Seven Little Boys in Heaven: and how they came there
Table of Contents
The Burmese Zayat
SOME of you, dear young friends, may have heard of Dr. Judson, the first Missionary to Burmah, and of his persecution and imprisonment because he laboured for the heathen in that dark land.
In his youth he had wandered in the paths of folly, but when, through the grace of God, he had been led to see his danger, and to flee to Jesus for the salvation of his undying soul, he longed to tell others of the Saviour of sinners. He had heard of Burmah as a place where the people were sunk in idolatry, and where the name of Jesus was neither known nor loved, so he resolved to go out there, and preach to them.
He had much difficulty in learning the language of the natives. As soon; however, as he had succeeded in translating part of the New Testament, he began to teach these poor heathens. One of his plans was this. He built a zayat, or shed, by the roadside, to shelter him from the burning sun; and there, day after day, he used to sit, and read aloud, so that persons passing by might be brought to listen to “the words of eternal life.” He was thus employed one day, when a Burmese officer, tall, and dignified in appearance and manner, whom he had often noticed in the town, came up, leading by the hand a bright-eyed, sprightly boy.
“Papa! Papa!” said the child, pulling the arm of his grave father, “look, look, Papa! there is Jesus Christ’s man! amai! how shockingly white!”
The Missionary, raising his eyes, gave the child one of his brightest smiles, just as he was leaving the zayat. The father did not speak or turn his head; but the boy had caught the kind look, and the wearied Missionary somehow felt that his hour’s reading had not been thrown away.
Day after day went by, the stranger always carrying the same determined look but every day the child made some slight advance towards the friendship of the Missionary, bending his half-shaven head, and raising his little nut-colored hand to his forehead, by way of salutation, and smiling till his round face dimpled all over, like ripples on a sunny pool. One day as the father and child came in sight, the Missionary beckoned with his hand, and the child, with a single bound, came to his knee. The Missionary wound a gay-colored Madras handkerchief round his head, and kissed him, and instantly he ran back to his father’s side.
“Very beautiful!” exclaimed the child, touching his new turban, and looking into his father’s clouded face, his eyes sparkling, and his face covered with smiles.
“Very beautiful!” repeated the father, meaning not the turban, but his darling’s lovely countenance.
“You have a very fine boy there, sir,” said Mr. Judson, in a kindly tone, stepping out to the roadside. The officer, somewhat confused, made a low bow, and passed on.
“That zayat, Moung Moung,” said the father gravely, as they walked along, “is not a very good place to go to. Those white foreigners are—” he left the sentence unfinished; but a mysterious shake of the head showed what he meant to say. The child gazed into his face in silence, and after a while, the father said, “I shall leave you at home tomorrow, to keep you from his wicked sorceries.”
“I do not think he has hurt me, Papa,” at last whispered the child; “but I cannot keep away—no, no!”
“What do you mean, Moung Moung?” said the father, startled by the child’s manner, and especially by the strange brightness of his eye.
“The sorcerer has done something to me—he put his beautiful eye on me.”
“He is not a sorcerer—only a very provoking man. His eye, oh! it is nothing to my little Moung Moung. I was only in fun; but we will have done with him; you shall go there no more.”
“If I can help it, Papa.”
“Help it,” replied the father, who seemed very uneasy. “Hear the foolish child! What strange fancies!” And for a few moments, as they walked along, there was silence.
“Is it true,” asked the child, after a little time, looking up with a smile, but yet with a serious expression, into the stern face of his father, “that she—my mother—”
“Hush, Moung Moung.”
“Is it true,” urged the child, “that she prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ?”
“Who dares to tell you so, Mating Moung?”
“I must not say, Papa; the one who told me said it was as much as his life was worth to talk of such things to your son. Did she, Papa?”
“What did they mean? Who could have told you such a tale?”
“But did she, Papa?”
“That is a very pretty turban the foreigner gave you,” said the father, trying to divert the child’s attention.
“Tell me, did she—did my mother pray to Jesus Christ?” repeated the boy, with increasing earnestness.
“There, there,” said the officer, “you have talked enough, my boy.”
As they walked along, a woman, with a palm leaf fan before her face, had been following so closely in the steps of the stranger as to catch almost every word of this conversation; she now stopped at a shop by the way, and seemed intent on purchasing some goods. This woman proved afterward to be the child’s nurse, and from her. Dr. J. received the account of this conversation.
Meanwhile, the missionary was still sitting in the zayat, thoughtful and serious. “Ko Shway-bay,” he at length called out; and there appeared at the door of an inner apartment a native convert, bearing a large bag, which he had just been filling with tracts and books.
“Did you ever notice the tall man who has just passed leading a little boy?”
“I saw him. He is a writer under government; a very respectable man—proud, reserved.”
“And what else do you know about him?” “He hates Christians, teacher.”
“Is he very bigoted then?”
“No, teacher; he is more like a pärämat than a Buddhist. Serious as he seems, he sometimes treats sacred things very lightly.”
“But does the teacher remember,” continued the convert, “it may be three or four years ago, a young woman who came for medicine?”
“I should have a wonderful memory, Shway bay,” said the Missionary, smiling, “if I remembered all my patients who come for medicine.”
“But this one,” said Shway-bay, “was not like other women. She had the face of an angel, and her voice was like the chimes of the pagoda-bells at midnight. She was the favorite wife of this stranger whom you have noticed, and this little bay, her only child, was very ill. She did not dare to ask you to the house, or even to send a servant for the medicine, for her husband was one of the most violent persecutors of the Christians.”
“Ay, I do recollect her; I remember her distress, and her warm gratitude. And so this is her child! What has become of the mother?”
“Has the teacher forgot putting a Gospel of Matthew into her hand, and saying that it contained medicine for her, for that she was afflicted with a worse disease than the fever of her little son—and then praying for her?”
“I do not remember the circumstance just now; but what came of it?”
“They say,” answered the Burman, lowering his voice, “that the medicine cured her. She read her book at night, while watching by her baby, and then she would kneel down and pray as the teacher had done. At last her husband got the book.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Only burned it. But she was a tender little creature, and when the baby got out of danger, she took the fever.”
“And died?”
“Not of the fever altogether; but she first grew weaker day after day, and her face became more beautiful, and they saw she was dying. She got courage as she drew near Paradise, and begged her husband to send for you. He was not a hard-hearted man, yet much as he loved her, he would not send; and so she died, talking to the last moment of the Lord Jesus, and calling on everybody about her to love Him, and to worship none but Him.”
“Is that all you Shway bay?” said Dr. Judson.
“That is all; but the father has taken an oath to destroy everybody who speaks of it; but the teacher may be sure the little child would not run into his arms unless he had been taught about Jesus.”
Shway-bay having told the Missionary all he knew, slung his bag of books over his shoulder, and walked up the street.
The next day the officer passed by on the other side of the way, and without the little boy. This he did the day after, and again on the third day. But on the fourth morning, who should spring up the steps of the zayat but the child, full of spirits, and behind him his grave, dignified father. The boy had on his bead the new turban, on which was placed a red tray bearing a cluster of golden plantains. The gift he placed at Mr. Judson’s feet, and the father, with a courteous bow, took his seat upon the mat.
“You are the foreign priest,” he said, after calling to his child to sit down by his side.
“I am a Missionary,” said Dr. Judson. “And so,” replied the stranger, smiling, “you make people believe in Jesus Christ. My little son here has heard of you, Sir,” he added, in a careless tone (yet not so careless but that the. Missionary could discover some anxiety underneath), “and he is very desirous to learn something about Jesus Christ. It is a pretty story you tell of Him—prettier, I think, than any of our fables; and you need not be afraid to set it forth in its brightest colors, for my Moung Moung will never see through its foolishness, of course.”
“You think so,” said Dr. J.; “to what particular story do you refer?”
“Why, that strange story about a person you call Jesus Christ—a great prince, or something of that sort—who, you say, died for us poor fellows; and the pretty fancy has quite delighted little Moung Moung here.”
“I think you are a pärämat.”
“No! oh, no! I am a true and faithful worshipper of Lord Gautama. But, of course, neither you nor I believe all the fables of our respective religions.”
“Are you not afraid that my teachings will do the child harm?” asked Dr. Judson.
“You are a very honest fellow, after all,” said the visitor, looking at him with a smile; then turning to the child, he added, in a tone of mixed tenderness and fear, “Nothing can harm little Moung Moung, Sir.”
“But,” replied Dr. Judson, “what if I should tell you I do believe everything I preach as firmly as I believe you sit on the mat before me, and that it is the one desire of my heart to make everybody else believe it —you and your child among the rest?”
The father tried to smile, but he looked as if he thought it wrong to do so, and quietly answered, “I have heard of a writing you possess, which, by your leave, I will take home, and read to Moung Moung.”
“Sah-ya,” said Dr. Judson, solemnly holding out to him a tract, which he had taken from a parcel lying on the table, “I herewith put into your hands the key of eternal life and happiness. This active, intelligent soul of yours cannot be intended to dwell in another life, in a dog, a monkey, or a worm. God made it for higher purposes; and I hope and pray that I may yet meet you, all beautiful, and pure, and glorious, in a world beyond the reach of pain or, death, and, above all, beyond the reach of sin.”
The child up to this time had sat like a statue, his usually dancing eyes fixed on Dr. Judson; at these words, however, he sprang forward, and cried out “Papa, Papa, hear Min! Let us both love the Lord Jesus Christ. My mother loved Him, and in the golden country of the blessed she is waiting for us.”
“I must go,” whispered the officer, hoarsely, and attempting to rise.
“Let us pray,” said the Missionary, kneeling down; and the child placed his hands together on his forehead bowing his head to the mat, whilst the father again sat down. As he prayed, the Sah-ya’s head gradually drooped, and, placing his elbows on his knees, he covered his face with his hands. When the prayer was ended, he rose up, and, taking the child by the hand, he bowed in silence, and went away.
The Missionary often saw them after this interview walking past his zayat, but the Sah-ya only bowed to him, and seemed as if he wished to shun all further acquaintance. The boy was not often with him; but occasionally the little fellow would come running up for a moment to ask for a book, when the Missionary could notice his thoughtful manner.
Meanwhile that terrible scourge of Eastern nations, the cholera, had made its appearance, and it came sweeping through the town with its usual devastating power. Fires were kindled before every house, and kept burning night and day; while immense processions continually thronged the streets, with gongs, drums, and tomtoms to frighten away the evil spirits, and so arrest, as they thought in their ignorance and blindness, the progress of the disease. Dr. Judson’s zayat was closed for lack of visitors; and he and his assistants busied themselves in attending on the sick and dying.
At length, one night, very late, when all was still, and the wearied Missionary had gone to rest, the faithful assistant aroused him, crying “Teacher teacher! you are wanted.”
The cholera had already carried off a great number of the inhabitants of the town, and now it had entered the house of the Sah-ya. The Missionary hastened to the spot, and passed through a crowd of relatives and. servants to an inner room, where a wild wailing sound told the tale that death had entered before him. A few moments more, and he beheld the corpse of the little boy.
“He is gone up to the golden country,” murmured a voice close to his ear, “to bloom forever amid the royal lilies of paradise.”
On turning, he saw a middle-aged woman, holding to her mouth a palm-leafed fan, and fearing to pronounce all the words she uttered distinctly. She was the same person whom he had seen following little Moung Moung and his father. She added—
“He worshipped the true God, and trusted in the Lord our Redeemer, the Lord Jesus Christ. He called, and was answered; he was weary—weary, and in pain—but the Lord loved him, and took him home to be a little lamb in his bosom forever.”
“How long since did he go?”
“About an hour, teacher.”
“Was he sensible?”
“Yes, and full of joy.”
“What did he talk of?”
“Only of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose face he seemed to see.”
“And his father?” inquired Dr. J.
“Oh, my master! my noble master! He is going too! Come and see, teacher.”
“Who sent for me?”
“Your handmaid, Sir.”
“Not the Sah-ya?”
“The agony was on him; he could not have sent, if he would.”
“But how dared you?”
“God was here,” said she, with a heavenly smile lighting up her dark face.
They went into the next room, where, stretched on a couch, lay the noble figure of the Sah-ya, in the last stage of the disease.
“It grieves me to meet you thus,” said the visitor. The lips moved, but no sound.
“Do you trust in the Lord Gautama at a moment like this?” inquired the Missionary, softly, but with much feeling. The eyes were unclosed, and, with a look of pain and disappointment, he dropped his hands upon the pillow.
“Lord Jesus, receive his spirit!” cried Dr. Judson.
A smile passed across the face of the dying man, as if the precious name was dear to him. His finger pointed upwards, his hand then fell heavily on his breast, and his spirit was gone.
“And who are you,” inquired Dr. J., addressing himself to the woman, “that you have endangered yourself by bringing me here?”
“Pass on, and I will tell you. See,” she said, softly, and almost choked with grief, and at the same time lifting the cloth which covered the dear child. Dr. J. looked, and on his bosom lay a copy of the Gospel of Matthew.
“He placed it there with his own dear hand. Amai! amai, ai!” and her voice was again lost in an outburst of grief “I was,” continued she, “his mother’s nurse. She got this book from you, Sir. She thought my master had burned it; but he kept, and maybe studied it. Do you think that he became a true believer?”
“To whom did he pray at that last moment?” asked Dr. Judson.
“To the Lord Jesus Christ. I am sure of that. Do you think the Lord would receive him, Sir?”
“Did you ever read about the thief who was crucified with the Saviour?”
“Oh! yes, I read it to Moung Moung this very day. He was holding his mother’s book when the disease smote him, and he kept it in his hand all the time. Yes, I remember, the Lord Jesus Christ is just as merciful now as he was then. And so they are all,” she exclaimed, “now with Christ above. Oh! it is almost too much to believe.”
“But where,” asked Dr. Judson, “did you become acquainted with this religion, Wah-aa?”
