A BROKEN SNOWDROP. a great sinner; and note the effect of this humiliation -it does not cast him into despair, but leads him to look upwards" therefore have I hope" (ver. 21). He sees that God has not consumed or crushed him, although He has afflicted him; and under a new and awful sense of the Lord's personal dealings with him, he perceives that with others also God is carrying out a plan of discipline and not of destruction, "It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed" -sinners as we are! We are faithless, guilty, fallen-but "his compassions fail not." Surely there is here a glimpse of a fuller revelation. "When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him." Yes, "his compassions fail not-new every morning." New compassions, new mercies, return with each returning dawn, if only our hearts are awakened to receive them. "He wakeneth morning by morning, He wakeneth mine ear to hear as the learned" (Isa. 1. 4). Let us seek to have our ears thus opened, our hearts thus awakened; then, whether we are in the heights of prosperity like Solomon, or in the depths of the dungeon like Jeremiah, we shall be able to sing not of new sorrows, but of new mercies; not of new afflictions, but of new compassions. But to do this out of the experience of a full heart and a sincere heart, we must learn to say also with Jeremiah, "The Lord is my portion, saith my soul." Having the Lord for our portion, we may trust Him in all his dealings with us. We may be sure of his compassions sure of his purposes of mercy. Whether we awake in the morning surrounded with earthly comforts, or arise from a night passed in sickness or grief, there are new mercies and new compassions for us every morning in thinking anew of "the Lord, my portion," for in this knowledge of his care and love all things are ours through Christ. Take, my soul, thy full salvation; Rise o'er sin, and fear, and care; Something still to do or bear. Sisters and brothers round about her flourished Beneath maternal shade; The quickening dewdrops of affection nourished The fragile maid. I trembled, lest within her guileless bosom Sorrow should plant a thorn; Or sin assoil the whiteness of the blossom In its fresh morn. There came a hand invisible, and sundered She gently drooped, untarnished, and we wondered Oh, scarcely death! but loving transplantation The Saviour took her in her first probation He knew His own and saw the tempest lower So pitifully took the shrinking flower Violets. I. TO-DAY I saw fresh violets blow 141 A. BEALE. "Twixt withered leaves and lingering snow, Autumn above, Winter below, With Spring contending: There lie the beech-leaves brown and sere, II. So, yielding not to dead regrets, A brightness for the passing hour Pages for the young. "JACK AND I." CHAPTER I.-THE SOLITARY BOY. WHEN I was a little girl of about eight years old, the great war was going on against the French Emperor Napoleon, "Bony," as the people used to call him, and I can remember how frightened I was sometimes when they said, "Bony will be here to eat your Christmas dinner with you." I never thought "Bony" was a man, but fancied he was a giant or an ogre, like those strange beings you hear of in fairy tales; and sometimes at night when the wind was noisy I would lie shivering with fear at the thought that it might be "Bony" coming down the chimney, or breaking through the windows of the house. No wonder I had foolish fancies, for I was a very ignorant little girl. There was no school in the parish where I lived, and in the next village, which was much larger than ours, there was only a Sunday-school-a new and wonderful thing to the people about us, lately introduced by a good lady called Mrs. Hannah More. But that was three miles of, too far for me to go; and besides our neighbours were very much frightened at the Sunday-school, and said it was all part of a plot for getting hold of their children and selling them for slaves. My poor mother shook her head over it, and thought that "Bony" must be at the bottom of it all, and the idea of sending me into such danger never entered her head. I had only my mother to "look to," as people said, for my father, who had been a sailor, had been drowned when I was five years old, and left her in the greatest poverty, to work for herself and me, her only child. We lived in a "cheesemaking" part of Somersetshire, and she worked hard in the dairy of a farmer who lived near us. She used to be out nearly all day, and I used to be left with our next-door neighbour, and "minded" her babies for her. I can remember little enough; I recollect scarcely any thought, or sorrow, or pleasure, I suppose my mind was almost idle, till that time when I was eight years old, and when (as I have said) the fear of "Bony" began to make such a deep impression upon me. It was a cold stormy winter, with many windy nights to frighten me, but Christmas-time came, and we had our dinners without