Consider, then, that we are told that "G.o.d is Love;" and if He loves us, there is no difficulty in believing that He feels all this interest in us. Do not judge Him by earthly Kings and Potentates.

These are Giants who cannot see carraway seeds. We do not blame them, for it is impossible they should be interested for every body. But very very different is both the power and the feeling of the King of Kings!

Still we have not got over the difficulty yet, for of all the wonderful truths we are commanded to believe, no one is so wonderful and so incomprehensible as _the Love of G.o.d_ to the sinful human race.

And yet it is a truth, and of all truths the most important and most comfortable; and therefore it is much to be desired that we should thoroughly believe it: and _I think_ I can make you understand that it is possible, _by something which you feel in your own hearts_. I think G.o.d has placed even in our own hearts a witness of the possibility of this great Truth.

My idea is this. We _know_ that G.o.d has been merciful to us--(His very creation of man was an act of mercy), and _therefore_ we know that He loves us. _He loves us because He has been merciful to us_. If you cannot see why this should be, I refer you to the following story, and advise you to _try for yourselves_. Only be kind to any living creature, whether a human being, or an irrational animal, and see if you can keep your heart from _loving_ it! Certainly it does not become us to try to search out the unsearchable mind of G.o.d, but I think it is permitted us to hope, that the remarkable fast of _Kindness engendering Love_, which we experience in our own hearts, is intended to lead us upwards as by a holy guiding thread, to some comprehension of the Love of that G.o.d, who in Christ Jesus actually _gave Himself for us_.

THE TALE.

Lift up the curtain!

In a baronial hall, not of the size and grandeur of that at Warwick Castle, which those who have never seen should try to see before they die: but still in a hall as antique and interesting in style, fits a young man reading.

It is evening, though the sun has not yet set, but it is evening, and the young man is sitting at a small oak table in a recess in one of the ancient windows, and before him lies open a book, and on the book, which he touches not with his hands, but on which his eyes, blinded by tears, are fixed, there lies a faded primrose.

The book is the Bible, and the faded primrose lies on that verse in the Psalm, "Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for his goodness, and declare the wonders that he doeth for the children of men!" and some hand had placed a slight pencil mark before these words.

This scene brings before you a story of distress, and yet this young man is the possessor of a large estate;--the baronial hall and house are his own, and he is young and amiable, and till within the last few months had led a life of almost uninterrupted comfort and prosperity from his cradle upwards. Two years ago he became the betrothed lover of a young lady no less interesting than himself, and as no obstacle prevented their union, both had for these two years looked forward to it, as the one certain and sure event of their lives. The young man's parents had died when he was very young; but, in compliance with the wishes of his Guardians, he deferred his marriage till he should have come of age.

Meanwhile, as the time of probation drew near its close, it had been his delight to sit up the old place in such a manner as should become his bride, and the alterations had, in many cases, been made under her eye and according to her wishes, for she was already by antic.i.p.ation, and in the heart of its owner, the mistress of the place.

At last the wedding day was fixed; but a few weeks before the time came, one of those sad diseases which steal mysteriously into the vitals of the young and wear away life long before its natural period, fell upon her:--and _now_, nothing remained to him, who had hoped to have her as his companion through life, but the Bible she had used during her sickness, and which was found on the table by her couch after her death, open and marked at the very place I have told you about; together with the faded primrose which he had gathered for her on the last morning of her life.

This was a very sad event for those who were left behind to lament the loss of one whom they had loved so dearly. The Mother indeed, who had known other trials of life, bent her head submissively to this one, and cherishing sweet recollections of her daughter's piety and goodness, looked forward to a time of reunion in a happier world. But the poor young man, whose name was Theodore, never having known a care or a sorrow before, was stupefied and overpowered by this sudden destruction of all his hopes and happiness. Seeing, however, that _her_ last thought had been the mercy and goodness of G.o.d, he tried to make it _his_ thought too; and he would sit for hours looking at the verse which she had marked in the Bible.

But unfortunately he made no effort besides, and having no kind relatives or friends near him to rouse him from his melancholy stupor to some of the active duties of life, he spent many many weeks in listless sorrow, not caring much what became either of himself, his dependents, or his property. And though he had become, by degrees, so far resigned as to believe that every thing was for the best--even _her_ death--he now took up a strange and dismal fancy, that though the Almighty was a G.o.d of goodness and justice, it was quite impossible that He should _love_ any beings so sinful and ungrateful as the human race. This vain distinction of a morbid imagination was the result of that solitude, inactivity, and the constantly dwelling upon himself and his own troubles, to which he had unfortunately given himself up, and which had brought his mind into such an unhealthy state, that he could neither reason nor think properly.

In this condition of feeling, having one day wandered to a considerable distance from home, he sat down on the greensward to rest; when lo! after he had remained there for some little time musing, as usual, he saw approaching him two shining creatures, who looked like spirits or angels, and as they came up to him they looked at him very earnestly, and one said to the other,

"He is doubting the goodness of G.o.d!?"