“My mistress taught me, Sir, and made me promise to teach her baby when he was. old enough; and to go to you for more instruction. But I was alone and afraid. I sometimes got as far as the big ban-yan tree on the corner, and crawled away again, so trembling with terror that I could scarcely stand on my feet. At last I found out Ko Shway-bay, and he promised to keep my secret, and he gave me books, and taught me how to pray, and I have been getting courage ever since. I should not much mind, now if they did find me out and kill me. It would be very pleasant to go up to paradise. I think I should even like to go tonight, if the Lord would please to take me.”
And many such will come from the east and the west, from the north and the south, and sit down in the kingdom of that Saviour whose precious name has been preached to them by His servants.
The Christian Song
OUR sins were borne by Jesus,
The substitute from God:
He took them all, and freed us
From the accursed load.
Our guilt was borne by Jesus,
Who wash’d the crimson stains
White in His blood most precious,
Till not a spot remains.
Our wants are known to Jesus;
All fulness dwells in Him;
He healeth all diseases,
Who did our souls redeem,
We tell our griefs to Jesus—
Our burdens and our cares;
He from them all releases—
Who all our sorrow shares,
We love the name of Jesus,
The Christ of God, the Lord;
Like fragrance on the breezes,
His name is spread abroad.
We long to be with Jesus,
With all the ransomed throng,
To sing for aye His praises,
The one eternal song.
Daj-Ogot: His Capture, Redemption, and Early Life in Europe
(Translated from the German.)
SUCH was the name of a boy, the history of whose short life is here related. He was its strong and well-built—at the same swift and courageous, as was seen when he shouted at the tigers as they fled through the woods of Sumatra, holding fast by the main of the unsaddled and unbridled horse on which he sat. A sweet smile was ever on his lips. When he spoke, it was of scenes from nature—he represented different occupations, sketched pictures full of life, and freshness; and if anything was wanted in his narrative, he filled it up with attitude and gesture in a remarkable manner. Everything about Dja-Ogot was interesting and pleasing.
One day as this child was walking along the shore of the above-named island, two men rowed towards him, and in a friendly tone inquired what he was doing there. He must at this time have been at least eight years old. The unsuspicious boy replied that he was waiting for his father. “For your father!” exclaimed the men; “he is feeding the flocks far away. Step into our boat, and we will take you to him.” The boy acted on the invitation; but, alas! instead of being carried to his father, he was taken farther and farther from him, never again to see his people or his fatherland. The ungodly men! They had stolen him! And who can describe his grief when he discovered this; or his anguish as he further feared that he was going to serve his captors for a meal? But the Lord had ordered better for the child. He was taken farther and farther, and sold several times, in each instance for a higher price, till at length, by the missionary Von Asselt, he was ransomed for ninety-six florins. May the Lord reward his beloved servant for this service of love!
The boy was soon very useful to the missionary, for he gave him instruction in the Batta language; and served him with much, faithfulness. His love of truth was remarkable. He accompanied the missionary everywhere on his journeys; took care of his baggage, and prepared his meals. No wonder that the missionary was more and more drawn to the boy, and earnestly desired to find some better opening for the develop, ment of his talents than any which there presented itself.
As I was sitting one day with my family at dinner, the missionary Koster was reading out of “Light and Shade” a letter from Von Asselt, in which he asked whether in the Netherlands any one could be found who would undertake the education of Dja-Ogot. “Well,” said I, “the boy may come to me. I shall not be the poorer, if one more sits at my table. I can also provide him with clothes. The only difficulty would be to raise money for his journey.” Full of surprise and joy, Koster cried out, “Are you really in earnest, Mr. M.?” And when I confirmed my word, the good man rose up, and with his eyes towards heaven, entreated the Lord’s blessing upon the further education of the child. He then left the room, and returning with pen, ink, and paper, communicated my desire to Von Asselt.
A long time necessarily elapsed before the journey could be accomplished. He must go from Lipirok to Padang, and from Padang to Batavia, and thence to Europe. It cost Von Asselt no small trouble to collect the necessary funds, and to find an escort for the boy. But at length every hindrance was removed. In company with Dr. Nepf, he sailed from Padang to Batavia. On this voyage he was so seriously ill as to be very near death. Arrived at the chief town of Dutch India, Mr. Brower took charge of him, and having taken his passage in the Wilhelmina Clara, in ninety-six days they reached the shores of Holland.
It was on the 29th of June, 1860, about five in the evening, when, after having dispatched my pupils to their homes, I was on the point of setting out on my vacation tour, that the newspaper was put into my hand. Having no time to lose, I hastily looked through the shipping-list, and found to my no small joy that the Wilhelmina Clara was in the harbor of Helder. I hastily put my things together, and the same evening went by rail to Amsterdam, where, as it was too late then to seek for the boy, I went to an hotel for the night. I sought my bed directly, with the purpose of rising very early the following morning; to make inquiry for the boy. Waking at the appointed time, I dressed myself hastily; and after praying to the Lord so to direct my steps that I might quickly find the boy, I left my room. Scarcely had I stepped upon the stairs, when my eye fell upon a boy in Oriental costume, whom I saw below, over the banisters. “Dja-Ogot!” cried I, involuntarily. He nodded his head. I mentioned my name. He ran quickly to his room, packed up his little possessions, took leave of the two missionaries, Mulnickel and Rott, and went with me. My heart beat with joy. The boy cried. How gladly would I have spoken one word with him; but the poor child understood as little of my language as I did of his; and I was obliged to be content with putting his hand within mine, and leading him along. With little delay we left Amsterdam, and at eight in the evening were sitting at home at the family table.
The Indian costume was quickly changed for Dutch. It was very difficult for him to wear shoes, so long had he been accustomed to go barefoot. But this did not trouble me. What did distress me was that an expression of sadness, not natural to him, continually overspread his face, and that he often retired to weep in secret. Naturally, I did all I could to make him more cheerful; but in vain. At last, one day his eye fell upon the portrait of the missionary Koster, whom he had known in Sumatra, and taking the picture in his hand he exclaimed with wonder, “Koster!” In a moment his face was cheerful and animated. His secret grief was explained when I found that Si-Kitzil had formerly told him that the people in Holland were cannibals. The sight of this portrait took away all fear from his heart. It was not surprising that I often earnestly looked to God as to what course I should pursue with this dear child. Not to convert him—which was truly beyond mine and all human power—but to clear away all that might hinder him from coming to Jesus. We know that man cannot be too little in his own eyes; but he is often too great to let himself be delivered by the Saviour. My first care, therefore, was to guard against everything which might minister to the boy’s self-importance. I determined that he should regularly go to bed at nine o’clock in the evening, and should never go anywhere unless I accompanied him. I feared, too, the love of the brethren. I foresaw that everywhere he would be overwhelmed, with questions; that he would be the subject of conversation, and would be loaded with dainties. And what other consequence could be, expected, but that the boy should think of himself as the center of attraction, instead of learning that the Lord Jesus is alone the right center. Dja-Ogot remained a child, and never became a man; and to the end he was childlike.
After the lapse of a fortnight, I took him into my school, where he was taught to read and write Dutch. He had a great desire to learn, and was soon able to read tolerably well, and to write very well; he also opened a correspondence. In arithmetic he did not go further than the first four simple rules. Under Mr. Bygeboom, who kindly gave him gratuitous instruction in the harmonium, his musical talent was cultivated in a surprising manner. But how was I to give him the knowledge of “the Holy Scriptures, which alone are able to make wise unto Salvation”? I read to him “Draper’s Bible Stories,” which being translated into Malay, I could not understand, and he could not read. Then I let him read it in the Ioba language—his native tongue—till by degrees he was able to follow the Scripture instruction given in my school. This captivated him. He understood what he read to me, and what I read to him; and scarcely was a sentence ended than that he began in his sprightly way to put it clearly into his own broken Dutch Later on, as he had “Zahn’s Bible Histories let,” he never went into the school without having, read through a certain portion. And so precious was this instruction to him, that at a later period, when he was not able to mount the stairs at my house, he got me to carry him up, in order that he might be present at it.
HIS CONVERSION—LOVE OF PRAYER, ETC. ABOUT three months after his admittance into my house, a circumstance occurred, which the Lord used for his eternal good. Until this time he had been a thorough infidel. Brother Von Asselt had indeed told him that God had made the world; but in his heart the boy believed that all things were self-created. I had indeed spoken to him of the Lord Jesus, of hell and heaven; but he maintained that these did not exist. One Saturday evening, he was sitting in my room playing on his harmonium, which was so placed that anyone playing on it had his back to the table. On this table my mother had laid a little box containing money. The servant maid entering the room, saw it; and thinking that no one could observe her, she took out a few pieces—I know not how many—and concealed them. However, in this she deceived herself. Hardly had she done it, when Dja-Ogot rose, and put her sin before her, threatening to tell me of it. The girl endeavored with kind words to divert him from his purpose, but in vain. Then she got angry, denied the offense, and would have beaten him. Attracted by the noise, my mother came into the room. She ordered the servant to go into the kitchen, and sent the boy to his room to cry to the Lord Jesus, and to go to bed. He obeyed. Not long after, however, he left his bed and hastened in his nightdress into the room where the family were sitting. “How!” said my mother to him, “are you not yet in bed, Dja-Ogot?” “No, ma’am,” he answered, “I wish to tell it to Mr. M.; in the morning I might be dead; and Dja-Ogot saw it, and the Lord Jesus also saw it.” When the remaining inmates of the house came home he pulled the bell. All came in. Dja-Ogot took the missionary boxes and his portmonnaie, and placed them before him on the table; put me on one side of himself, and the maid on the other, and begged every one to be seated, convicted the maid in the presence of all of having taken money both out of the boxes and his purse, and addressed her in such a way that nothing remained for me to do. He then went to bed. All this was seen and heard by human ears and eyes but what was working in the boy’s heart was perceived only by the Lord. “As the maid was before me, so am I before the Lord Jesus,” said he to himself. “She thought that no one saw her, yet I did; and I think that the Lord Jesus does not exist, and that he does not see me; yet he does exist, and he does see me.” From this moment he believed all that was told him about the Lord, and walked in childlike simplicity and joy, according to the word of the Lord.
All true converts are convinced of sin, and learn, sooner or later, to loathe themselves because of it. It was true of Dja-Ogot. “How hateful I was! was I not?” said he one day; “how hateful, that I would not believe that God made the world!” And another time he said, “But how wicked I was in Samatra! I lied, I stole, I swore. Mr. Von Asselt prayed, and I made as though I prayed; but I did not pray, for I had a great dislike to prayer.” Once my mother asked him, “Dja-Ogot, how do you know that the Lord Jesus loves you?” “Because the Lord Jesus died on the cross for my sins,” he replied. “His blood was shed for me, and now he has forgiven me my sins, and I am going to heaven.” “Yes, my child,” said she; “but do you love the Lord Jesus?” “Certainly,” was his answer. “But how do you know this, Dja-Ogot?” “I feel it in my heart.” Could a mother give a better answer, if asked, “How do you know that you love your children?”
If Dja-Ogot had formerly a dislike to prayer, it was now increasingly his sweetest occupation. Oh, how I rejoiced that this intercourse with God was so precious to him! “Behold he prayeth,” it was said of Saul; and surely anyone who confers with God about that which concerns him is converted.
Once, as some one was conversing with Dja-Ogot, he thought—not thoroughly understanding Dutch—that he had been called a slave. The poor boy began to cry so piteously, that the hardest heart must have melted. I took him by the hand, stroked his forehead, and tried to explain to him that he was mistaken. It was of no use. I gave him some marbles, and leaned his head against, my breast. All was in vain. I tried one thing after another, but it was fruitless. Then I went to my room. We knelt together before the Lord, and I prayed; full twenty times naming the one who had so unintentionally pained the boy. We rose. He grasped my hand heartily, and his accustomed cheerfulness returned. One Sunday he received a letter from the missionary, Von Asselt; he read it again and again: it brought sorrowful tidings. A terrible earthquake had taken place in his fatherland; the ground had been deeply rent; houses had been thrown down; and the people had fled to the fields, where they waited, full of fear and amazement, what would next come to pass. The missionary, Von Asselt, had repaired to the Island Chief, at Lipirok, and entreated him to humble himself before God with his people. But the only answer was, “I will consider the matter.” This was the substance of this sorrowful letter. It was evening; the family reading and prayer was over, and we were on the point of taking our supper. Dja-Ogot asked leave to go to bed. I was surprised at his wish. He had been cheerful all the day, and showed no sign of sleepiness. He repeated his request, and I granted it; but I could not understand what induced him to leave his bread and butter untouched. Soon the mystery was explained. For long after he had left the, sitting room was he on his knees, bringing the calamity of his people before the throne of God. On the following day he wrote a letter to the Chief of Lipirok, entreating him not to despise the counsel of the missionary, Von Asselt. Later, he received a letter from Si-Labo, announcing his marriage to a young girl from Lipirok. It was plain that Dja-Ogot was angry. I had not seen him so before, and asked the cause. “I should like to give Si-Labo a blow,” said he. “Then,” I replied, “you must at least make your arm a little longer.” He still continued angry. “Come,” said I, “tell me what makes you so. Must Si-Labo not be married?” “Certainly,” he replied; “but still I am displeased with him.” More he would not say. Upon this I seriously represented to him that he was acting wrongly—still he said not a word. In the evening I heard him long and earnestly in prayer: but however much I wished to know of what he was speaking with the Lord, I could not of course, disturb such converse. Scarcely had he risen in the morning, when he came and told me he was no longer angry with Si-Labo. “I prayed to the Lord last night that he would forgive me my anger, and Si-Labo his sin, and that he would convert his wife.” “But why were you so angry?” I inquired. He answered, “Si-Labo’s wife is not converted; and he ought not to marry an unconverted woman.” I was greatly surprised at this answer. Then I remembered, that once in my school I had spoken of Solomon’s idolatry, and had touched on this subject in passing.
HIS ILLNESS AND EARLY DEATH.
