There were six cities in the land of Canaan which were set apart as places of refuge, to which a man might flee if he had, either by accident or design, killed another. These cities were easy of access. Three were on the west side of the river Jordan, and three on the east side. Every year the roads leading to them were examined, to see that they were in good condition, and that there was nothing in the way to stop the man-slayer as he was running from his pursuer. At different points there were guide-boards, and on them were written, REFUGE! REFUGE!
If any man by accident killed another, and reached one of these cities before his pursuer, he was allowed to stay there until the death of the high-priest who was then living. But if in anger a man had purposely killed another, then, although he sought refuge in one of these cities, he was given up to the avenger of blood to be slain. You will find more about these cities and their names if you will read the thirty-fifth chapter of Numbers,149the nineteenth chapter of Deuteronomy, and the twentieth chapter of Joshua.
But what interest can boys and girls and all older persons have in these cities?
I will try to tell you. God has different ways of teaching. A great many things about which we read in the Old Testament are what is called types. A type, in scripture language, means a pattern or a likeness to a person who is to come, or to an event which is to take place. It is supposed to point forward to something more valuable than itself. Thus, for example, the blood of the lamb which was slain on the Jewish altar was a type or a foreshowing of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ for our Salvation. Hence John the Baptist pointing to the Saviour, said to his disciples, “Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world.” John 1:29. The paschal lamb, which was slain to commemorate the deliverance of the Jews from the bondage of Egypt, and the lamb which was offered daily, both morning and evening, in the service of the temple, were representations of the greater sacrifice which Christ came from heaven to make for our salvation.
So the land of Canaan was a type of heaven. The lifting up of the brazen serpent on a pole was a type of our Saviour’s crucifixion; and the cities of refuge were a beautiful type of Jesus Christ, who is the sinner’s refuge.
You know, my dear children, that we have all sinned, and that we all need a place of safety. The avenger says, “Thou shalt surely die.” Escape for thy life. But that we may not die eternally, God has given us the Bible as our guide-board; and the Bible is constantly pointing to Jesus Christ as the sinner’s refuge. He is our hiding-place. It is to him Isaiah refers when he says, “And a man shall be as a hiding-place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.”
The way to our city of refuge is plain. “I am the way,” is the Saviour’s own direction. The gate is always open, and the assurance is, “Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.”
I want you to remember, dear children, that it is a great deal easier to run to this city of refuge when you are young, than it151will be if you put it off until you are older. The promise of the Saviour is, “Those that seek me early shall find me.” Will you not flee to Jesus as your hiding-place? Will you not seek him when he may be found? How sad it will be if you neglect to do so. You will need a refuge when the tempest of God’s judgments shall burst upon the wicked. Oh, then how glad you will be if you can say, as David said of his trust in God, “Thou art my hiding-place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.”
TOM’S TRIAL.
It was a pleasant day in that particularly pleasant part of summer time, which the boys call “vacation,” when Tiger and Tom walked slowly down the street together. You may think it strange that I mention Tiger first, but I assure you Tom would not have been in the least offended by the preference. Indeed, he would have assured you that Tiger was a most wonderful dog, and knew as much as any two boys, though this might be called extravagant.
Nearly a year ago, on Tom’s birth-day, Tiger arrived as a present from Tom’s uncle, and as he leaped with a dignified bound from the wagon in which he made his journey, Tom looked for a moment into his great, wise eyes, and impulsively threw his arms around his shaggy neck. Tiger, on his part, was pleased with Tom’s bright face, and most affectionately licked his smooth cheeks. So the league of friendship was complete in an hour.
Tom had a pleasant, round face, and you153might live with him a week, and think him one of the noblest, most generous boys you ever knew. But some day you would probably discover that he had a most violent temper. You would be frightened to see his face crimson with rage, as he stamped his feet, shook his little sister, spoke improperly to his mother, and above all, displeased his great Father in heaven.
Now I am going to tell you of one great trial on this account, which Tom never forgot to the end of his life. Tiger and Tom were walking down the street together, when they met Dick Casey, a school-fellow of Tom’s.
“O Dick!” cried Tom, “I’m going to father’s grain store a little while. Let’s go up in the loft and play.”
