Elizabeth Bales—a Pattern for Sunday 2
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And now, what LESSONS are to be gathered from this short memoir?
I. We see in it a beautiful exemplification of the true nature and transcendent excellence of religion.
True religion is not merely an outward observance of ceremonies, nor an attendance upon ordinances; these things are nothing worthy in themselves—mere bodily exercise that profits nothing and of no acceptance to God. They are profitable only as they spring from the inward principle of a renewed, holy, and humble mind. True religion begins in deep conviction of sin, a sense of our fallen and ruined state as exposed to the wrath of God in consequence of transgression; and then goes on in a simple faith in the Gospel, leading to an entire, thankful, and peace-giving dependance on the blood and righteousness of Christ for acceptance with God. From this faith there arises love to God, to his people, to his ways, and to holiness. In proportion as faith is felt, it makes its possessor humble, meek, and benevolent; full of pity for man and zeal for the glory of God.
See how all this was exemplified in the subject of this memoir. Never was there a more pure and sincere creature; a more dutiful daughter; a more harmless and inoffensive being, than she was! And yet how did she confess and bewail her sinfulness in the sight of God; how entirely did she renounce all dependence upon her own good doings, and how exclusively did she rely upon the righteousness of Christ. Observe the holy virtues which clustered in her character—how profound was her humility—how gentle her demeanor—how striking her meekness—how uncomplaining her submission—how exemplary her patience—how exquisite her benevolence—how ardent her zeal—how tender her attachments—how intense her piety—and, to crown all, how unmixed was all this with any spiritual pride, any sense of superiority, or any sanctimonious airs. Had she been a Roman Catholic, or a Mystic, superstition would have invested this union of personal deformity and eminent piety, of usefulness and trance-like hallucinations, with something of supernatural visitation. How much is there for all of us to learn and to copy. Her body and her soul were in striking contrast with each other.
But the peace-giving nature of piety is most strikingly set forth in this beautiful example. Elizabeth, amidst all her poverty, her personal appearance, and her sufferings—was happy. Many a modern belle, of envied beauty, dwelling amidst the splendors of wealth, emblazoned with rank, and flattered and caressed by the great, might, on account of the untroubled flow of her thoughts, and the quiet, lake-like, heaven-reflecting surface of her heart—have looked with envy upon the little decrepit form that pursued its daily rounds of mercy, panting for breath, in the neighborhood of Garrison Lane Chapel. She looked happy, for she felt so. Notes of praise and not of complaint were ever flowing from her lips. Many heard her expressions of gratitude, none ever had to expostulate with her on a murmuring expression.
And now contemplate the elevating nature of religion. How entirely did moral and spiritual excellence raise her above all disadvantages of person and station, and cover with its luster her deformity and poverty. What would she have been without religion? An object of pity to the good, and of ridicule to the bad, but of respect or interest to none. She would have lived without comfort and died without esteem. It was this divine excellence that, in spite of all that was repulsive to the bodily eye, made her an object of regard to all that knew her. Yes, and this did so raise her, that half the women who have passed through society, with all the advantages of beauty, and elegance, and wealth in their favor, whatever they may have had of admiration and of flattery—have had far less of love and of esteem than this child of poverty and sorrow. So true is the language of God—"Since you were precious in my sight, you have been honorable." Isaiah 43:4.
II. What a proof is this narrative of the common remark, that where there is a heart to do good—there is an opportunity;that where there is a will to be useful—there is a way to be useful, and that no disadvantages and obstacles are so great as to be insurmountable to an intelligent and determined zeal. If with feeble health and all the circumstances that seemed to forbid her active usefulness, Elizabeth could do so much good by direct personal effort—what might not be done by others to whom these disadvantages do not belong? Alas! how much less good do any of us do than we might! And if she lamented over the little work she did for Christ—with how much greater shame and grief should we deplore our unfruitfulness? How shall we excuse ourselves for our indolence? What defense shall we set up? The world is perishing around us! Sinners are going down to the pit before our eyes! Immortal souls by countless millions are crowding to the regions of eternal despair! And what have we to say, that we do not do more for their salvation? How little are we affected by the terrific scene! How little are we pierced by a sense of the ignorance, sin and misery which appeal to our very senses! Oh where is the constraining love of Christ? Where is the compassion for souls? Where the sense of responsibility to God? All may do good, and all should do it. There needs not the gender and strength of the man—woman may do good. There needs not personal advantage—decrepitude may do good. There needs not wealth—poverty may do good. The blessed luxury is within the reach of all, and to have no appetite or taste for it is but too plain an indication of a wrong state of soul.