IN the month of May, Dja-Ogot was suddenly taken very seriously ill. The pain in his side was so great as to hinder his breathing. I sent for the doctor immediately. He ordered him the needful remedies, which were so blessed that in a few weeks it seemed as though he were fully restored to health. But shortly afterward he threw up, blood; and as this was repeated, I feared the lungs were attacked—an opinion confirmed by the doctor after a close examination. However, he again rallied. Three months passed thus; but after this, hæmorrhage returned more violently than before. Consumption quickly developed itself, and it seemed as though a few days must close his life. One Sunday evening he suddenly raised himself in his bed, and begged me to hear him repeat some verses of a hymn which he had learned the preceding week. I was astonished, for it was unaccountable to me and all the household how the boy was able to learn by heart. Naturally, I complied with his request. Then, fetching a deep breath at every word, he began—
“O look with pity from above;
Let me thy mercy taste, my Lord and God;
Now laid aside, how wretched should I be!
How lonely! but that, Lord, thou think’st on me.
To thee I cry, in anguish and in pain,
In every rising need and every care;
My trembling heart would often be afraid,
Did’st thou not tell me, Lord, that thou art near.”
No one present could refrain from tears, nor could anyone speak a word. He laid down Again. From that moment he again rallied. Shortly after New Year’s Day the doctor came one morning, as usual, to visit him; and hardly had he taken his seat by his side, than Dja-Ogot entered into conversation with him.
“Does the doctor love poor sick Dja-Ogot?” asked the boy. “Yes, surely,” was the answer. “Does the doctor also love the Lord Jesus?” inquired the child further. “Oh, yes!” “Dja-Ogot is better today—much better.” “That is true.” “The doctor has not made me better.” “Not made you better, Dja-Ogot?” “No: the doctor is very good; he comes to me every day, and gives me good medicine, and treats me very kindly; but the Lord Jesus makes me better.” “You are quite right, my child.” “Oh, yes, but we must thank the Lord Jesus for it.” “That is true, darling boy.” “Will the doctor then do it?” “No; Dja-Ogot must do it himself” “Oh, no. The Lord Jesus understands me well, but the doctor would not understand me, though I understand the doctor.” Some days later, he thanked the Lord, with the doctor, in his own hearty and childlike way.
All who knew this dear boy can witness how loveable he was. The Lord Jesus loved him. Of this the child had a lively consciousness, and therefore his heart overflowed with love. With much boldness, he one day related in the school how the Lord Jesus had forgiven him his sins, and that therefore he was going to heaven; and that he no longer feared to die. Another day, he had a conversation with one of the pupils, in the course of which he put the question, whether she also would go to heaven. When she replied that she was not certain about it, he came running to me, and said, “Is it not terrible, Mr. M.? — does not know if she will go to heaven.” She colored when she was asked about it.
On January 18, Dja-Ogot came for the last time into the school. Violent hemorrhage came on. It was now very plain to him that God was taking down his earthly tabernacle, and would give him a new one. “Ah,” said he to me one morning, “how sad I was last night. Oh, how I cried.” “And why?” I asked. “I thought,” he answered, “that Dja-Ogot loved the Lord Jesus, and would soon go to be with him in heaven; but I thought also of my father and my mother and my sister, who do not know the Lord Jesus, and do not believe in Him, and so cannot go to heaven. I always hoped that someday I should go to Sumatra, and take the Gospel to them; but Dja-Ogot must stay here—and it was for this I cried. However, I prayed to the Lord Jesus that he would send a missionary into Ioba-land; and so I am sorrowful no longer.” “That is right, my child,” I said.
These words of the boy made a deep impression on me. How gladly would I have gone myself to the land of Ioba, had I not ties which kept me here. But the Lord heard the boy’s request, and surely will in his own time fulfill it. If only I knew the names of his parents, thought I, I could make inquires about them. But though I asked him many times, he always told me it was not considered respectful for children to mention the names of their parents. In the meantime, Von Asselt wrote me word that be purposed leaving Lipirok, and traveling in the valley of Silindung. Dja-Ogot was not altogether happy at this news, fearing that the inhabitants would harm Von Asselt, as this district was not under the Dutch government. However, his fear was removed when I reminded him that it was enough if the Lord Jesus stood by the side of His servant, and that He had no need of soldiers to protect Von Asselt with. Surely in this communication of Von Asselt may be seen the Lord’s purpose to answer the prayer of Dja-Ogot. The valley of Silindung separates the land of Ioba from that of Lipirok.
A few days before his death, he told me he thought that when he got to heaven he should know, only one person there. I inquired, “Whom?” and he answered, “Henry’s father,” meaning my brother, who had died. My brother was the only Christian whose last moments he had witnessed.
In the night between February 28 and March 1, he appeared to me to be pretty well, and unusually bright in intellect. About two o’clock in the night he sat upright and inquired what Von Asselt had formerly written to me about his early history. I told him the substance of what the reecho already knows; to which he replied, “It is just so.” Then I said to him, “Dja-Ogot, perhaps you will soon be in heaven. Must I write anything for you to Sumatra?” “Oh, no,” said he; “all is done. I have thanked the Lord very much for all that he has done for me.” Then he opened to me the last secrets of his heart. “Spoultak” was his birthplace; “Amanubuanka” his father; “Naibuanka” his mother; and “Sisindir” his sister. I await the answer to the prayers which he then poured forth, and can never forget the anguish with which he uttered, “My father, my mother, my sister—they do not know the Lord Jesus!”
The 1st of March passed without anything especial to mark it. I was not present at, the evening meal, and my mother prayed, and asked with more than ordinary fervor that the Lord would watch over the dear boy. About nine o’clock I returned. Hardly had I sat down on his bed, and asked him how he felt, when hæmorrhage came on. I supported him with my left arm. He took my right hand—pressed it warmly; and while the blood poured from his mouth like, water from the open spout of a pump, he said, looking at me, “I—am—dying.” I said, “That is nothing, Dja-Ogot. The Lord Jesus loves you very much, and He is with you.” Then he put his left hand on his heart, and his right on the artery at the right side of his throat—raised his eyes to heaven, bowed his head (while I still held him in my arms), and breathed his last.
Thus lived and died the first-fruits of Battalandus, who before the throne of the Lamb will shout triumphant, “He has redeemed us to God with his blood.” Dja-Ogot bore his cross: it was a heavy one. The boy was not fourteen years old when the Good Shepherd found him, and laid him on His shoulders rejoicing. What is ripe for heaven is no longer fit for earth. Dja-Ogot from the East, and puts many children of the West to shame, who still keep at a distance from Jesus. The day may be at land when Indians, as messengers, will come to proclaim the Gospel to fallen Christendom. “Many that are first shall be last.” The Lord as an experienced archer, will not miss his aim. Of this I am confident:
Amen. A. MEYER
Rotterdam, March, 1862.
The Happy Sailor Boy
A SAILING vessel was on her homeward voyage from the West Indies, when the following interesting incidents, which are described by an eyewitness, occurred. It happened, said the writer, that as we approached the end of our voyage, the weather became squally, and we had occasionally a good deal of sea going, which made things very uncomfortable on board. A sailor, who had behaved very ill at the outset of the voyage, and whom the men had declined keeping company with, was shortly after seized with a fever; and although it had been in some measure subdued, yet the poor fellow was in a very dangerous state. He had been a very bad man, and now that he was apparently drawing near to death, he was desirous that some care might be shown him in regard to his soul. The captain and crew were very indifferent upon the subject; and I had been so ill that I was scarcely able even to get out of my berth. There happened, however, to be a little boy on board, who went among the sailors by the nickname of “Pious Jack;” or what was, perhaps, equally to his honor, or at least to the honor of the philanthropist from whom he derived it (though intended for a deeper mark of contempt), they used to call him Jack Raikes, from the circumstance of his having been educated in one of the Sunday Schools of Robert Raikes at Gloucester, of which city the boy, John Pelham, was a native. Jack, however, cared very little for the sneers and scoffs of the seamen; and the meekness, patience, and temper, with which he endured the jeers of many on board, often gave me occasion to say— “Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings Thou hast ordained strength, that Thou mightest still the enemy.”
When Williams, the poor sailor, was dying, and indeed, all the time he had been ill, nobody had shown him any kindness except little Jack, and a negro woman who was on board, the attendant of a child, a Creole of the West Indies, whom she was bringing over to some relations in England. This woman, Cleopatra by name, but who was always called Cleo, ministered to the temporal wants of the dying seaman, nursing him with great tenderness, preparing with her own hands whatever she thought would be likely to tempt his sickly appetite.
The little Creole whom Cleo had in charge was a sweet child, about four years of age, or younger. I saw her very seldom, for she generally amused herself on deck, when the weather would permit, playing with a pet kid which had been spared for her sake—which followed her wherever she went, and which she had taught to go down and up the companion ladder; and Cleo brought it in her arms into my cabin, almost every morning, when she came to ask me how I did.
This excellent negress was kindly attentive to the sick and young, for we had two or three of both on board; and though she knew but little of the deep things of God, yet she possessed much sympathy for the soul of the dying man. She could not read herself, but she knew that the Bible taught the way to heaven; and she sat with devout attention, listening to every word which the dear boy Jack read from that holy book, not only from day to day, but whenever he could persuade Williams to hearken to it; and in the event that soon after followed, I have much reason to hope, his care for his poor messmate was abundantly blessed, both to the seaman, and to this interesting daughter of the despised posterity of Ham.
Things had gone on in this way for some time, when one day Jack came into my cabin, his faced bathed in tears, a look of horror in his countenance, his whole frame trembling with agitation, and himself unable to speak: I thought from his appearance that poor Williams was dead, and that, dying, he had left poor Jack no “hope in his death.”
“What’s the matter, Jack?” I said starting up on my elbow in bed. “What has happened? Williams—is he dead?”
“Dear sir,” said the boy, regardless of my question, “Williams—poor Williams! he is in agony of soul; he says he is lost—that he is a ruined sinner—that God will cast him into that place—where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth!—Oh! That shall I say to him?”
“Dearest boy,” I said; “do not afflict thine own soul so bitterly. It is well that Williams feels all this—take it, my child, as a token for good from the hand of thy Heavenly Father, who doubtless has not been unmindful of thy many prayers and labors of love towards this trembling penitent. Go to him again; tell him that God is indeed, as he believes Him to be, a just God, who will by no means clear the guilty without an atonement: tell him to trust in the blood of that atonement already made for the sins of many; tell him God can be just, even while He pardons all his sins, if he throws himself upon His mercy in Christ Jesus. Say to him, it is not too late to believe—neither is it too late for God to have mercy; the Lord delighteth in mercy. Oh! say to him, God waiteth to be gracious.”
“Sir,” replied Jack, “I have told him all this already, but he says he cannot believe it. I have told him the history of the thief on the cross—of the lost sheep—and all the parables about God’s love to sinners—and how Christ came into the world on purpose to save sinners, even the chief. But he says, he cannot believe it.”
I rose with difficulty, and having dressed myself, found my way into the place where Williams was sitting up in his hammock, his face pale and ghastly, his eyes sunk in his head, and his bosom laboring with the heavy respiration of death. The whole circumstances of the scene will not easily be forgotten.
Jack and Cleo were both on their knees beside his berth.
“Open Thine eye of mercy, O most gracious God,” said the boy speaking, I suppose, from memory, or perhaps out of the abundance of his own heart, “Open Thine eye of mercy upon this dying man, who most earnestly desireth pardon and forgiveness.”
“Oh! earnestly,” exclaimed the wretched man, with a voice so full of the bitterness of death, that it sent back the blood in a cold shiver to my heart.
The boy here paused again, and looked with an eye of unutterable supplication upon Williams, but Williams replied only with a look of inexpressible horror, too dreadful even to be thought upon.
“For the sake of Christ,” resumed the little supplicant, (who knew not that I had entered,) “for the sake of Christ, who put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself, show Thy pity on Harry Williams.”
“He has no hope, O Lord, but in Thy mercy! Oh, visit him with Thy salvation!”
“I have no hope,” at last exclaimed the man, wringing his uplifted hands with an expression of despair, “I have no hope!”
“Oh look down from the height of Thy sanctuary, and hear the groaning of this poor prisoner, and loose him who seemeth nigh unto death!”
And Williams, softened by their affectionate sympathy, and doubtless also by the power of that Word which is both spirit and fife, melted into tenderness, and, falling back on his pillow, shed a torrent of tears.
These tears, the first that had moistened his burning brain since the commencement of his sickness, evidently brought relief to his over-burdened spirit.
I saw him not again for many days after this, my own indisposition having increased inconsequence of leaving my bed; but I heard of him daily, and indeed many times a day, both from Jack and the negro woman, and each brought me every day accounts more pleasing. Every moment the boy could spare from the duties of his station on board was occupied in reading the Scriptures to Williams—though his soul’s health was evidently on the increase, his body was hourly waxing weaker and weaker. I told Jack that I wished to see Williams once more, and being now considerably better myself, I would come and visit him next day. Cleo, however, said that she thought Williams now too near his end for me to delay my visit till tomorrow; so hearing this, I arose in the evening and went again to his berth.
The horror so strongly marked in his every feature the first time I saw him had dwelt upon my mind, and on entering the little place where he was lying in his cot, I had, a tremulous sort of dread at the idea of looking on him again. But how great was my surprise, when I beheld in poor—no, in happy Williams, a countenance full of the most touching complacency, that one would have thought that death, which was evidently upon the very threshold, was the object, not of fear, but of long-desired approach. He had, moreover, suffered much in the interval between my former visit and this, and even that very morning, from many doubts and fears; now, however, they seemed to have been all subdued; and he said to me, with the triumph of one deeply conscious to whom the glory was due, “I am a conqueror through Him that loved me! Oh! that wonderful love!”
I spoke to him some time of his state, and of the grounds on which he built his hope, and was much satisfied with all he said in reply. Every word the boy now uttered was as much a source of joy to Williams as it had formerly been prolific only of horror. He said to him two or three times that night, referring to the struggle he had had in the morning, “It is calm now, Jack—all calm—is this peace?”
“Yes,” replied he, “I trust it is peace—the peace of God, which the Bible saith passeth understanding.”
“Who hath given me this peace?” said Williams, as if he delighted in hearing the ascription of praise to his divine Redeemer. “Who hath given me this peace?”
“Christ,” said the boy, “Christ is our peace; He hath made peace for us.”
“Yes,” answered Williams, “by the blood of His cross!”
