A FEW winters ago, I had the privilege of relieving some hundreds of the poor in Bermondsey. While visiting in M— Place, among scenes of poverty and wretchedness such as I had never dreamed of, I first met the dear child of whom I now write, trusting that God will use the simple story of her life to lead others to the Saviour, that they, too, may know the same deep joy and peace which filled the heart of little Susan Parsons.
As I knocked at the door of her room, a voice said, “Come in," and I entered. Over the dying embers of the fire sat a woman, whose scanty clothing was little more than a piece of coarse bagging. It needed but a glance to assure me that here I had indeed found the poverty and want which I was seeking. An old table stood in the middle of the room, and a four-post bedstead was in the corner nearest the fire; these, with a chair and stool, formed the only furniture.
Upon the bare sacking of the bed lay a little girl, whose feet were frost-bitten, so that she could not put them to the ground; it was thus that I first saw little Susie.
I spoke a few words to the poor woman, but did not particularly notice the child until a voice from the corner where she lay called my attention to her.
"Oh, sir," she said, earnestly, "I'm so glad you be come; I've been so wishing you would come."
I looked at the poor little child and tried to remember where I had met her, but in vain.
“I don't know you," I said; "I never saw you before; why are you glad to see me?”
“Ah," she replied, sitting up and looking at me as if I had been some well-known and long-expected friend, “but I know you; I have heard you preach at the corner of Nelson Street."
For several years it had been my custom to read the Scriptures in the open air from a Bible-carriage. The place the child mentioned was one which I knew well. I had been accustomed to stop the little carriage and read there night after night, and it was there that little Susie had made my acquaintance, all unknown to me.
Mrs. Parsons was a widow, who earned a bare living for herself and her children by chair-caning; she had often sent her little girl to fetch the cane, and on her way Susie passed the corner where I was reading. Many and many a time, she told me, she had stopped to listen, and though it was several months since I had been at the place, she remembered what I had read, and knew me as soon as I entered the room.
“How old are you, my dear?” I said.
“Thirteen years old, sir."
“Now tell me, why are you so glad to see me?"
"Because I used to hear you talk about the Lord Jesus. You used to say what a bad man you one was, and what great things He had done for you. How you was saved in the shipwreck and in the battle, and then how He saved your soul."
Much touched at what I had seen and heard, I took leave, promising to call next day. Upon my second visit, the child was more comfortable—if indeed one can speak of comfort in so sad a case. A bed had been sent from the workhouse, and she lay softly; warmly covered, and with a happy smile upon her face, so young and childish, yet so worn and thin.
Her earnestness, and desire to hear the word of God, drew me often to the poor room, and I tried, in words as simple as possible, to set before her the wonderful story of the love of God in the gift of His beloved Son, and the love of the Lord Jesus Christ in giving Himself a ransom for many. Wizen we had known each other a fortnight and I knew Susie would not mind telling me what was in her heart, I said to her,
“Do you think the Lord Jesus died for you, my child?”
She thought a minute, and then replied, with the bright look I loved to see, " Well, I don't know, 'azacly, for I can't read nor write; but I knows I'm a sinner, and I knows I do love Jesus."
“And what do you love Him for, Susie? Why should a little girl like you love the blessed Lord Jesus? "
“Didn’t you say as He died for sinners?" she said, looking up at me, wonderingly; "Am'n't I a sinner, and didn't you say He died to save sinners?"
Ah, my little Susie, God Himself had been thy Teacher, and the lesson which He read thee from His book, was a lesson of love.
“Love which no tongue can teach,
Love which no thought can reach;
No love like His.
God is its blessed source,
Death ne'er can stop its course;
Nothing can stay its force,
Matchless it is."