In this world of sin and sorrow, where our purest enjoyments are so mixed, there is no bliss equal to that which is derived from the exercise of benevolence. There is a very admirable Tract published by the Religious Tract Society, entitled, "How to do good," or ways of caring for the souls of others, which enumerates the following methods of pious zeal. You can pray for your families, friends, neighbors, and the world. You can set a holy example, and show that religion makes you holy, kind, gentle, good-tempered, and happy. You can speak to your families, friends, neighbors, about their souls. When you see people do or say wrong, you can kindly speak to them. You can read the Bible and pray with your families. You can lend and give gospel tracts. You can read the Bible and good books to those who will listen. Some of you can be Sunday-school teachers. You can give property to support Societies for spreading the Gospel. You can beg people to go to God's house. You can visit the sick. You can send your children to a Sunday-school, or beg others to send theirs. You can speak to your companions about religion. You can be kind to others, and then they will be more likely to mind what you say. You can write letters to your friends, and try to do them good, and ask them to do good to others. When you are going to the house of God, you can speak to those whom you see sinning. In walking along the road or anywhere else, you can often drop a word to other people. In coaches, steamers, and other places you can speak to people. When you have a few minutes to spare, you can visit some neighbors and speak to them about their souls. Here are twenty ways of doing good. The tract which enumerates them gives instances of success with most of them. Harlan Page was a man who loved to do good, and between the hours of his work he went and spoke to others about their souls, besides other ways of doing good, and he was the means of turning more than a hundred people to God, some of whom were afterwards ministers.
III. What a lesson is here taught to the POOR. Much are they to be pitied. None can fully know the ills of poverty by observation. Experience alone can give this knowledge. But still it cannot be denied that these ills are always increased by sin, and diminished by piety. Godliness is the best antidote of poverty; it has in ten thousand instances prevented it, and in ten thousand more alleviated it. Who can be poorer than was Elizabeth? For years she lived almost entirely upon the bounty of others; yet who more happy, respectable, or useful? Let the poor read her history and learn that happiness may be found in a cottage. "A man's life," said our Lord, "consists not in the abundance of the things that he has." True blessedness comes from spiritual things—not from temporal ones. "Hearken, my beloved brethren, has not God chosen the poor of this world rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom which he has promised to those who love him?" James 2:5.
Such are the accents which Christianity floats in heavenly music over the humble valley of poverty. "Rich in faith." This may mean either that faith is the best, the true riches—a blessed truth, for if it were ponderable, we should say a grain of saving faith is better than a ton of gold, for it secures an inheritance in all the unsearchable riches of Christ, of grace, and of glory! It justifies, sanctifies, and eternally saves! Or it may signify that the faith of the poor is peculiarly strong—yes, it is amidst the privations of poverty, where the believer has nothing in hand and nothing in hope but what he sees in the promise of God, that faith puts forth its mightiest power, and manifests its richest glories!
Was not this exemplified in the case before us? What had Elizabeth to live upon, but God's promise that she should not lack any good thing? Her faith was rich and gloriously influential. And then see the other terms of this poor man's text—HEIRS! And to what an inheritance? Toil? Sorrow? Poverty? Yes, oftentimes—but of something else if he is a Christian; "of God;" "of salvation;" "of a kingdom." He is a son of the King of kings, and destined to wear a crown of life, James 1:12; to sit upon a throne, Rev. 3:21; and to reign forever and ever in a kingdom. 2 Tim. 2:12. Rejoice, you poor, all this for you if you are partakers of faith.
