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THE GUARDIAN.

VOL. XI.

JUNE, 1860.

No. 6.

WHAT WOMEN HAVE DONE FOR CHRISTIANITY?
FROM THE GERMAN OF HESSENMULLER.

BY THE EDITOR.

A fierce persecution came upon Carthage in the year 202. Here lived Perpetua, a young woman twenty-one years of age, who was at the time nursing a very young babe. She was the daughter of a pagan father and of a christian mother. Her husband was, it is supposed, a christian; for, had he been a pagan, he would no doubt have been present at her trial as was her own pagan father, in order to induce her to renounce the christian faith.

Perpetua was yet a catechumen when, with a number of male catechumens, and her female friend Felicitas, she was cast into prison; her own brother Saturus went with them of his own accord. In vain did her aged father, who visited her in her imprisonment, endeavor to persuade her to renounce christianity

"Father," said she pointing at the same time to an earthen vessel lying on the earth, "do you see that vessel? Can we call it anything else than what it is? Behold, even so I cannot call myself anything else than what I really am, and what I shall remain, a christian !" All the threats of her father she met with a silent firmness.

Two Deacons secured access into the prison, and baptized her. Soon after this Perpetua was cast into a dark dungeon. "I was frightened," she says, "because I had never been in such darkness. O what a sad day was that! The suffocating heat on account of the many that were confined, the hard treatment from the soldiers, and last of all, I was distressed on account of my child."

The Deacons were able, by means of money, to procure for the captives a transfer to a more pleasant dungeon; and Perpetua rejoiced when it was allowed her to nurse her babe in the prison. "Now this dungeon is like a palace to me," she exclaimed. Lovely visions cheered and strengthened the meek sufferer.

Once more came the aged father to his daughter.

"Have compas

sion, my daughter, on my gray hairs. I have raised you to blooming

years; I have loved you more than any of your brothers; put me not to shame before men. Behold your mother, your relatives, your son, who, if you die, will not survive his loss! Let go that exalted notion by which you will hurl us all into ruin," He kissed her hands, cast himself at her feet, and weeping, called her no more daughter, but mistress. She was deeply moved, but amid all her emotions, her love to Christ stood unshaken. "When I stand on trial before my judges," she said, "it will be seen what God wills. For know this, that we stand not in our own, but in God's power."

The day for the hearing drew on. A multitude of people came as spectators. Her father, bowed down by sorrow, also came, to make one more effort to move his daughter to a renunciation of her faith. "Have compassion for your child," he exclaimed. Even the Procurator, Hilarianus, exhorted her: "Spare the gray hairs of your father; spare the infancy of your child-sacrifice to the Emperor." She answered: "Never more !" And to the question, "Are you a Christian ?" she answered, "Yes!"

True, she showed plainly how deeply she felt for her aged father; true, every stroke fell upon her own heart as he was scourged before her eyes, with a view of moving her; but she would not suffer herself to waver in her faith, should she suffer death in consequence. When it was announced to her that, at the approaching festival, she should be cast to the wild beasts, she rejoiced aloud with her fellow sufferers. She was deeply distressed when her child was taken away from her, and her father perseveringly refused to give it back to her; but she was comforted, and recognized a striking providence in the fact, that from that moment on, the infant longed no more for its accustomed nourishment. Her faithful friend, Felicitas, was at the same time sentenced to endure the same punishment. "It will not be me that shall suffer," she answered, "but it will be another that shall suffer for me, because I shall suffer for his sake." She also left an infant behind; which, however, was taken in charge by a christian woman, who cared for it with all the tenderness of a mother.

Shortly before the day on which the sentence was to be executed, her father came once more to Perpetua; but she remained firm through all his appeals. Even the keeper of the prison was impressed by such steadfastness of faith. Yea, he himself became a christian.

According to an ancient custom, on the evening before the penalty of death was to be suffered, a feast was prepared for them. Perpetua knew how to turn it into a love feast; and the multitudes who came out of curiosity, heard many words that pierced through their souls. "Look on us carefully," exclaimed young Saturus, "that you may know us on the day of the execution." Stunned by the power of these words, many hastened away. Some turned to the cross!

