"Peace on earth, and good-will to men."
"Peace on earth, and good-will to men."
Lift up the grateful heart to Him,The Friend of want and pain,Whose birth the joyous angels sang,On green Judea's plain;"Good-will and peace!" how sweet the soundUpon the midnight air,While sleep the fleecy flocks around,Watched by their shepherd's care.So we, within this Christian fold,Lambs of our teacher's love,Who hear that melody divine,Still echoing from above,Would fain, through all of life, obeyThe spirit of the strain,That so the bliss by angels sungMight not to us be vain.
Richard the Second was grandson of Edward the Third, and the only son of the celebrated Black Prince. He ascended the throne at the age of eleven, with every advantage that could be derived from the partiality of the people for his illustrious ancestors. Especially the firmness and magnanimity of his father, and his union of goodness with greatness, won the favour of the historians of his times, who assert that he left a stainless honour and an unblemished name.
The young king, during an insurrection, gave some proofs of courage and presence of mind that impressed the nation favourably: and as he approached maturity, his graceful, majestic person awakened their admiration and pride. Had he by wise conduct and deportment confirmed these impressions, he might have swayed their affections, and firmly established himself in their love. But his demeanour was so light and frivolous, that he commanded no respect, while his self-confidence and contempt of wise counsel plunged him into misfortune. And as the mind that indulges itself in error is never stationary, he passed from indolence to acts of injustice, and even of cruelty.
He banished for life the Duke of Norfolk, against whom no crime had been proved, and condemned to a ten years' exile the young Duke of Bolingbroke, againstwhom no offence had been alleged. The last named nobleman was his own cousin, the son of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, brother of the Black Prince. The aged father deeply mourned this disgrace and unjust punishment inflicted on his only son. Had not Richard been destitute of true sympathy, it would have grieved him to see his white-haired relative sinking in despondence, and mourning night and day for the absence of his son. Borne down by sorrow, and the infirmities of declining years, he died, and his large estates were immediately taken for the use of the crown.
The banished Bolingbroke, exasperated at the seizure of his paternal inheritance, returned before the term of his exile had expired. When he entered his native land, some followers joined him, and as he passed onward, they increased to a formidable force. Richard was dilatory in his preparations to oppose them, and unfortunate in his encounters. He was defeated, and made prisoner by him who had once been the victim of his own tyranny.
The weather was cold and cheerless, when, on almost the last day of December, 1399, a strange and sad scene was exhibited in the streets of London. There, Bolingbroke, with the title of Henry Fourth, appeared riding in great pomp, with a vast retinue, who filled the air with acclamations, followed by the drooping and degraded Richard, exposed to the insults of those who flattered or feared him in his day of power, and now spared not to cast dust and rubbish upon him. Shakspeare has given a most striking description of this entrance into the city, which seems to bring it before the eye like a picture.
Though the fickle throng showered their praises upon the fortunate monarch, there were some left to pity the fallen. He was kept a close prisoner in Pomfret Castle,and subjected to many sufferings and indignities. There he died, some historians say by the stroke of an axe, and others, by the slow torture of starvation.
From his untimely grave, a voice seems to rise, warning the young against the folly and rashness that were his ruin. Let them avoid this thoughtlessness and waste of time, and if they are ever tempted to frivolity, or contempt of the rights of others, remember what this prince might have been, and what he became, nor pass by this melancholy monument of blasted hope without learning a lesson of wisdom.
Farewell! Farewell! Once more regainYour happy home, your native plain;Yet here, in Learning's classic fane,None have discharg'd the allotted partWith firmer zeal or fonder heart.And true affection still shall holdYour image, set in Memory's gold.Yet think, sweet friend, where'er you rove,That He who strews your path with love,Accords no boon of which to say,"'Tis light, go trifle it away."No. Every fleeting hour survives;It seems to vanish, yet it lives;Though buried, it shall burst the tomb,And meet you at the bar of doom.Buthowit rises,howappears,With smiles or frowns, with joys or fears.And ah! what verdict then it bears,Rests on your labours, and your prayers.
The pomp with which royalty is surrounded must be unfavourable to a right education. Its proud expectations are often destructive to humility, and its flatteries blind the mind to a knowledge of itself.
Yet History records a few instances, where the young heart has escaped these dangers, and chosen truth for its guide, and wisdom as its portion. Here and there, we find one, whom the possession of an earthly crown did not deter from the pursuit of that which is incorruptible and eternal.
