvenor is our father, Elsie, why don't we live with him? He never's been to see us, never. He'd be sure to know Aunt Nannie was our mother, and not—you know—'she.'"
"I believe," said Elsie, in a mysterious voice, "that 'R. Grosvenor' thinks we're dead."
"Oh, Elsie! but we aren't at all," gasped Duncan.
"No, I shouldn't, think so. Doesn't the letter say they are weak and delicate (what a beautiful letter it is, Duncan. I'm sure R. Grosvenor is a grand gentleman), and 'bring them up with your own and as your own for a year or two?' That was till we got strong; and she's kept us always. Of course R. Grosvenor (I'm not going to say uncle), doesn't know that we're quite well now. I'm sure he thinks we're dead. Who does 'your own' mean but Robbie. Oh, how dull you are, Duncan! Can't you see now why she pets that boy so, and makes such a fuss over him? He's her own, and we're not; she loves him and doesn't love us. Did she ever beat Robbie?"
"Robbie isn't naughty," Duncan protested; "at least, only a very little sometimes."
Elsie uttered an impatient exclamation. "Does Robbie have to fetch milk, and go to school, and pick up wood? No; he's treated different. Now you know why I don't like her."
Duncan gave vent to a sigh of perplexity. There rose up in his mind a sort of uncomfortable feeling that everything was going topsy-turvy. Somehow or another he seemed to see Robbie's mother sitting by the side of Elsie's bed when she had the fever last winter, and bustling about to get nice things for her, hushing the others with a strange look in her eyes that made them quiet at once, for they could see she was troubled. Or he seemed to smell the grateful smell of the hot cakes waiting, crisp and tempting, before the big cheerful fire, to greet them on their return from afternoon school on a dreary winter day. She had been kind, though she was so strict, especially to Elsie, and Duncan was feeling something very much like sorrow to think that, after all, she was not their mother.
"What are you going to do, Elsie?" he asked presently.
"I've just been wondering when you were going to ask me that. Of course it can't stop like this. Haven't you heard granny say how rich Uncle Grosvenor was, and what a grand place it was where he lived? Well, then, he's a grand laird, an' if we lived with him you'd be a little laird, and me a lady. Does he think we have to fetch milk and butter, and go after the hens, an' all that? But I'm goin' to let him know all about it."
"How, Elsie?"
"Well," Elsie replied, "I've been thinking of that, an' it's just a real difficult matter; for I'd never get time to write all the long explanation, with thatshealways prying after me. She'd find it out, an' stop the letter, even if I could find the paper; an' I dunno' as I can spell all the long words it 'ud take to explain it. An' more too, I couldn't wait an' wait for the answer. We ought to go an' see Uncle—R. Grosvenor. I've almost made up my mind, Duncan, that I'll go to England an' find him."
"You couldn't do it," Duncan said.
"Couldn't I?" Elsie said scornfully, "It isn't so very far. England's another country, but it joins on. You only step out o' one into the other, for I looked most particular; an' there wasn't even mountains to get over. There's only what folk call the border, an' I'm sure that isn't much. P'raps it's a line, or a road, or a ditch, or something like it. You go straight out of Scotland—as straight as ever you can go. I've looked on the map. Give it me now. If you go from Dunster you've only to keep in a straight line till you get into England, an' any one'll tell you the way to London."
"I'm sure it's a dreadful long way," Duncan said disconsolately. "I should be frightened while you was gone, till you came back."
"Come back," said Elsie. "I shan't never do that, I hope. When I find my father he'll takecare o' me. Now then, will you come with me, Duncan?"
"I don't think I'd go, Elsie. We might get lost," Duncan urged. "I wish you could write a letter instead."
"I've made up my mind to go if I do anything at all," Elsie said, in a tone of decision. "You needn't come unless you like."
Duncan looked perplexed again. This was indeed an awkward predicament. The thought of running away to England didn't seem nice, somehow, but if Elsie went and he stayed, how frightened he'd be all the time about her; and when they questioned him, how would he be able to keep her secret, especially if Robbie's mother had that troubled look in her eyes? and how lonely it would be going backwards and forwards across the moor all alone without Elsie.
"I wish you wouldn't go, Elsie," he said to her presently.