any dreadful foreign invader to share them. And when the snow melted from our hills again, and we were beginning to gather spring flowers, a great change came over my life. My poor mother, who was always easily persuaded into any step, however little she liked it, received a letter from her husband's mother, begging her to come and make her home at Southport, a little seaside place many miles from our Somersetshire home. My grandmother had kept a little shop in this place for many years, but she was now disabled by a stroke of paralysis, which had made her unable to stand or walk, but she could still write and keep the accounts, if my mother undertook to serve the customers, her letter said. I remember how my mother cried at first, when a neighbour, who was a "scholar," read the letter to her. "Southport! I have not been there since my poor husband was drowned. I cannot bear the sight or the sound of the sea. It would fret me to death to be there." But then they reminded her that it would be a better living for her, and she could be more with me, and that it seemed hard to leave the poor old lady alone. "She had three sons, and they are all drowned," said my mother. "However she can bear to be near the sea after that I cannot think! But no matter, she is my husband's mother, and has nobody to see her. I must go, I suppose, and take the child into those foreign parts." She was really very unhappy about it, and fretted whenever she was not too busy, so that I looked upon our change of home as a great misfortune; though the long drive in a carrier's cart, and then the still longer one in a coach, pleased me from their novelty. "Please do not cry, mother; look at the fields out of the window," I entreated many times during our journey. "I have plenty to think of, child, without looking about me," she would answer, and then begin to cry again. At last, one sunny afternoon, we reached our journey's end. Giddy with the long drive, I got down at my grandmother's door, and while the carrier was pulling out our boxes, looked up and down the place which was now to be my home. Southport was a little fishing-village, in a bay, on the Channel; white cliffs rose high along the shore, and far before me spread the great shining sea, looking so calm and bright that I wondered at my mother's dread of it. My grandmother's house was the tidiest there, with a nice little shop-window and a garden before it; the other houses down the straggling street were poor and dirty-looking, mostly with nets spread out before them. The whole place smelt of fish, and a number of wild-looking children were playing in the middle of the road with some crabs and shells; at which I stared, for I had never seen such things before. My mother was busy paying the carrier and seeing our boxes carried into the house, while I was staring at the new scene, but in a minute or two she called to me, "Now, Lizzie! Come in: come and see your grandmother." At that I turned and followed my mother along the gardenpath into the house, and through the shop into a pleasant room at the back, with a window looking on to the sea. There there was a pleasant-faced old lady, in the whitest of frilled caps, lying propped up in bed, with a grey shawl pinned round her. Her face was pale, and had a look of suffering on it; but her smile was bright and sweet, and her large grey eyes had such a peaceful look in them that they were unlike any other eyes I could remember. She stretched out her hands towards us as we came in, saying, "Dear Mary, this is kind! And little Lizzy, too! Now home will really seem like home once more." We went up in turn to the bed, and she drew us down and "JACK AND I." kissed us warmly, thanking my mother again and again for coming; it was so good, so kind. "I thought again and again, my dear," she said, holding my mother's hand and looking up into her tearful face. "I thought over the matter, and prayed over it too, before I would send for you. It seemed such a selfishness to send and fetch you from among your own people, and where you were doing pretty well for yourself and the child. But then I thought if you could take to the shop it would leave something like a settled home for you and the child when I am gone. And if I left it to its chance now some one else would settle here, and take every customer away. So I resolved to make myself happy by sending, hoping that it would really be for your good in the end." "I'm sure it is all right and kind if you do it, mother dear," said my mother, and the old lady kissed her again. "Thank you, my dear; it does me good to be called 'mother' again; you remind me of the days when you were here with my dear John." My mother wiped her eyes and glanced from the window. "How can you like to lie and look at the sea, mother!" she exclaimed. "I like to think of the day when it shall give up its dead, and when we shall be all together in the land where there is no