Well, thought I, might Williams say, his little instructor had taught him two wonderful things— “the knowledge of a love that passeth knowledge, and the feelings of a peace that passeth, understanding!”
I lay awake all that night, communing with my own heart upon my bed, and meditating on the things I had seen and heard in poor Harry’s berth. No sound disturbed the deep repose of all on board, except the man at the helm, as he pattered over my head, steering us through the mighty waters, and chanting from time to time some seaman’s doleful ditty. It was in the midst of this calm, that the spirit of Harry Williams winged its flight aloft; and the next day but one his body was committed to the mighty deep.
The poor boy, on this occasion, seemed to feel, as if for the first time, that his friend and pupil was indeed no more. But when he heard the heavy plunge of the corpse in the water—when the waves with a gurgling sound closed over the body, and shut out forever all that remained of dear Harry Williams, the boy, unable any longer to control the violence of his feelings, uttered a piercing cry—and so infectious is unfeigned sorrow, his grief seemed to find its way to the hearts of most of those who were present and many a hardened tar, whose iron countenance gave no indications of a heart within, felt that day his cheek bedewed with tears.
I could but look upon the whole circumstances of this day’s scene, as a kind of merciful and providential preparation for what followed; for, three days after the time of which I am speaking, drawing nearer and neared to our desired haven, and being not far from the Land’s End, there sprung up such a gale of wind from the W.S.W. that we missed the port in the channel for which we were bound, and making for the Downs; expected to have come to anchor there; but the wind shifting, and continuing more boisterous than at the first, we knew not well where we were. It would be in vain for me to attempt to describe the feelings of those on board; suffice it to say, that the moment of danger is not the best time for anyone to seek peace with God. Now, indeed, is always an accepted time, and God forbid that I should dare to limit the mercy that is measureless; but they who have neglected the great salvation in the day of sunshine and calm,: come with a load of aggravated provocations before God, when they draw near to Him only in the whirlwind and the storm.
The wind being now somewhat abated, we hoped in the course of the fourth day from our leaving the Channel to make the Firth of F—, and this, through the mercy of God, we attained. For in the afternoon of the 25th of March, we came to soundings, and the captain ordered out two anchors.
But oh! we should never be unthankful for small mercies; and these we had surely accounted small, for our ingratitude was visited by severer rebuke than we had ever anticipated, even in the most perilous moments hitherto. The storm, which during the last two or three hours had subsided into a sudden calm, followed only by the mountainous swelling of the sea, burst out again towards sunset with tremendous and redoubled fury, and, driving, us from our moorings, carried us among the islands of the Firth, where at half-past eleven o’clock, in the absence of moon and stars, and amidst cries of “Breakers ahead!” we struck upon a sunken rock, the main-mast coming down with a crash like the wreck of nature.
As the flood tide set in, the breakers on the rock became more and more tremendous. The boat was hoisted out; the shore, however, presented, in my opinion, no hope whatever of safety, for it was one unbroken reef of rocks and shelving stones, on which the sea was dashing with a noise like thunder, and a spray that went up, as it were, to the heavens. I, therefore, determined to abide by the wreck; and seeing I could but die, I resolved, while I had life, to leave no means of self-preservation unimproved; so, lashing myself to a spar, I silently watched the embarkation of Cleo and her child, dear Jack, and some others of the sailors, in the boat. With much difficulty the men were enabled to set a little bit of sail, and made for the shore in the presence of hundreds of spectators, who, collected from the various villages, were looking with anguish upon our miserable situation. When they put off from the wreck they went pretty well for about a quarter of a mile or so; the sail kept them buoyant, and the boat standing with her, head against the waves. But while we were beginning to watch with inexpressible anxiety as she drew nearer and nearer the surf, a tremendous squall involved them all in darkness, and torrents of rain quite shut them out from our view. But oh! how shall I relate what followed!—the sky cleared almost as suddenly as it was overcast—the squall subsided, the sun shone out,—we looked, and looked again till our eyeballs were almost bursting from their sockets; we strained our vision again to look; and the cry, “Where’s the boat? where’s the boat!” the shriek from the spectators on the cliffs, and the groans from my fellow-sufferers on the wreck, came at once with a louder and more fearful sweep than even the wildest ravings of the tempest. Again it returned, in one simultaneous burst of anguish. The sea indeed answered the demand, and gave up the boat, but she gave not up the dead; the former appeared driven, with her keel above the waters, but her interesting freight was gone.
Oh the horrors of that moment!—And yet, amid all its horrors, while I clung, shivering, to the shrouds of the vessel, expecting every moment to be swallowed up by the merciless sea, I felt, as it were, a smile pass over my lips and eyes, like a beam of light kindled by some invisible, some supernatural object, is I followed in spirit the sailor boy, and beheld him, with his ransomed companions, enter into the joy of his Lord.
The wreck, contrary to all human calculation, continued to hold together till next morning; when, the storm having been succeeded by a calm, that came smiling, as it were, at the ruin its predecessor had accomplished, my fellow-sufferers and myself were brought, by the kind care of the fishermen aid peasants on the coast, safe to land.
When I got to land, I went to bed in a little cottage, whose generous owner hospitably opened her door to receive me. I was faint and exhausted; and having been long ill before, I hardly expected to survive at all: but the Lord giveth strength equal to our day.
In the evening, being refreshed by some hours of sleep, I arose, and went to view the bodies of those who had been washed ashore. On the low but decent bed of the little village ale house, Cleo and her “Massa’s child” were lying. They were clasped together in one inseparable embrace, the child’s head reposing on the bosom of her nurse—and the swarthy arms of Cleo were locked around her little darling. Poor Jack!—less honored, but surely not less worthy of honor, was laid out on a sheet on the floor, a blue checkered shirt his only shroud! His countenance wore a sweet and heavenly expression; and stooping down I robbed his ???????
Note: We apologize. Our copy of this book is missing the final three pages and we have been unable to locate another copy.
The Little Negro Boy
ONE cold winter a merchant vessel, bound from Jamaica to England; arrived in the West India Docks. The cargo was soon unloaded; and gladly did each sailor leave the ship after the long and tedious voyage. Soon they were dispersed to their different homes and friends. One, however, was left behind. Nobody claimed him; no loving mother clasped the sailor boy to her heart; no little brothers or sisters hailed his return to the happy fireside of the English home. Jimmy, the little negro cabin boy, was discharged from the ship, sent adrift desolate and forlorn. His life on board ship had been tolerably happy; but what will he do now? Poor Jimmy wandered about the docks till it grew dark, then was turned out. He walked along the streets crying and shivering, wishing himself again in his own warm, sunny land. How full of sorrow is the heart of the little stranger now! And who will henceforth care for the poor negro boy? Ah, dear little children, Jesus will. The invisible eye of God’s providence was watching and following his wandering footsteps. God who cares for the sparrows, and clothes with so much beauty the flowers of the fields, did not forsake dear Jimmy in his loneliness.
A kind gentleman, whom the Lord put in his path, as he sent the ravens to feed Elijah the prophet, by the brook Cherith (1 Kings 17:3), said to him, “Where are you going, my boy?” Jimmy, startled, looked up and said, “Nowhere, sir; no home for me here.” “Don’t cry like this, my lad; come along with me; don’t be afraid, I will take you to a home.” As you will imagine, dear readers, Jimmy did not long hesitate; he walked by the side of that kind gentleman, who took him to the Boys’ Refuge, Great Queen Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The kind master welcomed the boy at once, spoke gently to him, and he was very soon surrounded by the other boys, and made happy and comfortable. His black shining face, with mischievous eyes—not full of tears now, but full of joy—amused them not a little; so he found himself the center of no small attraction for awhile.
A Sunday school is held every Sunday evening, at 7 p.m., at the Refuge, where voluntary teachers come to teach the Word of God to the boys. Jimmy was put in a lady’s class. He was not very quick, nor as sharp as English boys are; but he was gentle, tractable, and very affectionate. The truth of the Bible had to be taught him, line upon line, precept upon precept—here a little, there a little. His mind could not receive much at a time. He could read a little, too; for his mother, to whom he was much attached, had sent him to a day school in Jamaica.
One Sunday evening his teacher was trying to make him understand, and the other boys also, how Jesus loves little children, when Jimmy said, “Teacher, me think you just like my moder.” “Am I, dear? I am very glad.” “Well, I never,” cried all the boys, laughing outright, “what a compliment to pay to teacher; and we won’t have it! Your mother is a black woman, with a face shining like polished boots, with thick lips, and a flat nose beside. And look at teacher’s face—how white it is!” “No matter that,” said Jimmy; “teacher just like my moder, I knows.” “Never mind, boys,” she said, “I know what he means. If Jimmy loves Jesus, my Saviour, then God will prove Himself to be his heavenly Father (John 8:42). God does not look at the color of the skin; for He has made both the black boy and the white boy; but He looks at the heart. Thus Jimmy thinks I look like his mother because I love him, as his mother did, and he feels the power of kindness shown unto him.”
The summer passed away pleasantly for the Refuge boys, between work and play. Jimmy was put to the shoemaking, which is rather a favorite trade with them. Christmas time came round again, and great preparations were made in decorating the rooms prettily with mottoes and wreaths of evergreens. All the inmates were looking forward to the grand general treat, just like other children do at a time of rejoicing.
Jimmy took his part in all the proceedings, though he was not well. The climate of England did not suit his constitution, and he took a severe cold, from which he never recovered. At length the night came round, and those who have seen the sight of that annual entertainment for the benefit of the boys, the teachers, and friends, cannot easily forget it. Ragged boys and ragged girls, master and mistress, are all one that night—all stiffness is put aside for the time being. Jimmy was sitting on a form quietly watching. The children’s play was rather too boisterous and noisy for him. His teacher sat by his side; she took hold of his hand, and said, “Well, dear, and what do you think of the treat? Did you ever see such a sight in Jamaica?” “No, teacher, I never did; it is very nice.” “It is a happy scene, my child, as far as it goes, bat; which will soon fade and pass away. Listen! we read in the Bible, God’s book, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him” (1 Cor. 2:9). He looked up, and said slowly, tremulously, “Jimmy thinks he will soon die and go to God,” “Do you think then, dear child, that God will receive you?” “Yes; you said many times that Jesus, the Son of God, died, to save bad black boys like me; you read it out of the Bible, and you say all there is true, and that the blood of Jesus can wash all Jimmy’s sins away.” “Yes, that’s it, my boy; don’t let it go; we are saved, saved, eternally saved, through the blood of Jesus, the Lamb of God.”
You see this was the way he spoke, like a lisping child. Yet he knew he was a sinner, and needed a Saviour. The Holy Spirit taught him. After this he lay for some time in the dormitory of the Refuge in his clean little bed, wrapped up in warm flannel, suffering much for a few short months with great patience, without murmur or complaint. The boys made most tender nurses, and every care was taken of him. His teacher visited him regularly, prayed with and read to him, until the 8th of March, 1863. Early on that Sunday morning the Lord called him, summoning his happy spirit from the body of sin and suffering. Shortly before he died he called to the boy who nursed him so lovingly. “William,” he said, “Jimmy is black, but Jesus has made him white.” His teacher, who had seen him late on Saturday, had perceived a great change in his appearance, so she hastened early to the Refuge on the Sunday morning. On her entering, she was told that he was gone. She ran upstairs to his bedside; the sheet covered her dear Jimmy’s face she drew it aside, and kissed the cold forehead, and wept many tears for his mother’s sake. As she gazed on that calm, peaceful countenance she was reminded of the word, “I am black, but comely, O ye daughters a Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon” (Song of Sol. 1:5). Thus ended Jimmy’s life of fourteen springs. Let us praise the Lord together for his tender pity in having thus brought him to the Refuge for the destitute and homeless, where Jesus met, with him—the Refuge of the soul, the never-failing Friend of all who put their trust in Him.
“The Lord preserveth the strangers; He relieveth the fatherless and widow: but the way of the wicked He turneth upside down” (Psa. 146:9).
The Martyr
DURING the sad winter of 1816-1817 a time of famine in almost the whole of Europe, a little boy, named Joseph, called one evening at a lone farmhouse, to ask if he might lodge there for the night. He was pale and thin and his eyes were hollow; and any one might see how hungry he was; and though it was very cold he was thinly clad, and he had nothing with him but a small bag in which there seemed to be something heavy. As he entered the farmyard, a great dog barked loudly, and, rushing from his kennel, would have hurt the little stranger, but that it was chained. Joseph drew back in great fear; but seeing that the dog was chained, he took courage and stepped carefully into the yard. The people in the house had heard the noise, and one of the maids came out to see who was there. Still trembling with fright, Joseph asked her if he might pass the night in the stable. She returned at once to her master and told him of the boy’s request. The master, happening to be in a good humor, threw her a hot potato, saying, “Take him this and show him to the stable.” From her own supper this kind maid took another potato; and bringing both to the cold and hungry child, she spoke tenderly to him, led him to a warm corner of the stable, and gave him a fresh bundle of straw, on which to lie. Left alone thus in the dark but warm stable, Joseph’s first act was to kneel down and pray; thanking God at the same time for the kindness he had just received: After prayer, he ate his two potatoes, and soon fell asleep.
Whene’er I take my walks abroad,
How many poor I see!
What shall I render to the Lord
For all His gifts to me?
“But who was Joseph? and whence had he come?” He was the child of a poor weaver, who lived at Graubundten, in Switzerland. This honest man had worked hard for his family, and brought up his children in the fear of God. His wife was a pious woman, and a kind, faithful mother to her children. Joseph clung to her with all his heart. She had nursed him tenderly.
She had taught him to read, to learn passages from the Bible, and to repeat hymns; and she had often spoken to him of the Lord Jesus Christ. God had blessed the instructions to Joseph, and the Saviour had become dear to his heart. Never was he so happy as when his mother knelt down to pray with him.
