Agatha

Their religion was not popular: it did not, as old John Bunyan says, walk “in silver slippers.” Ah, no, it went barefoot for the most part, and was terribly wounded and bruised by the stones of stumbling over which it passed. When Agatha went with her husband and children to worship, it was not in some comfortable chapel or grand old church, but under ground, where slaves were buried, and in the dead of the night. They were in danger even there, and worshipped with the full knowledge that before the last Amen was said, rough soldiery might fall upon and kill them, or drag them off to grace some holiday fete, and be torn to pieces by wild beasts as a public show.
Well, this did not happen. They sang their hymns in peace, offered up their prayers, and listened—oh, how devoutly!—to the reader as he unrolled his book and went through some passage in Christ’s story. And Agatha rejoiced, with all that were in her house, that the lines still fell to them in pleasant places. But there were betrayers in that little company of Christians with whom they met—betrayers who did not die with shame and fear when they heard it read how Judas kissed his Master, and with that kiss betrayed Him. The betrayer made it known to the governor who those Christians were who worshipped in the tombs. None escaped notice; the rich lady, who came veiled; the Ethiopian who came with her—“no longer a servant, but a brother beloved in the Lord”; the little hump-backed shoe-maker; the centurion; the dancing girl, with her light, graceful form; the old gladiator, with his strong limbs; the rough laborer, with his iron hands; the young noble, with his satin skin; all were marked, and all their names written in a book—the governor’s criminal list: ay, but in a better and more lasting volume—in the Lamb’s Book of Life.
One night there came a messenger to Agatha’s house, and a guard, who bore a letter from the governor, commanding the arrest of all the family, and their committal to the town prison. So they were hurried away; but instead of, as they expected, being separated from one another, were all lodged in the same ward. On the morrow there came a messenger, saying that Agatha was to appear before the governor. The hour of trial had come. She had anticipated this. When she became a Christian she knew that a crown of glory would be hers; but a cross and a sepulcher lay between her and its possession. She kissed her children and embraced her husband, and felt—only as a mother and a wife can feel when separated from all they love; and was sustained only as a Christian can be—by God’s grace in the hour of adversity.
Through the gloomy passages, into the presence of the governor, Agatha advances—the guards leave her at the door. She anticipates her fate; death in some cruel form—in the flames—in the torture room—by the wild beasts on a holiday. And she prays as Hannah prayed, her lips moving, but no sound heard. She is ready to die. “For me to die is gain.” She has read these words in a letter from a faithful missionary, and she repeats them now. But she is prepared for the trial. The governor commands obedience—expostulates—threatens. But his words move her not. Now comes the test.
“Woman, by this new doctrine you have lost a wife’s affections and sacrificed a mother’s love. By it you have seduced others into your own error, and made them the sharers in your punishment. It is written in your books that a wise king found out the true mother when he ordered her child to be slain, and that, rather than that the child should perish, she would give it up to a strange woman. See, if you do not resign this new faith—this Nazarene doctrine—I will order the execution of your youngest born: if you recant, for your sake yours shall be spared.”
The Christian woman bowed her head, and was silent. Prayer from her heart went up to God’s throne, and strength from God came down to her heart. So she made answer:
“They who love their children more than Christ are not worthy of Him. If God take my children to Himself, shall I complain? Unjust judge, I trust in the Judge of all.”
At a motion from the governor, the guards advanced towards her. She fainted, and they carried her back to her husband and children. When she recovered, the guards waited with the order for the death of her youngest born. He was a brave boy, with light hair and blue eyes, and a great heart. He bade his mother and the rest shed no tears for him. He would soon be with Christ, and sing with the children cruel Herod slew when Christ was a child Himself. He hears that they will expose him on the bleak mountains, and that he is to die of hunger and thirst; but he answers, “he has meat to eat they know not of,” and that in the land he is going to, “they neither hunger nor thirst.” So they lead him away to death; and the mother covers her head, and weeps bitterly. Her first trial is over.
Next day the guards return. Another interview, with a like result, ensues. The mother is doomed to lose another child. It is a girl—a girl just blooming into womanhood. The mother and father tremble and shed tears, but they feel they must not surrender. It is a happiness in their sorrow that their children are brave-hearted. The girl throws her arms about her mother’s neck, and whispers that her brother and herself are but going to Heaven first—that they will all meet again—that in the world above the stars there are no tears and no more parting. She is to die in what they call the arena, before holiday folks, by wild beasts. So she whispers that God took care of Daniel, and that God will do better still for her: He will take her to Himself. And the second trial is past.
Agatha is childless, and she fears that some new terror may come upon her, but her trust is in God. She prays that God would make her strong enough to bear all trials, and her husband joins her. Next day her husband is the victim. “Resign,” says the unjust judge, “thine husband or thy faith.” And she answers and says, “Christ, the Savior, will help me; the Lord will enable me to bear it all.” The husband comforts his wife with hopeful, happy words, and so they part. And the third trial is over.
A week has passed, and the widowed wife and childless mother sits in the cell alone. And it is night. There comes a visitor; he bears a lamp with him, and is troubled as he enters. It is the unjust judge. The captive lifts her head. “I have no treasure now,” she says; “do with me as you will. They are all gone; why should I tarry? O Lord, send thy chariots, the chariots of Israel, the horsemen thereof!” What does the man mean? He bids her come with him, and she mechanically follows. He leads her through the passages, ascends stone steps, crosses a garden, enters a pavilion, and there—What a scene bursts on her sight! Is she in a dream? Is she in Heaven? There, here, around her, weeping on her neck, clinging round her waist, are the loved ones—husband, children—alive from the dead! How is this? The unjust judge tells the story.
Touched by the constancy of these Christians, he had resolved to test them by the sharpest trials. He wrung the mother’s heart, appealed to her tenderness for her children; and found that her religion enabled her to sustain that trial. He found that her children—her brave boy, her gentle girl—were as immovable as their mother; and he preserved them from the threatened sufferings. He aroused all the wife’s affections, tore from her the husband of her youth; and found her still faithful. The woman gave up her husband for the Lord’s sake, and the husband resigned his wife. He felt that the religion which could so strengthen them to endure all this must be no light matter. He sought to know more. He had been almost—ay, and altogether—persuaded to become a Christian; and his object now was to fly with them from danger, and seek safety on a foreign shore.
So they fled together, and were saved from peril and from persecution, and saved with an everlasting salvation. The noble fortitude of this Christian family had accomplished its work.—Teacher’s Offering.