Josiah, the king of Judah, was one of these rare examples. He was born about the year six hundred and thirty-three, before the Christian era, and at the early age of eight was called to succeed his father on the throne. The temptations of kingly power, which are so often a hindrance to piety, seemed rather to dispose his heart to its influence, for the sacred historian records that in the eighth year of his reign, while he was yet young, "he began to seek after the God of David his father."
The religion of this young prince of sixteen soon unfolded itself in earnest deeds; the overthrow of idolatry, the repair of the Holy Temple, and the establishment of laws for the welfare of his people and realm.
Modern history, also, describes some young heirs ofroyalty, whom it is pleasant to contemplate. Conspicuous among these is Edward VI. of England, who began his reign in 1547, at the age of nine years. His mother died almost immediately after his birth, and until he was nearly seven he was under the care of females, whose virtues and accomplishments were calculated to make the happiest impression on his character. Thus, by the grace of God, was laid the foundation of that deep, tender, and consistent piety, that marked his conduct through life, and left him, at death, an unblemished fame.
In early childhood he discovered strong powers of mind, and a conscientious heart. His reverence for the Scriptures was remarkable. Once, while playing with some infantine companions, he desired to reach an article that was considerably above their heads. So they moved a large book for him to stand upon. Scarcely had he placed his foot upon the covers when he saw it was the Bible. Instantly drawing back, he folded his arms around it and said seriously to his play-fellows, "Shall I trample under my feet that which God hath commanded me to treasure up in my heart?"
On his seventh birth-day he was placed under the tuition of learned men, to study such branches of knowledge as they considered best for him, among which were the Latin and French languages. He was docile to all their directions, and frequently expressed his gratitude for their instructions. Letters elegantly written in Latin, at the age of eight, to his father, Henry Eighth, Queen Catharine Parr, his mother-in-law, and the Earl of Hertford, his uncle, are preserved as curiosities in the annals of those times.
At his coronation, being then nine years old, three swords were laid before him to signify that he was the monarch of three separate kingdoms.
"There is another sword yet wanting," said the child-prince, "one more, the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God. Without that we are nothing, we can do nothing; we have no power. Through that, we are what we are, at this day. From that Book alone, we obtain all virtue and salvation, and whatever we have of divine strength."
Constancy and regularity in prayer was among his early traits of character. After he became a king, and was subject to the interruptions and temptations of a court, nothing could induce him to neglect his daily seasons of private devotion. One day, he was told, that Sir John Cheeke, who had given him lessons in Latin, when quite a young child, was dangerously sick. With deep solemnity on his countenance, he went to his stated retirement, and afterwards hearing that the physician had said there was little hope of his recovery, replied in the simple fervour of faith,
"Ah! but I think there is. For I have most earnestly begged of God, in my prayers, this morning, to spare him."
When the sufferer was restored to health, and informed of this circumstance, he was deeply touched by the grateful affection and confiding piety of his royal pupil.
Edward Sixth kept an exact diary of all the memorable events that passed under his observation. The conferring of every office, civil or ecclesiastical, the receipts and expenditure of the revenue, the repairs or erection of forts, the sending forth or reception of ambassadors, and indeed, all matters of business that occurred during his reign, were legibly recorded by his own hand, with their appropriate dates. This diary, which evinces industry and uprightness of purpose, is often quoted by historians.
But pulmonary consumption early made fatal inroads on his health, and he prepared for a higher and happier state with the benignity of one whose heart was already there. The following prayer, which is among those which he used as the close of life drew nigh, will show how much the progress of true religion among his people dwelt on his mind, when about to be taken from them:
"My Lord God! if thou wilt deliver me from this miserable and wretched life, take me among thy chosen. Yet, notmywill, butThywill be done. Lord I commit my spirit unto Thee. Thou knowest how happy it were for me to be with Thee. But if Thou dost send me life and health, grant that I may more truly serve Thee.
"Oh my God! save thy people, and bless thine inheritance. Preserve thy chosen realm of England, and maintain Thy true religion, that both king and people may praise Thy holy name, for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ."
Edward Sixth died at the age of sixteen, July 6th, 1553, beloved and lamented by all over whom he had reigned.