“But how came he to be in such want?” You shall hear. You have been told already that the winter, in which Joseph slept one night in the stable, was a hard winter—a alike of a time of famine. The poor Swiss weaver found it to be such. He could get no work, and could no longer earn bread for his children. Their mother toiled night and day, but to little purpose, and she, at list, fell sick. She had no medicine; and as she became worse daily, she felt that soon she must die. The evening before her death, she called Joseph, who was then twelve years old, to her bedside. Laying upon his head her cold, trembling hand, she blessed him, and, giving him a Bible, said, “Here, my son, I give you your inheritance. I am going to Jesus, and can no longer teach you but this Bible can make you wise to salvation. Read in it diligently, and cleave to Jesus. God bless you, and guide you! Goodbye, my child! I hope to find you again with the Saviour.” She sent also for her husband, and her other children, and took leave of them. The next morning, as the sun arose, she gently breathed her last. Joseph wept the whole day, and could not be comforted. Poor boy! the loss of his mother was worse to him than the want of food; but this also he had endure.
Soon after the death of his mother Joseph’s father was obliged to, send him away, to seek his bread wherever he could obtain it.
Lord, how Thy wonders are displayed
Where’er I turn mine eye:
If I survey the ground I tread,
Or gaze upon the sky!
Creatures (as num’rous as they be)
Are subject to Thy care;
There’s not a place were we can flee,
But God is present there.
He said nothing, but, with tears in his eyes, packed his Bible in his bag, bade farewell, to his father, and to his little brother sad Oster, and took his leave. He did not know the road or whither it would lead him, distance from the place, he thought it better not to enter till next morning, and accordingly called at the farmhouse near the road side, where we have seen him led by the kind maid to his night quarters in the stable.
It was about five in the morning when he awoke, and began to repeat one of the hymns which he had learned from his mother’s lips: —
“Awake my heart awake and sing,
The praise of Him who gives us all,
Food, sheep, and every precious thing:
To God, thy Friend, direct thy call.”
This he repeated aloud to himself. The maid, who was about to milk the cows, had heard him; and, touched by these lines, she entered the stable, with the lantern in her hand, and wished the lad good morning. She asked him several questions about his past life; and, while she was milking the cows, he told her all that had happened to him to that time. Margaret, for that was her name, was affected by his story, and, gave him some of the warm milk to drink, she said “Wait, Joseph; I will speak to the master. He may suffer you to stay with us.” She had great influence with her master, because she was an honest and faithful servant. She pleaded for Joseph, that he might be allowed to Remain and help with the work. The master at first looked sour, and said that in such dear times he could not take every tramp into his house; but Margaret entreated him, and at last prevailed. She then ran to Joseph, and told him that he might stay, and that, if he proved honest and diligent, he would be comfortable. Joseph went to work cheerfully, thanking God from the bottom of his heart. He was tired of wandering about, and glad to be able to earn his bread by the labor of his own hands.
The farmhouse became to Joseph a school of severe trial. The master himself, and the two men servants, were rude and wicked men; having “no fear of God before their eyes.” On the first morning, when the bell was rung for breakfast, the servants sat down with bad, wicked words, to the sound of which the youthful stranger had not been accustomed. But when he closed his eyes, while silently thanking God before he began to eat, the men burst into a loud laugh, and uttered dreadful blasphemies against God. Joseph was afraid, and wept; but Margaret reproved the servant men, and consoled the poor boy. When night came, he found that he had to sleep in the same room with these two men. Never before had he omitted to kneel down for prayer, before lying down to sleep; but this time, for fear of the men, he crept into bed at once without bending his knees in their sight. Their oaths and curses, partly addressed to him, kept him awake with fear, till the men had fallen asleep. Then, rising very quietly, and kneeling upon his bed, Joseph began to pray. As he prayed he felt his fears abate, and his courage increase, until at last, forgetting where he was, or that any one was near but the Lord to whom he cried, his voice became so distinct and loud as to awake one of the servant men. “Who is there?” he exclaimed; and finding that it was by Joseph’s prayers he had been aroused, he became furious, and said he would turn the fellow into the street. The other servant also awoke, and joined in threatening the poor lad, who, breathless almost with fear, hid himself under the bedclothes, and awaited the dawn of day.
When morning came, the men rose earlier than usual, and went out without a word.
Joseph, hearing that the men had got to work, quickly got up, and having prayed, put his bag on his shoulder, resolved to make his escape. On entering the yard, he met with Margaret, who wished him good morning, but noticing his bag, asked him where he, was going. Not a word could he utter, but burst into tears. Margaret repeated her question, and then he begged her to let him go, as he could not continue in such a place. She guessed the cause of this sudden resolution, and said all she could to comfort the lad, for whom she had begun to feel a great regard. At last she succeeded in persuading him to stay.
“Come, Joseph, put down your bag, and help me to prepare a straw layer, and the fodder.”
Joseph readily did as Margaret bade him, and everything was soon in order, so that she could proceed to milk the cows. Having sat down with her pail, the following conversation took place.
Margaret. What have you there so heavy in your bag?
Joseph. It is my Bible, the only inheritance my mother left me. I have always carried it about with me, and when I have been unhappy it has comforted me.
Margaret. Can you then read?
Joseph. Yes. My dear mother taught me first; and then I went to school.
Nothing would now satisfy Margaret, till the lad showed her his Bible, and sat down beside her to read from it by the light of the lantern. He read to her the third of John, which tells us of Nicodemus coming by night to Jesus, who said to him, “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Margaret, who knew scarcely anything of the Bible, listened with deep attention, but did not say a word; and even after the boy had finished reading, she was silent for some time. When she had, at last, done her work, she told Joseph what to do, and went away.
Nothing particular happened that day, except that in the evening, while the master and his men were at the public house, Margaret called the lad to her room, and made him read the same chapter to her again. When he went that night with the menservants to bed, they certainly made some rude remarks; but, being drowsy, they soon fell asleep, and Joseph prayed without being disturbed.
After a few days, during which Margaret was very silent and pensive, Sunday arrived; a day which, to Joseph, was of the greatest importance. The servants remained longer in bed than on any other day; but Joseph rose as early as he could. As it was yet dark he went to the stable, where he knew he would meet with Margaret. He had not conversed with her specially, since, at her request, he read to her; but now he asked if he might read to her again. She gave consent, and he read the history of Christ’s crucifixion in John 18 and 19. As it took half an hour to go through these long chapters, Margaret had done milking before he finished; and, sitting down on a low stool, she listened in silence, and seemed to lose herself in the subject on which Joseph read. The 30th verse of chap. 19 led to the following conversation.,
Joseph (reading)— “When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, He said, It is finished; and He bowed His head, and gave up the ghost.”
Margaret—But why did God suffer this holy man to die so horrible a death?
Joseph—Do you not know, Margaret, that, if it had been the will of the Lord Jesus, His Father would have sent Him twelve legions of angels to deliver Him? But He freely offered Himself, to make propitiation for our sins, by His precious blood. I know a passage which declares, “Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. He was wounded for our transgressions; He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed” (Isa. 53:4, 5). What do we not owe, Margaret, to the Saviour who died for us that we may not go to hell?
Jesus, the Lord our righteousness,
Our beauty Thou, our glorious dress;
‘Midst flaming worlds in these arrayed,
With joy shall we lift up our head.
Margaret—Do you believe that I also shall go to heaven?
Joseph—If you believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and look to Him only for salvation, you will most certainly go to heaven (John 5:24; Acts 10:43).
Margaret—Would the Lord listen to me, if I were to pray to Him?
Joseph—Is not the Lord everywhere with us and about us; He is even now with us; He sees us and hears what we say. And what is more, He looks into our hearts, and knows what we think.
Margaret now stood up. By means of these simple words, a ray of divine light had shone into her soul, and she felt an unspeakable longing after something that she could not herself name. She did not know what was the matter with her. She took up the milk pail and went away. But she could find no rest for her troubled mind. She fell on her knees and said, “Jesus, limit, mercy upon me! Jesus save me also!” She then began to feel so happy at heart, that had not her master called her, she would not have thought of leaving her retreat. But she thought within herself that she would return there as soon and as often as she could be at liberty.
By the master and his two men servants the Sunday was usually spent in a very sad way. They either idled about, played, went to the public house, or followed other pursuits which were still worse. Joseph had thus the opportunity of spending part of the day in the bedroom, reading his Bible. He had no wish for happier employment than this.
The day was now gone, and the evening had set in. The men servants had come home to supper, and were waiting in the yard for the sound of the bell which was to summon them to the table. They sat on a bench before the house, playing with the great dog, which they had loosed from its chain. Joseph also was outside the house, and had timidly seated himself on a stump of wood. Very soon their game was directed against him; an One of them, who had the monster dog between his knees, cried, “Now, Joseph, have you prayed to your Lord today?”
Joseph, remembering how they cursed and swore the first night he slept in the same room with them, was terrified and held his peace. The two men then roared with laughter at the poor silent boy.
“Come, Joseph, give us a prayer!” But Joseph continued to hold his peace, and inwardly cried to God.
“Joseph must be our parson!” said one of his tormentors. “Tell me, Mr. Parson, shall we go to hell?” Another loud laugh accompanied this awful question. But, as the lad remained silent, he that held the dog, resumed, “Now, Joseph, you must tell us whether we are to go to hell. If you do not, I’ll let the dog loose upon you.” He then began jokingly to excite the dog against Joseph, so that it soon began to snarl. An inexpressible terror now seized the poor child; and yet he felt encouraged tremblingly to reply, “How can you go to heaven if you curse so dreadfully? He who curses goes to hell.”
This answer fell like a thunderbolt on the consciences of these bad men; but instead of yielding to the voice of conscience, they gave full scope to their rage.
“Now, Joseph,” said the man who held the dog, “when we go to hell, you will have to go with us; for I will make you learn to curse! Now, repeat after me!”.... and he uttered a most fearful oath, at which both laughed, and called out, “Joseph, repeat this oath!”
A dreadful scene ensued. The poor boy was deadly pale, and he trembled from head to foot; but his soul was comforted and strengthened beyond measure. He felt that he feared to sin against God, more than he dreaded all that man could do to him, and meekly, calmly said, that he could not let such wicked words pass his lips. The men insisted on his uttering them, declaring that they would let the dog loose upon him, and exciting the fierce animal more and more each time. The one who held him between his knees had no intention, perhaps, actually to let him loose; but the dog, not as yet accustomed to look upon Joseph as an inmate of the house, growled, more fiercely, made a sudden spring, and fell furiously upon Joseph. True, they immediately called him off; but it was too late. As the dear little fellow with a loud shriek, tried to keep off infuriated dog, the latter bit his hand; so deeply that the blood instantly began to stream from the wound. A few moments after he fell into a swoon.
A sudden terror now fell on the two wicked men who had so cruelly persecuted Joseph. They were in no haste to run to his assistance; but at last one of them went, and lifting him up, shook him, as if to awoken him. But his swoon continued; and, for the first time, the man perceived his bleeding hand. The master, too, had come, attracted by the shrill scream of the lad. Asking what was the matter, he got no reply, except that the dog had rushed upon Joseph, and bitten him a little, causing him to faint away. The master swore, kicked the dog a few times, and, calling for Margaret, ordered her to wash the boy’s hand, and bind it up, and to rub his temple with spirits.
Faithful Margaret did all in her power for Joseph’s recovery. She laid him on her own bed, washed the wound with vinegar and water, poured some oil upon it, and dressed it with as linen rag.
He recovered from his fainting fit; but, was so weak that he could scarcely speak. Now and then he looked round, as if to see whether the men servants were there; but when he saw Margaret only, he became calm, and looked very gratefully upon her.
To be the better able to nurse her patient, this kind woman made him up a good bed in her own sleeping room. He did not sleep the first night; still he was quiet, and only groaned sometimes because of the pain in his hand. In the morning it was very much swollen; but as the pain had abated, he got up. But he trembled greatly, and looked so pale and ill that no one could see him without pitying him. The master, rough as he was, told Margaret to take good care of the lad. But the men servants, whenever they came into the room, did not stay long, but got away as quickly as they could. Their consciences were ill at ease.
A few days passed, the wound paining the little sufferer more at one time than another; he lost his appetite, and gradually wasted away. One morning as Margaret dressed his hand she noticed some spots on it, quite black. She was afraid when she saw these; and well she might be, for soon the inflammation spread over the whole hand, and the wound became a great deal worse. Joseph also became very weak. Margaret was now greatly alarmed; and; sitting down one evening on his bed, she began to express what she felt, when the following conversation took place.
Margaret—How are you, Joseph?
Joseph—I think I shall soon be better.
These words were spoken in a tone which pierced Margaret’s heart; for she already felt persuaded that he was fast hastening towards his end.
Margaret—What do you mean?
Joseph—I believe that I shall soon die, when I shall see my precious Saviour, and my dear departed mother.
Margaret—Are you not afraid of death, then?
Joseph—I could not say that I have no wish for it to be over; but it soon will be! and then I shalt go to my Saviour, where there are jays for evermore. Dear Margaret, will you be so kind as to read me a few verses from the Bible?
His Bible was under the pillow of the dying child. She took it out, and when he had shown her the place, she read to him the following passage, “And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away” (Rev. 21:1-4).
“How glorious is this,” said Joseph, when she had finished reading: “with what joy I look forward to that city of God! My mother is there, and all those who are saved! My Saviour will soon take me there!”
The tears came into Margaret’s eyes; she began to be so happy by that bed of death, as to feel it would be better for her also to die, and enter heaven with Joseph. A short silence ensued. It was broken by Joseph exclaiming, “Margaret, I wish to beg a favor of you.” The good nurse was ready and willing for anything. “I wish,” continued Joseph, “that you would tell Anthony (the man who had let loose the dog) and the other servant, that I have forgiven them with all my heart; and that I pray fervently to God, that He may not impute to them their sin of last Sunday; and that He may save them.”
Till now, Margaret knew nothing but that the dog had of his own accord attacked the poor boy. She asked, therefore, in great surprise, what Anthony had done. Joseph, also surprised, inquired if she did not know what had happened. When she answered, “No,” he was unwilling to say anything more on the subject. But Margaret could not be at rest till he had told her all. She wanted then to run at once to her master, and inform him of the whole. But Joseph besought her to say nothing. He brought before her the example of Christ, and so entreated her, that at last she promised to keep the matter secret.