Dick had just finished his work in his mother’s garden, and was all ready for a little amusement. So the two went up together, and enjoyed themselves highly for a long time. But at last arose one of those trifling disputes, in which little boys are so apt to indulge. Pretty soon there were angry words, then, (Oh, how sorry I am to say it!) Tom’s wicked passions got the mastery of him, and he beat little Dick severely. Tiger,154who must have been ashamed of his master, pulled hard at his coat, and whined piteously, but all in vain. At last Tom stopped, from mere exhaustion.
“There, now!” he cried, “which is right, you or I?”
“I am,” sobbed Dick, “and you tell a lie.”
Tom’s face flushed crimson, and darting upon Dick, he gave him a sudden push. Alas! he was near to the open door. Dick screamed, threw up his arms, and in a moment was gone. Tom’s heart stood still, and an icy chill crept over him from head to foot. At first he could not stir; then—he never knew how he got there, but he found himself standing beside his little friend. Some men were raising him carefully from the hard sidewalk.
“Is he dead?” almost screamed Tom.
“No,” replied one, “we hope not. How did he fall out?”
“He didn’t fall,” groaned Tom, who never could be so mean as to tell a lie, “I pushed him out.”
“You pushed him, you wicked boy,” cried a rough voice. “Do you know you ought to be sent to jail, and if he dies, maybe you’ll be hung.”
Tom grew as white as Dick, whom he had followed into the store, and he heard all that passed as if in a dream.
“Is he badly hurt?” cried some one.
“Only his hands,” was the answer. “The rope saved him, he caught hold of the rope and slipped down; but his hands are dreadfully torn—he has fainted from pain.”
Just then Tom’s father came in, and soon understood the case. The look he gave at his unhappy son, so full of sorrow, not unmingled with pity, was too much for Tom, and he stole out followed by the faithful Tiger. He wandered to the woods, and threw himself upon the ground. One hour ago he was a happy boy, and now what a terrible change! What has made the difference? Nothing but the indulgence of this wicked, violent temper. His mother had often warned him of the fearful consequences. She had told him that little boys who would not learn to govern themselves, grew up to be very wicked men, and often became murderers in some moment of passion. And now, Tom shuddered to think he was almost a murderer! Nothing but God’s great mercy in putting that rope in Dick’s way, had saved him from carrying that156load of sorrow and guilt all the rest of his life. But poor Dick, he might die yet—how pale he looked—how strange! Tom fell upon his knees, and prayed God to “spare Dick’s life,” and from that time forth, with God’s help, he promised that he would strive to conquer this wicked passion.
Then, as he could no longer bear his terrible suspense, he started for Widow Casey’s cottage. As he appeared at the humble door, Mrs. Casey angrily ordered him away, saying: “You have made a poor woman trouble enough for one day.” But Dick’s feeble voice entreated, “O mother, let him come in; I was just as bad as he.”
Tom gave a cry of joy at hearing these welcome tones, and sprang hastily in. There sat poor Dick with his hands bound up, looking very pale, but Tom thanked God that he was alive.
“I should like to know how I am to live now,” sighed Mrs. Casey. “Who will weed the garden, and carry my vegetables to market? I am afraid we shall suffer for bread before the summer is over,” and she put her apron to her eyes.
“Mrs. Casey,” cried Tom, eagerly, “I will157do everything that Dick did. I will sell the potatoes and beans, and will drive Mr. Brown’s cows to pasture.”
Mrs. Casey shook her head incredulously, but Tom bravely kept his word. For the next few weeks Tom was at his post bright and early, and the garden was never kept in better order. And every morning Tiger and Tom stood faithfully in the market-place with their baskets, and never gave up, no matter how warm the day, till the last vegetable was sold, and the money placed faithfully in Mrs. Casey’s hand.
Tom’s father often passed through the market, and gave his little son an encouraging smile, but he did not offer to help him out of his difficulty, for he knew if Tom struggled on alone, it would be a lesson he would never forget. Already he was becoming so gentle and patient, that every one noticed the change, and his mother rejoiced over the sweet fruits of his repentance and self-sacrifice.
