THE

TEACHER'S VISITOR.

No. 45.

JANUARY, 1848.

VOL. VIII.

"THY SON LIVETH."

A TEACHER'S STORY FOR THE YOUNG.

In the month of May last, on the morning of that holy Sabbath, set apart in our beloved Church for the special commemoration of the grand and vitally important doctrine of the Trinity, my duty led me away from home several hours earlier than usual to be at the bed-side of a sister's dying child.

It was a most beautiful morning, so delightfully serene and bright-the air cool and refreshing-the season that at which creation is clothed in its most elegant attire— and my walk of a mile was in the neighbourhood of a spot perhaps as highly favoured for natural beauty as any of which our island has to boast; and I think I may unhesitatingly add, as highly blest with spiritual privileges and means of grace. May those advantages, entailing upon us so much responsibility, be more generally appreciated and lived up to, and more thankfully acknowledged!

Many interesting objects offered themselves for profitable contemplation, among which the pleasing diversity of flowering shrubs drew my attention. Here was the laburnum, with its graceful blossoms, "rich in streaming gold," in some places contrasted with a back ground, or prettily intermingling with the exuberant and beautifully rich green foliage of the lime, in others, standing almost in contact with the white and coloured lilac: here the red thorn glowed with a profusion of blossom, yonder the mountain ash lent its aid to beautify the scene; the hawthorn also, richly robed in its chaste dress of snowy white, was in full bloom: the foliage of evergreens, whose freshness had pleased during winter's short and cheerless days, wore

generally a sombre, and in many instances a sickly and dying appearance, while, at the same time, vigorous young shoots of beautifully pale verdure were putting forth their claims to notice and admiration. Life and beauty were thus emerging from amidst decay and death. How instructive, and how emblematic of the scene I was about to visit! My attention was also drawn towards several elegant chestnuts, with their fanlike foliage, and beautiful conical blossoms of white and pink so delicately blended. And the guelder rose, also, bedecked with a profusion of chaste white globes, basked in the gay morning sunlight. These, and many other pleasing objects lay in my path, and from time to time momentarily drew off my thoughts from the sorrowful chamber to which I was hastening, and the piteous little sufferer to whose relief many of us were anxiously-and some were prayerfully-lending our most thoughtful attention and unceasing aid. Still, while all these interesting objects were glowing with freshness, beauty, and vigour, in the bright Sabbath morning's sun, and the blackbird and the thrush, in a wood not far distant, were pouring forth their morning song, and the cuckoo her monotonous but pleasing and welcome notes, and I could listen to the melody, and view the scenery, enjoying the privilege of being able to say

"My Father made them all,"

a sadness predominated, and they failed to give that entire and unmixed pleasure which they usually impart; indeed they seemed to infuse a degree of melancholy, being in such strong contrast to the picture before my mind. Thoughts of the dear little one's burning cheek, and fixed eye, and hard, quick, and fluctuating pulse, and convulsive movements, and irregular and at times almost imperceptible breathing-his wasting frame, and his dear head and hands steeped with vinegar, ill accorded with the pleasurable contemplation of the bursting elegance and health so universally in view.

Arrived at my sister's house, with increased emotion, I knocked, and was told that the child was then dying. My sister met me with the words-" Our dear brother!

pray-pray God to spare the dear child." Around his bed was a group of relatives, stunned with grief atuntil a few hours past-the unexpected turn of his disease. He was the only son of his mother :" her affliction was indeed great. She had been expecting her husband hourly, during the previous fortnight, to arrive from the East Indies; and since the time she had been anxiously waiting his arrival, with boxes packed, in readiness to start for a distant port to meet him, her child sickened, and was now in the "valley of the shadow of death."

I went to his bed-side: a very evident change had taken place since the preceding evening. He was lying on his back, and motionless, except a convulsive catching of the hands. His senseless eyes were wide open, and drawn very much upwards, but they did not communicate the intelligence to his mind that those who loved him as themselves were near, doing for him all that skill could suggest or affection incite. It was a very solemn sight. I thought, "dear boy, your eyes are directed to that happy place where your soul now so mysteriously enfettered by malignant disease will soon enter, for ever sinless, and freed, and happy." I was asked by my sister my opinion of him, and told her, as well as emotion would allow me, that if he recovered it would be little short of a miracle; that she must make up her mind soon to lose him; that she must endeavour to quiet herself and be resigned: that he was safe; that the Saviour's mediation was sufficient for, and applied to him, young as he was. O sorrowful room! How truly may death be called "the great enemy;" "the king of terrors." Yes; even to those who have a good hope through grace, it is a most solemn event; an event which stamps for us an eternal and unalterable destiny, either in unimaginable happiness or woe.

Feeling deeply oppressed, I turned towards the open window to breathe the pure morning air, and was refreshed. All was quiet, delightfully quiet: nature as well as man seemed to be enjoying Sabbath repose. Standing at this window, on the previous day, I enjoyed a few pleasing thoughts, by associating what met my sight with

the truths and hopes which inspire our breasts. These thoughts then recurred to memory.

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Close under the window, in a favourable aspect, was a vine, growing luxuriantly, and shewing promise of fruit in many places. I thought of Him who had said—“I am the vine, ye are the branches," and endeavoured to realize the nature of union with Him, its intimacy, its closeness, the absolute necessity, the unspeakable value of it: The branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine: no more can ye, except ye abide in me: severed from me ye can do nothing." I felt assured that the Saviour would engraft this young branch into himself, or had already done so; and would cause him to flourish in everlasting beauty, and in unbroken union and communion with himself, and in his immediate and blissful presence. I turned to the bed behind me, and thought with sincerest pleasure of the benefits of the Redeemer's mediation being most certainly extended to the dear boy lying on it; and that this the fruit of the travail of that Redeemer's soul, although so young, was not beneath his notice; and that it, notwithstanding its being removed from its native soil in immaturity, would "live in him transplanted, and from him receive new life;" and be preserved and perfected in the genial atmosphere of heaven. I also repeatedly thought of the great, the only real comfort, which the Christian parent is privileged to enjoy during the painful trial of witnessing the dissolution of a dear child under the age of accountability, in settling down into the assurance that a Saviour's precious bloodshedding, and infinitely perfect righteousness, avails to the washing out of the stains of original depravity, and to the perfect justification of its soul before an infinitely just and holy God.

Close by was a miniature green-house, containing some pretty plants in full bloom. While I withdrew from the window for a short time, the slide had been drawn up to admit air, and I had a full view of their pleasing forms and beautiful tints. I thought of the care requisite to be exercised on our languishing plant inside: he wanted the breath of heaven to fan his burning cheek; yes-and more than human care and skill to check the flowing