THERE was a passage from Cowper that my sister used to quote to us,because,she said,she often repeated it to herself,and found that it did her good:--"In such a world,so thorny,and where none Finds happiness unblighted,or if found,Without some thistly sorrow at its side,It seems the part of wisdom,and no sin Against the law of love,to measure lots With less distinguished than ourselves,that thus We may with patience bear our moderate ills,And sympathize with others,suffering more."I think she made us feel--she certainly made me feel--that our lot was in many ways an unusually fortunate one,and full of responsibilities.She herself was always thinking what she could do for others,not only immediately about her,but in the farthest corners of the earth.She had her Sabbath-school class,and visited all the children in it:she sat up all night,very often,watching by a sick girl's bed,in the hospital or in some distant boarding-house;she gave money to send to missionaries,or to help build new churches in the city,when she was earning only eight or ten dollars a month clear of her board,and could afford herself but one "best dress,"besides her working clothes.
That best dress was often nothing but a Merrimack print.But she insisted that it was a great saving of trouble to have just this one,because she was not obliged to think what she should wear if she were invited out to spend an evening.And she kept track of all the great philanthropic movements of the day.She felt deeply the shame and wrong of American slavery,and tried to make her workmates see and feel it too.(Petitions to Congress for the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia were circulated nearly every year among the mill-girls,and received thousands of signatures.)Whenever she was not occupied with her work or her reading,or with looking after us younger ones,--two or three hours a day was all the time she could call her own,--she was sure to be away on some errand of friendliness or mercy.
Those who do most for others are always those who are called upon continually to do a little more,and who find a way to do it.
People go to them as to a bank that never fails.And surely,they who have an abundance of life in themselves and who give their life out freely to others are the only really rich.
Two dollars a week sounds very small,but in Emilie's hands it went farther than many a princely fortune of to-day,because she managed with it to make so many people happy.But then she wanted absolutely nothing for herself;nothing but the privilege of helping others.
I seem to be eulogizing my sister,though I am simply relating matters of fact.I could not,however,illustrate my own early experience,except by the lives around me which most influenced mine.And it was true that our smaller and more self-centred natures in touching hers caught something of her spirit,the contagion of her warm heart and healthy energy.For health is more contagious than disease,and lives that exhale sweetness around them from the inner heaven of their souls keep the world wholesome.
I tried to follow her in my faltering way,and was gratified when she would send me to look up one of her stray children,or would let me watch with her at night by a sick-bed.I think it was partly for the sake of keeping as close to her as I could--though not without a sincere desire to consecrate myself to the Best--that I became,at about thirteen,a member of the church which we attended.
Our minister was a scholarly man,of refined tastes and a sensitive organization,fervently spiritual,and earnestly devoted to his work.It was all education to grow up under his influence.I shall never forget the effect left by the tones of his voice when be first spoke to me,a child of ten years,at a neighborhood prayer-meeting in my mother's sitting-room.He had been inviting his listeners to the friendship of Christ,and turning to my little sister and me,he said,--"And these little children,too;won't they come?"The words,and his manner of saving them,brought the tears to my eyes.Once only before,far back in my earlier childhood--I have already mentioned the incident--had I heard that Name spoken so tenderly and familiarly,yet so reverently.It was as if he had been gazing into the face of an invisible Friend,and bad just turned from Him to look into ours,while he gave us his message,that He loved us.
In that moment I again caught a glimpse of One whom I had always known,but had often forgotten,--One who claimed me as his Father's child,and would never let me go.It was a real Face that I saw,a real Voice that I heard,a real Person who was calling me.I could not mistake the Presence that had so often drawn near me and shone with sunlike eyes into my soul.The words,"Lord,lift Thou up the light of thy countenance upon us!"had always given me the feeling that a beautiful sunrise does.
It is indeed a sunrise text,for is not He the Light of the World?
And peaceful sunshine seemed pouring in at the windows of my life on the day when I stood in the aisle before the pulpit with a group,who,though young,were all much older than myself,and took with them the vows that bound us to his service.Of what was then said and read I scarcely remember more than the words of heavenly welcome in the Epistle,"Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners."It was like coming home,like stepping a little farther beyond the threshold in at the open door of our Father's house.
Perhaps I was too young to assume those vows.Had I deferred it a few years there would have been serious intellectual hindrances.