After a few weeks the bandages were removed from Dick’s hands, but they had been unskillfully treated, and were drawn up in very strange shapes. Mrs. Casey could not conceal her grief. “He will never be the158help he was before,” she said to Tom, “he will never be like other boys, and he wrote such a fine hand, now he can no more make a letter than that little chicken in the garden.”
“If we only had a great city doctor,” said a neighbor, “he might have been all right. Even now his fingers might be helped if you should take him to New York.”
“Oh, I am too poor, too poor,” said she, and burst into tears.
Tom could not bear it, and again rushed into the woods to think what could be done, for he had already given them all his quarter’s allowance. All at once a thought flashed into his head, and he started as if he had been shot. Then he cried in great distress:—
“No, no, anything but that, I can’t do that!”
Tiger gently licked his hands, and watched him with great concern. Now came a great struggle. Tom stroked backward and forward, and although he was a proud boy, he sobbed aloud. Tiger whined, licked his face, rushed off into dark corners, and barked savagely at some imaginary enemy, and then came back, and putting his paws on Tom’s159knees, wagged his tail in anxious sympathy. At last Tom took his hands from his pale, tear-stained face, and looking into the dog’s great honest eyes, he cried with a queer shake in his voice :—
“Tiger, old fellow! dear old dog, could you ever forgive me if I sold you?”
Then came another burst of sorrow, and Tom rose hastily, as if afraid to trust himself, and almost ran out of the woods. Over the fields he raced, with Tiger close at his heels, nor rested a moment till he stood at Major White’s door, nearly two miles away.
“Do you still want Tiger, sir?”
“Why yes,” said the old man in great surprise, “but do you want to sell him?”
“Yes, please,” gasped Tom, not daring to look at his old companion. The exchange was quickly made, and the ten dollars in Tom’s hand. Tiger was beguiled into a barn, and the door hastily shut, and Tom was hurrying off, when he turned and cried in a choking voice—
“You will be kind to him, Major White, won’t you? Don’t whip him, I never did, and he’s the best dog—”
“No, no, child,” said Major White, kindly;160“I’ll treat him like a prince, and if you ever want to buy him back, you shall have him.”
Tom managed to falter “Thank you,” and almost flew out of hearing of Tiger’s eager scratching on the barn door.
I am making my story too long, and can only tell you in a few words that Tom’s sacrifice was accepted. A friend took little Dick to the city free of expense, and Tom’s money paid for the necessary operation. The poor crooked fingers were very much improved, and were soon almost as good as ever. And the whole village loved Tom for his brave, self-sacrificing spirit, and the noble atonement he had made for his moment of passion.
A few days after Dick’s return came Tom’s birth-day, but he did not feel in his usual spirits. In spite of his great delight in Dick’s recovery, he had so mourned over the matter, and had taken Tiger’s loss so much to heart, that he had grown quite pale and thin. So, as he was permitted to spend the day as he pleased, he took his books and went to his favorite haunt in the woods.
“How different from my last birth-day,” thought Tom. “Then Tiger had just come, and I was so happy, though I didn’t like him161half as well as I do now.” Tom sighed heavily; then added more cheerfully, “Well, I hope some things are better than they were last year. I hope I have begun to conquer myself, and with God’s help I will never give up trying while I live. Now if I could only earn money enough to buy back dear old Tiger.” While Tom was busied with these thoughts he heard a hasty familiar trot, a quick bark of joy, and the brave old dog sprang into Tom’s arms.
“Tiger, old fellow,” cried Tom, trying to look fierce, though he could scarcely keep down the tears, “how came you to run away, sir?”
Tiger responded by picking up a letter he had dropped in his first joy, and laying it in Tom’s hand:—
“My Dear Child: Tiger is pining, and I must give him a change of air. I wish him to have a good master, and knowing that the best ones are those who have learned to govern themselves, I send him to you. Will you take care of him and greatly oblige
Your old friend, Major White.”
Tom then read through a mist of tears—
“P. S. I know the whole story. Dear young friend, ‘be not weary in well doing.’”
“WHAT ARE THOSE SCARS?”
“What are those scars?” said Mary Lanman to her father, as she sat in his lap, holding his hand in her own little hands.