"Most likely I shall," Elsie replied. "Mind you tell no tales. We must be quick home now. Come along; I shall have to think of ever so many things before we go, so you'll have plenty o' time to know whether you'll come or stay behind. Oh, I know I shall be a real lady, Duncan, an' have bonny clothes. Of course I shouldn't like fetching milk an' things when I'm a little lady born. Isn't it a shame, Duncan?"
"I dunno;Idon't mind," Duncan then said.
"Give me the atlas," Elsie said; "I must get away an' have a goodish look at it when we get in, for you must be quite sure and take it back this afternoon."
But Elsie was not to "get away," for Mrs. MacDougall was waiting at the gate with a basket by her side.
"You've been loiterin' again," she cried briskly. "I've been waitin' this half-hour for you to take these beans down to the shop. Here's a bit o' bread you can eat along the road, an' you'll have just to make haste."
Elsie cast a defiant glance at the basket as she took it slowly up. She knew too well its destination. The neatly tied-up bundles of young well-grown beans lying on the fresh cabbage-leaves would be one of the attractions of the village shop. A day or two ago all the plums that were ripe had gone the same way, to the children's disgust. Mrs. MacDougall was a clever gardener, and had a ready sale for her small stock of produce. To-day Elsie and Duncan would get no dinner beyond the bit of bread. That was the result of their loitering. They had lost the valuable time through their talk over the letter.
But Elsie quite lost sight of the fact that she alone was responsible for losing it, and was very angry about it.
"I have quite decided," she said to Duncan. "This is what I'll do; to England I will go!"
(To be continued.)
LITTLE MISS PROPRIETY.Illustration: Little Miss Proprietyaintylittle maiden,Sitting there in state,While the music's calling,And the dancers wait."A courtly little beauFor your hand is waiting:What is it, my dear,That you are debating?"Do the pretty slippersPinch your tiny feet?Tell me quickly, dearie,Why you keep your seat."Little maiden answers,Anger in her face,"We's not bin intodoost:It's twite a disgwase!"Mary Lang.
Illustration: Little Miss Propriety
aintylittle maiden,Sitting there in state,While the music's calling,And the dancers wait."A courtly little beauFor your hand is waiting:What is it, my dear,That you are debating?"Do the pretty slippersPinch your tiny feet?Tell me quickly, dearie,Why you keep your seat."Little maiden answers,Anger in her face,"We's not bin intodoost:It's twite a disgwase!"
Mary Lang.
Illustration: She saw a cat's face looking up at her"she saw a cat's face looking up at her."
"she saw a cat's face looking up at her."
"Itis much pleasanter to be by oneself, then there is no one to quarrel with," said Pussy.
And she stretched herself out on the soft, mossy turf, and half closed her eyes, purring gently. She was a young cat, and got into much trouble at home, for she was constantly quarrelling with her brothers and sisters. She said it was their fault, and they said it was hers. And Mrs. Grimalkin, the old cat, said that there were faults on both sides.
"I'mnota bad temper," said Pussy; "and I never quarrel with people unless they quarrel with me." So saying, she opened her eyes wider, and looked round. She liked the warm sunshine, and the scent of the flowers, and the soft velvet turf.
How pleasant it was!
"I should like to live here always," she said. "Then Tib, Frisk, and Kitty would not be able to tease me as they do. It is very annoying to be tormented all the time, and if one says a word in one's own defence, one gets blamed for being quarrelsome. The idea of my quarrelling with any one: it is perfectly absurd."
And Pussy purred and looked round complacently.
Presently she crept down to the water's edge, and peeped over into the smooth glassy stream; and as she did so she saw a cat's face looking up at her. She stretched out her paw to give it a pat, and the other cat did the same. Then she drew away, and raised her back as high as she could. So did the other cat, only it seemed to Pussy as if she were upside down.
"So provoking," said Pussy; "just as I fancied I was all alone here, to find that there is a cat under the water coming up to trouble me. Probably she has a large family down there, and they will come swarming up and be as disagreeable as my own sisters and brothers. And how exceedingly mean of her not to give notice that she was coming. I should have heard the faintest mew, for everything is so quiet here. It is evident that her intentions are hostile, or she would not steal up like a thief. But I will certainly not stand such behaviour."
