Jessie

Jessie had a small, old-fashioned miniature in her trunk, at which she often gazed intently and sadly, in her hours of retirement. It was a likeness of a young man of pleasing features and apparent intelligence—one who was evidently on good terms with himself and the world, and who had known little of the rough experiences of life. There were very sad associations connected with this picture, in Jessie’s mind. She never could look at it without recalling the lines of the poet—

That young man was the only son of the most prosperous farmer in all that region. Foolishly petted by his parents, he was not required to perform any hard work, because he did not like to do it. For the same reason, he left school and gave up all thoughts of educating himself, before he was fourteen years old. After an idle, unprofitable and not perfectly blameless youth, he thought it would be a fine thing to become a merchant, and so his father set him up in business in a large town twenty or thirty miles distant. It was at this period that the miniature was painted, for a young lady who shortly after became his wife. For a while he flourished; but owing to his loose habits, and his want of business training, he soon became a bankrupt, his father being the principal sufferer. Within a year after this, he followed both of his parents to the grave. The fine farm thus came into his possession, but it was heavily mortgaged for debt, owing to his own failure, and to the fact that his father, during the latter part of his life, had used intoxicating liquors to excess, to the injury of his business and property. The son followed but too swiftly in the steps of the father, emulating, not his many years of honest and prosperous toil, but only the sad errors by which he embittered his last days. He became a fast-bound victim of strong drink. He saw his patrimony slowly melting away, and his family coming to want. The pinching hand of poverty at length came upon them, and he felt ashamed to look his neighbors in the face, so bitter were his self-reproaches. He made one or two feeble attempts to reform, and then died as the fool dieth. He was overtaken by a dreadful snow-storm while intoxicated, and the next day was found stiff in death, with a jug of rum by his side.

Such was the sad history of Jessie’s father, whose tragic death occurred only about two months previous to the time of which I am now writing. No wonder the tears filled her eyes, as she gazed on the handsome face of the miniature, and thought how different might have been the life and destiny of the one who sat for it. She saw in that capacious brow, in that mild and thoughtful eye, and in those fine features, indications of capacities and feelings, that had never been developed. Oh, how mournful was it to contrast these things with the coarse, bloated and besotted features which relentless memory always called up at the mention of father!

Such thoughts as these were passing through Jessie’s mind, one Sabbath morning, as she sat in her room, awaiting the signal to start for church. The weather was dull and drizzly, and her feelings were so much in sympathy with it, that she could scarcely keep the tears from her eyes. She thought of her father, whose miniature she held before her; of her mother, whose health was quite poor, as a letter received a few days before had informed her; of her brother Sam, in his gloomy prison cell, who had not taken the slightest notice of the affectionate letters she had sent him; of Henry, with his peculiar trials and dangers; and of Benny, too, on whose little grave the snows were for the first time melting. Everything seemed to present its dark side to her, and she felt as though she could spend the day in weeping.

It was a rule in Mrs. Page’s house that every one should attend church regularly on the Sabbath, unless prevented by sickness or other sufficient cause. Perhaps I should say it had been a rule, for it had now become a custom—a habit—a matter of mutual agreement, rather than of law. Oscar chafed a little against the regulation, when he first came into the family; but finding that it would not be bent to suit him, he submitted to it, and now had no desire to absent himself from the house of public worship. The distance from Mrs. Page’s to the church was about a mile, and the family generally walked, unless the weather was bad. On the morning to which reference has been made, the female portion rode to church, and Marcus and the boys walked.

The sermon which the good pastor, Mr. Merrill, preached that morning, seemed intended expressly for Jessie. It was exactly adapted to the frame of mind in which she went up to the house of God. The course of thought was so plain and simple, that I think I can tell you about it so that even the youngest reader can understand it, and feel some interest in it. This was the text, and a sweet one it is:—“Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.” You will find it in the twenty-second verse of the fifty-fifth Psalm. The pastor said that everybody who comes into the world, brings a burden with him. The young and the old, the rich and the poor, the high and the low, the wise and the ignorant, the virtuous and the wicked, all have their burdens. These burdens have various names, such as temptations, trials, disappointments, regrets, sorrows, sins, etc.; but there is one general name under which they may all be included, and that is, unhappiness.

The next thing the preacher noticed, was, that we are all running about trying to get rid of our burdens. We don’t want to be unhappy. Some try to laugh away their sorrows. They may succeed with a few of the lighter ones, but there are others too far down in the heart to be reached by laughter. Others mope, and cry, and fret over their troubles, and so make them worse. Others travel to new scenes, or plunge into new cares, or yield themselves up to their passions and desires, to get rid of the burden, but in vain. It only grows heavier, instead of lighter. And then the pastor repeated a German fable about a man who had a frightful goblin in his house, which haunted him day and night. After trying every way he could think of to get rid of the goblin, and all in vain, he shut up his house, and set it on fire, so that the tormentor might roast within, and flung himself into the saddle, and galloped away, homeless and pennyless, but merry in the thought that he was at last rid of the demon that made his life miserable. So after galloping a while, he turned round to see if his house burned merrily, and what was it he saw? The house burned, indeed, but the goblin, there he sat, cowered behind the rider, on his saddle’s cantle! “And do you know,” inquired the pastor, “what is the goblin’s name? His name is Sorrow.”