“Those scars! my dear? If I were to tell you the history of them, it would make a long story.”
“But do tell me, papa,” said Mary, “I should like to hear a long story.”
“These scars, my child, are more than forty years old. For forty years they have every day reminded me of my disobedience to my parents and my violation of the law of God.”
“Do tell me all about it, father,” said Mary.
Her father then related the following story:—
“When I was about twelve years old, my father sent me one pleasant autumn day into the woods to cut a pole to be used in beating apples off the trees. It was wanted immediately to supply the place of one that163had been broken. I took my little hatchet and hastened to the woods to execute my important mission. I looked in every direction for a long, slender tree that would answer the purpose; and every time I stopped to examine a young tree, a taller and straighter sapling caught my eye farther on. What seemed most surprising to me was that the little trees that looked so trim and upright in the distance, grew deformed and crooked as I approached them. Frequently disappointed, I was led from tree to tree till I had traversed the entire grove and made no choice.
“My path opened into a clearing, and near the fence stood a young cherry-tree loaded with fruit. Here was a strong temptation. I knew very well to whom this tree belonged and that it bore valuable fruit. I knew too that I had no right to touch a single cherry. No house was near, no person was in sight. None but God could see me, and I forgot that his eye looked down upon me.
“I resolved to taste the tempting fruit. I climbed the tree and began to pick the rich, ripe cherries. I found no pleasure in the taste of them, I was so fearful of surprise164and detection. Some one might come and find me in the tree. I therefore resolved to break off some richly-loaded boughs, and feast upon the cherries as I hastened home. The top of the tree was bowed with the weight of its fruit. I climbed as high as I could, and bending down the top, attempted to cut it off with my knife. In my eagerness to secure my prize I did not guard my left hand which held down the top of the tree. My knife slipped from the yielding wood to my fingers and passed with unspent force across all the fingers of my left hand, cutting the flesh to the bone. I never could look at fresh blood without fainting. My eye caught sight of the red drops that oozed from every finger, and my heart began to die within me. I slipped through the limbs of the tree to the ground. The shock of the fall drove away the faintness, and I soon stood upon my feet. I wrapped my handkerchief about my bleeding fingers and hurried home. My mission was worse than useless; I had not accomplished the purpose for which I was sent, I had committed a crime and disabled myself for work; I was wanted as an apple-picker.
“I found no sympathy from anybody; my father reproved me, and threatened chastisement when my wounds were healed. My mother, who dressed my aching fingers, looked very sorrowfully upon me, and I knew that I had grieved her deeply by my disobedience. I assisted in picking the apples, but I was compelled to work with one hand, while the other hung in a sling. That was a sad day to me. It required some weeks to heal the deep gashes made by my knife, and the scars are as bright, after forty years, as they were when the wounds were first closed. If the scars in the flesh were all it would be comparatively a trifle. The soul was wounded as well as the body. The conscience was defiled with guilt which no human agency could remove. Tears of repentance could not wipe away the stain. Nothing but the blood of Christ could give health to the wounded spirit.
“As wounds leave scars, so my dear child, do youthful sins leave the traces of their existence. Like the scars of the healed wound, they disfigure and weaken the soul. The follies of youth may be overcome, but they are always sure to leave their mark.166Every sin of childhood hangs like a weight upon the neck of manhood. The blood of Jesus Christ alone cleanseth from all sin.”
THE SCAR WILL REMAIN.
Oh, ye who from crime and pollution are free,
Watch well the temptations that throng around thee!
A character tarnished ne’er loses the stain,
The wound may be healed, but the scar will remain.
’Tis true that the vilest forgiveness may earn,
The sorrowing lost to the fold may return;
But sad recollection will bring with it pain,
The wound may be healed, but the scar will remain.
The misty bloom brushed from the cheek of the plum
No more to its delicate surface can come;
And the pure heart polluted ne’er freshens again,
The wound may be healed, but the scar will remain.
The slave of vile appetites, touched by remorse,
May weep o’er his follies and alter his course;
But still on life’s tablet his record is plain,
The wound may be healed, but the scar will remain.
Then shun ye the tempter, and seek ye the goal,
Which promises peace to the world-weary soul,
If ye sin ye will strive to forget it in vain,
The wound may be healed, but the scar will remain.
