The richest man in our parish was the squire. He dwelt in a great
house on the hill that overlooked, with its broad white face, the
whole of the village below, with its clustering cottages and neat
farmers' houses, and seemed to say proudly, as it looked down, "I have
my eyes on you all, and intend to keep you in order." And in truth, a
great many eyes it had, with its rows of high windows brightly
reflecting the summer sun, from early morning till evening, when not
unfrequently the last flush in the west left them glowing as with red
fire. When strangers looked up at the great house, and inquired about
it, the people of our parish used to tell them with some awe what
treasures of grand furniture, and pictures, and choice specimens of
art, the squire had collected in its many handsome rooms; what was the
worth of one picture alone, that he had refused thousands of pounds
for, and the number of others that were beautiful enough, and valuable
enough, to have adorned a palace.
They were very proud to be able to say that so rich a man belonged to
them, and lived among them, and to point out his crimson-lined and
curtained pew at church, and the great tombstone that stood behind the
pathway in the churchyard, recording the virtues of his ancestors, and
testifying, as well as it could, to his own riches.
I suppose the squire knew the homage that was paid to him, and liked
it, and was proud in his turn, not of his neighbors, but of himself,
and of the wealth he possessed. Whenever he rode abroad, he met with
bows and smiles from rich and poor, everybody made way for him,
everybody courted him. A man with so much money, and so much land, and
such fine furniture, and pictures, and statues, and gardens, was not
to be pushed in a corner and thought little of, and he knew it, as he
went along the lanes and roads on his thorough-breds, and nodded to
this man, and "good-morninged" that, with some degree of
condescension. He knew that he was courted, and admired, and deferred
to, because of his riches, and was quite satisfied that it should be
so. He did not wish to be thought ill-natured, so he gave, every year,
a treat to his workpeople, and sent money, and coal, and blankets to
the poor at Christmas, but he thought little more about them. They
were poor, and he was rich; those two words, "poor" and "rich,"
indicated a great difference, and he was quite well pleased there
should be such a difference.
One summer morning, he was taking a ride through the woods that
skirted one side of his estate. It was very hot, and in the lanes the
sun and the flies teased both him and his horse, so when they turned
in beneath the shadows of the oaks and beeches, it was a great relief
to both. The squire gave Dandy the rein, and went along softly. He was
soon thinking of other things than oaks and beeches. Perhaps the
glitter of the sunshine here and there, as it lay upon a cluster of
trembling leaves, or turned to richer red the tall heads of the willow
herb beside his path, suggested the crimson draperies and gilded
ornaments of his home, for he was thinking of a sight he had seen
there only the day before; when there had been at the birthday of his
eldest son a grand gathering of friends, and a feast such as a rich
man makes to the rich, with dainties, and spices, and wines, served in
gold, and silver, and rarest china, in the utmost profusion, and with
the greatest display. He remembered the hilarity of the guests, the
healths drank, the speeches made, the compliments so freely given and
taken; and with some pride he remembered, too, it had been said, that
within the memory of man, no one had given so grand a feast in the
parish as he had done that day.
Dandy's feet fell softly, and made little noise on the soft carpet of
grass and last year's leaves, that covered and hid the stout roots of
the oaks. It was no wonder, then, that presently the squire heard a
gentle sound not far away. He became aware that some other human being
than himself was in the wood, and checking his horse, he listened a
moment, as words, half prayer, half praise, met his ears. "Who can be
praying here?" he asked himself, and as the voice was near, he pushed
aside a bough or two, and stretched his head, till he could see into a
little shady hollow not far from the roadside, and discovered the
strange wood-guest.
Ah! it was only an old man, a pauper, or next door to one, whom he had
frequently seen before, breaking stones by the highway.
But what was the deaf old man about? "_Praying!_" With his eyes shut,
and his head uplifted, and his hat just taken off, held in his
toil-swollen fingers, while before him was spread out his dinner--a
piece of dry bread, part of a small loaf, and a can of water by his
side--bread and water, nothing else; but the old man was thanking God
for it, and was content. _More than content._ An expression of happy
praise was on his uplifted face. Such an expression the squire had not
seen on any face at his own loaded table for many years. And he was
thanking God for bread and water, and was happy! The old man was a
sincere Christian.
The richest man in the parish did not understand how, when the soul
loves God, the least mercies from his hands are felt to be priceless
blessings; how bread and water, with a thankful heart, are sweeter to
the taste than any food without it; and he felt humiliated. What right
had that old man to thank God for bread and water, when _he_ never
thanked him for all his great possessions?
The woods closed in on him again, he left the stone-breaker behind,
and his face soon assumed its usual self-satisfied expression. But
during that morning's ride, again and again returned to him the
picture he had seen in the green hollow, of the man who had thanked
God for bread and water, and the thought of his own great riches did
not give him quite its usual satisfaction. Had those riches ever made
him as happy as that old man looked to be over his poor meal? He was
obliged to confess to himself that they had not, and it was to him a
sad confession. His pride was sorely touched, and his heart
disquieted, and the farther he rode, the more he felt a sense of
discomfort and discontent, that was strangely new to him.
