IT was near the commencement of the Crimea War, and in the crowded harbour of Toulon, transport ships were being filled with soldiers, who were hastening to the seat of battle. The French flag is streaming gaily from the mast-head, and mirth and music are made to drown the thoughts of home, and to deaden the pangs of partings and farewells. Amidst all this bustle and excitement, a humble colporteur is, with quiet earnestness, plying his work of selling Bibles and New Testaments to the soldiers; and, though many refuse to purchase and even turn aside from him with levity and disdain, there are some who are willing to give a few francs in exchange for the treasure. One young soldier, in particular, showed a strong desire to obtain a copy of the good book and on being assured that he is poor the colporteur offers him a copy at half price. But the soldier protests that even half a franc cannot be spared. He would greatly like to possess the Bible, and to read it, but, unless he may have it for nothing, it cannot be his.
The good colporteur hesitates. His instructions are not to give away the Bible gratuitously, when even a trifling sum can be got in exchange, in order that it may not be cast away, or given to the priests. But this young soldier looks so earnest and imploring, and protests so vehemently, that the colporteur will obey the spirit rather than the letter of the instructions, and give him a Bible for nothing. A copy is accordingly selected from his knapsack and given to the soldier. But what is the colporteur’s surprise when, instead of expressions of gratitude, a loud laugh proceeds from the soldier and his comrade.
The truth is, that the good man had been cruelly and wickedly duped. The soldier had laid a wager with his companion that he would feign poverty and earnestness so well as to deceive the colporteur, and to obtain a Bible from him without even paying a sou for it. And now, exulting at the clever manner in which he had performed his part, he covers the good man with ridicule. “Did you indeed suppose that I cared for this Bible of yours? Well, yes, I do care for it after all. It has some use, for I shall light my pipe with a leaf of it every morning, and (tearing out the first leaf) now let me take my first smoke to your honour.”
It was a bitter moment for the poor colporteur to find his generosity thus abused, and his discrimination at fault; and, for a little, he was tempted to think of abandoning his work in despair. But he did not abandon it. Certain words of Scripture came to his mind, and cheered him: “Cast thy bread upon the waters and thou shalt find it after many days.” “In due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” And soon after, descending the side of the vessel he breathed a silent prayer that that young and hardened soldier might be forgiven, and that that very Bible might be blessed to his conversion.
Eighteen months passed away, during which hundreds of those soldiers who had sailed from Toulon with such light hearts had found a grave in the cold trenches or met with death on the battlefields of Inkerman and Alma. About this time, our colporteur, who had meanwhile trudged over many a dusty road, and faced many a pelting blast, might have been seen late on a certain afternoon, with replenished knapsack, entering a small French village, and seeking rest for the night at its little inn. But, instead of meeting with the usual prompt and courteous welcome he found the landlord and his wife sunk in deep distress. He enquired the cause. That day he was told they had committed to the grave their only son. He had gone out a young and light-hearted soldier to the Crimea, but the long nightwatches in the trenches had undermined his constitution; he had returned to his home far advanced in disease and after lingering for a few weeks had died. “We saw plainly that he was dying,” continued the parents, “and he often gently warned us of the fact; but what astonished us was that while we were sad, and even inconsolable, and the whole village sorrowed with us at the prospect of our losing our only son he was happy and not afraid to die.” “But surely,” said the colporteur, now becoming deeply interested, “he must have given you some reason for his happiness; how did he account for it?” “There was a book called the Bible, in which he read constantly after his return; and in this he told us, he found the secret of being joyful even in dying.” “Show me this Bible,” was now the eager request of the colporteur. It was brought, and on examining it, the colporteur found that the first twenty-five pages had been torn out; and on looking yet more closely into it, he discovered a little journal, written on the inside of its boards, to the following effect:—”Obtained this Bible in the harbour at Toulon on such a day—mocked at it for so long a period—began to read it at such a date—believed and found peace in it at such another date.”
Need we now tell our readers that this was the identical Bible whose history we have been narrating; and that this only son of the French villager, who had died in hope was the young soldier, who, eighteen months before, had duped the colporteur, and treated his Bible with derision, but to whom, in the cold trenches, even when torn and mutilated, its words had proved the imperishable seed of eternal life? As the colporteur sat that evening pondering over the day’s events he felt that those words which, eighteen months before, had been the matter of his faith, had now become the matter of his experience:—”Cast thy bread upon the waters, and thou shalt find it after many days,”—”In due season, we shall reap, if we faint not;” and he recorded in his journal, with a grateful heart, the lesson that, in the work of God, we ought never to despair.
The promise of God is:—”He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”—Christian Treasury.