And again she put out her paw.
So did the other cat.
"Where do you come from?" asked Pussy. But she received no answer.
"Speak!" said she, impatiently waving her tail.
The other cat waved in return, but no answer came. Then Pussy began to get very angry. So did the other cat.
And they grew fiercer and fiercer, making strange faces at each other, until at length Pussy became so much enraged that she prepared to spring upon her enemy, and would the next moment have plunged into the water, had not some one suddenly seized the tip of her tail.
She turned to avenge herself upon the new offender, when lo! who should it be but her own mother, Mrs. Grimalkin, who happened to be out on a foraging expedition, and chanced to pass that way.
"You foolish young creature," said she; "if I had not been here you would have been drowned. Don't you see that it is but your own image in the water: there isn't another cat there; it is only your own shadow. But cats as quarrelsome as you are, when they can find no one else to fight with, will fight even with a shadow."
J. G.
Fig. 1 - Pattern Squarefig. 1 - pattern square
fig. 1 - pattern square
Thisis very pretty and easy work, just the thing for any little folk who are anxious to help a fancy sale for some good cause, or to make a nice useful present to a friend, but who have not time or skill to undertake anything long and difficult. It is very quickly done, and can be used for toilet-covers and mats (these should be edged with narrow torchon lace), night-dress cases, aprons, comb-bags, and a number of useful articles; it is much admired, and always sells well at a bazaar.
Fig. 2 - Borderfig. 2 - border
fig. 2 - border
All you have to do is to get some common glass-cloth, tolerably fine, with cross-bars of red or blue, and some red or navy blue knitting-cotton, which you can buy either by the pound or the ball. Two ounces will do a quantity of work, and cost about the same as a ball.
Fig. 3 - Worked with Cottonfig. 3 - worked with cotton
fig. 3 - worked with cotton
With this, which may be either the same colour as that of the material or the contrasting one, the pattern is worked upon the squares formed by the cross-bars, as in Fig. 1, and in this way a number of pretty devices can be formed. Toilet-covers and large aprons should have a border as in Fig. 2; for mats a single border will suffice. Bags, &c, may be worked in checquers, every alternate square, or in large cross-bars, by carrying on Fig. 2 over the whole surface, but when you choose a large pattern, always count the squares before you cut off your piece, or you may find the pattern break off in the middle.
Fig. 4 - Worked with Woolfig. 4 - worked with wool
fig. 4 - worked with wool
I have seen a very effective-looking bag, all the squares of which were worked over with dark blue cotton, the bars being blue, and two tiny red stitches worked as in Fig. 3, wherever a simple cross was formed by the cotton intersecting the stripe of the material.
Use a darning or crewel needle, and a very long thread, or you will have to be continually taking fresh. This work is sometimes done with crewel wool, and in rather a different way, see Fig. 4; but it is not so neat and pretty, in my opinion, as that done with cotton, and is more extravagant, since the wool must be used double and every stitch repeated.
I once saw a large apron with bib and pocket bordered with squares worked in this style with bright dark ultramarine crewels, and with ribbon strings of the same colour; it had a handsome effect. I shall only say in conclusion that I have no doubt the clever brains and nimble fingers of some of my young readers will soon be able to improve upon these simple elementary designs, and to produce some new and more elaborate ones which will give them all the more pleasure for being of their own creating.
Somerset.
Illustration: Cloister Westminster Abbeycloister westminster abbey
cloister westminster abbey
Oneday some children came to me, and said, "Oh, do please take us out somewhere on our half-holiday, and show us some of the great sights of London." Remembering how it had once been my privilege to be one of a party invited to go over Westminster Abbey, under the guidance of the late Dean Stanley, and how, from his graphic descriptions, the Abbey had ever since had an additional wealth of interest to me, I proposed to these young people that they should meet me some Saturday afternoon, and I would take them over the Abbey, and tell them all I could remember or read up about its history. They were delighted with the proposal, and so to the Abbey we went.