True religion will make you respectable. Who was more truly respected than Elizabeth? Her poverty, her deformity, her dependence, detracted nothing from her moral worth; did not sink her in public estimation, or number her with the many who are treated with contempt and scorn. On the contrary, few, very few of far higher rank and station, have received more attention and respect. Ours is happily a country where moral worth is sure to find its proper level, where there is enough of morality and piety to estimate respectability more by character than by wealth. Many a rich man is despised—as he ought to be, on account of his vices. Many a poor man is as much esteemed because of his virtues. I allow that something else besides piety is necessary to give true respectability to the poor, but it is all within their reach—I mean good sense, good manners, and good temper. Let a man have all these, and no one will pass his door or himself with contempt. With piety as the substance, and general good conduct as the polish—the poor man is a gem, which all judges of excellence will know how to value, and be sure to admire, though the setting be in copper instead of gold. Take comfort, my poor friends, you are not disesteemed by those who know you—if you answer to this description! God respects you—Christ respects you—angels respect you—godly men respect you—bad men respect you—many who seem to despise you, really esteem you. Be assured that godliness is respectability, whether it lives in a mansion or a cottage—whether it wears satin or cotton—whether it feeds upon venison or a crust.
Nor are you, though poor, shut out from doing good, any more than you are from being good. O if you had a heart to be useful, you might find abundant opportunities to employ your energies. Instances might be adduced without number, if it were necessary, of people in the humblest walk of life doing great good; and that not only by all kinds of ingenious devices, but in the way of direct effort. Take the two following as specimens.
There was a member of the church under my care, who lived in an alms-house, and was so distorted by rheumatism as to be quite a cripple and unable to walk or stand; and withal, her fingers, through the power of her disease, were twisted into all kinds of shapes. On entering her apartment one day I found her with some Christian tracts. "Well, Mrs. H." said I, "what are you doing?" "O sir," she replied, "I am sorting my tracts." "What for?" "To send out to my neighbors." The fact was, that she received these tracts from richer friends from time to time, and then employed someone to carry them around the spacious court of alms-houses in which she lived, and other dwellings in the neighborhood; and her work was to keep up a regular supply and exchange. Thus poor old Ellen in the almshouse could find some way to be useful.
To give one more instance; I was visiting a brother minister a few years ago with a view to assist him at a missionary meeting which was to be held in his chapel. While I was in his house he called me into the kitchen, for what purpose I did not know until the scene explained itself. There stood an aged woman about eighty years old, talking with the minister, and looking with a smiling countenance and with sparkling eyes, as far as such aged orbs could sparkle, upon some silver which my friend at that moment held in the palm of his hand. It might have been supposed she was going to receive this money to multiply her comforts, for all her income was half-a-crown a week from the parish, and what the kindness of her friends might occasionally bestow, out of which she paid eighteen pence for lodgings; but no, she came to give, not to receive. That money, amounting to more than ten shillings, she had earned by knitting various articles and selling them, and she was then in the kitchen, where I saw her, to place it in the hand of her minister for the missionary society.
So you see the poor can do something for God's cause, if they have "a mind to work." But they may also do much in the way of direct effort for the conversion of souls. Can they not warn a profane sinner? or explain the way of salvation to those who are ignorant and out of the way? or distribute tracts, and explain their contents? or invite the neglectors of public worship to the house of God? Let the poor understand, value, and enjoy their privilege.
