The Circle of Stones

ROWS and rows of stones round a circle in the sand, some large and some small, but all neatly arranged, with two larger ones standing in the middle; five children busily hunting for little white pebbles, and putting them amongst the others. This is what I saw one afternoon on the beach at a seaside town. Do you wonder what all this meant? I did. So I asked Harry, one of the little boys, who was busy with the tiny white stones.
“Oh! this is a model of our Children’s Service on the sands. This stone is Mr.—, and that Mr. —, the gentlemen who speak to us, and the white stones are the hymn papers they give out.”
“What is this black stone by them?” I asked.
“That’s the black bag they carry the hymns in and the picture books they often give us after the service.”
“Do you think it wrong to play at this?” said Elsie, a little girl of nine years old, who was helping them.
“I wanted to play at the gentlemen speaking to us,” interrupted Harry, “but Elsie would not let us.”
“Why not?” I said to Elsie, quietly.
“Oh!” she said, “you know they always tell us about Jesus when they talk to us, and I could not bear the boys to do that in play.”
“Will you tell me why, Elsie?”
Very softly was the answer spoken. “Because I love Him, and He is my Friend.” Dear children, I wonder whether it grieves you when you hear others—grown up people sometimes, I am afraid— speaking lightly of that loving Saviour, and whether it is for the same reason as Elsie—because you love Him! If we love any one very much, we cannot bear to hear anything unkind said of them. I shall never forget, while waiting at a country station, hearing two men talking about a farmer, for whom they worked. They said he was very irritable, and sometimes they could not please him. At last a man sitting by got up and said, “That farmer is my friend, and, if you knew him as I do, you would not say such things. He is not strong, because when a boy he worked so hard to support his widowed mother, and often when you think him cross he is suffering very much, and scarcely knows how to move about, but is so anxious to be able still to provide for his mother and sister.” That man cared for his friend, did he not? The Bible says, “Unto you therefore which believe He (Jesus) is precious.” (1 Peter 2:7.) Elsie loved the Lord Jesus, her Saviour, as her Friend, and would not hear Him lightly spoken of, and told her little friends so.
We often find it is an effort to show that we belong to the Lord Jesus before our friends and school fellows— “to confess Him”—but He says, “Whosoever” (and that must mean even little children) “shall confess Me before men, him will I confess also before My Father, which is in heaven.” Think of the happiness of that! If we confess Jesus because we really love Him, He will one day confess us, poor weak sinners, before His Father and the holy angels.
“I have a Friend, a precious Friend, unchanging, wise, and true:
The Chief among ten thousand. Oh! I wish you knew Him, too.
Encompassed with a host of foes, weary in heart and limb,
I know who waits to soothe my woes. Have you a friend like Him?
He comforts me; He strengthens me. How can I then repine?
He loveth me. This precious Friend, in life and death, is mine.”
F. E. T.
The Plagues of Egypt.
THE NINTH PLAGUE.
THE east wind drove the locusts over Egypt, and the west wind carried them away, and, if you glance at a map, you will observe that the west wind blows over the sandy deserts which border the country. It was “a mighty strong west wind” which Jehovah sent that swept the huge army of insects into the Red Sea, and Pharaoh’s hard heart seems to have still rebelled against Jehovah while this west wind yet blew.
Was it that idol-worshipping king looked up to the heavens and beheld the Sun, Egypt’s great god, shining as usual? Was it that he said within his soul that the chief deity of his fathers still remained untouched by Israel’s God? Be this as it may, it appears evident from the sacred history that the plague of darkness followed shortly after that of the locusts. Without a word more to Pharaoh, the Lord bade Moses stretch forth his hand toward heaven, that there might be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness that may be felt. There can be hardly any question that God used the mighty strong west wind to bear upon its fierce blasts the sand of the desert, and for three days and three nights to pour upon the stricken land heaps upon heaps of blinding sand. This would render the land dark with a terrible darkness which could be felt. Even now when the Hamseen, as the west wind is called, blows fiercely it sweeps up so much desert sand and dust that day is turned into night, and that part of Egypt where the sandstorm falls is rendered darker than London in a smoke fog. This fifty days’ wind, and its sandstorms of a few hours’ duration, occur yearly now, and serve to spew us the character of the darkness which Jehovah sent, Our engraving portrays a sandstorm in the desert, with the huge columns or pillars of sand whirling across the plains and threatening to bury the travelers who hasten for their lives from the hot and terrible tempest.