I should like to take all the readers ofLittle Folksin the same way, but I remember the story of the British Princess, named St. Ursula, who undertook to "personally conduct" eleven thousand young maidens to Rome, and how she came to grief on the return journey, as any one may see who goes to Cologne, where all their bones are preserved in a church; and as I should have a great many more followers than she, I think it will be better if I try in the next six numbers to tell you what I told the young people who went with me on that Saturday afternoon and on other afternoons, and as nearly as I can in the same words.
Now, girls and boys, before we enter the portals of Westminster Abbey, I want you first to come with me and walk round about it, so as to see it well from the outside; and first of all, we will post ourselves near to the great hall built by William Rufus as a portion of his intended palace. It was upon this spot that Edward the Confessor dwelt, and for fifteen years watched the erection of the Abbey. But you must not imagine that the beautiful building that rises so grandly before us as we stand here to-day is the same that the Confessor reared, for of his famous church only one or twocolumns and low-browed arches are now in existence. Of the edifice we now behold, the central portions were built by Henry III., the nave was added under the Edwards and Henry V., the gorgeous eastern chapel was raised by Henry VII., and bears his name, and the western towers rose when George III. was king.
But I shall have more to say to you presently about these various additions. Let us cross over now to St. Margaret's Churchyard, and as we stroll round the Abbey, I will tell you how it came to be built at all. To get at the very beginning, we shall have to go back to a time long before Edward the Confessor sat watching his workmen—to the days when London was a Roman city, and when the site of modern Westminster was a marshy tract of ground, crossed by various streams and channels. At that time the river Thames and one of these channels enclosed an island about a quarter of a mile long and somewhat less in breadth. It was a marshy wilderness, and had the character of being "a terrible place," and amongst its swamps and thickets the huge red deer, with his immense antlers, and the wild ox found a refuge. When it received a name, it became known as Thorn-Ey, that is, Isle of Thorns; in later days people called it Thorney Island. Tradition says that in the midst of the wilderness there was erected, in the year 154A.D., a Temple of Apollo. We are next told that King Lucius, who was said to have been the founder of a great many English churches, turned the temple into a Christian sanctuary. Then we hear that in 616A.D., Sebert, King of Essex, founded an Abbey here, and dedicated it to St. Peter, "in order to balance the compliment he had made to St. Paul on Ludgate Hill." All this is very doubtful, but from the earliest times in history there has been shown a grave of Sebert as that of the founder of the Abbey.
Twelve monks of the Benedictine order were placed here by Dunstan, and suffered a great deal from the Danes, who in these times did much mischief in England. The last of the Saxon kings who kept up the long struggle with these pagans was Edward, who by his exile to escape from their tyranny won the title of Confessor. He was a very strange man, who seemed never thoroughly happy except when he was sitting in church or when he was hunting in the woods. He had milk-white hair and beard, rosy cheeks, "thin white hands, and long transparent fingers." He was sometimes gentle, sometimes furious; sometimes very grave, going about with eyes fixed on the ground, sometimes bursting out into wild fits of laughter.
Edward returned from his exile accompanied by Norman courtiers and Norman priests, and full of Norman ideas. He appears to have been very much delighted with his visits to the great continental cathedrals, so different from the simple structures of the Saxons. During his troubles he had vowed to make a pilgrimage to Rome; but the Pope gave him leave to build an Abbey to St. Peter instead. Edward accordingly resolved to restore the monastery on the Isle of Thorns, on a very different scale from anything that had been before attempted in England.
According to a legend told in after years, there was near Worcester a holy hermit "of great age, living on fruits and roots," who dwelt "far from men in a wilderness on the slope of a wood, in a cave deep down in the grey rock." To this holy man St. Peter appeared one night, and bade him tell the king that he was released from his pilgrimage, and that at Thorney, near the city, he must build a Benedictine Abbey, which should be "the gate of heaven, the ladder of prayer, whence those who serve St. Peter there shall be by him admitted into Paradise." The hermit wrote out his dream on parchment, and sent it to the king, who compared it with the message to the same purpose just received from Rome, and at once set to work on the project.
