The Children's Tabernacle
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“One could hardly keep such a feast in England,” observed Agnes, glancing out of the window at the gray sky and the dripping trees, which were dimly reflected in the pools left by the morning’s rain.
“I think that living in green leafy booths would be delightful in summer, even in England!” exclaimed Lucius, who had managed to fix his gold-leaf. “I should have liked, had I been a Jew, to have kept the Feast of Tabernacles – better perhaps than to have helped to make this model Tabernacle,” added the boy, who, after several hours of steady work, was beginning to feel rather tired. “I should much prefer hewing down branches, and doing the rough carpentering part of the business, to gilding these tiresome, fidgety wires, which I am sure to ungild again as soon as I attempt to fix them into their frame.”
“What, you are weary of your work already!” exclaimed Dora, as she paused in her sewing to thread her needle.
“Not exactly weary of it now,” answered Lucius, “but I guess that I shall be so long before this model is finished. It is all very well,” he continued, taking up his knife to hack away at some stubborn pasteboard – “it is all very well to make pillars and curtains while the sky is cloudy, and the rain falls fast, and I am kept prisoner at home; but suppose that the rain should stop, and the sun shine out, and the weather become settled at last, wouldn’t every one of us like running about in the fields all day, playing at cricket, or croquet, or rounders, better than measuring and cutting and – there! snap goes my knife, my new knife!” and with a gesture of impatience the boy flung the unmanageable pasteboard down on the table.
There was much to justify the suspicion expressed by Lucius that the work so eagerly begun by the Temples would, before it could be finished, become a burden and a tax upon the patience of all. On the very next day began a season of warmth and sunshine, which did more to drive away coughs and restore vigor to late invalids than could all the skill of the doctor. Even Agnes was able to spend hours in the open air; and, except at mealtimes, Lucius liked to be out all the day. His fidgety work, as he called it, could scarcely be done but indoors, and the boy found it a grievous task.
“But it would be a shame not to go on with the model now, after putting mamma to so much trouble and expense,” observed Lucius one morning to Dora. “Besides, I engaged to do it, and no English boy must flinch back from keeping his word. The new knife which I bought yesterday is not to be compared to that which I so unluckily snapped over the pasteboard; but I must hack away steadily, and show a good example to that lazy puss Elsie, who since the fine weather began has not put another stitch into her Turkey-red curtains.”
“She has stowed them away in her doll’s cradle,” observed Dora, laughing.
Mrs. Temple was not surprised to find that the making of the model now progressed more slowly; she was rather pleased to see the amount of perseverance shown by her children after the charm of novelty had worn off. Even the “lazy puss” drew her work from its hiding-place, and would sew – for five minutes at a time – “just to please dear mamma.” All the five Temples continued to work, when work had ceased to be an amusement; but they worked from different motives. Those which influenced Lucius – a manly, honorable boy – have been mentioned already, as well as the simple wish to please mother which made Elsie prick her plump little finger under her Turkey-red cloth. But if you could glance into the hearts of the three other girls as they sit together industriously plying their needles, we should find an example of how the very same effect may be produced by different causes.
Amy had from the very first considered her humble work as something to be done for her Heavenly Master, and this sweet thought made her take pleasure in labor, which without it would have been wearisome indeed. It was this thought which made Amy put fine hemming and stitching into the long strips of white lawn which represented the linen curtains surrounding the court of the Tabernacle, and even unpick any portion which did not seem to her to be sewn neatly enough. Amy tried to give her best, her very best work, because she was giving it to the Lord, and some of the happiest hours which the little girl ever had known were spent over her tedious curtains.
“I cannot think, Amy, how you can go on so patiently with what is so tiresome, with no variety in it, and a kind of work which will not look striking when all is done,” exclaimed Dora one day, as she unrolled some glittering gold thread from her reel.
Amy smiled as she glanced up at her sister’s far more amusing occupation. “If I could have worked anything so pretty as the veil which you are making, I daresay that I should have liked it much better,” she observed. “But I am pleased to do the plain work as well as I can, as the embroidery would have been far too difficult for me.”
Amy’s curtains might seem plain to the eyes of most people, but her mother looked upon them with special pleasure; for, as she said to herself, “they are embroided all over with faith and love.”