The suffering and loss of life endured during such a darkness and extending over so long a time must have been fearful in the extreme. None stirred from his house. To do so would be to be choked with suffocating sand. None could see, for the wild wind blew the blinding torment through every crack and crevice, and made the houses dark. There they sat in misery and blackness for three long days and nights, hearing the awful rushing of the storm continually. But all the children of Israel had light in their dwellings, This plague was, perhaps, more severe and deadly than any of its predecessors; and when we regard it as the last of a series sent upon the land, we have a scene before us of the most intense desolation. What the hail had left the locusts had eaten, and over the barren soil which the locusts had left the heavy sand of the desert was poured for three weary days and nights.
During these days and nights, when the whole of the Egyptians were held fast in their houses we may be sure that the hosts of Israel were completing their muster preparatory to their departure from Pharaoh forever. For the last time Pharaoh called to Moses, and bade him go, children and all, except the flocks and herds. But Moses’s answer was, “There shall not an hoof be left behind.” Pharaoh angrily replied, that Moses ever saw him again, he should die. Whereupon Moses calmly said, “Thou hast spoken well I will see thy face again no more.”
Then Moses recounted to Pharaoh what the Lord had already told him, that one plague more should fall upon Egypt, that all the firstborn should die, and that a great cry should rise up in Egypt, such as had never been before. Terrible words. For what bitter wails had already been heard throughout the land Pharaoh and his servants should know, the Lord said, that He put a difference between the idolatrous people and those who served Him, More: that the servants of Pharaoh should bow before Moses, praying him begone, “Get thee out,” and that when this was accomplished he would go.
Thereupon Pharaoh fell into a great anger, and Moses left him, never again to see his face, but shortly to hear his words, “Rise up, and get you forth from among my people, both ye and the children of Israel; and go, serve the Lord, as ye have said, Also take your flocks and your herds, as ye have said, and be gone; and bless me also.”
(Chapter 12:31, 32.)
H. F. W.
William Farel.
(Continued from p. 176,)
IN the meanwhile Farel had to learn other sad lessons. A great dispute arose at Strasbourg as to the teaching of Martin Luther. Luther said that whilst the bread and wine in the Lord’s Supper remained bread and wine they were notwithstanding really and truly the body and blood of Christ. Farel was much grieved that Luther taught this error, and that many of those who believed the gospel took part with him. He wrote strongly to Luther, insisting that the bread and wine were in remembrance of the body and blood of Christ, and only in remembrance. But Luther turned a deaf ear, and a sad and sorrowful time of disputing and arguing followed. Farel had had to learn by bitter experience how little dependence is to be placed even on the men whom God raises up to do His work, and to whom He gives light and knowledge, It made his path a lonely one, for much as he loved Luther, and Faber, and Roussel, and Hausschein, there was not one amongst them all, who was willing to cast off popery fully and completely, and to go back to the Word of God alone. Thus the happy time at Strasbourg became clouded and dark. But Farel meantime was learning to look less to man, and more to God. It was no doubt a time of great sorrow to him. We are told that “a word of dishonor spoken of Christ moved him more than the thrust of a sword,” and that Luther, who was now the teacher of thousands, should thus mislead them, was a bitter disappointment to him. In this way the days passed till the autumn of 1526. Farel then left Strasbourg. There was one part of the world where French was spoken, and where his message had not as yet been given. This country was the western division of Switzerland. It seemed to Farel that it was to these French Swiss the Lord would have him go. He had been invited to Switzerland, too, by a preacher of the gospel at Berne. This man, Berthold Hailer, had for some time been laboring in and around Berne, where German was chiefly spoken, but there were towns and villages further west, where French was the language, and where the people were under the government of Berne. The chief lords of Berne had been taught by Berthold Haller, and it would seem had really believed the gospel. It was, therefore, to be expected that they would help rather than hinder any preacher who came to their territory.
William Farel left Strasbourg on foot. One friend went with him. I do not know who this was. The first evening of their journey they lost their way. Torrents of rain came down, and the night set in dark and cold. They wandered on, they knew not where; at last, thoroughly worn out, they sat down in the wet road, and gave up all hope of finding the right path. Farel felt for the moment utterly cast down. It was nothing new to him to spend the night out of doors. For weeks, if not for months, he had thus wandered amongst the mountains of Dauphine, sheltering himself amongst the mossy rocks and wild laburnums. But now, on this dark, wet night, God had a lesson to teach him which was to fit him, as he would not otherwise have been fitted, for the glorious days that were at hand. “Ah!” he wrote afterward to his friends at Strasbourg, “God, by thus showing me how powerless I am even in little things, wished to teach me my utter helplessness in great things; how I am to rest not on myself, but on Christ.” Yes, it may be that though Farel had been shaken from all dependence upon dear Master Faber and Roussel, and the great teacher Martin Luther, there was yet one man in whom he still felt confidence, and that man was William Farel. That night of cold, and rain, and fatigue, was a message from God, and it was well he understood it.