The day fixed for their death came. As if going to victory the captives went forth in triumph from their prison. The free fresh air, which they now breathed, was to them a symbol of that freedom into which they were to enter, through the conflict of death. When they had reached the gate of the amphitheatre, it was demanded of the men that they should clothe themselves as priests of Saturn, and of the women that they should put on robes like those worn by the priestesses of Vesta.

Then Perpetua spoke out in the name of all: "For this reason came we willingly here, that we should not be robbed of our freedom. We give up our lives because we are not willing to do anything of the kind; this is our answer to you." The newly intended insult was urged no further. Perpetua sung a Psalm of thanksgiving. Once more, after they had entered the ampitheatre, the men turned to the assembled multitude and reminded them of the judgments of God. The people, exasperated at this, asked that the men should be scourged. This was accordingly done; whilst the men rejoiced aloud that they were counted worthy to suffer stripes for Christ. Then the wild beasts were let loose upon them, which tore them to pieces!

Perpetua and Felicitas were to be cast before a wild cow. They were deprived of their garments, and put into nets; but the modest distress which they manifested, made such a deep impression, that their clothes were returned to them. With one powerful stroke the cow struck them to the earth; but even in falling they displayed a modest propriety in adjusting their garments, and immediately re-plaited their dishevelled hair, lest it might appear as if they were distressed. Perpetua reached her hand to her companion to assist her in rising. There they stood peacefully, and their faces shone like the face of an angel.

They were then led out of the amphitheatre, when Perpetua, as if awaking out of a dream, asked: "When shall I be cast before the wild cow?" Only when her attention had been called to her torn garments, and her bleeding wounds, was she conscious of what had already been done. Then she exhorted those who stood by: "Stand firm in the faith, love one another, and let not our sufferings shake you in your purposes." But now the people demanded their death. Then the two friends were again led into the midst of the amphitheatre, where young gladiators were accustomed to give the merciful death stroke to such as had not been wholly killed by the wild beasts. Perpetua cried aloud three times, and then directed the gladiator's blundering and uncertain aim to her own neck, and silently received the stroke of death. Her pure soul ascended to God, leaving behind for all witnesses, an example of firmness for the struggle whenever it should come to them, and to all that should come after her, a bright and glorious memorial of that love to the Saviour which is stronger than death!

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

"The way of the Cross, the way of Light."

THROUGH the cross comes the crown; when the cares of this life
Like giants in strength may to crush thee combine;

Never mind, never mind! after sorrow's sad strife,
Shall the peace and the crown of salvation be thine.
Through woe comes delight; if at evening thou sigh,
And thy soul still at midnight in sorrow appears;
Never mind, never mind! for the morning is nigh,
Whose sunbeam of gladness shall dry up thy tears!
Through death comes our life; to the portal of pain,
Through Time's thistle-fields, are our weary steps driven;

Never mind, never mind! through this passage we gain
The mansions of light and the portals of heaven.

THE HIGHLAND MOTHER.

REV. NORMAN M'LEOD, M. D.

A Highland widow left her home early one morning, in order to reach before evening the residence of a kiusman who had promised to assist her in paying her rent. She carried on her back her only child, a boy two years old. The journey was a long one. (I was following the same wild and lonely path, when I first heard the story I am going to tell you.) The mountain track, after leaving the small village by the seashore, where the widow lived, passes through a green valley, watered by a peaceful stream which flows from a neighboring lake; it then winds along the margin of the solitary lake, until, near its further end, it suddenly turns into an extensive copse-wood of oak and birch. From this it emerges half way up a rugged mountain side, and entering a dark glen, through which a torrent rushes amid masses of granite, it at last conducts the traveler, by a zigzag ascent, to a narrow gorge which is hemmed in upon every side by giant precipices. Overhead is a strip of blue sky, and all below is dark and gloomy.

