MORE than two hundred years ago, there lived in the north of England a little girl, who, being sole heiress of her grandfather, a very wealthy gentleman, was far more indulged than little girls should be. Sir Richard Cradock felt he could not do enough for this one hope of his ancient house, and spoiled his granddaughter to the last degree, never refusing her anything. It is not to be wondered at that, being left thoroughly untrained, Dorothy, at six years of age, though naturally a child of generous impulses, was intensely willful, domineering, and passionate. She would not brook the slightest contradiction, and one day, being denied some pleasure on which she had set her heart, ran a knife into her arm in revenge, and so seriously injured herself as to imperil her life. From that hour her power over her grandfather was unlimited—no whim of hers was too capricious to be ungratified.
Perhaps my readers will think what a weak, foolish man Sir Richard Cradock must have been to yield so completely to a little child. And indeed it seems so, as far as his granddaughter was concerned, but there was strength enough in his character too, and alas I for his own sake and for the little one in his charge, all that strength was turned against the God who had given it. He was a violent hater of the followers of Christ, especially of any who, for conscience’ sake, had had, to separate from the established religion of the land. To persecute and oppress such, he used all the power that his position as a justice of the peace gave him.
Shortly before the time that my story bins, John Rogers, the venerable, godly minister of the neighboring parish of Croglin, had been ejected from his church for faithfulness to Christ. Though silenced by man, this true servant of the Lord looked above to a higher authority, and, in His name, still preached the glad tidings of the grace of God, wherever and whenever his Master gave him opportunity, regardless of the perils of such a course. Very soon this drew upon him Sir Richard’s deepest enmity, who determined to silence the faithful voice which troubled his conscience, though he heard it not. Having discovered where Mr. Rogers was next expected to preach, he sent two spies to bring him the names of any whom they recognized at the meeting. These he forthwith summoned into his presence, along with the aged minister. Knowing that they had the worst to fear from this bitter enemy of the truth, they obeyed tremblingly.
As, in deep anxiety, they awaited the magistrate’s appearance in the large hall, the troubled reflections of Mr. Rogers were pleasingly distracted by the entrance of the pretty little granddaughter of the owner of the mansion. Dorothy came tripping gaily in, and gladly responded to some overtures of friendship made her by the venerable minister, who was very fond of children. He took her lovingly in his arms, and seating her on his knee, told her the sweet story of the Good Shepherd, who laid down His life for the sheep, and invited her to become one of His little lambs. Thus, pleasantly engaged, the dear old man had almost forgotten the sorrowful occasion that had brought him there, when his tale was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger from Sir Richard, to inform him and his friends that, in consequence of the illness of one of the witnesses, the inquiry into their case must be postponed to a later date.
On the appointed day, the little band of Christians again appeared at the magistrate’s house, and, after a very short trial, were found guilty, and condemned to imprisonment. As, with sad hearts, they waited while Sir Richard withdrew to write the order which was to deprive all of liberty, and to close the mouth of the faithful preacher, Mr. Rogers again thought of his little friend. It was not long before Dorothy came bounding in, and flinging her arms affectionately about his neck, expressed her delight at seeing him. As she sat on his knee, sucking some sweets he had brought her, she asked inquiringly why he had come.
“I believe, my dear,” he replied, “that your grandpapa is going to send me and my friends to jail.”
“To jail!” she exclaimed; “why, what have you done?”
“I have done nothing but preach Christ, and my friends have done nothing but listen to me.”
“Grandpapa shan’t send you to jail,” she replied passionately; “indeed, he shan’t.”
“But he is going to do so, my dear child. At this moment, I believe he is writing the order for our imprisonment.”
Without another word, Dorothy dashed from the hall, and flew upstairs to her grandfather’s study. With violent kicks, and blows from head, heels, and fists at once, mingled with piercing screams, the willful little damsel attacked his locked door, until Sir Richard was driven, very unwillingly, to admit his tiny assailant.
“What are you going to do with my dear, good, old gentleman, who is down in the hall?” she demanded, peremptorily.
“That is nothing to you, little one,” replied he. “Run away, there’s a good child.”
“But I won’t run away, for he tells ME you are going to send him and his friends to jail;” and, bursting into passionate tears, Dorothy added, “if you do, I’ll drown myself in the pond, as soon as they are gone; I will, indeed.”
Past experience had taught Sir Richard that this was no idle threat of his grandchild; knowing she would certainly carry out her intention, he was reduced to giving in with the best grace he could. Carrying the order he had just written in one hand, and leading the excited little Dorothy by the other, he walked down to the hall, where Mr. Rogers and his friends prayerfully awaited him.
“I had made out your mittimus to send you all to jail,” he said, “as you too well deserve; but, at my grandchild’s request, I now drop the prosecution, and set you all at liberty.”
As the others, overcome with grateful surprise, bowed their thanks, the venerable, aged minister went up to the little girl, and laying his hand lovingly on her fair, young head, raised his eyes to heaven; “May God bless you, my dear child,” he said, slowly and impressively. “May the blessing of that God, whose cause you did now plead, though as yet you know Him not, be upon you, in life—at death—and to all eternity.”
Before Dorothy had sufficiently recovered from the solemn effect of the dear old saint’s blessing to utter a word, he had passed out with his companions, never to cross her path again in this world.
Years rolled by, and the wayward child had grown up to be a no less willful maiden, before whom, in the full bloom of youth, the world opened very fair. Beautiful and very rich, being now possessor of her grandfather’s large estate and fortune, Dorothy was flattered and admired by all. Her life was spent in a whirl of constant gaiety, and worldly amusements; but, while outwardly she was the gavest of the gay, there was a weary void in her heart—an increasing sense of dissatisfaction with herself and with all around her—an aching desire for something better. Through all the round of diversions, in which her life was spent, the memory of one incident in her childhood followed her; never did she quite lose the impression made on her childish mind the day the aged christian had placed his hand on her head, and had called down God’s blessing on her. With all her apparent carelessness, she longed, from the depths of her soul, that that prayer might be yet answered.