This conversation had so exhausted the boy, that he fell into a kind of swoon, which being mistaken by Margaret for a comfortable doze, she also lay down to rest.
At three next morning, she was roused by a heavy groaning. Having got a light, she found the poor lad insensible, and in violent convulsions: he rolled about on his bed, and groaned in such a manner as to pierce her heart. Not knowing what she did, she threw her arms around him, as if to soothe thus his terrible pains. After about an hour she took advantage of a few calmer momenta to wake her master; for she knew that he pitied Joseph, and wished him well. When he arrived, Joseph was in an awful state. The spasms sometimes drew his body together, as though it would break; at other, times they threw him up in the bed. The master looked on with horror, and assisted at times in holding him, lest he should be bruised. In the meantime, Margaret ran to call the men servants, telling them that the master wanted them to rise instantly and come to him. When they came, not knowing what had happened, Margaret called them in, with the alarming words, “Now, Anthony, you will surely like to be present at Joseph’s death!” With this, she forced him and his comrade into the chamber. They stood there, pale and terrified at the sight which was before them.
By degrees, the fits became weaker and shorter, and Joseph lay like one dead. “He is gone!” said the master; and, taking the candle, he held it to Joseph’s face. The dying sufferer once more opened his eyes, and strained himself to look about, as if seeking for something., His looks fell on Margaret, and a faint glimmer seemed to light up his countenance. “Thanks, thanks,” said he, in a low voice, casting a kind glance at his faithful friend. Deeply affected, she burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. “Peace—Jesus—heaven!” he whispered, and a gentle smile hovered about his pale lips.
His eye now rested upon Anthony.
This seemed to inspire him with fresh and wonderful energy. By a last effort he raised himself up, and stretched out to him his trembling hand. In a broken voice, he said, “I have— forgiven—you— from— my—heart! Oh—Jesus—will—also—forgive—you! Pray—pray—to Jesus—and curse—no more!” His strength was spent. He sunk back, and in a few moments his spirit had fled from its clay tabernacle to its heavenly home.
It was half-past six in the morning. Margaret sobbed loudly, and sat on the chair at the bedside. The master, silent and affected, had left the room to conceal his emotions. But the servants went out pale and trembling, without uttering a single word. A few days after, Anthony gave his master notice and went away, no one knew whither. No curse was ever after heard from the other servant.
Margaret never lost, through her afterlife, the impressions she had received from Joseph; and the master also, from that time, led a different life. Joseph’s memory continued to be a blessing in the farm. May the grace of God, by the means of this history, induce you, dear reader, to believe in the Lord Jesus; then, like this happy little boy, you will have all your sins forgiven, and if you die you will dwell forever with Him in glory.
The Mother's Prayer Answered
THE cold beams of a December morning were stealing through the windows of the sick chamber, making manifest that the yet colder shades of death were fast sewing on the brow of the young disciple, as he lay supported by one whom God had given in the place of her He had taken to be with Himself, and to whom he now turned with confiding affection, saying, “Tell me, dear mamma, is this death?” The tone, the countenance, the oppressed breathing, left her but one reply—she gave it; for need of concealment there was none, and it added no pang.
Scarcely thirteen summers had passed over a form more than usually attractive, and but a short time before sporting in all the buoyancy of youth; but now here he lay, “the flower faded, the grace of the fashion of it falling away.” Come near, ye who have never seen death, nor thought on the moment when you may find his iron grasp, upon your frame. Look on that form; listen to the tones of calm and quiet confidence which fall from those lips; and say, are you acquainted with Him who can thus “make the bed of death soft as downy pillows are?” or would that moment find you alone? alone in your last extremity I Can any thought be more appalling, save that which follows, “After death the judgment”? The subject of this brief sketch was the child of many prayers. A dying mother had commended him, with her other children, to the grace and faithfulness of Him who has said, “Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son.” Richly have her faith and prayers been rewarded, which, in his case, she may now know with unmingled joy, while those bereaved can, while sorrowing, give thanks that the manifestation of God’s grace in him was not delayed till a dying hour.
The commencement of the work of God in the soul of H. S. is dated as far back as the spring of 1856. At that time the Lord was working among the young people in the house, reviving the hearts of some who made a profession of His name, and awakening others to a sense of their condition as lost sinners. This spread to the younger children, who frequently met together for reading the Scriptures, conversation, and sometimes prayer. On other occasions they were assembled for the same purpose by those who watched over them. Dear Henry was always found in this little company. He expressed his deep sense of sin, fear of punishment, and a desire for God’s mercy. This continued for some time, until, on a certain Sunday in May, after having attended the usual services of the day, he mentioned to a young friend his assurance of God’s pardoning love. An entry found in his diary says, “On this day I found peace with God.” When questioned on the subject, he expressed a calm and quiet confidence that the blood of Jesus had cleansed him from all his sins. His words were few, and his parents chose rather to see the grace of God in him, than to elicit expressions of it from his lips. This was more agreeable to his retired habits, and also dislike of attracting attention to himself.
They were encouraged, from time to time, by seeing the unmistakable fruits of the Spirit, in the gentleness and meekness, which took the place of the naturally lofty mien, and cold deportment: integrity and truthfulness also, under the wise and gracious discipline of a father’s hand, ruled in a heart, where once were seen those sad traces of our corrupt nature spoken of in Psalm 58:3.
Mr. and Mrs. S. fully recognized the value and importance of the Scriptures being accurately committed to memory; also of the youthful mind being well stored with hymns. Dear Henry’s favorite was the following well-known one from the Olney Hymns, which to his dying hour he called, “My hymn” —
In evil long I took delight,
Unaw’d by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopp’d my wild career.
I saw One hanging on a tree,
In agonies and blood;
Who bird His languid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.
Sure never to my latest breath,
Can I forget that look;
It seem’d to charge me with His death,
Though not a word He spoke.
My conscience felt and own’d the guilt,
And plung’d me in despair;
I saw my sins His blood had spilled,
And help’d to nail Him there.
Alas, I knew not what I did,
But now my tears are vain;
Where shall my trembling soul be hid
For I the Lord have slain.
A second look He gave, which said,
I freely all forgive!
This blood is for thy ransom paid,
I die that thou mayst live.
Thus while His death my sin displays,
In all its blackest hue;
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too.
With pleasing grief and mournful joy,
My spirit now is filled;
That I should such a life destroy,
Yet live by Him I kill’d.
During the summer of 1856 he accompanied his elder sisters on a visit to some friends in Devonshire. A Christian relative was desired to watch over him, with special reference to the work of grace in his soul. She did so, and expressed herself perfectly satisfied with the reality of the work, and he simplicity of his walk.
The following letter, written at this time (bearing date, July 14th, 1856), was found after his death, never having been delivered. It is addressed to one of his companions, who, it appears, had spoken to him of some religious impressions.
After thanking her for a little book, &c., he says, “Do you really think you believe, dear M—? Do you love prayer alone with God? and can you call Him Father? if so, you have the joy; but if not, yours will be a bitter part. Remember, you have professed to be a Christian, and if you do not serve the Lord in all you do, dear M., remember this, you do everything to the honor or to the dishonor of the Lord I hope yours is a true profession. Your conduct, temper, and love will show.
“I hope you will come back really ready for work; for the Lord says, ‘Be not slothful in business,’ and ‘Love ye one another.’ These are precious words, but now we will change the subject.” He then speaks of his anticipated visit to Devonshire, before alluded to.
In the September following he left his home for the first time for school, pleased with the thought of mingling with boys of his own age. His parents had waited much on God for guidance, and now felt happy in placing him with Mr. T., of Taunton, in whose godly care and discipline they had confidence. The number of pupils was limited; many of them were young, and among them also God had worked. Some were inquiring for salvation, and others, having found it, were rejoicing in God’s mercy. Among these dear Henry cast in his lot, joining their meetings for prayer and reading the Scriptures. His frequent letters at this time breathed increasing affection for his family, and often conveyed to his anxious, friends the assurance, that he was neither forgetting the Lord nor neglecting His word.
He returned home at the Christmas vacation, and his parents were glad to find from Mr. T. that his conduct at school had thrown no cloud on his Christian profession. But he was evidently not in good health, and though uncomplaining, the pallor of his countenance made him the object of solicitude. On this ground he was refused attending the evening meetings, which he had been accustomed to enjoy. He therefore frequently spent this time in the company of a relative, also in delicate health, who was visiting in the house. She says that on these occasions he would draw her chair near the fire, and invite her to “talk nicely,” the theme being Jesus and his love.
About the middle of January, 1857, his mamma was one evening reading the 10th chapter of John with him and his younger sisters. They gave ready replies as to the general bearing of the chapter, but it was dear Henry’s to tell what was meant by “hearing the shepherd’s voice.” He spoke of it as being the Lord’s voice in the word and the Spirit’s voice in the heart. So evident was it to these little ones that he possessed a knowledge they had not, that one of them artlessly said, “But, Henry, you don’t mean that you have heard Jesus speaking to you from heaven!”
On another occasion, towards the close of January, as he was spending a Lord’s-day evening with his mamma, his papa being gone to preach the Gospel at some distance, she took the opportunity of questioning him concerning his hope. He gave simple and unreserved replies; referred to the Sunday in May when his heart was relieved from the burden that had oppressed it; for a sense of his sins, his untruthfulness, and pride, seemed to have been deeply impressed on his mind. “I always liked,” he said, “to hear dear papa preach; but on that Sunday I had been especially interested, and when I went to bed I knelt down, and told the Lord what a sinner I was, and asked Him to forgive me, and wash me in His blood. He did, and I felt quite happy.” Sweet and simple faith! which only God’s Spirit could plant in a soil so corrupt, dark, and distrustful of Him as the human heart. He afterward asked his mamma to pray with him; and on her saying she should like him to pray also with her, if he felt quite free to do so, he followed, pouring out his heart with childlike simplicity, thanking the Lord for taking away his sins, and earnestly desiring to live nearer to Him. “Lamb of God,” he said, “I often come to Thy cross, but then I go away attain; help me to keep near!” Surely we have need to make the same confession and request! He then remembered his papa, prayed that God would help him in preaching, and bring him home in safety.
A little incident that occurred at this time, but which did not come to the knowledge of his parents till after his death, may perhaps be introduced, as showing that though naturally silent and retiring, the grace of God did at times give him a confidence beyond, his years. He was one day sent on a message to a carpenter’s shop in the village. As he entered, one of the workmen engaged in making a coffin used some improper expressions. Henry turned to him, and said, “I wonder you can use such language, employed as you are.” This producing no effect, he continued, “Take care: you do not know how soon a coffin may be needed for you.” He then went on to speak of death, judgment, and salvation by Jesus, asked the man where he went on Sundays; and concluded by saying, “I advise you to come and hear my papa preach the gospel.” These words were afresh remembered by those who heard them, when, ere another year had run its course, on the same spot a coffin was provided for dear Henry.
How old art thou? How many years
Of thy short life are past?
Another comes,—hast thou no fears
That this may prove thy last?
God spares thee yet another year,
But soon may cut thee down:
Oh, sinner, learn in time to fear
The terror of His frown.
This day, before the Saviour fall,
This day is thine alone;
Whate’er thine age, thou cant not call
Another day thine own.
The continued delicacy of his appearance, though he still complained of nothing, induced his parents to consult their medical man; and by his advice they retained him at home until March, when he again returned to Taunton.
During this period he gave a proof of the natural pride and haughtiness of his spirit. Having been gently reproved by his mamma for some slight irregularity of conduct, he avoided for two successive nights giving her the accustomed kiss. A little appeal being made to his heart on the subject, he followed her to her room, and with many tears entreated her forgiveness, confessing how proud and haughty he had been for the last two days, telling her he had “tried, but had not been able to conquer himself.” She read Mattew 11 with him, dwelling particularly on the meekness and lowliness of Jesus presented in the 29th verse. This appeared through grace to have made a lasting impression on his heart, for, some weeks afterward, he alluded to it, saying, “I have prayed against my pride every day, and don’t think I have been so tempted to it since.” He thus proved that he knew something of the plague of his own heart, and the way of deliverance from its power.
In April his parents went to see him, and as his appearance still caused them some anxiety, they consulted Dr. B., who, after a careful examination, gave it as his opinion, that his apparent delicacy, want of vigor, and slowness of growth, were attributable to disease in the vessels connected with the heart, which had most probably attended him from his birth. This intelligence was as unexpected as it was afflictive. They would at once have brought him home; but, as he was then suffering also from cold, it was not considered prudent to run the risk of exposure to the air, which at that time was keen and piercing. Knowing he had kind friends and attentive nurses around him, they thought it better to allow him to remain until midsummer, receiving frequent, and sometimes more favorable, accounts of his health.
During the midsummer vacation his parents took him to Weymouth for the benefit of sea air. While there they consulted Dr. M., who hoped the symptoms might be merely sympathetic, and advised some simple baths, &c., which, with the change, appeared greatly to renovate his frame, and he returned home apparently in much better health. He had enjoyed the pleasures of the seashore with as much zest as other children, and nothing remarkable was observed in him, save his habit of privately reading the Scriptures; nothing ever induced him to leave his room in the morning without spending some little time over his Bible.
The heat being at this time excessive, Henry did not again return to school until the end of August. It is remarkable that only the day before his return to Taunton, his life was in imminent danger from an attack made on him by a horse. As he was passing through a field, his great fondness for horses led him playfully to stroke a young colt; which so enraged the mother, that she seized him with her teeth, threw him violently on the ground, and appeared to those who witnessed it to be trampling him under her feet; but, as if by a miracle, he escaped unhurt. God had given his angels charge concerning him; he was preserved in this how of peril to glorify Him in another, at no very distant period. To this escape he often alluded as a signal mercy from the hand of God. In September, a friend passing through the town spent a little time with him, and marked with pleasure his improved appearance. His papa also paid him a visit in October, and perceived nothing in his child to cause him any anxiety; nor had his parents anything to awaken their fears until November 30th, when a letter was received from Mr. T., saying that Henry had been poorly for a few days, and requesting to know if they wished Dr. B. to be consulted. Mr. S. left immediately for Taunton. He found Henry complaining of much pain about the heart, which he himself ascribed to the unusual exercise he had taken in some games of play with his companions. Dr. B. was called in he pronounced the symptoms of his heart disease to have returned, which, being accompanied with severe cold and cough, made it imprudent to remove him immediately, as Mr. S. had intended; so that, committing him to the care of Dr. B. he left, purposing to return for him in a few days. This decision was some little disappointment to dear Henry, but he sweetly submitted. He had indeed the habit of subjecting his feelings to his judgment, in a remarkable degree for one so young.