From this mountain pass, the widow's dwelling was ten miles off, and no human habitation was nearer than her own. She had undertaken a long journey, indeed. But the rent was due some weeks before, and the sub-factor had threatened to dispossess her, as the village in which she lived, and in which her family had lived in for two generations, was about to be swept away, in order to enlarge a sheep farm. Indeed, along the margin of the quiet stream which watered the green valley, and along the shore of the lake, might even then be traced the ruins of many a hamlet, where happy and contented people once lived, but where no sound is heard except the bleat of a solitary sheep, or the scream of an eagle as he wheels his flight among the dizzy precipices.

The morning gave promise of a lovely day. But, before noon, a sudden change took place in the weather. Northward, the sky became black and lowering. Masses of clouds rested upon the hills. Sudden gusts of wind began to whistle among the rocks, and to ruffle with black squalls the surface of the loch. The wind was succeeded by rain, and the rain by sleet, and the sleet by a heavy fall of snow. It was the month of May, (that storm is still remembered as the "great May storm;") the wildest day of winter never beheld flakes of snow falling heavier and faster, or whirling with more fury through the mountain pass, filling every hollow and whitening every rock. Weary, and wet, and cold, the widow reached that pass with her child. She knew, that, a mile beyond it, there was a mountain shielding, which could give shelter; but the moment she attempted to face the storm of snow which was rushing through the gorge, all hope failed of proceeding in that direction. The return home was equally impossible. She must find shelter. The wild-cat's or fox's den would be welcome.

After wandering for some time along the huge fragments of rock which skirted the base of the overhanging precipices, she at last found a more sheltered nook. Crouching beneath a projecting rock, she pressed her child to her trembling bosom. The storm continued to rage. The snow was accumulating overhead. Hour after hour passed. It became bitterly cold. Evening approached. The widow's heart was sick with fear and anxiety. Her child, her only child, was all she thought of She wrapped him in her shawl. But the poor thing had been scantily clad, and the shawl was thin and worn. The widow was poor, and her clothing could hardly defend herself from the piercing cold of such a night as this. But, whatever was to become of herself, her child must be preserved. The snow, in whirling eddies, entered the recess, which afforded at the best but a miserable shelter. The night came on. The wretched mother stripped off almost all her own clothing, and wrapped it around her child, whom, at last in despair, she put into a deep crevice of the rock, among some dried heather and fern. And now she resolves at all hazards to brave the storm, and return home in order to get assistance for her babe, or perish in the attempt. Clasping her infant to her heart, and covering its face with tears and kisses, she laid him softly down to sleep, and rushed into the snowy drift.

The night of storm was succeeded by a peaceful morning. The sun shone from the clear blue sky, and wreaths of mist hung along the mountain top, while a thousand water-falls poured down their sides. Dark figures, made visible at a distance on the white ground, might be seen with long poles, examining every hollow near the mountain path. They are people from the village, who are searching for the widow and her son. They have reached the pass. A cry is heard by one of the shepherds, as he sees a bit of tartan cloak among the snow. They have found the widow-dead; her arms stretched forth as if imploring for assistance ! Before noon, they discovered the child by his cries. He was safe in the crevice of the rock. The story of that woman's affection for her child was soon read in language which all understood. Her almost naked body revealed her love. Many a tear was shed, many an exclamation expressive of admiration and affection was uttered, from enthusiastic, sorrowing Highland hearts, when on that evening the aged pastor gathered the villagers in the deserted house of mourning, and by prayer and fatherly exhortation sought to improve, for their souls' good, an event so sorrowful.

More than half a century passed away. That aged and faithful pastor was long dead, though his memory still lingered in many a retired glen. His son, whose locks were white with age, was preaching to a congregation of Highlanders in one of our great cities. It was a communion Sabbath. The subject of his discourse was the love of Christ. In illustrating the self-sacrificing nature of "that love which seeketh not her own," he narrated the above story of the Highland widow, whom he had himself known in his boyhood. And he asked, "If that child is now alive, what would you think of his heart if he did not cherish an affection for his mother's memory, and if the sight of her poor tattered cloak, which she had wrapped around him in order to save his life at the

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