The historians of France record, with high encomium, the virtues of one of their princes, a son of Louis Fifteenth, who died before his father. He possessed a noble spirit, amiable manners, and in all the duties and sympathies of private life was so exemplary, that he was pronounced by national enthusiasm, "too perfect to continue on earth." He was exceedingly attentive to the education of his children, and vigilant in guarding them against the pride and arrogance of royalty. He continually endeavoured to impress upon their minds, that though they had been placed by Heaven in an elevated station, yet virtue and religion were theonly true and enduring distinctions. His death, which was deeply mourned by the nation over which he had expected one day to rule, took place on the 20th of December, 1765, when he had just attained the age of thirty-seven years.
He directed the preceptor of his children to take them to the abodes of the poor, and let them taste the coarsest bread, and lie down upon the hardest pallet, that they might know how the needy live, and learn to pity them.
"Ah! suffer them also to weep," he would say, "for a prince who has never shed tears for the woes of others can never make a good king."
Yes, take them to the peasant's cot,Where penury shrinks in pain and care,Spread to their view the humblest lot,And let them taste the coarsest fare,And bid their tender limbs reclineUpon the hard and husky bed,Where want and weary labour pine,Diseased, unpitied, and unfed;And let them weep; for if their eyesWith tender Pity ne'er o'erflow,How will they heed their subjects' signs,Or learn to feel a nation's woe?Oh children! though your Maker's hand,Hath mark'd for you a lofty sphere,And though your welfare and commandAre now to partial Gallia dear;Yet many a child from lowliest shed,Whose peasant father turns the sod,May in the righteous day of dreadBe countedgreaterby his God.
Yes, take them to the peasant's cot,Where penury shrinks in pain and care,Spread to their view the humblest lot,And let them taste the coarsest fare,And bid their tender limbs reclineUpon the hard and husky bed,Where want and weary labour pine,Diseased, unpitied, and unfed;And let them weep; for if their eyesWith tender Pity ne'er o'erflow,How will they heed their subjects' signs,Or learn to feel a nation's woe?Oh children! though your Maker's hand,Hath mark'd for you a lofty sphere,And though your welfare and commandAre now to partial Gallia dear;Yet many a child from lowliest shed,Whose peasant father turns the sod,May in the righteous day of dreadBe countedgreaterby his God.
"From whence come wars and fightings?" James, iv. 1.
"From whence come wars and fightings?" James, iv. 1.
You will perhaps say they have been from the beginning. The history of every nation tells of the shedding of blood. In the Bible and other ancient records of man, we read of "wars and fightings," ever since he was placed upon the earth.
Yet there have been always some to lament that the creatures whom God has made should thus destroy each other. They have felt that human life was short enough, without its being made still shorter by violence. Among the most warlike nations there have been wise and reflecting minds, who felt that war was an evil, and deplored it as a judgment.
Rome was one of the most warlike nations of the ancient world. Yet three of her best Emperors gave their testimony against war, and were most reluctant to engage in it. Adrian truly loved peace, and endeavoured to promote it. He saw that war was a foe to those arts and sciences which cause nations to prosper. Titus Antoninus Pius tried to live in peace with every one. He did all in his power to prevent war, and said he would "rather save the life of one citizen, than destroy a thousand enemies." Marcus Aurelius considered war both as a disgrace and a calamity. When he was forced into it, his heart revolted.
Yet these were heathen emperors. They had never received the Gospel, which breathes "peace and good-will to man." The law of Moses did not forbid war "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth," was the maxim of the Jewish people. But the law of Jesus Christ is a law of peace. "I say unto you, that ye resist not evil," were the words not only of his lips, but of his example. His command to his disciples was, "See that ye love one another."
The spirit of war, therefore, was not condemned by the Jewish law, or by the creeds of the heathen. But it is contrary to the spirit of the Gospel.
Have you ever seriously considered the evil and sorrow of war? how it destroys the lives of multitudes, and makes bitter mourning in families and nations? You are sorry when you see a friend suffering pain, or a lame man with a broken bone, or even a child with a cut finger. But after a battle, what gashes and gaping wounds are seen, while the ground is red with the flowing blood, and the dying in their agony are trampled under the feet of horses, or covered with heaps of dead bodies.
Think too of the poverty and distress that come upon many families, who have lost the friend whose labour provided them with bread, upon the mourning of gray-headed parents from whose feeble limbs the prop is taken away; upon the anguish of wives for their slaughtered husbands; and the weeping of children, because their dear fathers must return to them no more.
All these evils, and many which there is not room to mention, come from a single battle. But in one war there are often many battles. Towns are sometimes burned, and the aged and helpless destroyed. The mother and her innocent babes perish in the flames of their own beloved homes.