Presently the bright sun became overcast, great clouds gathered, and
the woods looked dark and gloomy. Dandy walked along untroubled by
nervous fears and fancies, but an influence came over the squire for
which he could not account. A strange sinking was at his heart, and an
impression of coming calamity. Then a voice struck his inward ear, a
voice not of this world, one of those voices God sends sometimes to be
heard for our good and guidance, and the words it uttered were
terrible to him. That voice spoke to him clearly and distinctly, "This
night the richest man in the parish will die." Strange and fearful
were these words. He did not look round to know whence they proceeded;
he knew it was an inward and spiritual voice that spoke, and he
believed what it said. With a shudder he remembered the parable of the
rich man in the Gospel, to whom had come the same terrible
warning--"This night thy soul shall be required of thee."
"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his
own soul? and what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" were
words that haunted him now, and a cold perspiration covered him from
head to foot. He felt that he had been an unwise merchant, who had
exchanged his soul for very little. Unable at length to bear his own
reflections, he galloped home.
[Illustration: Christ in the Home of Mary and Martha]
There he arrived in a state of great agitation, and alarmed his wife
and family by sending at once for a physician. To all inquiries he
gave the answer that he was about to die, and must prepare for it. In
vain they tried to persuade him that his health was as good as ever,
that he was only the subject of a nervous fancy. The physician
arrived, and laughed at his fears, but he heeded neither ridicule nor
entreaties. Death was not a thing to be laughed or entreated away, and
to death he was doomed. What did it signify what the world said about
it? He must make ready for it. His solicitor was called in, and his
worldly affairs settled. Wife and children were all provided for,
houses and lands were portioned out to his beloved ones, then he had
nothing to do but prepare himself for the great change; that, however,
he found impossible. In great perturbation of mind he awaited the
coming of his great enemy, Death. When night drew on, his fears
increased; every time the great hall clock sounded the hour he
shuddered, not knowing if he might ever hear it again. The physician
and lawyer remained with him at his request, but they could not bring
calm to his agitated mind. They could only listen to what he said, as
to the ravings of a madman, for mad they judged him to be.
Hour after hour went by, and the richest man in the parish, lying in
his splendid bed, expecting Death every moment, found how poor he had
become, and of how little real use all his vast possessions were to
him now. Midnight passed away, early morning came, light dawned upon
the hills. A faint color came into the sky, and with it color once
more stole back into the cheeks of the squire, and hope returned to
his heart. Death had not arrived as he had feared; he was still
living. The night was passed, the morning was come, and the prophecy
of the mysterious voice was not accomplished. His family gathered
about him, and with smiles congratulated him, advising him to take his
rest, now the danger was past. But how could he rest after such a
night, such an upturning of all the cherished thoughts and aims of his
life, such a revelation of the poverty of riches? He chose rather to
walk abroad, and with thoughtful face and slow steps proceeded towards
the village. There he heard that Death had indeed been a visitor in
one house during the night, but instead of appearing in his own grand
mansion, he had entered the poorest cottage in the place--the old
stone-breaker had died during the night. With a still more thoughtful
face he returned home, for his heart smote him. He remembered the old
man's simple dinner; he saw again the uplifted face, on which God's
sunshine rested in a double sense; he heard again the words of his
thankful prayer, and his own laugh of derision, and he was again
humiliated, but this time to better purpose.
His wife met him at the threshold of his house, with a smiling face,
glad to see him once more, "clothed and in his right mind," for she,
too, had feared for his reason. She accompanied him in, and then, when
seated at his side, gently chided him for his last night's fears, and
what she called "superstitious fancies." "I hope now," she added, "you
are quite satisfied that there was no truth in what that mysterious
voice told you. The night is past, and you are alive, and as well as
ever."
"True, my dear," he replied, "the night is past, and I am alive and
well. But nevertheless the richest man in the parish _has_ died. If
you will take the trouble to inquire in the village, you will find it
is so."
"How is that?" she asked, and as she spoke she looked round somewhat
proudly, as though a rival to her grandeur had appeared. "Who can be
richer here than you?"
"The man who can say to God, 'Whom have I in heaven but thee, and
there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee.' I cannot say
that, for I have desired many things and persons besides God, and
almost all things more than God. But there was a poor stone-breaker
alive yesterday, who in possessing God possessed all things. I call
him poor after the manner of the world, but he was really rich--an
heir of the kingdom of heaven. Last night I was shown his riches and
my poverty. People will tell you he is dead, and I dare say that he
did not leave a shilling to pay for his burial; but _he_ was '_the
richest man in the parish_.'"