IV. Is there not a word for the RICH from Elizabeth's memoir? Can they learn nothing from this chapter of the humble annals of the poor? Should this little book meet the eye of any whom Providence has blessed with wealth, station and influence, I would say to them—does your piety flourish amidst the comforts and the elegancies of life as did hers in the cottage of poverty? Must you not admit that if you are richer in money—was richer in faith? Learn to think less and less of the wealth of this world, and more and more of the unsearchable riches of Christ. Lower the estimate which pride and vanity form of the importance of worldly distinctions. "The brother of humble circumstances should boast in his exaltation; but the one who is rich should boast in his humiliation, because he will pass away like a flower of the field. For the sun rises with its scorching heat and dries up the grass; its flower falls off, and its beautiful appearance is destroyed. In the same way, the rich man will wither away while pursuing his activities. (James 1:9-11)
How many rich professors are far less happy—than was this daughter of poverty and affliction! And oh! how much below her will they be in that world where the degrees of glory will be in proportion, not to the amount of wealth—but to the degrees of grace. How much would the rich learn were they more frequently to visit the dwellings of the poor, and see how contented and peaceful those of them who are pious are, amidst all their privations. The well known anecdote of poor Mary is so much in point here, that it cannot be repressed. She had a rich neighbor who was of a grumbling temper, and found only cause for complaint, where multitudes would have only found matter of thankfulness. One day, on returning from the chapel where she had been worshiping God, this lady overtook Mary, who frequented the same place, and who was well known to her. She entered into conversation, and as usual had many causes of complaint. Mary, who was a woman of good sense as well as piety, endeavored to lead her mind away from her sorrows—to her mercies. When they arrived opposite her door, she respectfully asked her wealthy neighbor to walk in, and then leading her to her empty cupboard, opened it, with the question, "Do you see anything there, Ma'am?" "Nothing," was the reply. And opening a drawer or two that contained her scanty wardrobe, repeated the question, "What do you see there?" "Very little." Then you see all I have in the world—but why should I be anxious, who have God for my Father, Christ for my Savior, salvation for my portion, and heaven for my home?" The lady felt the rebuke so wisely and so respectfully given, and found grace to profit by it.
And then what a lesson to the rich as regards their usefulness. O did but the wealthy know their opportunity, and feel their obligations, and appreciate their privileges to bless their race—how happy might they be themselves, and how happy might they make others. It is a distressing spectacle in such a world as ours, where evil of every kind so much abounds, to observe the disgusting and odious selfishness of many of the rich, who are wholly taken up with their own luxurious gratification, as if born only to pamper their appetites and indulge their tastes—without bestowing a thought or a care upon the misery which prevails around them! Can they wonder at the envy, suspicion, ill-will, and hatred of the poor? Can they be astonished at the sullen murmurs and convulsive heavings of that 'mass of wretchedness' in which they have left the principles of infidelity and sedition to be scattered by the spirits of mischief, unresisted and unchecked by kindness, liberality and religious effort? Whatever are the vices of the poor, they are deeply sensible of kindness, and alive to the feelings of gratitude. More of the oil of benevolence poured over the waves of discontent and disaffection would have a mighty influence in calming the troubled surface.
Especially let the rich who make a profession of religion remember their obligations. Let it be their hallowed ambition, their constant study and rich enjoyment, to find how much good they can do. Let them win for themselves, and it is a precious prize, the widow's tear of gratitude, the blessing of him that was ready to perish, the thanks unutterable of souls saved by their instrumentality, and the testimony of their approving Savior. Few, very few, of the wealthier members of the flock of Christ are yet exerting themselves as they ought to do. Few, indeed, like the subject of this memoir, "go about doing good." Their liberality and usefulness are rather a compromise to be let alone, than an actual engagement in the service of our Lord. True it is, Elizabeth had few duties and few occupations—benevolent activity was a relief from what would otherwise have been a burdensome solitude—and after all, it is, I allow, a loftier course of mercy, a nobler stretch of costly and unselfish goodness, to sacrifice the hours which might be devoted to innocent recreations and to elegant ease—to take something from the profits of business, the pleasures of friendship, or the soft enjoyments and engrossing demands of domestic scenes—and offer this contribution to the good of others. Happy in time, happier still in eternity, will those be who thus exhibit the mind that was in Christ.
V. And is there no lesson for WOMEN? What! when the interesting subject of this memoir was of that class? Your gender, my female friends, stands with honor on the page of every history under heaven, and especially of that one which is written by the inspiration of God. The same blessed page which proclaims your dishonor in the sin of your first mother, displays the glorious part you are to bear in the instrumentality of saving a lost world; and many successive chapters of the sacred volume accumulate the testimonies and the evidence of your usefulness. A useless woman, a selfish woman, an unfeeling woman, is a sin against her gender, formed as it was for sympathy and mercy, and is a sin also against the history of her gender. Be active, my sisters, be active! You are far more so than your fathers, husbands and brothers. You outstrip us in zeal and in piety too—still last at the cross, first at the sepulcher, most often at the sanctuary, longest at the throne of grace, busiest in the house of sorrow! Go on—value and maintain your distinction—and especially maintain it with that profound modesty which is the ornament of your excellence, and reveals while it conceals genuine worth.