It is very sad to think of the cruelty and bad passions which war produces. Men, who have no cause to dislike each other, meet as deadly foes. They raise weapons of destruction, and exult to hear the groans of death. Rulers who make war, should remember the suffering and sin which it occasions, and how much more noble it is to save life than to destroy it.
Howard visited the prisons of Europe, and relieved the miseries of those who had no helper, and died with their blessings on his head. Bonaparte caused multitudes to be slain, and multitudes to mourn, and died like a chained lion upon a desolate island. Is not the fame of Howard better than that of Bonaparte?
The religious sect of Friends, or Quakers, as they are sometimes called, never go to war. The beautiful State of Pennsylvania was originally settled by them. William Penn, its founder, would not permit any discord with the Indians, its original inhabitants. He obtained the land of them by fair purchase, and set the example of treating them with justice and courtesy.
In most of the other colonies there had been fearful wars with the savages. In ambush and massacre, the blood of the new-comers had been shed; and they had retaliated on the sons of the forest with terrible vengeance. Older States looked upon this proffer of peace as a dangerous experiment. They said, "These Quakers have put their heads under the tomahawk." But on the contrary, no drop of their blood was ever shed by the Indians in Pennsylvania. They gathered around William Penn with reverence and love. Rude warriors as they were, they admired his peaceful spirit. He explained his views to them with cordiality, and they listened to his words.
"We will not fight with you," he said, "nor shed your blood. If a quarrel arise, six of our people andsix of your own, shall meet together and judge what is right, and settle the matter accordingly."
Subdued by his spirit of kindness and truth, they promised to live in peace with him and his posterity "so long as the sun and moon shall endure."
On his return to England, among the friends who gathered around the ship to bid him farewell, were groups of Indians with mournful brows, the women holding up their little ones, that they might have one more sight of the great and good man, whom they called their Father. Was not this more acceptable to Heaven than the din of strife, and the false glory of the conqueror?
So earnest was William Penn to convince his fellowmen that it was both their duty and privilege to live in peace, that he travelled into foreign countries for that purpose, using his eloquence, and knowledge of various languages with considerable success. Peter the Great, when studying the arts of civilization in England, was much interested by visits from this teacher of Peace, who conversed fluently with him in German. The young Czar listened with great attention and courtesy, while he unfolded his system. He then earnestly requested that it might be expressed for him in a few words, and William Penn wrote,
"Men must be holy, or they cannot be happy; they should be few in words, peaceable in life, suffer wrongs, love enemies, and deny themselves: without which, faith is false; worship, formality, and religion, hypocrisy."
The future Emperor of the Russians, though not a convert to the doctrine of the Quakers, regarded it with so much respect, that he repeatedly attended their meetings, evincing deep and interested attention. To his mind, the theory of peace seemed beautiful, yet he considered it impossible that wars should be prevented.He did not believe that contending nations could be made to settle their differences without an appeal to arms, or that their anger might be soothed by the mediation of a friendly people, as a good man makes peace between offended neighbours. It did not occur to him that a Christian ruler might mediate with the soothing policy of the patriarch Abraham to his wrathful kinsman:
"Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, or between my herdsmen and thy herdsmen, for we be brethren."
A Fly was struggling in a vase of ink,Which with my feathery quill-top I releas'd,As the rope saves the drowning mariner.I thought at first the luckless wight was dead,But mark'd a quivering of the slender limbs,And laid him on a paper in the sun,To renovate himself.With sudden spasmConvulsion shook him sore, and on his backDiscomfited he lay. Then, by his sideI strew'd some sugar, and upon his breastArrang'd a particle, thinking, perchance,The odour of his favourite alimentMight stimulate the palate, and uncoilThe folded trunk.But, straight, a troop of friendsGather'd around him, and I deem'd it kindTo express their sympathy, in such dark hourOf adverse fortune. Yet, behold! they cameTo forage on his stores, and rudely turn'dAnd toss'd him o'er and o'er, to help themselvesWith more convenience. Quite incens'd to seeTheir utter want of pitying courtesy,I drove these venal people all away,And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to excludeTheir coarse intrusion.Forthwith, they return'd,And through his palace peer'd, and, round and roundGadding, admission sought: yet all in vain.And so, a wondrous buzzing they set up,As if with envy mov'd to see him there,The untasted luxury at his very lips,For which they long'd so much.Then suddenly,The prisoner mov'd his head, and rose with pain,And dragg'd his palsied body slow along,Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map,Coast, islet, creek, and lithe promontory,Blank as the Stygian ink-pool, where he plung'dSo foolishly. But a nice bath was madeIn a small silver spoon, from which he roseMost marvellously chang'd, stretching outrightAll his six legs uncramp'd, and, opening wideAnd shutting with delight his gauzy wings,Seem'd to applaud the cleansing propertiesOf pure cold water. Then with appetite,He took the food that he had loath'd before;And in this renovation of the lifeOf a poor noteless insect, was a joy,And sweet content, I never could have feltFrom taking it away.Still let us guard,For every harmless creature, God's good giftsOf breath and being; since each beating heartDoth hide some secret sense of happinessWhich he who treadeth out can ne'er restore.
