An Old Legend.
If you live in the country you must sometimes have seen a very pretty blue flower which grows wild on the margin of streams, called the Forget-me-not, and, perhaps, have wondered how it got this curious name. Well, there is an old story, a very old story indeed, which tells how the name arose. It seems that many long years ago, when those old castles, whose ruins we see now and then on some hill-top or crag, all ivy-grown and crumbling to decay, were new and strong, when “might was right,” and that
“old plan,
That he shall take who has the power,
And he shall keep who can,”
appeared to be the law of the land in which we now dwell so quietly, a certain knight was walking one day by a river-side with a lady, when she spied a bunch of bright blue flowers growing where the deep stream laved the foot of the high bank on which they stood. Greatly admiring their wild beauty, she happened to say how much she should like to have them; and the knight, wishing to please his companion and, perhaps, also to display his courage and devotion, of which so much was thought in those old days, at once attempted to descend to the water’s edge to get them. The bank, as I have said, was high and very steep, and, to make matters worse, the knight was clad in armor. Perhaps he was just about to start on some warlike expedition which, in those times of violence, were very frequent even among neighbors, or he would hardly have chosen to take a walk on a summer’s day clothed from head to foot in steel. I don’t think you would like to wear a steel coat and trousers, a steel hat and steel gloves and boots, especially on a summer’s day; but he was used to it and did not feel the weight, only you know it was awkward on a slippery bank, especially as it would seem that the river was deep close up to its sides, as is the case, for instance, in many parts of the river Severn, where it would be certain destruction for anyone unable to swim to descend to the edge of the stream. Perhaps it was that very river where all this happened; but, however that may be, the knight had no sooner reached the water than he plunged at once into its depths Of course the weight of his armor bore him down and made it impossible for him to swim; there were no bushes or reeds to cling to, nor any hand to help him, for the lady was far out of reach and quite unable to render him any assistance from the height at which she stood, and after a vain struggle to get some footing on the slippery bank he found himself sinking.
Making one desperate effort more, he snatched at the bunch of wild flowers on the bank and, throwing them to the feet of the lady, cried “Forget me not!” then sank out of her sight in the deep waters! How far this tradition is to be relied on I cannot tell you. In those old times when the Bible was shut up from the people by the Romish priesthood; when all sorts of idols, dubbed with Scripture names, were set up in the churches, and worship of Vishnu or Ashtoreth, under the name of the Virgin, was the chief religion of this country, as it still is of many parts of the Continent, wherever Romanism prevails, it was the custom to risk life and limb on the most trivial occasions, in a vain display of courage and devotedness to the female sex, under the idea that in doing so they were honoring their principal idol, the Virgin, so that this old tradition is not unlikely to be true. But I don’t know that it matters much to you and me whether it be so or not, except as it serves to show, if true, for what trifles men will risk life. A bunch of wild flowers, a little praise, a passing name for courage and devotedness, any or all of these were enough to lead a man, you see, to undertake a task which a moment’s thought would have shown him was, under all the circumstances, certain death. Perhaps he felt this as he looked down the steep bank and saw there was no footing for him where the flowers grew, but hoped he might escape, or, if not, if he lost his life, he would be spoken of in song and story as the devoted knight who laid down his life for the Honor of his idol; for what will not self-love and vain glory lead a poor sinner to do? Yet his very name is forgotten long since, and although the flower ever says “Forget me not,” no one knows who “me” is, or cares to know. And if the old tale be true, and that poor idol-worshipper died in his sins, how solemnly his doom reminds us of the rich man who, for trifles of but little more-real value, lost his never-dying soul! “Purple and fine linen and sumptuous fare” were somewhat more solid than the breath of fame; but “what shall it profit a man if he gain the WHOLE WORLD, and lose his own soul?” Surely, then, the old legend that gives a name to this little wild flower is not without instruction. He who was the chief actor in it and the author of the name, has long passed into oblivion, but the memorial of his folly lives on still by many a lake and stream, and as its blossoms peep out from their grassy bed or bend over their blue shadows in the water, have they not a warning voice for every heedless worldling, young or old, who in one shape or another repeats the folly of the long-forgotten knight! I think they have, and that, although centuries have rolled away since he sank in the deep stream, “he being dead yet speaketh,” saying solemnly to all who love “the world and the things of the world,” as they look on this little blue blossom, “Forget me not.”
You are young, and the world, with all its hidden snares, seems all bright and joyous before you, seen in the halo of golden hope, through which childhood sees all future things; but, depend upon it, it is no better for all its fair show than the bunch of wild flowers by the water’s edge, or the passing breath of praise, or the name so soon forgotten for the sake of which the knight, in the old tradition, lost his life, and perhaps his never-dying soul! As he snatched at the blue forget-me-nots, then sank into eternity, so men snatch at the perishing blossoms of this world’s promised joys, and sink into that which the heart shudders to think of. He was, lost in the deep river; what must it be to be lost in the lake of fire!
But there is another lesson yet to be gathered from the blue Forget-me-not. The knight of the old legend risked his life, and lost it, to display his courage or to earn a little momentary praise; but there is an old, old story of ONE who gave His life—gave it willingly; came, not down a bank to a river’s margin, but from off the eternal throne to this poor world—a world that His own hands had made—to die for sinners. I need not tell you Whom I mean, for you cannot have read GOOD NEWS without knowing. But it is one thing to know about the Lord Jesus Christ, “who, His own self, bare our sins in His own body on the tree;” and it is quite another thing to know Him HIMSELF. You see it is possible for you to know all about the knight in the old legend, what he did, and how he died, and why; and yet you never knew him, himself, nor ever will. We don’t even know his name, much less his person. Well, but I hope you are not content merely to know, in this way, about Jesus and His love for sinners. Surely He deserves something better at your hands! If that poor knight deserved to be remembered by the lady, even though vain-glory had so much to do with the sacrifice he made, does not the blessed Jesus, who never thought of nor loved self for one passing moment? But how can you remember One whom you have never known? You see the lady could remember the knight, because she had known him; we cannot, for though we know something about him, we never knew the man himself. So it is with those who only know about the Lord Jesus Christ, they cannot remember Him, although they may remember what He did; but that will only condemn them, unless they go on to know Himself. I hope you see the difference. I point it out to you, because you may have been reading GOOD NEWS month after month, learning much about the Lord, and the old, old story of His love, and so may be content; yet, after all, you may be as far from Him as those who never heard about Him. This will never do; you must have to do with Him Himself, for He says “Come unto ME;” you must believe on Him, for the Word of God declares, “whosoever believeth in HIM shall not perish, but have everlasting life.” You must have Him, for it is written “he that HATH THE SON hath life, and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.” “He died for our sins, and rose again, according to the Scriptures,” therefore He is living still up there in heaven, and you can turn your eye to Him now, just the same as if He were living here on the earth; nay, easier, for if He were on earth you would have to go where He was, but now you can go to Him where you are, which makes an immense difference, for your heart can go out to Him just where you are at this moment. He loves sinners, and says “Come unto Me.” Can you refuse Him, and sit down contented with merely knowing something about him, instead of knowing Him himself? Think of the difference whenever you hear or read the old, old story of the Gospel of His grace. To be satisfied with His history, that wondrous tale of love, while ignorant of Him himself, would be sad indeed. Does He deserve thus to be forgotten? Ask yourself the question when again you look upon the lowly wild flower blooming amid the grass and water-plants beside the sunlit stream, and saying ever, as its blue-eyed petals look you in the face, “FORGET ME NOT!”