A slight illness at length, for a time, interrupted Dorothy’s life of pleasure-seeking. Nervous about herself, and more unhappy in her mind than ever, she sent for a doctor, who, through God’s mercy to her, proved to be a true child of God. On inquiring what was amiss with her, she replied, “I do not ail much as to my body, doctor, but I have an uneasy mind that I cannot get rid of.”
“Truly, madam,” said he, “I was the same, until I met with a certain book, and that cured me.”
“Book!” she exclaimed; “I get all the books I can lay my hands on; all the plays, novels, romances, I hear of; but, after I have read them, my uneasiness is the same.”
“That may be,” answered the doctor, “and I do not wonder at it. But as to this book I speak of, I can say of it, what I can say of no other I ever read, that I never tire in reading it, but begin to read it again, as if I had never read it before, and I always see something new in it.”
“Pray, doctor,” asked Dorothy, “what book is that?”
“Nay; that is a secret I do not tell everyone.”
“But could I not get a sight of that book?” she inquired.
“Yes,” he answered, “if you will speak me fair, I will help you to a sight of it.”
“Pray then get it me, doctor, and I will give you anything you please.”
“If you will promise me one thing, I will bring it you; and that is, that you will read it carefully, and that if you should not see much in it at first, then you will give it a second reading.”
Delighted at the thought of obtaining this wonderful book, which could soothe her mind, Dorothy readily gave the required promise. However, the doctor, not fully trusting her, paid two or three visits without producing it, greatly to his patient’s disappointment. At length, one day, thinking he had sufficiently aroused both her curiosity and interest, he drew from his pocket a copy of the New Testament, which he reverently placed in her hand.
“Bah!” exclaimed Dorothy, contemptuously; “why, I could get that at any time!”
“So you could, young lady, but remember that I have your solemn promise to read carefully.”
“Well,” said she, “though I have never read it before, I will give it a reading.”
Dorothy at once began its perusal, and her attention was before long riveted by God’s word. She proved, as the doctor had told her, that there was something in it of eternal importance to her; but, far from giving her peace, it deeply increased het soul-trouble.
With recovered health she went to London, and tried by a fresh round of fashionable so called pleasures to throw off the gloom that hung like a heavy cloud upon her heart. But all in vain: this world failed, as ever, to satisfy the deep aspirations of a soul that was thirsting after God. And now He, who had before drawn near to her in loving mercy, aroused her afresh to seek the Saviour, in whom alone is life and peace. The mariner in which He worked to affect His purposes of grace for this wandering sheep, whom He had lovingly sought, is so marvelous, that we might be almost ready to think it but a cunningly devised fable, had not the narrative been received from her own lips, in later years, by Mr. Timothy Rogers, the pious son of the aged saint who had blessed her in her childhood. Truly we are compelled to own that God’s ways are more wonderful than anything that we could imagine, or read in fiction.
One Saturday night, Dorothy had a very vivid dream. She was in a meeting, in a strange place, listening to an address from one whom she had never seen, on the words, “Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” Awaking, nothing remained to her of the sermon hut the text; the person of the preacher, and the meeting-room were, hover, with intense distinctness still before her eyes. The impression left on her mind was so strong, that she told it to her lady-companion next morning at breakfast, adding that she was bent on going at once in search of the place, and was determined not to give in until she found it, even if she had to seek from one end of London to the other.
The two ladies sallied forth at once, entering each church and chapel that they passed, but only to leave again, as Dorothy would not linger in any place that did not exactly correspond to her dream. So the morning passed in fruitless search, and it was not until one o’clock had struck, and all the services were over, that they gave in. By this time they had reached the heart of the City, where Dorothy proposed that they should dine, and so be ready to resume the quest as soon as the afternoon services began.
After a short rest, nothing daunted, she again set forth with her companion. An hour later they entered a meeting-house in the Old Jewry. At the doorway Dorothy exclaimed in delighted surprise, “Here it is at last! This is the very place I saw in my dream!” As the preacher took his stand at the reading desk, she added in an amazed whisper, “This is the very man of my dream, and now, if all hold true, he will speak on Psalms 116:77Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee. (Psalm 116:7).”
Very fervently Dorothy joined in the prayer for blessing on the hearers, and then eagerly listened for the text. Sweetly the gracious invitation fell on her ear, “Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” Dorothy almost held her breath in the intensity of feeling with which she now hung on the lips of the preacher, while he spoke of that rest which the Saviour so freely offers to the heavy laden, and invited any stricken ones there to find it there and then in Him. As she listened, peace, like a river, flowed into her thirsting soul, and her weary heart found rest on the Saviour’s bosom.
Dorothy was saved―not only rescued from wrath and judgment, but saved to be for Christ in an evil day, when the path of discipleship was a more dangerous one than now, and that of separation less frequently taken. The whole energy of her strong character was from this moment at the Lord’s disposal; the determination of will, that had stamped her early days, being now bent to His, did good service in bringing her out the more boldly on the Lord’s side, whose will from henceforth she delighted to do. Having found her own company, she readily abandoned a world that had utterly failed her in her day of sorest need, and wholly cast in her lot with the despised little flock, only valuing what she possessed of this world’s goods, in so far as she could cast them at her Saviour’s feet.
The blessing of the Lord which maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow therewith, was now fully hers; that blessing invoked upon her childish head by the man of God, “in life―at death—and TO ALL ETERNITY.” D. &A. C.