Agnes also made steady progress with her not very inviting work, though she took in it no great pleasure. Agnes regarded the sewing as a matter of duty, and therefore plied her needle in the same spirit as that in which she struggled to subdue her temper, and tried to put a bridle on her tongue. It was the work which had been given to her, and she would do it, without asking herself whether she liked it or not.
“This material, neither smooth nor pretty, is something like a type of me,” thought Agnes, as she put the finishing stitch into one of her mohair curtains; “but the goats’-hair had just as much its appointed place in the Tabernacle as loops of silver and sockets of gold. I shall never be as much liked and admired as Dora is – I may as well make up my mind to that; but if God help me by His grace, I too may lead a useful life, and be dear – at least to my mother.”
And more and more dear was Agnes becoming to her mother, who watched with the keen eye of affection the struggle made by her eldest daughter against her besetting sins. Mrs. Temple guessed what it cost Agnes to bear a rough joke in silence, to lend pretty things which she feared that the borrower might spoil, to give up her own way, and to show no jealous anger when another was preferred before her.
“My girl’s character is becoming stronger and nobler every day,” thought Mrs. Temple; “I thank the Lord for my Agnes, for I am sure that it is His grace that is working in her heart. Agnes promises to grow up into a really valuable woman, one whom her mother can trust.”
Mrs. Temple could not have said as much for her dearly loved Dora. The lady was perplexed and pained to feel that something – she knew not what it could be – seemed to have come between her and her bright, clever, affectionate child. Dora, indeed, gave Mrs. Temple no cause to find fault with her conduct; her lessons were well learned, her temper was good, she was a favorite still with her brother and sisters; and yet her mother felt that there was a change in her Dora for which she could not account. Mrs. Temple was wont to have little quiet conversations separately with each of her children at night: in these meetings they were able to open their hearts more freely to their mother than they could have done had a third person been present, and their parent could speak upon religious subjects in the way best suited to the character and age of each. These quiet moments spent alone with mamma had been greatly prized by all the children; but Dora could take pleasure in them no more, and her parent was conscious that such was the case. The girl generally managed, only too easily, to forget all about her unrepented sin when the remembrance of it was not forced upon her now half-deadened conscience, but when her mother sat by her bedside and softly talked to her about heaven, Dora grew uneasy in spirit. She did not like to be reminded of the holy God whose law she had broken – what pleasure could the knowledge of His truth bring to one who was conscious of unrepented falsehood! The returns of Sundays, nay, even the hour for family prayer, were never welcome to Dora. When she repeated texts or hymns, as the rest of the family did, she had the wretched consciousness that she was acting a hypocrite’s part, and taking God’s name in vain. Dora’s life was becoming one long act of deceit. She was secretly ashamed of herself for appearing so much better than she in reality was.
“But my work – my beautiful work – my work for the poor – I’ll make up for what I’ve done wrong by taking extra pains with that!” thought Dora. And so the poor girl usually succeeded in winning much praise from others, and in deceiving her own sinful heart, only too willing to be thus deceived.
XVI.
The High-Priest
“THERE is one thing which we can’t do, it is too hard for even Dora,” observed Elsie one morning at breakfast, when, as was often the case, the Children’s Tabernacle had formed a topic of conversation. “We can’t make models of the Ark, or the Altar, or the Table of Showbread; our pretty curtains won’t cover anything, the Tabernacle will be quite empty!”
“I really could not undertake to do more than I am doing, even if my fingers could manage to make such tiny models,” said Lucius, who, as we have seen, already found that he had engaged in a difficult task.
Agnes, Dora, and Amy were silent; they all felt that there would certainly be a great want in their Tabernacle, but they did not see how that want could possibly be supplied.
The young Temples little guessed that while their mother was in her own room, engaged, as they supposed, in reading or writing, or making up her household accounts, she was preparing for them a pleasant surprise. Mrs. Temple was not less with her family than usual, she did not neglect her house affairs, she never forgot either to order the dinner or to pay the butcher and baker, but she stole time for her novel employment from her sleep, and from her favorite amusement of reading library books.