Elizabeth with all her activity was singularly retiring in her deportment and unobtrusive in her demeanor. It was the activity of principle, not of passion merely—the constraint of redeeming love, which, like its Divine source, did not cry nor lift up its voice in the street. There is a danger in this age of female activity of some loss of female modesty; especially of young women becoming forward, obtrusive and bold—thus it is that weeds grow with the flowers, weaken their strength, hide their beauty, and corrupt their fragrance. Be watchful. Let not your good be evil spoken of. Do not imitate the Catholic nuns, who attract attention by their religious garb. But imitate as much as possible—those blessed angels who minister to the heirs of salvation, and who perform their embassies unseen and unheard.
VI. Tract distributors and visitors of the sick, behold a model which you may imitate with great advantage. Elizabeth's work in this department of her labor was at once her business and her delight. She went to it as a vocation, and pursued it with a steadiness, produced by the double stimulus of conscience and affection. Her tracts were not thrown in at the door, as if, like the distributors of hand-bills, she had so many to give away, and which the sooner the last was gone, no matter how, the better. To her they were means of introduction for herself—little harbingers to prepare her own way to go in, and sit down, and talk with her neighbors about their souls. And this is the way to do good.
A good tract distributor needs more than a foot and a hand—she should have an eye beaming with affection, lips on which is the law of kindness, and a tongue, the accents of which are instruction, warning, and consolation to the ignorant, wicked and wretched. Tracts are now happily become very common; so common that in many instances they are received with indifference, where they are not surlily refused—this makes it the more necessary to add conversation, explanation, and in some cases reading. Great skill and tact are necessary to gain a ready access to the houses and hearts on such errands—but the secret of this is love and gentleness. Elizabeth in many instances conquered by affection. She never resented rudeness, was never petulant—but by the meek and quiet manner in which she bore with unkindness, in the few cases which manifested it, she subdued and softened the individual who expressed it. A disposition, the serenity of which is with difficulty ruffled by opposition and rudeness—is essential to a visitor of the ungodly, who goes to reclaim them from sin. The sweet persuasiveness of her manner often served her in dealing with the skeptic and the scoffer, instead of argument; for it is willingly conceded that she could more powerfully recommend godliness by being an example of its blessedness—than prove its divine authority by argument, or answer the objections of the caviling disputant. She was herself with such men, an argument of greater weight, than all the logic of others. Still, it is desirable in this age, when infidelity has become condescending, and leaving the heights of society has descended into the valley of poverty, that tract distributors should know how to answer the objections of infidels, and how to prove the divine claims of the religion they are anxious to spread.
Happily, the merciful spirit of Christianity is also seen in this age, not only in sending missionaries to distant lands, but in the various benevolent institutions for visiting and relieving the sick in our own country. Many, like our deceased friend, go to the 'chamber of affliction' and to the 'bed-side of disease', to impart the 'medicine of the soul' in words whereby men may be comforted and saved. Let no one venture upon such an errand without tenderness of spirit and gentleness of manner! Elizabeth was a pattern in a sick chamber, so soft in voice, so gentle in manner, so tender in spirit, though perhaps a little too prone, from the very longing of her soul after the salvation of those she visited, to believe that they were saved.
I know no office so difficult as to the discharge of its duties, as the visitation of the sick; and with the exception of cases of chronic disease, which leaves the mind long at leisure to think, and meditate, and pray—I do not anticipate so much real good from visits of this kind as many do. True religion is a mental process from beginning to end, and the man half delirious with fever, in a state of extreme prostration of strength, or writhing in agony, can attend but little to the words of instruction. It were well to take the people off as much as possible, from a kind of superstitious regard to, and dependence upon, the prayers of a minister, or pious people, in sickness—and lead them to consider that the time of life and health, are the time to seek the salvation of the soul. Still there are innumerable cases to which these remarks do not apply, but in which, during the slow waste of disease, the soul has leisure to think of her dark and winding course, and opportunity to return to God—and for which the voice of the godly visitor is essentially necessary. Ministers can do but little alone for such instances, and may be materially assisted by such gentle spirits as have been described in this memoir. As a general remark, it may be said that much Christian intelligence, as well as much kindness of heart and gentleness of manner, are necessary for such an office; and also a very clear, discriminating, simple method of stating the ground of a sinner's hope towards God.