Yes, Susie had known and believed the love of God to her, and she never lost the joy of this blessed knowledge. Brighter days soon came to her, for friends aided her mother in her poverty, though the weary pain did not lessen as time went on, and disease seemed to take a firmer hold of her feeble little body, so weakened by want and exposure. I had mentioned at our Sunday-school that she was fond of being read to, and now she often had young visitors who sat beside her, reading from the Bible, delighted as they found how much that had grown too familiar to them, was new and wonderful to their rapt listener. Sometimes, too, they would teach her hymns, which she learned very quickly, and sang with great delight.
It was about this new pleasure of singing hymns that I once found her in trouble.
“Can’t I sing, Mr. B—," she said, one morning, her eyes filling with tears.
“Yes, my child, surely you can. Sing as much as you like, and God bless you "—and the sweet face grew bright once more. I afterward learned from her mother that she had a reason for asking the question. The day before, the parish doctor had been there. He came on a sad errand; it was necessary that she should lose one of her poor little frostbitten feet, and he had come to take it off. It was just then that Susie began to sing, and these were the words which came sweetly from her pale lips—
“My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here;
Then why should I tremble when trials are near?
Be hushed, my sad spirit; the worst that can come But shortens the journey and hastens me home."
“Hush, child!” said the doctor, "you mustn't sing."
It was not unkindly said, though perhaps the tones of the doctor's voice sounded roughly to the little singer, as he bade her cease her song. He was thinking, it may be, of how rugged the way of life had been to those little feet, which had never, like the feet of the happy children he knew, stood "ankle-deep in English grass," with the blue sky overhead and the fresh air breathing around. And when this child of poverty and woe began to sing of a rest to come, a home to be reached at the end of her toilsome journey, he feared lest lie should be unnerved, and unable to perform his task. So Susie asked me, since the doctor had forbid den her to sing, whether it was right for her to do so.
After the operation was over, she looked up, and touchingly said, " Doctor, you have taken away my poor foot, but the Lord Jesus is going to give me two white ones, and a robe, and a crown."
“Of such is the kingdom of heaven," I often thought as I sat by the child's bedside and sought to learn the lesson of faith and patience which she so unconsciously taught. So real a Person was Christ to her that she would sometimes address Him, whom having not seen she loved, in such words as these, " Oh, you blessed Lord Jesus; oh, you precious Saviour! " entirely forgetting the presence of anyone else. Meanwhile, the poor little feeble body was indeed perishing and fading from our sight. The toes of the other foot dropped off, but even then she still sang in clear glad tones of the " better world, oh so bright," and of Him who shall fill all that holy place with the radiance of His smile.
In strange contrast to the peace and joy of the child who was so soon to reach that "happy land," of which she loved to sing, was the darkness of soul in which her poor mother and sister still remained. She could not but be aware of this, and it deeply troubled her.
“Mother," she said, one day, calling her to her side; "O mother, I shan't be your little girl much longer; I am going away to be with the Lord Jesus." Then, after a moment, she continued, gently, but solemnly, “If you and sister don't believe in Him now, you will never be with Him in heaven, and, O mother, I shall have to say, Amen, to your condemnation."
Soon after her mother had told me of this, I was sitting beside her; her eyes were closed, and she lay so still that, as I listened to catch the sound of her breathing, I fancied for a moment that her happy spirit had taken its flight. As I watched her she opened her eyes, turned them to one corner of the room, and said, “Oh! ain't it glorious—ain't it lovely? " I tried to answer her, to ask what she saw, but my utterance was choked: I could only bow my head and adore the Lord, whose presence was filing the soul of His little lamb with " joy unspeakable, and full of glory." Presently she began to sing one of her hymns:
“I’m coming, I'm coming, Lord Jesus, to Thy throne;
A few more fleeting hours, and I shall be at home.
And when I reach the pearly gates, then I'll put in this plea,
I am a helpless sinner, but Jesus died for me!'"
The very room seemed hallowed by the presence of the Lord—that wretched room, where even the rats felt at home, and would come at night and nibble at the rush light as it stood in the turnip which served for a candlestick; yes, and even worry the dear child as she lay helpless upon her bed.