On the day when the model was completed, when the last silver socket had been fastened, and the last little curtain hemmed, the children had the pleasure of setting up the Tabernacle in the study, to see how it looked. There was great satisfaction in surveying the finished work; every one felt glad that the long labor was over, and that he had had a share in the work.
“How pleased auntie will be!” cried Elsie.
“And the ragged children, too,” joined in Amy.
“And now go out for your walk, my dear ones,” said their mother; “the morning is so frosty and bright that you may make your walk a long one; I should not be surprised should you wander as far as Burnley woods. I shall not expect you back for a couple of hours.”
“Mother, you will go with us,” said Lucius.
“I will be particularly engaged this morning,” replied Mrs. Temple, as she shook her head with a smile. Elsie remarked afterwards that it had been “a knowing kind of smile,” as if there had been some very particular reason indeed for her mamma’s stopping at home. The reason was clear enough to all the party when they returned from their walk, and with their cheeks rosy from the fresh air and exercise re-entered the study. The children found their mother standing beside the model. Elsie, who was the first to run up to it, gave almost a scream of delight.
“Oh! see – see what mamma has been making! Clever mamma!” she cried, clapping her hands, and jumping for joy.
“What lovely little models!” exclaimed Lucius. “Mother, it is you who have cut us all out.”
“You have done what none of us could have done,” said Agnes.
“And so quietly too,” observed Dora.
“There is nothing wanting now!” cried Amy, putting her arm fondly around the parent who had so kindly entered into the little pleasures of her children.
“I thought that one thing more was wanting,” said Mrs. Temple. The lady seated herself beside the table, and took off the cover of a little pasteboard box which she held in her hand. The children looked on with mingled curiosity and pleasure as their mother carefully drew out from it a beautiful little figure about two inches long, exquisitely dressed in miniature garments, representing those which were worn by the high-priest of Israel. To imitate these garments in a size so small, had taxed the utmost skill of the ingenious and neat-fingered lady.
I need not set down all the exclamations of wonder and pleasure which were uttered by the younger Temples. If their mother’s great object had been to gratify her children, that object was certainly attained.
“The dress which I have tried to imitate,” said the lady, “is that in which the high-priest appeared on solemn occasions. The Day of Atonement was, however, an exception; on that most solemn day in the year, when the high-priest ventured into the Holy of holies, he did so in simple garments of pure white linen.”
The mother then showed and explained to her family the different articles of dress on her curious model. The under-tunic, or shirt, of linen, and above it the mantle of sky-blue color, having at the bottom an ornamental border or fringe.
“This fringe, which, as you see, I have cut out in the form of tiny pomegranates, ought to be interspersed with bells of gold,” said Mrs. Temple; “but my fingers could not succeed in making anything so very minute.”
“And unless we had looked through a microscope, we could not have distinguished bells no bigger than needles’ eyes,” observed Lucius.
“And what is this fine uppermost garment, reaching to the knees?” inquired Dora, looking admiringly on the delicate embroidery in gold and colors similar to that which she had herself worked for the Veil, only a great deal finer.
“This is the Ephod,” replied Mrs. Temple. “On the front of it I have, as you see, worked in very small beads of various colors an imitation of the high-priest’s breastplate, which was formed of twelve precious stones.”
The minute breastplate excited more attention than any other part of the high-priest’s dress, and had, perhaps, given the skilful worker more trouble than all the rest. Every one of the little beads was of a different tint. They were closely set together in rows, so as to form a square ornament, and were fastened to the shoulder parts of the Ephod by little threads of gold.
“How very splendid the real breastplate must have been!” exclaimed Dora Temple.
“Had it also some typical meaning?” asked Lucius. “I suppose so,” he added, “as everything about the Tabernacle and the high-priest seems to have been a type of something greater.”
“On each of the precious stones in the splendid breastplate was inscribed the names of one of the twelve tribes of Israel,” replied Mrs. Temple. “I believe that the breastplate was worn by the high-priest, who was to pray in the Tabernacle for the people, and then to come forward and bless them, as a token that he bore their names on his heart.”
“Oh, that is a beautiful meaning!” cried Amy; “especially when we think,” she continued, more softly, “that the high-priest was a type of our blessed Saviour Himself.”