Jacob Bicks was a native of Leyden, in Holland, and born in the year 1657. His parents were religious, and gave strict attention to his early education, and their efforts were rewarded. He became tenderly conscientious, and in all his conduct sought to obey them and please God.
When the plague raged in Holland, in 1664, he was seized with the fatal infection. At first he seemed drowsy and lethargic, but during his waking intervals, was observed to be engaged in prayer.
"This," said he, "gives me comfort in my distress."
Perceiving that he suffered pain, he was asked if he would like again to see the physician.
"No," he earnestly answered, "I wish to have him no more. The Lord will help me, for I well know that He is about to take me to himself."
"Dear child," said his father, "this grieves us to the heart."
"Father," answered the meek sufferer, "let us pray. The Lord will be near for my helper."
After prayer, he spoke with a stronger and more joyful voice, his parting words,
"Come now, father and mother, come and kiss me, I feel that I am to die. Farewell, dear parents, farewell, dear sister, farewell all. Now shall I go toheaven, and to the holy angels. Remember ye not what is said by Jeremiah, 'Blessed is he who trusteth in the Lord.' I trust in Him, and lo! he blesseth me. 'Little children, love not the world, for it passeth away.' Away then with the pleasant things of the world, away with my toys, away with my books, in heaven I shall have a sufficiency of the true wisdom without them."
"God will be near thee," said the father. "He shall uphold thee."
"It is written," answered the child, "that He giveth grace unto the humble. I shall humble myself under His mighty hand, and He will lift me up."
"Hast thou indeed, so strong a faith, my dear son?" asked the afflicted father.
"Yes," said the dying boy, "He hath given me this strong faith in Jesus Christ. He that believeth on Him hath everlasting life, and shall overcome the wicked one. I believe in Jesus Christ, my Redeemer. He will never leave nor forsake me. He will give me eternal life. He will let me sing, 'Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth.'"
Then, with his failing breath, they heard upon his lips the softly murmured prayer, "Lord, be merciful to me a poor sinner," as with a trusting smile his spirit passed away, just as he had completed his seventh year.
His sister, Susanna, seven years older than himself, was smitten by the same terrible pestilence, a few weeks after his death. She had been from the beginning a child of great sweetness of disposition, attentive to her studies, and so faithful in her religious duties as to be considered an example for other young persons, and even for older Christians.
Bending beneath the anguish of her disease, like a crushed and beautiful flower she sustained herself andcomforted others with the words of that Blessed Book, in which was her hope.
"If Thy law were not my delight, I should perish in this my affliction. Be merciful to me, oh Father! be merciful to me a sinner, according unto thy word."
Fixing her eyes tenderly upon her mourning parents, she said,
"Cast your burden upon the Lord. He shall sustain you. He will never suffer the righteous to be moved. Therefore, dearest mother, be comforted. He will cause all things to go well that concern you."
Her mother answered with tears,
"O, our dear child, God, by his grace, hath given me great comfort in thee, in thy religious temper, and thy great attention to reading the Scriptures, prayer, and pious discourse, edifying us as well as thyself. He, even He Himself, who gave thee to us, make up this loss, if it be His pleasure to take thee away."
"Dear mother, though I must leave you, and you me, God will never leave either of us. Is it not written, Can a woman forget her child? Yea, she may forget, yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands. Oh! most comfortable words, both for parents and child."
Fatigued with speaking, she fell into a deep slumber, and on awaking, asked what day it was. She was told it was Sabbath morning.
"Father, have you commended me to be remembered in the prayers of the Church?"
"Yes, my daughter."
"This comforts me. For I have learned to believe that the effectual fervent prayer of the righteous availeth much."