“GIRLS, HELP FATHER.”
“My hands are so stiff I can hardly hold a pen,” said Farmer Wilbur, as he sat down to “figure out” some accounts that were getting behind hand.
“Can I help you, father?” said Lucy, laying down her bright crotchet work.—“I shall be glad to do so if you will explain what you want.”
“Well, I shouldn’t wonder if you could, Lucy,” he said reflectively. “Pretty good at figures are you?”
“It would be sad if I did not know something of them, after going twice through the arithmetic,” said Lucy, laughing.
“Well, I can show you, in five minutes what I have to do, and it’ll be a wonderful help if you can do it for me. I never was a master hand at accounts in my best days, and it does not grow any easier since I put on spectacles.”
Very patiently did the helpful daughter plod through the long lines of figures, leaving the gay worsted to lie idle all the evening,168though she was in such haste to finish her scarf. It was reward enough to see her tired father, who had been toiling all day for herself and dear ones, sitting so cozily in his easy chair, enjoying his weekly paper.
The clock struck nine before her task was over, but the hearty—“Thank you, daughter, a thousand times,” took away all sense of weariness.
“It’s rather looking up, where a man can have such an amanuensis,” said the father. “It’s not every farmer that can afford it.”
“Not every farmer’s daughter that is capable of making one,” said the mother, with a little pardonable maternal pride.
“Nor every one that would be willing, if able,” said Mr. Wilbur, which last was a sad truth. How many daughters might be of use to their fathers in this and many other ways, who never think of lightening a care or labor. If asked to perform some little service, it is done at best with a reluctant step and unwilling air that robs it of all sunshine or claim to gratitude.
Girls, help your father! Give him a cheerful home to rest in when evening comes, and do not worry his life away by fretting169because he cannot afford you all the luxuries you covet. Children exert as great an influence on their parents, as parents do on their children.
DON’T LET MOTHER DO IT!
DAUGHTER, don’t let mother do it!
Do not let her slave and toil,
While you sit, a useless idler,
Fearing your soft hands to soil.
Don’t you see the heavy burdens
Daily she is wont to bear,
Bring the lines upon her forehead—
Sprinkle silver in her hair?
Daughter, don’t let mother do it!
She has cared for you so long,
Is it right the weak and feeble
Should be toiling for the strong?
Waken from your listless languor,
Seek her side to cheer and bless;
And your grief will be less bitter
When the sods above her press.
Daughter, don’t let mother do it!
You will never, never know
What were home without a mother
Till that mother lieth low—
Low beneath the budding daisies,
Free from earthly care or pain—
To the home so sad without her,
Never to return again.
THE PREMIUM.
“THINK I am sure of one premium at least,” said Edward, as he placed himself upon the form among his school-fellows.
It was examination day, and many a young heart was beating quick with the hope of approbation and reward, or with the fear of disgrace. Some had looked forward to this day, and applied to their tasks, knowing how carefully they should be examined, and commended or punished according to their deservings. Others had chosen to forget that such a day must come, and idled away the time which they would now have given a great deal to have at their disposal again.
In the center of the school-room was placed a long table, covered with books of various sizes and of different value. There were Bibles and Testaments, both large and small, the histories of Rome, of Greece and of England. There were volumes elegantly bound and pamphlets just stitched together. The school was extensive, and it was wished that171every one who had exerted himself to the best of his ability, however little that might be, should carry home with him some mark of encouragement, to remind him that diligence and perseverance were not overlooked.
Like the servants to whom the Lord intrusted the talents, some had five, and some had but one, yet these last could not be excused for hiding and neglecting it because it was small; even the youngest and the simplest child at school may make something of the reason and opportunities which the Lord has given him to improve.
With anxious hearts and busy faces the boys arranged themselves around the table; and were examined with great care and patience by their teachers, as to the progress they had made in their studies.