Another story was told to show that Thorney was specially under the patronage of St. Peter. It was said that on the evening before Mellitus, first Bishop of London, was about to consecrate the monastery built here by King Sebert, a fisherman named Edric was engaged by a venerable stranger to ferry him across to the island. The stranger entered the church, and assisted by a host of angels, who descended with sweet odours and flaming candles, dedicated the church with all the usual ceremonies. Then returning to the awe-struck fisherman, the mysterious stranger declared himself to be St. Peter, Keeper of the Keys of Heaven, and that he had consecrated his own Church of St. Peter, Westminster. When the king and Bishop Mellitus arrived next day, Edric told his story, and pointed out the marks of the twelve crosses on the church, the walls within and without moistened with holy water, the letters of the Greek alphabet written twice over distinctly on the sand, the traces of the oil, and even the droppings of the angelic candles. The bishop could not presume to add any further ceremonial, but retired.
Edward restored the old royal palace close by, and dwelt there fifteen years, superintending the erection of the Abbey. Dean Stanley says he spent upon it one-tenth of the property of the kingdom. His end was approaching when he dedicated the Abbey, on Innocents Day, 1065, andon the last day of the year he died. I shall tell you about his funeral later on.
The edifice stood pretty much as Edward the Confessor left it till the reign of Henry III., who showed his love for the Abbey first by adding to it, and then by demolishing it almost entirely, and raising in its place the building that has been called "the most lovely and lovable thing in Christendom." In this rebuilding St. Peter was almost lost sight of, and the Shrine and Chapel of Edward the Confessor became, as it were, the central idea of the whole. Very lavishly did King Henry spend his money over the restored Abbey: the cost was at least half a million, as we should reckon it. His work includes the apse and choir, the two transepts, one arch of the nave, and the chapter-house; Under the Edwards the nave unfolded itself farther west, and the Abbot's House and Jerusalem Chamber were built. Richard II. was very fond of the Abbey, and rebuilt, at great expense, the famous north portal, often spoken of as "The Beautiful Gate," or "Solomon's Porch." By Henry V. the nave was prolonged nearly to its present length. It was just completed in time for the grand procession to sweep along it when theTe Deumwas sung for the victory at Agincourt. The architect by whom the work was carried out was Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.
The next important addition to the Abbey took place in the reign of Henry VII., when the large eastern chapel which bears that monarch's name was built. The great wars of York and Lancaster were now over, but amongst the chief actors in those tragic events there was one who, by his saintly goodness and sufferings, had left a revered name upon the lips of Englishmen. Images of Henry VI. were seen in great churches throughout the country, and stories of his good works and miracles were everywhere told. Henry VII. promised to build at Westminster a magnificent chapel, in memory of Henry VI. The Pope promised "canonisation" (as the making of a new saint is called), and the king obtained from the Westminster Convent £500 (equal to £5,000 nowadays) for the transference thither of the holy remains. But they were never brought from Windsor. Henry dreaded the immense expense, and completed the chapel as a grand sepulchre for himself and his new dynasty.
There is one feature of the Abbey, as seen from the outside, of which I have not spoken—the western towers. These were built as far as the roof by Abbot Islip, who witnessed the erection of Henry VII.'s Chapel. Two hundred and thirty years afterwards Sir Christopher Wren restored Islip's work, and designed the upper portions. The edifice is not yet complete, as the square central tower requires a lofty spire to complete it.
And so, young people, in the course of centuries, from out "the terrible place" in the wilderness-island has risen the famous Abbey of Westminster, the full title of which is the "Collegiate Church, or Abbey, of St. Peter." We have now got over the dry part of our subject, so we will enter the Abbey, and as we tread its holy shades together I shall have more interesting things to tell you about some of the famous men and women and stormy events that have made it for ever memorable.
MADGE'S DOVENow,Madge," cried Hal, and bent his bow,"Just watch this famous shot;See that old willow by the brook—I'll hit the middle knot."Swift flew the arrow through the air,Madge watched it eager-eyed;But, oh! for Harry's gallant vaunt,The wayward dart flew wide.Flew wide, and struck his cousin's doveAs, wheeling round and round,It hovered near—the wounded birdFell fluttering to the ground.And in a moment o'er her petDear Madge is bending low.Oh, how she blames the faithless dart,The cruel, cruel bow!The dove, soft folded in her hands,She presses to her breast;The bird that brought the olive sprayWas never more caressed.Her tears upon its plumage fall,They fall like soft warm rain—Sure if the bird were dead such loveWould give it life again.Poor Hal stands by, and tries to speakHis sorrow and regret;Madge scarcely hears a word he saysFor pity of her pet.But time, the gentle healer, curesThe wounds of doves and men—The days restore to faithful MadgeHer bonnie bird again.Robert Richardson.
