WE all know that school-days must come to an end, and as they are only a preparation for the real work of our lives. I do not think that boys and girls are doing wrong when they take a look beyond the walls of their schoolroom with the question, "What am I going to do with my life?" Will you not pause, dear ones, before you venture on the untried path that may lie before you, and making the words of scripture your own, say to that great and holy God whose goodness has surrounded you with so many mercies, "My Father, thou art the guide of my youth." (Jer. 3:44Wilt thou not from this time cry unto me, My father, thou art the guide of my youth? (Jeremiah 3:4).)
Though, as you know, I and my schoolfellows were blind, we were, I believe, very much like seeing girls of the same age; we looked forward to leaving school, and often talked to each other about the things we hoped to do when we left school; all I think, or nearly all, wished to be of some use to others.
One of our girls, Nellie M—, whose mother had died when Nellie was hardly old enough to remember her at all, was to be her father's housekeeper, and as she really wished to be a help and comfort to him, she was often, at her own request, allowed to go into the kitchen and help with the cooking. I still remember how pleased she was to tell her special friends that she had prepared the vegetables or made the puddings—the latter certainly did her credit. Susie S—hoped to live with her widowed mother and, by getting work as a chair-caner, a trade she had been taught at "St. George's," to be a help and not a burden to her. “And what was my ambition?" some young friend will ask. A good deal of pains had been taken in training my voice, and teaching me to sing with correctness and expression. I loved music, and often thought how much I should like to earn my living, or at least part of it, as a public singer-a path on which I was allowed to enter only to find my bright visions fade away and to learn much of sorrow and disappointment.
But perhaps you would like to hear a little more about my schooldays. Bank holidays always formed a pleasant break in our school life and were looked forward to with great delight for two reasons, one being that a holiday was given to the whole school; the other that these holidays being what we called "liberty days," any of the girls whose friends or relations were able and willing to fetch and bring them back were allowed to spend the day in paying a pleasant visit, either to their own homes, or in one of the London parks; while a few were looking forward to the still greater treat of a day on Hampstead Heath. I do not remember whether it was the first or second Bank holiday I had spent at "St. George's," but it must have been early in my school life, and perhaps I was a little home-sick; no one was, I knew only too well, likely to take me out, and hard, rebellious thoughts began to fill my mind. I do not think that I really envied others, who were, I thought, happier than myself; but I had a great, hungry longing for affection. I wondered if any one would, or could, ever love me. Even then, if any one had spoken to me in simple words of the Lord Jesus and His love, my heart would have been open to the sweet story, as flowers, I have been told, do to the sunshine; but though the Bible was our principal school reading book, and Sunday after Sunday I took my place in the choir and joined in singing, I did not know the gospel. I had been told that I must be good and God would love me. I had often resolved, and even tried to be what I then thought was meant by "good," but as I never could succeed, all my trying only ended in failure and disappointment. I am glad now that I know that "God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." (Rom. 5:88But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8).) But I must not forget to tell you how much pleasure fell to my lot on that long to be remembered holiday.
One by one the girls went, talking and laughing merrily with their friends, till only six of the younger pupils remained. After finishing the light household tasks assigned to us, we went into the schoolroom; how desolate and empty it seemed! We soon left it for the playground, but our favorite games did not go well. The morning seemed long and dull; at last the dinner bell sounded and soon after the meal was ended we heard a well-known voice in the hall, that of a lady who took a great interest in the school and seldom lost an opportunity of showing us girls that she was our true friend. "It is Mrs. J—," we said to each other; “only think of her coming to-day when every teacher is away and nearly all the girls are off holiday making." We were in a mood to welcome any change, or even the prospect of one, and began to wonder what her errand could be. Had she called on some business with the housekeeper? Should we or any of us be sent for? Perhaps Mrs. J—would tell us a story, or teach us a new game.
We were not left to wonder long. We were invited to spend the afternoon at her house, which was only a short distance from our school; and as the day was fine and warm, we were to have tea on the lawn. It did not take us long to put on our hats and jackets, and we were enjoying our holiday to our heart's content. We drank our tea out of real china cups and were indulged with the unwonted luxuries of fruit and cakes. After tea, Mrs. J—said there were quite a number of daisies on the lawn, which she would like us to gather. I was, I think, the first to find a daisy, having often gone into the fields with my sisters to gather them when we lived at Colchester. We were soon all happily at work, picking the pretty flowers. When the sun set we went into the drawing-room, and while Mrs. J—played for us, we sang several hymns, and then our friend said a few earnest words about the good Shepherd who gave His life for the sheep.
I was greatly impressed by her words and for some days after redoubled my efforts to be good, only to fail as I had done before. I know now why I never could succeed. I made a wrong beginning: instead of taking my place as a lost sinner before God, and believing that the Lord Jesus had borne the punishment my sins deserved, I wanted God to be pleased with me and my doings. I wonder if any who will read what I am writing are making the same mistake; give up trying, and let trusting, simply trusting, take its place. The Lord Jesus said, "Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out." (John 6:3737All that the Father giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out. (John 6:37).) You need not fear to rest upon His word.
Among such a number of pupils, some were at times so unwell as to be unable to take their places in the schoolroom, or attend to such duties as were required of us. A large room called the infirmary was set apart for the sick ones; and as I grew older, my half-holidays were very often spent there in reading aloud from some bulky volume in "Dr. Moon's" type, or singing to any who were on our sick list. I do not want you to think that love to Christ was the motive that led me to do this; for the time when I was to know Him as my own trusted Savior had not yet come, but from being quite a tiny child, I had a great idea of being useful, and I liked to feel that my visits to the infirmary were always welcomed by my school-fellows.
I was, as you may remember, twelve years of age at the time of my election as a pupil of "St. George's School for the Blind," and as seven years of my life were spent there, I was nineteen when the time came for me to leave the institution that had so long sheltered me. My schooldays had been on the whole happy ones, and yet during the last year of my stay I grew almost impatient and wished the days would pass more quickly. I longed not only to enter upon the profession I had chosen, but to hear the voices of my father and mother, little thinking that so soon after finally leaving school I should have lost both parents.
When the leave-taking with my teachers and school companions really came, I hardly know whether I was most glad or sorry; but there is no standing still in life, and I was a schoolgirl no longer.