more sea," she answered, with a very bright smile. I looked round in wonder. The sea give up its dead! I could not understand what was meant, poor untaught child that I was! A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, and another pleasant-faced, white-capped old lady came in. "Ah, here is Mrs. Jones!" cried my grandmother. "My kind tidy neighbour who has kept me in order since my illness. You will relieve her of a great deal of trouble now you are come, Mary dear." Mrs. Jones declared that she did not want relieving of any trouble, though she was glad to see young Mrs. Neale come to look after her mother-in-law, who wanted friends about her now. "But for to-night I am going to do for you still, Mrs. Neale," she said brightly, “and show your visitors their rooms, and give them their tea." My grandmother thanked her, and Mrs. Jones took my mother and me upstairs to a nice clean room, with a large bed and another window overlooking the sea. This new sight fascinated me, and I stood looking out, watching some boats and a little white-sailed ship swaying up and down in the sunshine, till my mother pulled me away to have my face washed before tea. I was so sleepy as soon as that meal was over that they all agreed my next journey must be to bed, and I hardly remembered where I was before I fell asleep. Next morning the sun was shining on the waves, my mother was moving about the room already dressed, when at length I opened my eyes. Why! mother," I exclaimed, "is it morning already?” "Yes, already, and rather late too. Make haste and get up while I get your grandmother's breakfast ready." This order was soon obeyed, and before long I was standing by my grandmother's bedside, pleased with her kind kiss, and very proud to be allowed to hand her what she wanted. "And you are wanting your breakfast now?" my mother asked, coming in from the little kitchen which opened into my grandmother's room. "It's just ready." "I was thinking, my dear, you would like to have a prayer first by way of beginning the day. It will make our home really a true home if we can all pray together, and this first morning I should like so very much to begin so. You do not mind?" she asked, looking anxiously into my mother's puzzled face. "No, to be sure. It is very nice, and we ought all to think a great deal more of those things than we do," she answered sighing: "But you were always a scholar, mother." My grandmother, who "had known better days," as the saying is, was indeed unusually well educated for those times; 143 but she had something better than education to give sweetness to her voice and look as she opened her Bible and read a few verses aloud: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." I had heard those words before most likely, for I had often been to church with my mother, but this was the first time they had reached my mind. Somehow I began to think of my mother's worn face, weary step, and long days of hard work, and I wondered if she knew who this was that could give rest. Then as I was wondering, my grandmother finished her reading, and we knelt down, while she began repeating these words: "Our Father which art in heaven," that I too had been taught to repeat night and morning-till to-day I had never thought why. To-day, however, they were joined in my mind to the words I had heard before, and I asked myself, "Who is this Father in heaven? And is it He who gives us rest?" When we rose from our knees I would have asked a question, but my mother called me into the kitchen to carry my grandmother's tea-cup to her, and so I did not speak. After breakfast I helped my mother with the housework, and then when customers began coming to the shop she said I might run out and play, and I went forth slowly and rather timidly into the street. It was deserted now; no children were to be seen playing with odd fishy creatures on the stones; no women were on the doorsteps; even the nets had been carried away, and only the smell of the fish remained. I stood looking round me in the stillness, up the street and down the street, and there, just at the farther end where it reached the shore, there was such a bright view of sunshiny waves, that without a moment's thought I hurried in that direction. It was low water; the sea had gone far away, and left bare a long shining strip of sand, and a great space strewn with rocks, all covered with dark, dripping seaweed. The children were scrambling together on these rocks, and their shouts of laughter reached me plainly enough long before I was near them. I had been so used to play with all the children in our village that I was going to join these strangers as a matter of course, when I saw another child crossing the rocks before me, and approaching them too. It was a little boy, of about my own age it seemed, but miserably thin and ragged; his blue shirt and canvas trousers looked only fit for a beggar, I thought, and his hat