There is something to be observed in this detention, as, the same night his papa left Taunton, the infant child of Mr. T., then in good health, was seized with an epileptic fit, and expired before the morning light. Thus was this dear child allowed to remain in the very presence of death, doubtless that his young heart might receive some new lesson through the. Lord’s teaching.
On Tuesday, December 8th Mr. S. brought dear Henry home. He bore the journey well, and appeared much gratified to find himself once more in the bosom of his family; but his altered appearance, oppressed breathing, and restless nights, made all around him anxious. Sometimes the painful symptoms would subside in measure; and on one of those days (Friday 11th) he walked out, viewed the garden, looked at the horse, &c., and took a general interest in things around him. On the same evening, Mr. H., the family surgeon, saw him, and again on Tuesday the 15th, when he expressed a fear that water would accumulate in the system, of which there were some slight indications, and gave a decided opinion that sooner or later the disease must terminate fatally. He was asked anxiously if he apprehended sudden death, his papa having on that day gone some distance from home, to fulfill an important engagement connected with the Lord’s service, which would detain him until the following day. Mr. H. allayed this anxiety by saying he expected a more protracted period of suffering.
In the evening of this day, his sister M— took her tea with him. He complained of much pain; she remarked, “It is but a little while.” “Oh,” he replied, “the little while seems very long.” She read to him the 15th chapter of John’s gospel. He listened attentively, and said, “It is very short; read the next;” she did so, and soon after he was carried upstairs. Whilst being undressed, he remarked there was some improvement in his symptoms—that his breathing was relieved, his appetite better, and he hoped he might go out the next day. On being reminded of his increased weakness, he replied, “Yes, that’s true; but then it’s because I don’t go out.” Thus exhibiting a feeling not unfrequently found in more advanced believers, who, when the sands of life are nearly run, appear ready to believe it otherwise.
When he had rested awhile, his sister A— read to him the little memoir of “Samuel Palmer,” an interesting record of the last few days of a young disciple, and took occasion from it to ask if he were quite happy. He replied, “Yes, quite happy.” “If God were to take, you tonight,” she continued, “are you quite sure you would be with Jesus?” He replied, “Yes, quite sure.” He had, in like manner, on the previous day, expressed his confidence to his papa, who inquired the ground of it. He answered, “Christ died for me.” “But why,” said Mr. S., “was the death of Christ needful for you?” “Because,” was the unhesitating reply, “without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins.” This night, the faithful servant who had watched over him, needing rest, a Christian friend and relative passed the night in his room. He was restless, and more than once remarked, “If God does not soon relieve my heart, my weak frame cannot hold out long.”
In the morning he expressed a wish to rise earlier than usual; so that, soon after breakfast, Mrs. S. made preparations for dressing him. He asked her to wipe the cold perspiration from his forehead; she did so, and perceiving he had increased difficulty in breathing, prevailed on him to remain in bed. He again spoke of not “holding out long;” and asked her if she thought he could. In reply, she told him plainly the little hope she had of his recovery, and her fear that more suffering might yet await him. He then said, touchingly, “Well, I must bear it patiently.” His tone and manner were so affecting, that she turned aside to wipe her tears, when he said, “Dear mamma, don’t weep for me; I can’t bear to see you cry.” She then asked him affectionately, whether, if it should please God to take him, his papa, herself, and his sisters, might feel assured he was with Jesus. He turned with a grieved look towards her, and said; “Mamma, why do you doubt it? you may be quite sure I am on the true foundation, Christ Jesus.” She then replied, “Well, my dear, I will not question you anymore; but seek to use the remainder of your time in cultivating intimacy with Jesus; seek to be well acquainted with Him before you go home to be with Him.” She then left him for a few minutes, when his sister M—, taking her place by his bedside, read to him the 17 and part of the 18 of John. While listening, the pain increased, and he then said, “It’s all over, M—; it’s all up with me—I can’t hold out much longer.” Then a slight paroxysm seized him. Mrs. S. returned at this moment, and perceived the stamp of death fixed on his countenance. She gave him some cordial, which relieved in a slight degree his oppressed breathing, and as she supported him in her arms, he asked her the touching question with which this narrative was commenced, “Tell me, dear mamma, is this death?”
Then followed a scene, to portray which we would seek the pen of truth, and not the pencil of the artist. Suffice it to say, it surprised those who best knew him, and seemed as if the hidden energies of a life were gathered into that dying hour; but it manifests the reality of Divine grace, and by it, he being dead, yet speaketh.
Hearing the clock strike, he inquired the hour, saying, “How long do you think I may remain?” Being answered, “Not many hours,” he replied, “Not one, I hope.”
His breathing now became more difficult, and he exclaimed with effort, “Oh, my breath, come back once more!” Then turning to the servant who had waited on him, he thanked her for all her attentions, saying, “You have been very kind to me.”
He then desired his love, and a message of thanks to “grandmamma” for all her kindness to him. The sobs of the little ones who had gathered around his bed appeared to distress him, and they were sent away. At this moment a friend of the family, well known to dear Henry, entered the room, and seeing his altered countenance, drew back a little, but he perceived her, and called out, “Miss K., one kiss, one last kiss, quick!” As she bent over him, he said, “Good-bye, I am going to Jesus.”
Swiftly the shadows of death gathered around that suffering form; the pulse almost ceased to beat, the hands, the breath, grew icy cold; so that to send for medical aid (being three miles from the town) or to summon his papa, seemed alike useless.
At intervals, while gasping for breath, he would say, “Don’t think of me, think of Jesus; don’t weep for me, look to Jesus.” We checked, as far as we could, our tears, expecting each sigh to be the last; but again he spoke, in clear, distinct tones, “Lord Jesus, take me to Thyself.” His mamma said, “My dear, you feel yourself nothing but a poor sinner, don’t you?” He replied, with an earnestness that threatened to exhaust him, “A wretched, vile sinner—but I’m washed—in that—you know—” his breath failing, she added, “Yes, dear, in the precious blood of Jesus.” He nodded assent. Then again opening his eyes, he said, “I am going to heaven; my own mamma is there—I shall see her—and you, and dear papa—and my sisters—I hope the little ones will come too.” This being assented to, he said, “You used to doubt me when I said I was a Christian.” His mamma replied, “No, dear, not doubt exactly; but you know love is anxious, and we wished to be fully satisfied.” He then called on one of his companions by name, saying, “C. M., my dear child, you must look to Jesus.” Then after a pause, during which he called for frequent drafts of water, he said, “My time is nearly come;” his mamma answered, “God has fixed the happy day;” he added quickly, “the hour the minute, the second.” Then again, “My life is nearly gone.” On one occasion, as his mamma was concluding a passage of Scripture commenced by himself, he said hastily, “Oh, don’t speak!” Then the next moment, putting his hand apologizingly on his chest, said, “Pain, pain,” then turned to kiss her, as if to atone for the interruption. He next thought of his little possessions; gave his desk to his sister A—, his purse to M—, desired his playthings might be divided among the little ones; then added, “and my horse (meaning a favorite plaything of past days) I give to Franky while he lives; after that, to my little brother Theodore, then to be broken in pieces; and give,” he said, as if remembering everything that had interested him, “give the old horse a handful of beans for me.” He then inquired for the cook; she was sent for, but not coining immediately another message was dispatched, when he, with characteristic thoughtfulness, said, “Never mind; perhaps it will spoil your dinner.” When she appeared, he addressed her with, “Ah, R—, you won’t cook another dinner for me!” Then correcting himself, he added, “you may not.”
On another occasion, calling piteously for his papa, as indeed he had frequently done, his mamma asked if he had anything to say to him. He replied, “No, only tell him I am gone to be with Jesus.” She then added, “You know, dear, papa did not think of your being worse, and he is gone to serve Jesus; for nothing else would he have left you.” He replied sweetly, “Papa is gone to serve Jesus, and I am going to live with Him.”
As there now seemed a possibility that his life might be prolonged some hours, a telegraphic message was sent for his papa; but there was some delay in its delivery. God had ordered it, and the afflicted father returned to find only the lifeless remains of his beloved child.
After this he asked for “little Franky.” He came; Henry looked lovingly upon him, and said, “Give me one kiss, one last kiss, quick!” Then added, “My little brother, you must look to Jesus; remember it is my wish, my dying wish.” Seeing the little ones at the foot of the bed, he continued, “And you, too, my dear little sisters, look to Jesus.” Turning to his mamma, he said, “You must lead them to Jesus.” “Yes,” she replied; and addressing them said, “You hear what your brother says; but, my dears, I can’t lead you, unless you are willing to come.” “No,” he emphatically answered, “but you must preach the gospel to them.”
He then turned again to his little brother, and said, “I want Franky to smile upon me.” It was a hard thing for the child at such a moment; he looked as if he understood neither the scene nor the request. It may perhaps be observed, as a proof of the earnest care God had put into his heart for the souls of these little ones, that in their presence he did not mention his playthings.
After a few moments of acute suffering, he looked around on each one, saying, “Abide in love;” then stretching out his hands, and with beaming countenance, as if he beheld something that we saw not, he exclaimed, “Come on! come on!” Then, one sweet smile on her who still supported him—a short struggle—and his spirit passed into regions of Eternal Day. “Absent from the body, present with the Lord!”
His remains were sown in hope, on Tuesday, the 22nd of December.
Christians from distant parts met over the remains of the young disciple, when praises and thanksgivings ascended to God for all the grace and mercy bestowed on him. Words of comfort were also spoken to the bereaved, from John 11, and they found sympathy in the tears of Jesus; while the words, “I am the resurrection and the life,” reminded them that “where Jesus was, there could not be death.” Mary and Martha said truly, “Lord, if Thou hadst been here my brother had not died.” Jesus had been here; our departed one was not dead; that which lay before us was not death—it was sleep—sleep in Jesus—soon, very soon, to be broken by the voice of the archangel and the trump of God, when “the dead in Christ shall rise first; then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air; so shall we ever be with the Lord.” Truly we comforted one another with these words, so that when the remains were lowered into the grave, we were able, though with tears, to sing the following hymn:
Forever With the Lord.
1 Thess. 4:17
THE Lord Himself shall come,
And shout a quick’ning word,
Thousands shall answer from the tomb,
“Forever with the Lord!”
Then as we upward fly,
That resurrection word
Shall be our shout of victory,
“Forever with the Lord!”
How shall I meet those eyes?
Mine—on Himself I cast,
And own myself the Saviour’s prize;
Mercy from first to last.
“Knowing as I am known,”
How shall I love that word,
How oft repeat before the Throne,
“Forever with the Lord!”
That resurrection word,
That shout of victory
Once more, “forever with the Lord!”
Amen—so let it be.
The Saviour's Love
The Saviour is gracious,
His love is a well;
His blood, oh, how precious!
Its worth, who can tell?
He lov’d us so truly,
He came from the sky,
That He, the Most Holy,
For sinners might die.
The love of a mother
And father is great;
The love of a brother
And sister is sweet:
Yet who but the Saviour
For us could have died,
To bring us forever,
With God to abide?
Take Me to Jesus
The subject of this brief memoir was born Tunbridge Wells, November 25th 1865. He was the second child the Lord had seen fit to give us. The first had been removed by bronchitis some months previously. We felt that this dear child was send to fill the void caused by the removal of the first; and our earnest prayer was, that Christ should be glorified in him.
When he was about three months old, we invited a few Christians, that they might have fellowship with us in commending him to the Lord’s gracious care, and in asking that we might have grace given to us to train him for Christ. All present felt the Lord was with us. It was a season of much refreshment.
He was a tender plant. For some time after his birth symptoms of croup were frequently manifested, which increased in severity as he grew older, and did not cease until he was nearly eighteen months old. The attacks were frequently very severe and during some of them we thought him “absent from the body” but a deep sigh, and then again he would breathe, and once more our hearts rejoiced in receiving him, as it were, back again; and we then felt deeply the responsibility laid upon us to train him for Jesus. And sweet indeed was it to us to hear, among his first words, the name of Jesus lisped by him—that name which, as he grew older, became so sweet to him.
His mamma felt the necessity of showing him, as soon as he was old enough in any way to understand; that God was the giver of every good thing; and that whatever he needed he was to ask God for. In a short time he quite understood this, and often he might be found on tended knee asking Jesus to give him what he wanted.
From two or three years of age some displays of his self-will caused us much sorrow; but we sought help from God. When needful to punish him, we always prayed with him that God would keep him from naughtiness. He who is ever faithful heard our prayer; and from thence, until he “went before,” he caused us but little trouble. At these times his sorrow was very great. He would come and plead earnestly to be forgiven, and beg of us to kneel down with him and. ask God to forgive him. When placed in the nursery alone for some act of disobedience, frequently have our hearts been, rejoiced at hearing him pleading with Jesus to forgive him, and make him a good boy, that he might not grieve dear ma’ and pa’.
His little heart always seemed full of feeling for those he thought to be poor children. On one occasion, while walking with his mamma, he saw two little boys fighting. This pained him very much, and he wanted her to go and separate them, and tell them how grieved Jesus would be to see them doing so; and said, with tears in his eyes, “We must forgive them because, perhaps, they had no kind parents to tell them it was very naughty. We will go home and ask Jesus to forgive them.” If he saw poor ill-clad little ones, he used to say, “It seemed so sad, and it made a pain in his heart” (a favorite expression of his, meaning his heart ached), “and how kind it was of God to give him a kind mamma to care for him.” Thus he remembered her instructions, and gave God thanks for everything. If he had pence given him, he would frequently put them aside, saying, “It would do to give to some poor little child, or a crossing-sweeper;” and he often asked why Jesus let them be so poor. Another time he had a few little books given him suitable for children, and which spoke of the love of Jesus: these he took out with him in one of his walks, and gave them away, saying he “hoped the children he gave them to would love Jesus.”
