“A noble hero indeed, dear auntie,” cried Walter; “and now for another of the same sort.”
“Well, my dear boy, my second example embraces many excellent men, all devoted to the same self-denying and self-sacrificing work,—I am now alluding to the Moravian missionaries. These truly heroic men, not counting their lives dear, left home and friends, not to visit sunny lands, where the charms of the scenery might in a measure make up for the toils and privations they had to undergo, nor to find among Arctic frosts and snows at any rate pure and refreshing breezes, though many of them did go forth into these inclement regions to carry the gospel of peace with them, and in so doing to endure the most terrible hardships. But the Moravians I am now speaking of are those who volunteered to enter the pest-houses and infected places from which they could never come forth again. Here they lived, and here they died, giving up every earthly comfort and attraction that they might set gospel truth before those whose infected and repulsive bodies made them objects of terror and avoidance to all but those self-renouncing followers of their Saviour. Here, indeed, moral courage has reached its height.”
“How wonderful!” said Julia thoughtfully, and with a sigh; “I could never have done it.”
“No,” said Miss Huntingdon; “nor does God commonly require such service from us. And yet, dear Julia, ladies as tenderly brought up as yourself have gone forth cheerfully to little short of certain death from pestilential airs, and have neither shrunk nor murmured when the call came. And this brings me to my last example of what I may call sublime moral courage or heroism. It is taken from the records of the Church Missionary Society. When first that society’s noble work began, its agents went forth to settle among the poor negroes of Western Africa in the neighbourhood of Sierra Leone. But the fever that hovered on the coast was enough to terrify any one who loved his life more than Christ. In the first twenty years of that mission no fewer than fifty-three male and female missionaries died at their posts. In the year 1823, out of five who went out four died within six months, yet two years afterwards six presented themselves for that mission; and, indeed, since the formation of that mission there have never been men wanting—true heroes of the Lord Jesus Christ—who have willingly offered themselves for the blessed but deadly service. The women were as devoted as the men. A bright young couple, the Reverend Henry Palmer and his wife, landed at Sierra Leone on March 21, 1823. In the beginning of May, not two full months afterwards, the husband was dead; in June, just one month later, the wife was dead also. Yet neither spoke in their dying moments one word of regret, but gloried in the work and in the sacrifice they had been called to make. Another female missionary to the same parts, a widow, said: ‘I have now lived one year in Africa, eight months of which I have been a widow; but I cannot resolve to leave Africa.’ Another, whose course was finished in twenty-two short days, said to her husband on her death-bed: ‘Never once think that I repent of coming here with you.’ Her only fear seemed to be lest her death should discourage others, or damp her husband’s zeal.—I have now finished my examples. I am sure, dear children, that they are to the point; I mean, that they are examples of the sublimest moral courage—that courage which leads godly men and women not to shrink from duty though disease and death lie before them or hover over their path.”
“Thank you, dearest auntie,” said Walter; “you have indeed brought some glorious examples before us, and they just fit in with the conduct of our own dear hero here, who seems to wish us to forget that there ever was such a person as Amos Huntingdon, but he certainly won’t succeed.”
Chapter Twenty.
Further Progress.
How greatly did Amos rejoice that now one portion of the great purpose to which he had devoted himself had been so thoroughly accomplished; his dear sister had been restored to her earthly home, and the death of her unhappy husband had taken away all fear of her being withdrawn from it again. And, better still, she, the poor wayward and wandering sheep, who till late did not love the fold nor the Good Shepherd’s voice, had been sought and found by him, and brought back from the wilderness with rejoicings. The heart of the good brother overflowed with gratitude and praise for this, for it was more than he had yet dared to hope. But there could be no doubt about it. The eyes of his sister had been opened to see how entirely she had hitherto been living to self, while her husband’s dying words had led her to see her duty to her children, and to mourn over her ingratitude to Amos.