N
ow,Madge," cried Hal, and bent his bow,"Just watch this famous shot;See that old willow by the brook—I'll hit the middle knot."Swift flew the arrow through the air,Madge watched it eager-eyed;But, oh! for Harry's gallant vaunt,The wayward dart flew wide.Flew wide, and struck his cousin's doveAs, wheeling round and round,It hovered near—the wounded birdFell fluttering to the ground.And in a moment o'er her petDear Madge is bending low.Oh, how she blames the faithless dart,The cruel, cruel bow!The dove, soft folded in her hands,She presses to her breast;The bird that brought the olive sprayWas never more caressed.Her tears upon its plumage fall,They fall like soft warm rain—Sure if the bird were dead such loveWould give it life again.Poor Hal stands by, and tries to speakHis sorrow and regret;Madge scarcely hears a word he saysFor pity of her pet.But time, the gentle healer, curesThe wounds of doves and men—The days restore to faithful MadgeHer bonnie bird again.
Robert Richardson.
The Wounded Dovethe wounded dove(See p.16.)
the wounded dove(See p.16.)
Ithad been a great day at Gibeon. A thousand animals had been slaughtered, and laid upon the altar of burnt-offering; and, as the successive sacrifices were consumed, the flames had ascended, and the smoke, in curling clouds, had gone up towards heaven in token of acceptance.
A new king had come to the throne, a grand, and great, and mighty king, Solomon, the most comely of the sons of David. The fierce fightings of David, the man of war, were over. The glittering crown of Israel had been placed upon the head of Solomon the Peaceable; and the people hoped great things, and celebrated his accession with loud and hearty rejoicings. The dominion of Israel extended, as had been promised to Abraham, from the Euphrates to the river of Egypt. David and his mighty men had fought and conquered. And now the people of Israel were entering into rest, and into the enjoyment of that which his sword had won for them.
So Solomon, in his gratitude, offered up his thousand burnt-offerings; and the people, with heart and soul, joined him in praise to God, and their joyous psalms of thanksgiving went up with the ascending smoke.
Gibeon, which was a priestly city, lay in the tribe of Benjamin, about six miles and a half from Jerusalem; and there, in the reign of David, the Tabernacle, which had been at Shiloh, had somehow come to be pitched.
So Gibeon had become an important place; and thither Solomon went to offer up his sacrifice.
The flames that had consumed the last animal had died away, and the cloud of smoke had ceased to go up. The sun that had lighted up the world had sunk below the horizon, amid clouds of gold and purple, seemingly well pleased to have witnessed, on this sin-stained earth, so grand and noble a scene as that of a young and happy, handsome and rich king, recognising God's providence, and offering up so worthy a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving to Him who had placed him upon the throne.
The shades of night had fallen upon all, and the joyous king himself had retired to rest. With a clear conscience and a light heart, he had lain down, and, after the fatigues of the eventful day, had fallen into a peaceful sleep.
For all his subjects loved and honouredSolomon, and gloried in having him for their king.
Well might his heart be light and his sleep be sweet. Well might his face be radiant with joy, even as he lay unconscious upon his bed. But soon an expression of still greater joy overspread his countenance. A still brighter light came into his face, and his heart leaped within him; for, in a dream of the night, God drew near this chosen and well-beloved son of David, to heap upon him still greater favours.
Pleased with the love and gratitude and devotion, to which the young king had given expression by his costly sacrifice, God, who loves a thankful heart, and pours into it still more of His goodness, visited the sleeping Solomon in the stillness of the night.
"Ask what I shall give thee," He said; and as the voice fell upon Solomon's ear—
"The heart of the sleeper beat high in his breast,Joy quickened his pulse;"
"The heart of the sleeper beat high in his breast,Joy quickened his pulse;"
for that was the voice that he then most loved, and most desired to hear.