But, continued the preacher, there is a way, and only one way, to get rid of this pressing burden, this terrible goblin in our hearts. It is pointed out in the text. Bring all your cares and sorrows and cast them upon the Lord, and he will sustain you. He does not promise to remove them at once; but if he does not take them away now, he will give you strength to bear them, so that they will seem light. We must not expect to escape all pain, disappointment and trial in this world. It would not be good for us, if we should. But we can be happy, in spite of these, if we cast our burden upon the Lord, for He careth for us. The only truly happy people are those who have done this. The Christian can sing, in his darkest hour:

The concluding portion of the sermon was devoted to an explanation of the way in which we can cast our burdens on the Lord. The preacher said we must do just what the little child does, when any trouble befalls it, and it runs crying to its mother. It believes its mother can and will relieve it. That is faith. It pours out its little complaints and desires. That is prayer. It is ready, if it goes in a proper spirit, to follow its mother’s directions. That is submission. So, if we would cast our burdens upon the Lord, we must believe in His promises, and ask Him to sustain us, and submit ourselves to His will.

After the morning service, Jessie attended the Sabbath school, as was her custom. She was a member of a Bible class of young ladies, and took much interest in its weekly lessons. The subject of the lesson, on this Sabbath, was prayer. The point of inquiry was simply why we ought to pray, the manner in which the duty should be performed being reserved for another lesson. Each member of the class had been requested to note down on a slip of paper such reasons as she could think of for offering prayer to God, and most of them had done so. The teacher called upon one of the younger pupils first, to give a reason for believing prayer is a duty.

“Because God commands it, in the Bible,” replied the girl, and she quoted several texts, in proof of the assertion.

“Yes,” replied the teacher, “God requires it, and I am glad you have given this as the first reason, for it is sufficient to make the duty imperative, if there were no other. Can any of you think of any other texts which inculcate the duty of prayer?”

A number of additional passages from the Bible were repeated, and then another pupil was asked to give a second reason why prayer is a duty.

“Because we are dependent upon God for everything, and it seems proper that we should ask Him to supply our wants, just as a child asks his father for what he wants,” was the reply.

“Very good,” replied the teacher. “Nothing is more natural than that we should pray to God. We cannot take a step, or draw a breath, and our hearts cannot beat for an instant, without Him; and how strange it is that any of us should ever rise up in the morning or lie down at night, without asking Him to preserve us! What should we think of a little child who had a very kind father, and yet never took any notice of him,—never showed any gratitude for his goodness, never asking him for any favor, and never even spoke to him? And yet this is the way in which many people treat their heavenly Father.”

The teacher then called upon another scholar for a reason in favor of prayer, who gave the following:

“We ought to pray, because we are sinners, and need forgiveness.”

“Yes,” resumed the teacher, “that is another good argument for prayer. We are not only dependent upon our heavenly Father for everything we need, but we have rebelled against Him, and we feel that we deserve to be punished. Now if we have not enough gratitude to make us thank Him for the thousands of blessings He bestows, one would suppose that we should fear Him enough to ask Him to forgive our sins, and save us from their consequences. I once asked a boy about a dozen years old, if he ever prayed. He hesitated a moment, as if afraid even to talk about such a thing, and then replied, ‘No, but I used to when I was a little boy.’ ‘Why don’t you pray now?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I left off a good while ago,’ he said. ‘Why did you leave off?’ I inquired. His lips quivered a moment, and then he replied, ‘Because I thought I was too old.’ ‘Too old to pray!’ I exclaimed; ‘why, that is the strangest thing I ever heard of. I thought the older people were, the more they needed to pray. They certainly have more favors to be thankful for, and more sins to be forgiven, as they advance in years; and if that is the case, don’t you think they need to pray more than they did when they were young? When did you stop praying?’ I inquired. He said he could not remember exactly, but he thought it was about two years previous to that time. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘have you received any blessings from God, during these two years?’ He said he had, a great many. ‘And have you committed any sins during that period?’ I continued. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I suppose I sin every day.’ I asked him if he didn’t think he was exposed to more temptations, at that time, than he was two years before. I suppose he had never thought much about that, for he did not give me any decided answer. I told him I thought it was usually the case with the young, that their temptations to do wrong increased very rapidly every year, until they reached maturity; and then I put to him the question, whether, with all these increased blessings, and sins, and temptations, he was not under much greater obligations to pray, at that time, than he was two years before. And what kind of an answer do you suppose he gave me? Why, he said all the boys would laugh at him, if they knew he prayed! I felt almost disheartened, when he said that. Only think of a boy twelve years old giving such a ridiculous excuse as that for treating his Maker with utter neglect! But I did not let him hide himself long behind such a miserable refuge. ‘What,’ said I, ‘is it possible you are ashamed to say any thing to your best Friend, for fear a few thoughtless boys will laugh at you? And is it possible you can make such a confession without hiding your face in shame? Why, it seems to me, if you ever did a thing in this world that you ought to be heartily ashamed of, it was giving up prayer to God. I don’t think any body can do a much meaner thing than that, and instead of being ashamed of praying, I wonder that everybody is not ashamed to live without prayer.’ Then I said it was no matter if the whole world laughed at us—that should not deter us from what we know to be our duty. But I told him I knew ‘all the boys’ would not laugh at him for praying, and that even the few foolish ones who did laugh, would secretly respect him in their hearts for doing his duty. Now, Jessie, can you give us a fourth reason why we ought to pray?”