Now, Edward had set his heart on one particular premium, the Roman History, neatly bound, and making two very pretty volumes, which he thought would handsomely fill up a vacant space on his little book-shelves. He allowed himself to think of this until no other prize was of any value in his sight, a great fault, often committed by children, and grown people too; who172instead of thankfully receiving whatever the bounty of Providence assigns them, would choose for themselves; and become discontented and unhappy in the midst of blessings, because the wisdom of God sees fit to withhold some one thing that their folly deems necessary to their happiness.
Edward passed his examination with much credit, and one of the first premiums was adjudged to him; but instead of the Roman History, a very neat Bible, in excellent large type, was placed in his hands. Many of his school-mates had wished for that Bible, but Edward regarded it not; and the eyes of the foolish boy filled with tears, as he saw the elegant History of Rome presented to another, who, perhaps would gladly have exchanged with him.
The next day Edward returned home and related his disappointment to his parents, who thought his desire for the Roman History a mark of great learning and taste; but since he had distinguished himself so well they did not much care what prize he received.
Edward’s father lived in the country, not far from the sea-side, in a most delightful173and healthy situation; and at this time his mother’s brother, who was in a very sickly state, had just arrived there to enjoy the benefit of the sea breezes, and rest a little from the toil and bustle of his employments in London.
Mr. Lewis was a young man of the most pleasing manners and appearance. He was gentle and serious, but not at all gloomy or severe. His bad health only served to show forth his patience in enduring it without a murmuring word or discontented look; and Edward, who was really a kind-hearted and affectionate boy, soon became very much attached to his uncle, who had not seen him since he was an infant, and who was much pleased at the attentions his nephew delighted to pay him.
Young hearts are soon won; and it was only three days after Edward’s return from school, that he went bounding over the grounds in search of his uncle, whose society he already preferred to his hoop and ball.
Mr. Lewis was seated under a fine old oak, the high and knotted roots of which served as a seat; while the soft moss, interspersed with many delicate little flowers, was like a174carpet beneath his feet. A rich and extensive tract of country lay spread before his eyes; and, at a distance the mighty ocean bounded the prospect, whose deep green waters were seen in beautiful contrast with the pale yellow cliff, that with a graceful, yet abrupt curve, interrupted the view to the right. Thin clouds were floating past the sun every now and then, and threw all the varieties of light and shade upon the lovely scene below.
Mr. Lewis had a book in his hand, into which he frequently looked, and then raised his eyes again to gaze upon the varieties that surrounded him; and so intent he seemed, that Edward doubted whether he ought to disturb him, until his uncle, seeing him at some little distance, kindly beckoned him to come near.
“Is not this a pretty place, uncle?” said Edward, as he seated himself beside him; “and do you not find the breeze from the water very refreshing?”
“It is beautiful indeed, my dear boy; and I am deriving both refreshment and instruction while I look around me.”
“Is that a Bible, uncle?”
“Yes. It is God’s word, which I always find the best commentary upon his works;— they explain each other.”
“I love the Bible too, uncle,” said Edward, “and got much credit for my answering on Scripture questions last half-year.”
“And which, Edward, afforded you the greater satisfaction, the Scriptures, or the credit you got for studying them?”
Edward looked a little embarrassed and did not immediately reply.
“It is quite right to take pleasure in the well-earned approbation of your teachers,” continued Mr. Lewis, “and I was glad to hear that you obtained a premium at the last examination also.”
“Yes, uncle, but not the prize I wished for. There was a Roman History that I should have liked better, and it was just of equal value with the Bible that I got.”
“How of equal value, Edward?”
“I mean that it was not reckoned a higher prize, and it would have been a nicer book for me.”
“Then you had a Bible already?”
“Why, no, uncle, not of my own, but it is easy to borrow one on the Sabbath; and176I had gone through all my Scripture proofs, and do not want it on other days.”
“Read these four verses for me,” said Mr. Lewis, pointing to the sixth chapter of Deuteronomy “commencing with the sixth verse.”
Edward read: “And these words which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart; and thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up; and thou shalt bind them for a sign upon thine hand, and they shall be as frontlets between thine eyes, and thou shalt write them upon the posts of thine house, and on thy gates.”
“To whom was this command given Edward?”
“To the Jews, uncle.”
“Yes; and the word of God, which cannot pass away, is as much binding on us as on them, in everything excepting the sacrifices and ceremonies, which foreshowed the coming of the Lord Jesus Christ, and which was done away with, by his death fulfilling all those types and shadows.”