“Who bears all His people’s names on his heart,” observed Mrs. Temple; “both when He pleads for them in heaven, and when He blesses them upon earth.”
“The high-priest must have looked very noble and grand in his rich garments,” observed Lucius; “and yet it seems too much honor for any mere man to be called a type of the Son of God.”
“Ah, my boy! poor and mean indeed must any earthly type appear when compared to the heavenly Antitype!” exclaimed Mrs. Temple. “That thought came strongly to my mind as I was sewing together these little worthless glass beads to form the model of the glorious breastplate. ‘Can these wretched little atoms of colored glass,’ I said to myself, ‘give any idea of magnificent jewels, sparkling in light, set in gold, and each engraved with a name?’ But even so mean, and small, and insignificant was Aaron, in all his splendor, compared to the sacred Being who deigns to call Himself our High-Priest, and to make intercession for us above!”
All the party were silent for several moments, looking down at the little model, and thinking over the words of their mother. Elsie then pointed to the curious head-dress which appeared on the figure. It was not exactly a turban, though it was formed of tight rolls of linen. It had the representation of a plate of gold in front, fastened on to it by a blue thread.
“That head-dress is called the high-priest’s bonnet or mitre,” observed Mrs. Temple. “There are rather different opinions regarding its exact shape. It cost me a good deal of thought to contrive it, and here again I felt how impossible it is to give anything like a just idea of the real object in a model so small as this. You see that I have not neglected to put a little gold plate on the front of the mitre; but I had no power to form letters so minute as to represent on it what was engraved on that which the high-priest wore. This was ‘Holiness to the Lord.’”
“Then the high-priest had the Lord’s Name written over his brow,” observed Agnes. “It makes one think of the promise in the Bible, that saints in heaven shall have His Name written on their foreheads.” (Rev. xxii. 4.)
“All will be ‘Holiness to the Lord’ in that happy place!” observed Amy.
It was pleasanter to Dora to examine the little model before her, and to admire and praise her mother’s skill, than to think of what was inscribed on the mitre worn by Aaron and his successors. It is the sad, sad effect of sin concealed in the heart, that it keeps those who indulge it from daring even to wish to be holy.
The Tabernacle was now carefully taken down, piece by piece, to be packed in a box, ready to be carried along with the rest of their luggage when the family should quit their home for awhile. Every curtain was neatly folded, and all the pillars carefully wrapped up in paper. The figure representing the high-priest was gently put back into its own little box, and all the other little objects were packed in cotton, so as to bear without injury a little jolting on the journey before them.
With additional pleasure the young Temples now looked forward to the coming Christmas season, and the long-expected visit which they were to pay to their Aunt Theodora.
XVII.
The Birthday Gifts
SEVERAL months have passed away since the Temples began making their model of the Tabernacle of Israel. The leaves which were then green on the trees, have become yellow, have faded and fallen; save those on the evergreens, which wear a silver crusting of frost. But it is not to Cedar Lodge that I shall take my young readers, but to a large and rather plain brick house in the city of Chester. It is a house by no means beautiful to the eye, and its only look-out is into a narrow paved street; but still that house has a charm of its own, it is dear to many a heart, for its owner, Miss Theodora Clare, is the friend and benefactress of the poor around. Many have entered sadly through the dark green door of that red-brick house, who have left it cheerfully, blessing the kind heart and liberal hand of its lady.
It is just two days before Christmas: on the morrow Miss Clare’s Ragged School is to have its annual treat. A feast and gifts of warm socks or mittens knitted for each child by the lady’s own hands, are not to form the only, or perhaps the chief attractions of the treat; the little scholars have been promised a sight of the model Tabernacle, which its young makers are to bring from their country home, about ten miles away. Christmas Eve has been fixed upon by Miss Clare as the time for her Ragged School Fête, because it is the birthday of her twin nieces, the younger of whom is her namesake. The arrival of the Temple family is expected almost every minute, and Miss Clare sits by the window, with the red glow of a December sun upon her, glancing up with a look of pleasant expectation whenever she hears the rattle of wheels along the narrow paved street. You might guess at once by the likeness between them that Miss Clare is the sister of Mrs. Temple, though her figure is a little taller, and her locks a little whiter than those of the widow lady.