Then Theodore shuddered, and said, "I am not! once perhaps I did, but not now: all things happen for the best." Yet the Spirit repeated, "He is doubting the goodness of G.o.d!" Theodore shuddered again, and cried out "I am _not!_" for he felt as if it was a heavy accusation.

Whereupon the Spirit continued, "To disbelieve the love of G.o.d is to doubt His goodness."

"No, no," exclaimed Theodore eagerly, "it is not! I do not doubt His goodness--His compa.s.sion even for the wretched creatures whom He formed out of dust. But I--thoughtless in my youth; self-confident in prosperity; ungrateful and rebellious under affliction; how can such a wretch as _I_ have been, believe in the _love_ of G.o.d to me! G.o.d is good and just, but do not talk to me of His Love to man, as if it were possible He could feel for them the tenderness of kind affection! Who are you?"

Without noticing this question, the Spirit repeated, in emphatic tones, "To disbelieve the Love of G.o.d is to doubt His goodness, and deny the perfection of His nature!"

"I tell you, No!" shouted Theodore, wildly: "It is _because_ of His goodness and _because_ of the perfection of His nature, that I disbelieve the possibility of His Love to the wretched race of man!"

"Judge by your own heart!" exclaimed the Spirit who had not yet spoken.

But when Theodore raised his eyes to look upon her, both had disappeared. He felt grieved, he knew not why. "_My own heart!_" he murmured; "ah! my own heart has been the witness against me. It has taught me the dreadful truth."

"Truth never yet was found of him who leads a life of selfish misery,"

whispered a soft voice receding into the distance; "Theodore! Judge by your own heart. Even it may teach you better things!"

Theodore started up and looked hastily around. He felt as if he could have followed that soft receding voice into eternity. But there was no one near. That sound, however, had been like an echo from hopes buried in the grave; and the poor youth sank to the ground on his knees, and, hiding his face in his hands, wept bitterly. Suddenly one thought took possession of him out of what had been said. And it was one (as usual) of self-reproach. The Spirit had reproached him with leading a life of selfish misery! Vividly impressed by this idea, he started off hurriedly for his home, crying aloud--"Oh, the wasted time; the lost hours; the precious moments that might have been employed in usefulness!" And thus he pursued his way till he had left the outer country behind him, and had entered the gates that bounded his extensive domain when, all at once, his course was stopped by something he struck against as he was walking quickly along.

Looking down, he perceived that a sickly, hungry-looking child was stretched across the road asleep, and that by its side sat a woman, the picture of misery and want. Theodore felt a strong sensation of compa.s.sion seize him as he gazed at the child, and he stooped and lifted it from the ground.

The woman observed Theodore's eye, and said, "Ay, without help we shall neither of us be here long!"

"I will help you," said Theodore, "tell me what I can do!"

"What can you or any one do, for a dying woman and a half-starved child?" groaned the poor creature. "Food, food! medicine and help!"

These words burst from her in broken accents--I am dying!"

"Are you so _very_ ill?" asked Theodore, turning deadly pale; and he murmured to himself--"Death again! I dare not see it again so soon!

Here!" continued he, thrusting gold into her hand, "now you see that I will help you! Look, I will send you food, and you shall be brought to the house: but let me take the child, he cannot do you good, and I will see to him." "He must not see her die;" was Theodore's inward thought.

"Ay, take him," muttered the woman gloomily, "and send me cordials. No one wants to go even an hour before their time!"

Theodore obeyed almost mechanically, and lifting up the little boy, he made a shift to carry him to the house. On arriving there, he called for his housekeeper and desired her to take food and wine to the woman he had left, and to bring her to the house. Then he sent another servant for a doctor, and afterwards undertook himself the care of the forlorn child. He placed him on a sofa in his study and sat down by him.

"Are you ill?" was his first question.

"I don't know," was the answer.

"Are you hungry?"

"Very!"

Here Theodore got up and went to the next room, where preparations were being made for dinner, and fetched bread and gave it to the boy, who ate it greedily, without once lifting up his eyes. "Poor child,"

thought Theodore, "life has no _mental_ troubles for him!"

"Are you sorry your mother is so ill?" was his next inquiry.

"She's not my mother," muttered the boy.

Theodore started--"What do you mean? Are you not that woman's _child_?"

"No! She told me I wasn't."

"Who are you, then?"

"I don't know. She told me she had stolen me to beg for her."

"And do you remember nothing about it?"

"No, its too long ago."

Theodore now fetched him more bread, but whilst he was eating it he no longer sat by him, but walked up and down the room. Every now and then as he stopped and looked at the thin, sickly looking object he had brought into the house, he was overtaken by a strong feeling of pity for his miserable condition.

This child was as desolate as himself, only in another way. Stolen from his parents to beg for the strange woman, he had lived with her so long that he had forgotten his real home altogether! Bound by no ties of kindred and comfort to this world. "He is more desolate than I am myself!" repeated Theodore, again and again.