She had a peculiarly warm and grateful love for her teachers and pastor, and a veneration for all ministersof the Gospel. She delighted to listen to their conversation wherever she met them, and counted any attention from them as an honour. But now, she would not consent that they should approach her, lest they might take the fearful disease that was hurrying her to the tomb.
"I will not expose their valuable lives," she said. "I cast myself wholly upon the mercies of God. His word is my comforter."
Her knowledge of the Scriptures was uncommon. She had committed large portions of it to memory, which gave hallowed themes to her meditation, and naturally mingled with her discourse in these solemn, parting moments.
She felt a deep desire for the progress of true religion, whose worth she was now able more fully to appreciate than in the days of health. One morning, she was found bathed in tears, and when the cause was inquired, exclaimed,
"Have I not cause to weep? Our dear minister was taken ill in his pulpit this morning, and went home very sick. Is it not a sign of God's displeasure against our country, when such a faithful pastor is smitten?"
She had shed no tear for her own severe pains, but she bemoaned the sufferings of others, and the afflictions that threatened the Church. Of her own merits she entertained a most humble opinion, and would often repeat with deep feeling,
"The sacrifices of God are a contrite heart. A broken and a contrite spirit He will not despise. I desire that brokenness of heart which flows from faith, and that faith which is built upon Christ, the only sacrifice for sin."
Waking from a troubled sleep, she said in a faint voice,
"O dear father, dear mother, how very weak I am."
"God in his tender mercy," said the sorrowing parents, "strengthen your weakness."
"Yea, this is my confidence. A bruised reed will He not break, and the smoking flax will He not quench."
Her parents, surprised and moved at a piety so far beyond her years, could not refrain from a strong burst of tears at the affliction that awaited them in her loss. Greatly grieved at their sorrow, she soothed them and argued with them against its indulgence.
"Oh! why should you so weep over me? Is it not the good Lord that takes me out of this miserable world? Shall it not be well with me, through all eternity? Ought you not to be satisfied, seeing God is in heaven, and doeth whatsoever he pleaseth? Do you not pray every day, that His will may be done? Should we not be content when our prayers are answered? Is not extreme sorrow murmuring against Him? Although I am struck with this sad disease, yet because it is His will, let that silence us. For as long as I live, shall I pray, thatHis will, and not mine, be done."
She then spoke of the plague that was raging throughout the country with violence, and said she chose to consider it as the especial allotment of the Almighty, and not, as some supposed, the result of disorder in the elements. After a pause, she added,
"This is the day appointed for explaining the first question in the Catechism. Were I able to meet with the class, I should hear, that whether in life or death, a true believer is the Lord's. Then be comforted, for whether I live or die, I am his. Oh! why do you afflict yourselves so? Yet, with weeping came I into this world, and with weeping must I go out. But, dear parents, better is the day of my death, than the day of my birth."
She requested her father to go to those who had instructed her in religion, and catechized her, and thank them in the name of a dying child, and tell them how precious was the memory of their words, now in the time of her extreme distress. She desired, also, that her gratitude might be expressed to those who had taught her, when very young, to read and work, and to all who had at any time shown her kindness and attention. When he told her of the satisfaction he had enjoyed in her proficiency in the various branches she had pursued, especially in her study of the Bible, her readiness to express her thoughts in writing, her constant filial obedience, and reverence for the ordinances of religion, she replied with a touching humility and sweetness,
"I bless God for granting me the means of education, and the example of such parents and ministers. This is a far better portion than gold, for thus have I been enabled to comfort myself from His Holy Book, with a comfort that the world could never have afforded."
"My child," said her mournful father, "I perceive that you are very weak."
"It is true, Sir, and my weakness increases. I see that your affliction also, increases, and this is a part of my affliction. Yet be content, I pray you, and let us both say with David, 'Let me now fall into the hand of the Lord, for his mercies are great.'"
She besought her parents not to indulge in immoderate grief, when she should be taken away. She adduced the example of the King of Israel, who after the death of his child, arose, and took refreshment, saying, "He is dead. Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." So ought you to say, when I am no longer here, 'Ourchild is well.' Dear mother, who has done so much for me, promise me this one thing before I die, not to sorrow too much for me. I am afraid of your great affliction. Consider other losses. Remember Job. Forget not what Christ foretold: 'In the world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.'"
While thus comforting those whom she loved out of the Scriptures, it seemed as if she herself attained greater confidence of faith, for she exclaimed with a joyful voice:
"Who shall separate me from the love of Christ? I am persuaded, neither life, nor death, nor angels, principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature. Behold, Death is swallowed up in victory."