And what an exceedingly gracious offer it made! To get whatever he should desire! Had ever grandest king been so favoured? But what should he ask for—this youthful king, to whom life was just opening out as a pleasant paradise, offering him all that seemed worth the coveting? Was there anything yet wanting to him? How many things he might have requested!
His father is said to have died, at the age of seventy years, feeble and broken down. Would he, in so short a time, be tired of living? Would he, so soon, be ready to leave the glory and honour to which he had been called? Should he ask for length of days? Should he request that, till he had reached an age exceeding that of Methuselah, the cold hand of death might not be laid upon him, and the greedy and all-devouring tomb might not claim him as its victim? Should he ask that he might plant his feet upon the neck of all his enemies, not one daring to raise up a finger against him? Or should he desire that the vast riches, that had been heaped up by his father during his long and victorious wars, and that had been left to him, might be still further increased, and that he might be the richest and grandest king on the face of the earth? Or should he ask that he might become so famous, that so long as the world should endure, his name might be a household word, not only amongst his own people, but indistant lands, from east to west, and from north to south, wherever the foot of man might tread?
Illustration: View Near Gibeonview near gibeon
view near gibeon
Oh, no! All these things, which many would have desired, were to him but empty things of earth, trifles that must pass away, vain bubbles that must burst and disappear, leaving behind them no true and lasting benefit. His thoughts did not dwell upon them, but upon higher, and better, and nobler things.
He, the last born of David's sons, had been chosen before all his brethren, to sit upon the glorious throne of his father. Those over whom he had been called to rule were the chosen people of God. They had been taken out of all the nations of the world to be His own peculiar people, and to witness, amidst the idolatrous nations around them, to the living and true God. The heart of God was set upon them. His love was freely poured out upon them, and He had bound them to Himself, closely as a man bound around him his valued girdle. They were the descendants of faithful Abraham, of Isaac, and Jacob. They had become great, and mighty, and powerful, spreading themselves out like the cedars of Lebanon, and flourishing like the stately palms. All the surrounding nations looked upon them as the favoured of Heaven, and feared them.
And he was called to rule them—he, so young and so inexperienced! It was his mission to rule them with justice, to train them in the paths of righteousness, and to bring them still nearer to Him who had chosen them.
And how should he accomplish it? How small and insignificant he felt, and how utterly worthless! How he seemed to dwindle into nothing beside the great work that he was called to do! And yet how anxious he was to do it well! How he longed to be like his father David, a true shepherd to his people! How his heart yearned over his subjects; and how greatly he desired to govern them aright, and to be the channel through which the blessings of the great King of Heaven might be poured down upon them!
Yes, that was the one thing he desired—worthily to perform the great work which had been given him to do. And young and inexperienced as he was, he could not do it of himself, and he must ask for the needful wisdom.
A shade of regret for a moment darkened the face of the sleeper as he thought of his own inefficiency. But it soon passed away. There was wisdom for the asking; and his bright red lips moved in humble prayer.
"O Lord," he murmured in deep reverence, "Thou hast showed great mercy unto David my father, and hast made me to reign in his stead. And Thy servant is in the midst of Thy people, which thou hast chosen—a great people that cannot be counted for multitude. I am but a little child. I know not how to go out, or to come in. Give me now wisdom and knowledge, for who can judge this Thy people that is so great?"
How pleasing to God were the deep humility expressed in this prayer, the discernment of the great work that he was called to do; the earnest desire to be fitted to do it nobly and well, and the utter forgetfulness of all earthly glory and fame!
There was no word of reproach, no saying that as the son of David he ought to be well qualified for governing. Only the gracious answer came, that, because all this was in the heart of the young king, because he had made the worthy fulfilment of his mission the grand aim of his life, wisdom and knowledge were granted to him. And because he had desired these rather than long life, or riches, or honour, or the lives of his enemies, there should also be given to him riches, and wealth, and honour, such as no king had ever enjoyed before him or should ever know after him. And if he served God faithfully, as his father David had done, length of days, also, should be added unto him.
The young king awoke, "and, behold it was a dream." But it was not one of those fanciful dreams, that come and go, and mean nothing. It was a dream from God, a great reality, as he was soon to prove.
From that time Solomon became noted for hiswisdom and knowledge. On the most difficult points he was able to give a just judgment, that astonished all who heard it. "And the people feared him; for they saw that the wisdom of God was in him."