“Then,” said Edward, “we are commanded177to write the Bible on our hands and on our door posts.”
“No, my dear boy, not literally, but in a figure of speech; as the Lord, when declaring he never will forget Zion, says, “I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.” The meaning of the passage you first read is, that we must have the word of God as continually present to our minds as anything written on our hands, and on every object around us, would be to our bodily sight. And how are we to get our thoughts so occupied by it, Edward?”
“By continually reading it I suppose,” replied Edward, rather sullenly.
“By reading it often, and meditating on it much,” said his uncle; “and that we can do without interfering with our other business. Without prayer you cannot obtain any spiritual blessing, nor maintain any communion with God; and without reading the Scriptures you will have but little desire to pray. We are like people wandering in the dark, while the Bible is as a bright lamp held out to direct us in the only safe path. You cannot be a child of God if you do not178his will; you cannot do it unless you know it, and it is by the Bible he is pleased to communicate that knowledge. Do you begin to see, Edward, that the Bible is more suitable to be an every-day book than your profane history?”
“Why, yes, uncle; but the Bible is a grave book, and if I read it so constantly I never should be merry.”
“There is no merriment among the lost, Edward; and that dreadful lot will be your portion if you neglect the great salvation which the Scriptures set forth. Besides, there is no foundation for what you suppose to be the effect of reading the Bible. I have known people naturally melancholy and discontented, become cheerful and happy by studying it; but I never in my life saw an instance of a person becoming unhappy because they had a good hope of going to heaven.”
Edward paused a moment, and then said, “Uncle, I remember it is written concerning wisdom, that ‘her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.’”
“Most true, my dear boy, ‘quietness and assurance forever’ is the portion of God’s179people. ‘Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again I say, rejoice.’ ‘The ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness; and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.’ Are such expressions as these likely to make us gloomy, Edward?”
“O no, uncle; and I often wonder that you, who suffer so much pain, and read the Bible constantly, are not melancholy.”
“How can I be melancholy, Edward, when the Bible tells me that all these things are working together for my spiritual good? that He who spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, will with him also freely give us all things? When I think of what my sins deserve, and see the Lamb of God bearing the chastisement that should fall on me, how can I be melancholy? When I feel that the Spirit of God is bringing these things to my remembrance, and enabling me to love the Lord Jesus, who has done so much for me, must I not rejoice? I know that in me, that is, in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing; and since God has promised forgiveness to all who seek that180blessing through his Son; and since I feel assured that I have sought that blessing, and feel peace and joy in believing, surely the song of praise, not the moan of lamentation, becomes me. Yet I do lament, Edward, daily lament my many offenses against God; but I am assured that Christ’s blood cleanseth from all sin, and that in him I have a powerful and all-prevailing Advocate with the Father. I know in whom I have believed, and that he will never cast off nor forsake me. I am sinking into the grave, but I do not shrink from that prospect, because the bitterness of death is taken away by my Saviour, who died for my sins, and rose again for my justification; and though this body returns to dust, I shall live again, and enter into the presence of my Redeemer, and rejoice there evermore.”
Edward looked at the animated countenance of his uncle, and then cast down his eyes; they were full of tears. At last he said, “Uncle, indeed I am a very sinful boy, neglecting the Bible, because I know it would show me my sin, and the consequences of it. But I will trifle no more with God’s displeasure. I will get that precious Bible, worth a181thousand Roman histories, and I will read it daily, with prayer, that I may be wise unto salvation.”
Mr. Lewis did not live long after this. He died, rejoicing in hope of eternal life; and as often as Edward was permitted to return home from his school, he was to be seen under the old oak, with the Bible in his hand, from which he learned more and more the will of his God and Saviour—the utter sinfulness of his own nature—his inability to help himself; and from this holy word he learned to place all his dependence on the righteousness of his Saviour—to follow the example of his Saviour, in prayer, in resignation, and in doing good to the poor around him.
He often thought of his dear uncle, and counted that day happy when he sat to listen to his kind advice, which, as a means, brought him to a knowledge of himself and of his heavenly Father.