was almost torn in pieces. To be sure, the other children were not much better dressed, but when they saw him coming they turned round with yells and shouts, and even began pelting him with stones and bunches of sea-weed. He shouted back to them, asking them to be quiet, but they seemed to get all the more angry at that, and at last pelted him so hard that he turned round and ran away. I saw him go up to the shore again, and sit down on a stone by himself. Very indignant at this behaviour, I walked boldly up to the children myself, at least I went as near as I could get without crossing the slippery rocks, and called out to the noisy band, "Why did you drive that boy away? Why should he not come here if he likes?" They all turned and stared at me, but it was not easy to frighten me when my anger had once been roused, and I repeated my question quite fiercely. "Are you Mrs. Neale's little girl from the shop?" one of them called back again. 66 "Yes, I am." "Then go back to the shop and be quiet,” cried these rude children. I turned away in very great offence at this reply, and walked up to the big stone on which the poor boy was sitting. "Yes, go away," they shouted after me. "Go and play with black Joe Mitford's boy! We'll stone black Joe Mitford and his boy and all." Very much astonished, and rather alarmed at these threats, I walked on, too angry to look round again, till I stood by the side of the solitary child. He was pale and thin and ragged, as I have said, but there was a pleasant look in his great dark eyes, and though his face was brown as a gipsy's and shaded by wild black hair, there was a gentle look of sadness in it that would not let me fear him. However, I did not know how to begin speaking to him; I looked at him, and he looked at me, neither of us uttering a word. THE SUNDAY ALBUM. NO. II.-SHEPHERD. We do not find the word "SHEPHERD " given in the Bible to the first man who really did the work of a shepherd-Abel-of whom it is said that he was "a keeper of sheep." The next shepherds mentioned were the sons of Jacob, but their employment was not liked in Egypt, for "every shepherd is an abomination unto the Egyptians" (Gen. xlvi. 34). Moses helped the daughters of the priest of Midian against the shepherds who drove them away from the well (Exod. ii. 17). The word does not again occur till we come to 1 Sam. xvii. 40, where a shepherd lad with his staff in his hand, and five stones out of the brook "in a shepherd's bag which he had, even in a scrip," drew near to the giant champion of the Philistines, and in the name of his God defied, and finally slew him. We cannot forget the name of David when we study the word shepherd, for he himself never forgot or was ashamed of his humble work even when he sat on the throne of Israel. Read Psa. xxiii. 1; Psa. lxxx. 1. It is interesting to mark that he who knew so well the nature of a shepherd's work, and the care he was obliged to take of his helpless charge, is the first who sees in that care a type of what God does for his own people. "He shall feed his flock like a shepherd," says Isaiah of the expected Saviour (Isa. xl. 11). He will "keep him, as a shepherd his flock" (Jer. xxxi. 10). In Ezekiel xxxiv. we have solemn warnings and reproofs addressed to the shepherds of Israel, who had neglected their charge, and then the Lord by his prophet's mouth foretells the coming of the true Shepherd: "I will set up one Shepherd over them, and He shall feed them" (ver. 23). Awake, O sword, against my Shepherd" (Zech. xiii. 7), is a remarkable prophecy of Christ's sufferings. 66 After all these prophetic words, how interesting is it to find our Lord declaring to the Jews who knew that such things had been written of the Messiah, "I am the good Shepherd: the good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep." See also Heb. xiii. 20; 1 Peter ii. 25; and 1 Peter v. 4. Let our readers take the word Rock for their next exercise. XI XII XI VII VIII The man all things ΙΛ ри 、 END. Let our readers take the word CONFESS for their next exercise. ANSWERS TO BIBLE QUESTIONS. 1. Psa. lxviii. 17: "The chariots of God are twenty thousand, even thousands of angels." Matt. xxvi. 53: "He shall presently give Me more than twelve legions of angels." Heb. xii. 22: "ar innumerable company of angels." Rev. v. 11: "Many angels. ... and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands." 2. Psa. civ. 4: "Who maketh his angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire." Psa. ciii. 20: "Ye his angels, that excel in strength." 2 Thess. i. 7: "His mighty angels." 2 Pet. ii. 11: "Angels, which are greater in power and might." Rev. xviii. 1: "An angel.... having great power." 3. We read of the archangel, 1 Thess. iv. 16. Michael, the archangel, Jude 9. Michael, your prince, Dan. x. 21; xii. 1. Gabriel, Dan. ix. 21. Luke i. 26. 4. Psa. ciii. 20. Rev. v. 11, 12; besides other passages in the Book of Revelation. |