VII. And now I devote a few pages in conclusion, and with great earnestness, to that useful and honorable class to which Elizabeth especially belonged, I mean the SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHERS. It is in this character I wish you to contemplate her, and in which she really is so bright a pattern.
I will not conceal an apprehension which I have sometimes felt, lest you, my dear friends, should be in any measure injured by the manner in which you have been often appealed to of late, and in which the importance of your useful labors has been described. It is indeed true, that your office is important, and its duties of momentous consequence to the well-being of those who are the objects of your kind attention—for you have to do not only with thinking minds, but with immortal souls—and your object is not only to train the 'rational' creature—but the 'everlasting' creature. Nothing, of course, can be more momentous than eternity, and it is to eternity that your labors relate—but, in proportion to the grandeur of your object and the loftiness of your aim, is there a danger of your having the 'feeling of pride' elicited by descriptions of your work, and calculations and statements of your numbers. The latter idea gives a sense of importance in any cause. Many an individual who is quite humble in his state of isolation, and when he labors on amidst his own difficult duties, and his consciousness of imperfection, still feels something of pride when he calculates the number of those he teaches and influences—his mind inflates to the limits of the vast circle in which he moves. Beware, then, of the pride of success, and allow nothing to corrupt the deep humility of your spirit.
In the beautiful instance which I have set before you in this brief memoir, you have seen a just conception formed of the ultimate object of Sunday-school teaching. Elizabeth never for a moment forgot that her children had immortal souls; that these souls were lost by sin; and that her business was to seek their conversion from the error of their ways and save them from eternal death! This is the true light in which to view the subject. There is as much philosophy in this, as there is of piety—for in seeking the greater good we seek all the lesser ones contained within it. You want to fit your children, or you ought to do so, for all the stations they may be called to occupy in future life—now the best way to do this, is to endeavor to bring them under the influence of true religion. I beseech you to consider you have to do with souls. Ponder the worth of a soul! Weigh the solemn significance of that word, damnation. Measure, if you can, the height of salvation. Yearn for souls. What would you not do—to save your children from falling into the water or the fire? Oh, think of the bottomless pit, and the fire that is never quenched. Take a proper aim in all you do. Look as high as heaven, as deep as to the mouth of hell, and as far as eternity!
For such an object qualify yourself well, by a large measure of mental improvement. Make yourself well-acquainted with the powers of the human mind and the best method of training them; especially the means of fixing the volatile attention of youth, and of exciting a thirst after knowledge and self-improvement in your young charge. But above all cultivate a habit of devotional feeling. Remember that piety is as truly the first qualification of a good Sunday-school teacher as it is of a good minister. Catch the fervent piety of Elizabeth. Imitate her devotional habits, her meditative, prayerful spirit. She was eminently a woman of prayer. Her mother has often found her faint on her knees. The intensity of her devotion and the greatness of her labors exhausted her weak frame. Our Sunday-schools should be the very atmosphere of piety. The children should be made to feel that in the presence of their teacher, that they are standing before an embodied form of living godliness. You cannot seek the salvation of the souls of others—if you are not alive to your own. Ask the question, are you in earnest for eternity? Are you fleeing from the wrath to come? Are you walking with God, living a life of faith, prayer, watchfulness, and holiness? Oh, you will make a poor Sunday-school teacher without this!