Afterwards, she spoke of the shortness of human life, quoting passages from the Bible, and of the necessary law of our nature, appointing that all who are born must die. Wisdom far beyond her years, flowed from her lips, for she had early sat at the feet of Jesus, and learned his holy word.
"And now, what shall I say? I cannot continue long, for I feel much weakness. O Lord, look upon me graciously, have pity upon me. I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. Dearest parents, we must shortly part. My speech faileth me. Pray for a quiet close to my combat."
She expressed, at various times during her sickness, the most earnest solicitude for the souls of many of her relatives, solemnly requesting and enforcing that her young sister should be religiously educated. Throwing her emaciated arms around her, she embraced her with great affection, and desired that the babe ofsix months old might be brought her once more. With many kisses she took her last farewell, and those who stood around the bed were greatly affected at the tender parting of these affectionate children.
"I go," said the dying one, "to heaven, where we shall find each other again. I go to Jesus Christ. I go to my dear brother, who did so much cry and call upon God, to the last moment of his breath. I go to my little sister, who was but three years old when she died. Yet when we asked her if she would die, she answered, 'Yes, if it be the Lord's will: or I will stay with my mother, if it be His will; but yet, I know that I shall die and go to heaven and to God.' Oh! see how so small a babe could behave itself so submissively to the will of God, as if it had no will of its own. Therefore, dear father and mother, give the Lord thanks for this his free and rich grace: and then I shall the more gladly be gone. Be gracious, then, O Lord, unto me, also: be gracious unto me. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin."
Prayer was offered for her, and her spirit seemed anew refreshed with a sense of pardon and reconciliation to her Father in heaven. She conversed with pleasure of the last sermon that she had been permitted to hear in the house of God, little supposing at that time, her mortal sickness was so near. With surprising accuracy, she quoted several texts that had been used in the different parts of that discourse, proving with what profound attention she had listened, and how perfectly her retentive powers were preserved to the last.
She lay some time, absorbed in mental devotion, and then raising her head from her feverish pillow, besought her parents to forgive the errors of her childhood, and every occasion throughout her whole life, wherein she had grieved them or given them trouble. Then, witha clear judgment, she addressed herself to the only unfinished business of earth, the distribution of her books and other articles that she had considered her own. To her little brother she made an earnest request, that he would never part with the copy of 'Lectures on the Catechism,' that she gave him, but study it faithfully for her sake, and in remembrance of her. Being seized with a sharp and severe pain in her breast, she said that she felt assured her last hour drew nigh. Her parents, suppressing their grief, repeated their hope and trust, that God would support her in the last dread extremity.
In a dying voice, yet clear and animated by unswerving faith, she replied,
"He is my shepherd. Though I walk through the dark valley of the shadow of death, shall I fear whenHecomforteth me? The sufferings of this present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be revealed.
My end approacheth. Now shall I put on white raiment, and be clothed before the Lamb with a spotless righteousness. Angels are ready to carry me to the throne of God." Her last words were,
"Lord God, into thy hands, I commend my spirit. Oh Lord! be gracious, be merciful to me a poor sinner."
Thus fell asleep, on the evening of the first of September, 1664, at the early age of fourteen, one, who for profound knowledge of the pages of Inspiration, judgment in applying them, love of their spirit, and faith in their promises, might serve as an example not only to those of her own age, but to Christians of hoary hairs. This good brother and sister teach, both in life and death, the priceless value of religious nurture, and of the fear and love of God, infused into the tender truthful heart.
She lay, in childhood's sunny hour,The loving and the fair,A smitten bud, a drooping flower,For death was with her there.One only unfulfilled desireOppress'd her heart with care:"Make smooth the ocean waves, dear Lord,And home my mother bear."Up rose that prayer, both night and day,Heaven heard the tender claim,The favour'd ship its haven found,The absent mother came;So then, like dove with folded wing.Enwrapp'd in calm content,A mother's kiss upon her lips,She to her Saviour went.
Those who have extended to lonely orphan hearts the protection of home, and a fostering kindness, are often repaid by the most tender and grateful affections. A peculiarly striking instance of this kind occurred in the case of an adopted niece of the Rev. John Newton, of London, England. Suddenly bereaved of her parents and an only brother, she found the arms of sympathizing relatives open to receive her, as a trust and a treasure. She had just entered her twelfth year when she came to them, and was possessed of an agreeable person, a lively disposition, with a quick and inventive genius. Her judgment and sense of propriety were advanced beyond her years, but her most endearing qualities were sweetness of temper and a heart formed for the exercise of gratitude and friendship. No cloud was seen upon her countenance, and when it was necessary to overrule her wishes, she acquiesced with a smile.