His own great desire was to be able to read God’s word, and to grow as big as papa, saying he would then be able to fight for Jesus. He frequently used to repeat some, verses commencing with—
“I am a little soldier, and only five years old;
I mean to fight for Jesus, and wear a crown of
gold;
I know He makes me happy, He loves me all the
day;
I’ll be His little soldier—the Bible says I may.”
The last Bible story his mamma read to him was only a few days before he was taken, ill; it was of Mary going to the sepulcher to look for Jesus, and weeping because she could not find her Lord. His remark was, “Yes, mamma, no wonder she cried when she could not find Jesus; how sad she must have felt: I feel sad to think of it,” and his eyes were filled with, tears. Our precious boy was extremely sensitive, and anything sad would always cause him to weep, especially when told of Jesus being crucified, and having to bear His own cross. He would say, “Jesus suffered all that for us; how very much we ought to love Him.”
His thoughts often seemed to be fixed on heaven, and he would frequently ask what it was like, and if we really should have a white robe there and a harp? He would often break forth and ask similar questions, when those around him supposed his thoughts were occupied on entirely other subjects. On one occasion, on being put to bed, he asked for a candle to be left in the room until he had gone to sleep. His mamma said she thought he was old enough now to go to sleep without one; then, after a little time, he said, “There will be no night in heaven, mamma; so I shall not need a candle there.”
For his sister he had intense affection, and truly when she wept, he wept also. Once, when about to punish her by exclusion from our table for a day, the dear little fellow pleaded with us to be allowed to go into the nursery instead of her, as she was little. And in later days when some few times we allowed him to become the substitute, to enable us to put the work of Christ as our substitute more clearly before him, it was indeed surprising to see how joyfully he bore it, saying, “Now dear Nelly will be happy.” He would also frequently take her aside and pray for her that she might love Jesus and not grieve us.
During her illness he was continually thinking and planning as to what book or toy he would get for her, to afford her any pleasure or amusement; almost as soon as he was up in the morning, he would first ask how she was, and then say, “Dear mamma, what can I get for darling Nelly today?” As the springtime advanced, he watched with the greatest interest for the first flower in the garden, and proposed that when the first little flower opened its eye he should pluck it, and send it to his sweet pet, Nelly. He did not forget each day to look and watch very assiduously, and soon he was able to pick one solitary snowdrop, which he sent with a message that it was the very first in the garden, and it was to say that summer was coming, when he hoped she would be able to take some nice walks with him, and that he did not forget her in the least, but rather loved her and thought of her more every day.
He watched the buds and blossoms as they gradually unfolded, and would often remark, “It is God that sends the lovely rain and sun, which makes the pretty green leaves to grow, and the pretty flowers. What a kind God we have. How we ought to love Him.”
He was extremely, unselfish. Whatever present he had, he would always say, “This will do for darling Nelly.” She too loved him most affectionately, and since he has been gone, has seemed truly at a loss what to do without her companion brother. He and she often sang hymns together, and in singing “The realms of the blest,” he would say, “Mamma dear, I wonder what it will be to be there!” He always seemed to enter into the meaning of the words as he sang them, and most truly were our hearts rejoiced to see his great thoughtfulness. One of the last hymns he sang on earth was—
“Oh, what has Jesus done for me?
He died for me—my Saviour.”
And every word he seemed to say with such an understanding. This was in the evening by moonlight, and he said he so loved to look at the moon and the lovely sky; he felt he could sing so nicely then. He always admired the sky, especially at night, and often said, “What a lovely place heaven must be, because the sky is so lovely!” He seldom failed to notice anything lovely in nature, and would sometimes say, “I suppose, mamma, God knows it pleases us to send the lovely flowers, and the beautiful trees, and the birds to sing, and this is why He sends them.”
Once, when mamma was reading to him of a little boy and girl who were left orphans, and how they got on alone, she noticed he sat crying and thoughtful, and when she inquired why he was sad, his reply was, “Oh, mamma! I was thinking what a sad, thing it would be if I should be left like that; so I shall pray to Jesus that He will never take you and dear papa before me, but let me go first. I feel I should like to go to Jesus and my little brother.” He never forgot this simple tale, and often spoke of it with tears in his eyes. Oh, how little did we then think the Lord would gratify his childish wish! He would also say sometimes, “It would be nice, mamma, if Jesus would come and take us all up together.” And he would like to know how many of those that were in the grave would rise up to meet Jesus. He so wished that Jesus would put a mark on the graves of those who loved Him!
During the last twelvemonth of his little sojourn here, he seemed to speak and act so thoroughly beyond his years, as to cause many of our friends to say that he would never live.
His love of God’s Word was very great; he would willingly leave any play to hear of Jesus; and frequently, when the nurse told him some simple story, he would say, “No, do read to me out of the Bible.” His memory being good, he often surprised us by relating whole histories of Old Testament characters, and astonished us by his questions concerning them.
He loved all who loved Jesus, and all he came in contact with he asked the (often to them startling) question, “Do you love Jesus?” If the reply was “Yes,” he seemed to have immediate confidence; but if there was any hesitation, he would immediately tell them what a sad thing it would be for them to be left down here, when Jesus takes those who love Him away.
In time of trouble Jesus was his sure refuge, taking his every trouble there. A few months previously to his departure, during our absence from home, his sister fell down the stairs. Hearing her screams, he immediately fell on his knees, and asked Jesus that she might not be hurt; he then ran down to her, and, finding her not much hurt, exclaimed, “I knew Jesus would not let you be much hurt, because I asked him so.” Going one Lord’s day with a Christian to the Sunday school, and there being few scholars present, they together knelt down and asked the Lord to send more. His anxiety was great on the next Sunday to go and see if there were more, and, finding it was so, his simple acceptance of this fact as God’s answer to their prayer was most touching. On another occasion walking on the common with some little friends, the furze was observed to be on fire, and a large blaze very near them; seeing their terror, he then and there knelt down, and asked Jesus to, take care of them; he then got up, and said, “Now we need not fear; for I know Jesus will keep us from being hurt.”
He latterly became very anxious to learn to read; and being asked why he was so very desirous to be able to read, he replied, “Because then I could go and read about Jesus myself, and, should not have to trouble any one to do so for me.”
Soon after Christmas his sister was seized with scarlet fever, and the doctor ordered the removal of all the household from the infection; his papa only remaining to watch her with the nurse. Her illness was a very severe and trying one, and many times we feared that her time was short; but the Lord graciously restored her, after nine weeks of much suffering. It was during this time, when alone with his mamma, that the depth of his love for Christ was discovered. “I will be a little pa’ to you,” he said to his mamma, a day or two after being settled in their temporary residence. And truly he rejoiced when she rejoiced; weeping when she wept.
During the time when his papa was laid aside with diphtheria, it was most touching and sweet to hear his earnest pleading that he might be restored; and his joy was unbounded when one day he unexpectedly drove up to the door, the doctor having given him permission to remove to the other residence. The dear little fellow wept with joy, and, in his simplicity, failed not to thank Jesus for bringing back dear papa; and praying that he might be kept from kissing his mouth, it being considered wise to avoid this for fear of any contagion. Shortly after his sister was allowed out for a walk; and, after some days, it being considered perfectly safe, he was allowed to meet her, and the affection he manifested towards her was very great; taking her arm, and placing it within his own, he said, “How kind and good Jesus was to hear his prayer for her, and that he never forgot her, but always told Jesus he wanted to see her.”
About this time another little sister was born; and when he heard it, he remarked, “How kind God was to make dear Nelly well, and to give him another sister.” He was so delighted to be able to kiss “the dear little soft thing,” as he called her.
The nurse attending on his mamma was a Christian, and the child instinctively loved her, and used to beg of her, now mamma was laid by, to tell him something about Jesus. His favorite topic was the crucifixion and, the sufferings of Christ; and his face would be streaming down with tears, whilst his eye glistened, and his little brow darkened, as they read of the scourging, the smiting, and the cruel mockings, of “the Man of sorrows.”
About a fortnight after this, the doctor having some time previously given his permission, his sister came to the house to stay with him; and most anxiously he waited at the window for some hours, watching for her arrival till he seemed weary with waiting. When she arrived he seemed quite poorly, and said he should be so glad when tomorrow came, that he might be well, and able to enjoy “a good love,” as he termed it, with Nelly.
During the night he was very restless, and more than once said to his papa, who was sleeping with him, “I am so sorry, dear papa, to wake you; but I cannot sleep.” In the morning he was very sick, but was dressed; and his mamma wishing to see all the little ones together, he was taken with his sister and little brother into her room. It was the only time the four children were together, and was the last time his mamma saw him. He went downstairs, and tried to play with his sister, but was again very sick, and was laid down on the sofa to rest. Fearing what was coming on, a medical man was called in, and our anxieties were fully confirmed; scarlet fever had seized him. A carriage was at once procured, and he was taken to the other house. During the journey, he said, “I hope, dear papa, Jesus won’t allow me to remain ill so long as dear Nelly.” He got into his crib almost immediately after his arrival; and kneeling up, he prayed most earnestly that he might not suffer so much as his dear sister; and that he might not grieve his papa or nurse. It was on a Thursday he was first taken, and the disease seemed running its course favorably; but now was the time that Christ was to be glorified in him. His papa was about to read to him one afternoon, from a little book for children. Observing the book, he said, “Not that, papa; only from the Bible.” Being asked what part he would like to be read, he replied, “About Jesus crucified.” Asking him who Jesus was crucified for? he replied, with such an earnestness of tone that will never be forgotten by those who heard it, “For ME, papa,—for ME, papa.” Nothing but what spoke of Jesus would do for him; and as he lay there, he prayed so sweetly for all dear to him, especially that his brother and little baby sister might be kept from being ill, as they were so, little, and could not bear it so well as he.
His nurse was a Christian, but one who was called in to assist was not, and it pained him much that she could not speak to him of the love of Jesus.
On the following Monday afternoon, his throat became suddenly much worse, and unfavorable symptoms set in. His papa remained with him during the night, and both during the delirium and the intervals of consciousness he was continually speaking of or praying to Jesus. As morning dawned he recovered his consciousness, and after willing to hear of heaven and the many mansions there, he turned his little wearied head, and said to his nurse, “Take me out of my crib, Jane, and take me to Jesus.” Shortly previous to this, his papa told him he was going to write to his mamma. He faintly smiled, and said, “Send my very best love and kisses; but don’t say how ill I am; it will make her so very unhappy.”
“Take me to Jesus” were nearly his last words. The worst symptoms set in; another medical man was called in; everything that skill could suggest was done; but “the Lord had need of him.” He was scarcely conscious after this, and his sufferings were evidently great, though a merciful Father prevented his fully realizing their intensity. During the brief moments of consciousness, when his papa spoke to him of the One he so dearly loved, his face would brighten, though unable to speak. A few hours before his departure, we could hear him murmur that name ever so sweet to him. His papa leaned his face down, and asked him to kiss him; he did so; it was the last lucid interval he had. The paroxysms became more intense, and on Tuesday morning, at ten minutes to one, his happy spirit took its flight to be “forever with the Lord.” Both nurses were present at the tithe, and the exclamation of the unconverted one was, “That dear lamb is gone straight to glory!” The rest present could but bow their knees and pray that that Name may ever prove as sweet to them, and give God glory for such a triumph of His grace.
It was necessary, from the nature of the disease, that the little clay tenement should be speedily committed to the grave, till “Jesus comes;” and on Friday morning we committed his little body to the earth, “waiting the adoption, to wit, the redemption of the body,” on the eighth day after his being first taken ill.
On his memorial cards these words were inscribed—
In fond Remembrance of
HAROLD WILBERFORCE ~~~~~~
WHOM THE LORD IN HIS LOVE TOOK TO HIMSELF,
March 27th, 1871,
Aged Five Years and Four Months.
“He saw the desert would not suit
A tender plant like this,
And gave it in His Paradise
A newborn, endless bliss.
‘A little while’ the tear may flow,
Sorrow is not despair;
He that hath gently laid us low
Will give us strength to bear.”
And now, my dear children, who may read this little memoir, I will ask you the question dear little Harold would have asked you, had he known you. “If Jesus were to come tonight to take those who love Him up there, to be with Him always, would you go up with Jesus? or would you be left down on this earth?” It is a solemn question. Do you love Jesus? If not, if He were to come, you would not return with Him, but be left behind. And how sad that would be! Oh think of this, dear little ones, and early give your hearth to Jesus! Remember what He has done for you. How He left His throne in glory! how He came into this wicked world! how cruelly He was treated, yet how good He was, curing the sick, raising the dead, giving sight to the blind! And then, after all this, in order that you might not be punished, He bore the wrath of God due to you, and suffered death on Calvary’s cross. Do you, dear child, believe He died for you? If so, happy are you; and let your whole life be spent in praising Him. If not, remember how wicked you are and have been, and that the wicked can never be admitted into heaven. But remember, also, that your sin might be forgiven—Jesus died; He “died for us in love.” Think how much He must have loved sinners to die for them! And will you not love Him, and give Him your heart? If so, you will be happy while you live here, and rejoice with Him throughout eternity.
“Around the throne of God in heaven,
Thousands of children stand;
Children whose sins are all forgiven,
A holy, happy band,
Singing, Glory, glory, glory!”
That you may join dear Harold in singing with that happy band is my earnest prayer.
THE STARS.
STARS are sparkling gems of light,
Spotless in their luster,
Circling on the brow of night
In a countless cluster.
God alone their names can know,
And can tell their number,
As they shine on all below,
While we calmly slumber.
Each is but a shining spark,
But, together beaming,
Night is never wholly dark
While their light is gleaming.
All have stations in the sky,
Glory great, or greater,
In the places, low or high,
Fix’d by their Creator.
Sons of God, like stars, should shine
In this world benighted;
As they dwell in Light Divine,
So their lamps are lighted.
Little lights that brightly burn,
Meekly Christ confessing,
Others may from darkness turn
Unto light and blessing.