The two friends prayed together in the muddy road, and then started afresh. They arrived at last at their journey’s end; but they had had to wade through a marsh, to swim through floods, to scramble through vineyards and stony fields, and pathless forests. When they reached their lodging they were wet to the skin, and covered with mud. The lesson that Farel learned that night was one he never forgot, and he could thank God for the rest of his life for the cold and the rain and the darkness which had driven him from himself to Christ. Farel stayed but a very little while at Berne. He was glad to see Berth-old Haller, but he was longing to be amongst the French Swiss, where he could speak freely of his blessed Lord. Haller advised him to go to the village of Aigle, which belonged to Berne.
I must now tell you a little of the country in which the remainder of Farel’s life was to be spent for Christ—of the beautiful French Switzerland, where his name is still remembered, and where there are yet those who praise and thank God for having sent His servant to bring the glad tidings to their mountain villages. I wish that I could show you those glorious mountains, with their snow-covered peaks, and the green wooded valleys, with rushing rivers and mossy rocks—the countless waterfalls—the green meadows, with a carpet of wild flowers, such as you never see in these northern countries. You would find there the deep blue gentians and the pale primrose-colored anemones, and thick beds of large forget-me-nots, lilies, and auriculas, and many flowers which have no English names. And, higher up you would find the wild Alpen roses, which are not roses, but small crimson rhododendrons, covering the gray rocks. You would see lying amongst the blue hills the beautiful lake of Geneva, with many little villages and old castles along the shore, and the snow-mountains reflected in the still water. Thousands of people go every year to see these grand mountains, and the lovely lake, and the pretty villages. But it was for another reason that William Fare! found his way there, through the rain and snow, in the winter of 1526. It was not because the country was grand and beautiful, but because it was dark and miserable, that he had longed to be there.
Let me tell you something of its darkness and its misery. Four popish bishops ruled over the towns and villages of French Switzerland. They ruled in the name of the pope, whose faithful servants they were? Who was the pope at this time? Leo X. was gone to his account. He knew now there was a God—he believed at last, as the devils believe and tremble. His cousin, Clement VII., now wore his triple crown, and sat upon his throne. He was a man of endless ambition; he was bent upon making for his family a great name in Europe. He contrived later to marry his cousin, Catherine of Medic’s, to the King of France. You may remember how in her old age she was guilty of the murder of thousands upon thousands of the Lord’s people in her unhappy country. An outcry was made, even by the Roman Catholics themselves, in the time of this pope against the vice and the crimes of the clergy. Many princes assembled at Nuremberg, and sent an appeal to the pope desiring him to reform the church. He said he would see what could be done amongst the parish priests and curates, but, as to his own court, he refused all reform, and if any dared to say a word against the doings of the cardinals and bishops they were heretics for thus speaking; and should be treated accordingly. Thus the four bishops of French Switzerland were free to follow the example of the pope, by living in self-indulgence, in ignorance, and in sin; and lest the light should break in, and their deeds should be reproved, it was needful that they should keep the people in ignorance also.
The Bible was unknown in those pretty mountain villages—unknown in the great towns of Geneva and Lausanne. The people came in crowds to the church of St. Peter at Geneva. But it was not to hear the blessed gospel. It was to see the brain of St. Peter and the arm of St. Anthony. Before these holy relics they knelt down and worshipped, and little thought how the priest who sheaved them, was mocking in his heart at their folly, pleased though he was to pocket the money which they paid for the sight. The priest was well aware that the brain of St. Peter was a piece of pumice stone, and the arm of St. Anthony the leg of a stag. The poor wondering people would come too in crowds to Geneva on Christmas Eve. There in the church of St. Gervais they could hear the dead saints, who had been buried hundreds of years before under the high altar, singing and chanting, and talking one to another. When at last William Farel found his way to Geneva more was heard about these singing saints. But that was not to be for some years yet. You shall hear when that time came what yet remains to be told. I could not tell you in this short history all the mad and wicked stories told by the priests to these poor people. How many they were able to take in you may judge of when you hear that they really believed that all the church bells walked of their own accord to Rome during Passion Week to ask pardon of the pope for all their sins. There were the bells in the towers no doubt, but “those,” said the priests, “are only the appearance of bells. If you were to ring them they would give no sound.” And not even the most mischievous of boys dared to try whether the bells would ring or not.
Such was the darkness of that bright and beautiful country, and as yet no voice had been heard there to speak of better things, no light had broken in upon this land of the shadow of death.
F. B.