His wisdom excelled that of all the wise men of the east, and the understanding of even the wise men of Egypt sank into the shade when compared with his.
He gave his people three thousand proverbs. He wrote a thousand and five songs; one of them which is called the "Song of Songs," or the "Song of Solomon," and which has a place in the Bible, having a depth of beautiful meaning, which only the very wise can understand. He knew all about the trees, from the kingly cedar that reared its proud head on the famous heights of Lebanon, to the humble hyssop that sprang out of the wall. He could tell the nature of each, describe its flowers and its fruit, and point out of what it was symbolic. The beasts of the earth, the fowls of the air, the fishes of the sea, and even the creeping things were all to him as an open book. He could tell for what each was created, and what lesson each was intended to convey. He could answer the most difficult questions that any one could put to him; and his fame rapidly spread through all the countries of the then known world.
He became so rich, too, that silver and gold were as common as the stones that he saw lying in the streets, as he rode through Jerusalem in his open chariot, clothed in white, threads of glittering gold mixed with his jet black hair.
He erected the glorious temple, which for grandeur and magnificence stood unrivalled; and time would fail to tell of the splendour of his throne, of his palace, and of the palace which he built for his favourite wife.
In almost all countries, his name has been familiar; and, to this day, the wild Arabs will tell wondrous stories about him, as they gather at night round their blazing fires. His grandeur and wisdom have ever since been proverbial; and even Jesus, when He wished to compare the lilies of the field with something very magnificent, spoke of "Solomon in all his glory."
The great king, however, did not get length of days, because he afterwards grievously fell. But, without darkening this story with the account of his subsequent sins, let us try rather to learn some of the useful lessons that it is intended to teach. Perhaps you have already found them out.
Like Solomon, we have all in life a great work to do, and we all lack wisdom. But we have only, as St. James tells us, to "ask of God," who giveth toallmen liberally, without reproaching them for their foolishness. And if we seek the wisdom that comes from above—the wisdom of Jesus Christ, we need have no fear; for, as the great Master Himself tells us, all other things will be added unto us.
H. D.
1. Which is the only miracle of our Lord that is related by all the four Evangelists?
2. What city, after its destruction, was sown with salt, as a sign of the barrenness and desolation that its enemies wished to see come upon it?
3. How many lepers are we told, were cleansed by our Lord?
4. Whence did Solomon procure the pattern according to which he built the Temple?
5. Where does the psalmist call God the health of the countenance?
6. What is the only occasion on which we read of Jesus sleeping?
7. Where is Mary, the mother of Jesus, last mentioned.
8. Where do we read that, while, in the reign of David, the old Tabernacle remained at Gibeon, a new tent was pitched at Jerusalem for the ark of the Lord?
9. In which place, after the pitching of the new Tabernacle, did the high priest officiate?
10. Where do we find that Solomon, on his accession, recognised the sanctity of both places?
11. Where is there a prophecy of Jonah concerning Israel, not recorded in the Bible, alluded to in the history of the kings?
12. From what words of St. Paul do we gather that other Christians; besides Stephen, were put to death during the persecution at Jerusalem?
61. In Lev. xix. 14, and Deut. xxvii. 18.
62. In St. Matt. xxvi. 30, and St. Mark xiv. 26.
63. In Gen. xviii. 14; Jer. xxxii. 17, 27; Job xlii. 2; St. Matt. xix. 26; St. Mark x. 27, xiv. 36; St. Luke i. 37, xviii. 27.
64. In St. Mark xii. 41-44; St. Luke xxi. 1-4; and 2 Cor. viii. 12.
65. Of the mother of Samson, Judges xiii. 2-24, xiv. 2-9; and Hannah, the mother of Samuel, 1 Sam. i., ii. 1-10, 18-21.
66. In Judges xiv. 12-19; and Ezek. xvii. 1-10.
67. Proverbs xii. 10.
68. In St. Matt. vi. 25-34; and St. Luke xii. 22-30.
69. In St. Matt, xxiii. 5.
70. St. John xvii. 4.
71. In Lev. xix. 13; and Deut. xxiv. 14, 15.
72. In Deut. xxi. 22, 23.