“We know we ought to pray,” said Jessie, “because our feelings and conscience tell us so. There is a voice within, a sort of instinct, that urges us to pray. This is proved by the fact that even the most degraded heathen offer up prayers to their idols. It is said there never was a nation or religion that did not have some form of prayer. Of course, if prayer is so universal, it must be a dictate of nature.”

“Very good,” said the teacher; “and this is not only true of nations, but of individuals. I doubt whether any person ever lived to mature age, who never offered a prayer at some period of his life, in some way or other. Let some terrible calamity suddenly threaten even the most abandoned man, and how quickly does he begin to pray! Even infidels cannot repress this natural instinct of prayer. It is said that Thomas Paine, when in danger of shipwreck, called loudly on God for mercy; and Lord Herbert, the celebrated deist,^[9] after he had written a book against Christianity, actually prayed to God to tell him whether he should publish it. I have even read an argument written by an avowed infidel, trying to prove that it was right and consistent for an atheist to pray to God. He maintained that if there were only one chance in a thousand that there is a Deity who hears prayer, and will reward or punish us for our conduct, it was a matter of policy to call upon Him, rather than run the risk of offending Him.”

“Prayer brings down blessings,” was given by another pupil as a fifth reason why we ought to pray; and in proof, she cited several examples from the Old and New Testaments.

“How do you account for it, then, that some people who never pray receive so many blessings?” inquired the teacher.

“It is because God is so good, that he often bestows blessings when they are not asked for,” was the reply.

“You are right,” said the teacher. “The Lord is good to all; He is kind unto the unthankful and the evil; but He often bestows special favors in answer to prayer. His choicest blessings are spiritual ones, and these He usually gives only in answer to prayer. They are offered to us conditionally. We must ask for them if we want them.”

Another reason was now called for, but the class seemed to have exhausted the theme, and no one responded. The teacher then continued:

“Supposing it were possible to overthrow all the arguments that have been mentioned, there is one more that would still have great weight with me. It is this—prayer exerts a good influence on our hearts. It improves our temper, and disposition. It makes us better children, better parents, better men and women. It seems as if God rewarded us for the very act of coming to Him in prayer, even when He does not think it best to grant our petition. It appears to me that if this were the only benefit we derived from prayer, we should be very unwise to give it up.

“Can any of you think of another argument in favor of this duty?” inquired the teacher. No one replying, she continued: “The fact that the best people that have ever lived have always been praying people, is, I think, a strong argument in favor of prayer. The Bible is full of examples of this kind, and so is all history. The purest men that the world has ever known, and those that have done the most for mankind, have been men who communed with God. I should like to have the members of the class name some examples, if they can think of any.”

Moses, Samuel, David, Daniel, Paul, and several other Bible saints, were mentioned by different scholars.

“Can you think of any striking examples besides those that are recorded in the Bible?” inquired the teacher.

“Washington,” suggested one of the girls.

“Yes,” resumed the teacher, “Washington is an illustration of this truth, from our own history. It is well known that he was a man of prayer. And so was Alfred the Great, the wisest and best ruler England ever had. We are told that he devoted one third of his time to study and devotion. The same rule holds good even among the heathen. Socrates was one of the purest of the Greek philosophers, and though he knew nothing of the Scriptures, he rebuked those who did not look to God in prayer for guidance and assistance. Now if such men as these, and thousands of others of the wisest and best that ever lived, thought it a duty and a privilege to pray, it seems to me their example ought to have some influence on us.”

The teacher then reviewed the arguments for prayer that had been brought forward, requesting each scholar to note them down in the following form and order:

The lesson was one of much interest to Jessie. She had learned something of the value of prayer during the past few months. She had often secretly poured her troubles into the gracious ear that is ever ready to hear, and had found comfort in doing so. Her heart warmly responded to all the motives to pray that had been mentioned, and but for her diffidence in alluding to her own religious feelings, she would have suggested an eighth motive, viz., “Because it is delightful to pray.”

Before retiring at night, Jessie copied into her journal the foregoing list of motives for prayer, adding the eighth. She then knelt down, as was her daily habit, and offered to her Maker the homage of a grateful heart.