In a School of Arts the following incident occurred, and may God be pleased to use its narration to the good of many who may read it.
A certain clay was fixed for the judges’ examination, and each competitor was to have his design, drawing or model completed by that time, or he would not be entitled to a prize. Among the most talented of those who entered the list to compete in oil-painting was Miss W.
The subject chosen was a bunch of grapes, and with close application she labored to outstrip her fellows in the contest. Miss W. was the first to begin work when the doors of the school were opened, and the last to leave her easel when the appointed hour came for all to retire. Her energy and skill were not without reward, for day by day, as the examination time drew on, all who saw her work pronounced it excellent, and assured the diligent laborer that she must win the prize; and so, with renewed ardor, she persevered in her undertaking.
At length came the day for the judges to give the rewards; the picture was just in time, and certainly a masterpiece it was—the full, rich, purple grapes in all their luster seeming quite to stand out from the canvas, while the broad, bright, green leaves, so truthfully depicted, only seemed to make the fruit look more lifelike. The judges, men of reputation and acknowledged taste, commenced their inspection of the drawings submitted to them, and without the slightest hesitation gave the palm of victory to the indefatigable artist of the cluster of grapes and vine-leaves. The first prize for paintings in oil was hers.
With joy the master of the school himself went to the home of the young artist, to be the bearer of what he knew would cause the greatest pleasure; but judge of his horror and dismay when, instead of telling her the welcome news, he learned that poor Miss W. had died the night before of smallpox. The over-fatigue of both mind and body had produced a lassitude of constitution, making her a ready prey to the disease which was at that time raging in the neighborhood. The very night her work was finished she was taken sick, and in forty-eight hours was a corpse!
Her picture still remains, the admiration of all beholders—the rightful winner of the prize—her sad but only monument; she had gone to give an account to Him who will render to every one according to the deeds done in the body.
That day will reveal whether she had obtained mercy through Christ ere she had passed away. Her only testimony here, as far as it is known, was her persevering effort to obtain the corruptible crown.
Dear reader, are you one who will leave behind you in this world no trace but that.
which human skill and moral culture can produce? Or are you to those around a feeble but a true presentation of the One whom the world has cast out? Of the One who seeks from His people a testimony to God set forth when here below.
May it be yours, not merely to possess and enjoy, but to reflect Him till He comes!