"Go away!" her mother heard her say one night, "go away!" and then the child added, as if to herself, "you won't trouble me much longer."
No; nothing was to trouble little Susie much longer. She had lain week after week watching and waiting for the Lord Jesus to put her to sleep and take her spirit home, and at last the hour came.
On that morning I awoke at three o'clock, and could not sleep again. I felt that I must go to Susie's house. I went early and found one of the shutters closed. In answer to my knock the child's mother came, and, as I asked for the child, she said, with tears, “Why, dear Susie's gone."
She told me that she had gone to sleep after singing her favorite hymn—
“Jesus loves me: this I know,
For the Bible tells me so."
but had soon awakened, saying, " Mother, I'm going. The Lord Jesus is coming to fold me to His bosom!
“Then," said the poor mother, while her voice was broken by sobs,” she looked at me so earnestly, and said, You'll come: won't you? And you, sister, you'll come, too? '
“I could not look at her," the mother continued, "nor answer her, so I went to the street-door just as Big Ben was striking three. Then she called me again to her. Mother, run and tell Mr. B. that I want him.'
“But I don't know where he lives, dear child; I wish I did,' I said.
“’Ah, well,' said Susie, 'tell him when you see him that, if I don't see him anymore here, I shall meet him in heaven.' Those were the last words she spoke, sir."
As I listened to the poor woman's story, the thought of the child thus gently falling asleep in the arms of Jesus was so sweet to me that I could not mourn, though I was never again to see her on earth.
A few days later, I carried her precious little body from her poor home, to the coach which was to bear it to its last resting-place, at Victoria Park Cemetery, for there all that remained of dear Susie was laid by those who had loved her too well to allow her to be buried " by the parish." At the grave some of her favorite hymns were sung, and then we lowered the little coffin, and left her to rest “till Jesus comes."
More than a hundred people were present, and as I spoke of the grace and faith and patience shown by the young disciple during her long and painful illness, and earnestly appealed to the hearts and consciences of those who did not yet know the “precious Saviour," whose love was such a reality to her, many were deeply touched. Even the old grave-digger, as he leaned upon his shovel, was melted as I told the story of our little one's death, and of her sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection; the tears ran down his cheeks, and he sobbed as if his heart would break.
Thus we trust that in her death, as in her life, God was glorified. As we left the cemetery we, who loved the Lord, reminded each other of His promised speedy return, of the time when we which are alive and remain shall be caught up with all those who now, like little Susie, sleep in Christ, to meet the Lord in the air, and so be for ever with Him, and we comforted each other with these words, for the child had been very dear to us.
And now I would say to any who may read this brief story of little Susan Parsons that it is no tale of the imagination. What is here narrated actually took place. The touching words here written were the expression of the faith, and hope, and love of a weak and sickly girl, suffering no ordinary pain, and in the depths of no common poverty. Is there not a voice here for you, my reader, if you do not yet know the Saviour, who’s love was so precious, whose presence was so real a thing to this sick child? Is it not a knock, as it were, at the very door of your heart? It was the love of Christ which, filling the heart of little Susan, enabled her thus to triumph over disease, poverty, and death. Do you know anything of the sweetness of that love? Let not this history of the frail little waif of a London alley condemn you. Surely you cannot doubt the power of Christ—you cannot doubt His willingness to save you, and to make you happy now and forever.
It may be that my reader is young, like Susie. Perhaps, dear child, this seems to you a sad story. It is, indeed, if you look at one side of the picture, and only see the pain an d the sorrow which were her portion, but there is a beautiful side to it, and I want you to look at that: I want you to think of all that the Lord Jesus did for this poor child. Perhaps you have felt the tears start into your eyes as you read how much she suffered, and how bravely she bore it all. My child, did you ever shed a tear over the narrative which you have so often read of the sufferings of Jesus, the blessed Lord who died to save you—died because of our sins? You are not too young to come to Him, who said," Suffer little children to come unto Me," who received this child, and will receive you, if you only trust Him just now. G. D.