To her uncle and aunt, her returns of affection were ardent and touching. She was watchful not to offend, or interfere with their convenience in the slightest degree, and often said, with her peculiarly sweet tones, "I should be very ungrateful if I thought any pleasure equal to that of pleasing you."
Her health, which had been for some time frail,began, in a year or two, sensibly to decline, with marked hectic symptoms. Whenever she was able, she patiently employed herself with her needle or book, her guitar or harpsichord. Though she knew no hour of perfect ease, she was remarkably placid and cheerful, and attentive to the wishes and comfort of others. If at any time the severity of pain caused a silent tear to steal down her cheek, and she saw that her uncle or aunt observed it, she would instantly turn to them with a smile or kiss, and say,
"Do not be uneasy. I am not so very ill. I can bear it. I shall be better presently."
Her religious education had been early attended to by her parents; and the excellent relatives who supplied their place, saw with the deepest gratitude the strengthening of her faith, for support in the season of trial. She said to her aunt,
"I have long and earnestly sought the Lord, with reference to the change that is now approaching. I trust He will fit me for himself, and then, whether sooner or later, it signifies but little."
Sufferings the most acute were appointed her, which medical skill was unwearied in its attempts to mitigate. To her attentive physician who expressed his regret one morning, at finding her more feeble than on the previous day, she replied,
"I trust all will be well soon."
Her spirit was uniformly peaceful, and her chief attention of an earthly nature seemed directed to the consolation of those who were distressed at her sufferings. The servants, who waited on her from love, both night and day, she repeatedly thanked in the most fervent manner, adding her prayer that God would reward them. To her most constant attendant, she said,
"Be sure to call upon the Lord. If you thinkHe does not hear you now, He will at last. So it has been with me."
As the last hours of life drew nigh, she had many paroxysms of agony. But her heart rested on the Redeemer. To one who inquired how she was, she sweetly answered,
"Truly happy. And if this is dying, it is a pleasant thing to die."
In the course of her illness, to the question of her friends if she desired to be restored and to live long, she would reply, "Not for the world," and sometimes, "Not for a thousand worlds." But as she approached the verge of heaven, her own will seemed wholly absorbed in the Divine Will, and to this inquiry she meekly answered,
"I desire to have no choice."
For the text of her funeral sermon, she chose, "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord," and also selected an appropriate hymn to be sung on that occasion. "Do not weep for me, dear aunt," she tenderly said, "but rather rejoice, and give praise on my account."
As the close of her last day on earth approached, she desired to hear once more the voice of prayer. Her affectionate uncle, who cherished for her the love of a father, poured out his soul fervently at the Throne of Grace. Her lips, already white in death, clearly pronounced "Amen," and soon after added, "Why are his chariot-wheels so long in coming? Yet I hope he will enable me to wait His hour with patience."
Fixing her eyes on her mourning aunt, it seemed as if the last trace of earthly anxiety that she was destined to feel, was on her account. To one near her pillow, she said in a gentle whisper.
"Try to persuade my aunt to leave the room. Ithink I shall soon sleep. I shall not remain with you until the morning."
No. Her morning was to be where there is no sunset. All pain was for her ended. So quiet was the transition, that those whose eyes were fixed earnestly upon her, could not tell when she drew her last breath. She lay as if in childlike slumber, her cheek reclining upon her hand, and on her brow a smile.
She died on the 6th of October, 1785, at the age of fourteen years. During her short span, she communicated a great amount of happiness to those who adopted her as a child into their hearts and homes. The sweet intercourse and interchange of love more than repaid their cares.
They were permitted to aid in her growth of true religion, and to see its calm and glorious triumph over the last great enemy. That a child, under fifteen, should have been enabled thus to rejoice amid the wasting agony of sickness, and thus willingly leave those whom she loved, and whose love for her moved them to do all in their power to make life pleasant to her young heart, proves the power of a Christian's faith.
She desired to be absent from the body, that she might be present with the Lord. Now, before his Throne, whom not having seen, she loved, and raised above the clouds that break in tears, and all shafts of pain and sorrow, she drinks of the rivers of pleasure that flow at his right hand, and shall thirst no more.