Miss Clare is evidently thinking; she looks a little perplexed and doubtful as she examines the contents of a large old-fashioned ebony box which holds her little treasures. Not treasures of silver or gold; there are but few indeed of such things in the possession of Theodora Clare: her silver spoons have fed the hungry; her gold chain has paid for the benches on which her ragged scholars sit, and her bracelets for the books which they learn from, and the big blackboard on the wall. A good many pairs of stout little shoes have come out of Miss Clare’s silver tea-pot! But there is one article of jewellery which the lady still possesses, and this is to her the most precious of all. It is the likeness of her sister, Mrs. Temple, in a brooch, set round with pearls. This was the gift of Mr. Temple on his wedding-day to the bridesmaid, Theodora; it is very beautiful as an ornament, and as a likeness almost perfect. But not even this jewel does the generous lady intend to keep for herself; it is to be her birthday present on the following day to Dora.
Miss Clare has for years settled in her own mind that her god-daughter should receive the precious brooch on completing the twelfth year of her age; it is no doubt upon this subject that perplexes her now; (for the lady does look a little perplexed as she searches her old-fashioned box for something which she seems to have some difficulty in finding). She opens this little packet, then that little packet, then silently shakes her head, or murmurs “No, that will not do,” as she replaces it in the large box. The reader knows that Dora has a twin sister, and that the birthday of the one is also the birthday of the other. Miss Clare does not like to give to Dora without also giving to Agnes, and as her hospitality and her charities leave her very little money for buying presents, she wishes to find some suitable article already in her possession of which to make a birthday remembrance. But what should that article be? Almost everything that would please a young girl had already been given away.
“I have nothing – nothing that can be compared in value or in beauty with the brooch,” said Miss Clare to herself, as she locked the box where she had been vainly searching amongst locks of hair neatly wrapped in separate papers, old letters, and little pictures faded and yellow with time. “I hope that Agnes is too sensible a girl to expect that my precious brooch should be given to herself instead of to my namesake, who is to me almost as a daughter; but still Agnes is the elder of the twins; she is, I fear, of rather a jealous temper; her character has not – or had not a year ago – the generosity and sweetness of that of my Dora. I should be grieved to hurt the feelings of either of the dear girls; what can I find that will really please Agnes?”
Miss Clare had really given the subject a good deal of consideration, though apparently to little purpose, when a thought occurred to her mind which brought a smile of satisfaction to her kind pleasant face. Miss Clare rose from her seat by the window, and went to a table which had in it a drawer, hidden by the neat brown cloth that hung over the sides. The lady lifted the cloth, drew open the drawer, and then took from it a flat parcel wrapped in a peculiar kind of yellowish paper, with that scent about it which usually pervades articles which have come from India.
“Here is the delicate little embroidered neck-scarf which was sent to me years ago, and which I have always thought much too fine for my wear,” said the lady, as she opened the parcel. “This will of course be a gift not to be compared to the brooch; but still it is pretty, very pretty; I think that Agnes is sure to admire it.”
It was indeed impossible not to admire the exquisite embroidery in gold and colors on the small India-muslin scarf. The natives of India excel in this kind of work, and the little scarf was a gem of beauty for richness of pattern and brightness of hue. Miss Clare’s only doubt was whether such an article of dress were not too gay to be given to her young niece.
Miss Clare had little time to think over this matter, for hardly had she put back the pretty piece of embroidery into its paper wrapping, and then replaced it in the drawer, when the rattle of wheels was heard on the stones, and a large carriage, well filled within, and with plenty of luggage without, was driven up to the door. Well Miss Clare knew the smiling eager faces which crowded the carriage window, and the merry young voices which sounded through the clear cold winter air. The lady ran hurriedly to meet and welcome the party, and was at the open door, notwithstanding the cold of frosty December, before Mrs. Temple and her five children could manage to get out of the carriage in which they had been too closely packed for comfort, but in which they had been very noisy and merry. All trace of whooping cough had long since departed, and the sounds which had been heard in the carriage had been only those of talking, laughing, and singing!