Mark the DEVOTEDNESS of Elizabeth. Her soul, her whole soul, was in her work—it was her food and her drink; her life was bound up in it. We can do nothing well—which we do not do in earnest. "Whatever your hand finds to do—do it with your might." They who carry to the Sunday-school only half a heart—will do nothing. They had better stay away; they only keep out others who would do far better than themselves. All our schools have some such teachers, who are hindrances, not helps. Lukewarmness is not only inefficient in its results, but makes the work disagreeable. It is impossible to enjoy what is done in such a manner. It is all mere drudgery, and is very irksome. Zeal is pleasure—it is the vital glow and energy of a healthy and active mind. It is good to be always zealous in this good thing. Watch, labor, teach, pray—as one in earnest. Be constant, and lose no opportunity. Be punctual, and lose not a moment. Eternity hangs upon every instant! Let no measure of duty satisfy you. Adopt your children as objects of interest and affection. Follow them to their houses; know all about them. By loving them, you will acquire an influence over them. If teachers have no influence over their children; if the children are crude, refractory, insubordinate, in a school where order is generally observed, the teacher is unfit for his office. The disorderly state of his class proclaims his incompetence, unless there be some counteracting cause over which he has no control.
If Elizabeth, notwithstanding her deformity, poverty and weakness, could by her love, and gentleness, and devotedness, keep her children in such order—who need despair of doing it, if proper means were used? Love, firmness, system, mildness, devotedness and patience—will tame a savage! Lions and elephants are tamed by love and firmness; for love is a language which brutes understand; a law which they are willing to obey.
Conciliate the affection and secure the esteem of your fellow-teachers. What a pattern of this excellence is before you. Elizabeth was never known to quarrel with a single teacher. She loved all, and by all was beloved. Her kindness to others brought back kindness to herself. To her influence might, in some measure, be attributed the uninterrupted harmony which pervaded the school. She kept peace, and therefore had never to make it. She prevented breaches, which is far easier than to repair them. A good teacher is ever a peaceable one. He neither raises a faction nor joins one. He has no ear for murmurs or complaints, except it be to hush them; and never blows the coals of discord nor waters the root of bitterness. What mischief might one discontented and turbulent teacher do in a school, where there are other inflammable spirits ready to take fire from his own! The putrid fever of complaining is as contagious as it is malignant. Keep clear from the disease, and neither communicate nor receive it!
Imitate also the untiring patience, the unwearied zeal of this estimable woman! Nothing but the 'hand of infirmity' arrested her, and when kept by this from the school-room, she used to have her class occasionally in her own chamber. Hers was a service of nearly twenty years—and she loved her work from the beginning to the end. Had she lived until seventy she would still have been a Sunday-school teacher. Be not weary in well-doing. Amidst many who soon tire and faint—be it your ambition to see how many of these your zeal can outlive. What an honor is it to have it said, "There is a teacher of twenty years standing."
Like Elizabeth, be attached to your ministers, and be ever willing to consult them, and to follow their counsels. How devoted was she to the comfort, how regardful of the peace, how concerned for the usefulness of the town missionary who labored in the neighborhood, and whom she considered as her minister. I believe she would have been almost willing to die, rather than for one moment to have thrown an obstacle in the way of his useful ministrations, or to hinder the prosperity of the congregation at Garrison Lane Chapel. Her labors, much as she loved them and delighted in them, were no separate and detached department, but part of a whole over which he presided. Her usefulness was a rivulet—which flowed into the greater stream of his. She was his willing handmaid, and she looked up to him with a deference, which though not servile, was eminently respectful.
It is this blessed harmony between the Sunday-school teacher and pastor which I am most anxious to promote. I want our ministers to look with the tenderest interest, and with the most affectionate solicitude on the labors of these their invaluable assistants; and the teachers to look up without jealousy, and with unfeigned respect, to their minister's general, unobtrusive, and paternal superintendence. In him there should be nothing dictatorial—as if the teachers were servants. It is a delightful sight to behold a good understanding between a Christian pastor and a body of devoted teachers.
Remember, eternity is at hand—the bliss of which will be enhanced by the recollections of our earthly sojournings! Our friend has experienced this already by meeting in glory some whom she was the honored instrument of helping to raise from the privations of poverty to the felicities of immortality. Some harps, doubtless, are struck with a stronger hand in praise of our Lord, since she has arrived in heaven—for the instructions of her lips, the consistency of her example, or the fidelity of her reproofs. Sunday-school teachers, go and do likewise—be stimulated, encouraged and guided by the example of Elizabeth Bales!
"No one should despise your youth; instead, you should be an example to the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity." (1 Timothy 4:12)
"In all things see that you are an example of good works—holy in your teaching, serious in behavior." (Titus 2:7)
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