MRS. INCLE'S STORY.
"I left your house, dear father," said Mrs. Incle, "with a heart
full of vain triumph. I had no doubt but my husband was a great man,
who put on that disguise to obtain my hand. Judge, then, what I felt
to find that he was a needy impostor, who wanted my money, but did
not care for me. This discovery, though it mortified, did not
humble me. I had neither affection to bear with the man who had
deceived me, nor religion to improve by the disappointment. I have
found that change of circumstances does not change the heart, till
God is pleased to do it. My misfortune only taught me to rebel more
against him. I thought God unjust; I accused my father, I was
envious of my sister, I hated my husband; but never once did I blame
myself.
"My husband picked up a wretched subsistence by joining himself to
any low scheme of idle pleasure that was going on. He would follow a
mountebank, carry a dice-box, or fiddle at the fair. He was always
taunting me for that gentility on which I so much valued myself. 'If
I had married a poor working girl,' said he, 'she could now have got
her bread; but a fine lady without money is a disgrace to herself, a
burden to her husband, and a plague to society.' Every trial which
affection might have made lighter, we doubled by animosity; at
length my husband was detected in using false dice; he fought with
his accuser, both were seized by a press-gang, and sent to sea. I
was now left to the wide world; and miserable as I had thought
myself before, I soon found there were higher degrees of misery. I
was near my time, without bread for myself, or hope for my child. I
set out on foot in search of the village where I had heard my
husband say his friends lived. It was a severe trial to my proud
heart to stoop to those low people; but hunger is not delicate, and
I was near perishing. My husband's parents received me kindly,
saying, that though they had nothing but what they earned by their
labor, yet I was welcome to share their hard fare; for they trusted
that God who sent mouths would send meat also. They gave me a small
room in their cottage, and furnished me with many necessaries, which
they denied themselves."
"O! my child!" interrupted Bragwell, "every word cuts me to the
heart. These poor people gladly gave thee of their little, while thy
rich parents left thee to starve."
"How shall I own," continued Mrs. Incle, "that all this goodness
could not soften my heart; for God had not yet touched it. I
received all their kindness as a favor done to them; and thought
them sufficiently rewarded for their attentions by the rank and
merit of their daughter-in-law. When my father brought me home any
little dainty which he could pick up, and my mother kindly dressed
it for me, I would not condescend to eat it with them, but devoured
it sullenly in my little garret alone, suffering them to fetch and
carry every thing I wanted. As my haughty behavior was not likely to
gain their affection, it was plain they did not love me; and as I
had no notion that there were any motives to good actions but
fondness, or self-interest, I was puzzled to know what could make
them so kind to me; for of the powerful and constraining law of
Christian charity I was quite ignorant. To cheat the weary hours, I
looked about for some books, and found, among a few others of the
same cast, 'Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul.'
But all those sort of books were addressed to _sinners_; now as I
knew I was not a sinner, I threw them away in disgust. Indeed, they
were ill suited to a taste formed by plays and novels, to which
reading I chiefly trace my ruin; for, vain as I was, I should never
have been guilty of so wild a step as to run away, had not my heart
been tainted and my imagination inflamed by those pernicious books.
"At length my little George was born. This added to the burden I had
brought on this poor family, but it did not diminish their kindness,
and we continued to share their scanty fare without any upbraiding
on their part, or any gratitude on mine. Even this poor baby did not
soften my heart; I wept over him, indeed, day and night, but they
were tears of despair; I was always idle, and wasted those hours in
sinful murmurs at his fate, which I should have employed in trying
to maintain him. Hardship, grief, and impatience, at length brought
on a fever. Death seemed now at hand, and I felt a gloomy
satisfaction in the thought of being rid of my miseries, to which I
fear was added a sullen joy, to think that you, sir, and my mother,
would be plagued to hear of my death when it would be too late; and
in this your grief I anticipated a gloomy sort of revenge. But it
pleased my merciful God not to let me thus perish in my sins. My
poor mother-in-law sent for a good clergyman, who pointed out the
danger of dying in that hard and unconverted state, so forcibly,
that I shuddered to find on what a dreadful precipice I stood. He
prayed with me and for me so earnestly, that at length God, who is
sometimes pleased to magnify his own glory in awakening those who
are dead in trespasses and sins, was pleased of his free grace, to
open my blind eyes, and soften my stony heart. I saw myself a
sinner, and prayed to be delivered from the wrath of God, in
comparison of which the poverty and disgrace I now suffered appeared
as nothing. To a soul convinced of sin, the news of a Redeemer was a
joyful sound. Instead of reproaching Providence, or blaming my
parents, or abusing my husband, I now learned to condemn myself, to
adore that God who had not cut me off in my ignorance, to pray for
pardon for the past, and grace for the time to come. I now desired
to submit to penury and hunger, so that I might but live in the fear
of God in this world, and enjoy his favor in the next. I now learned
to compare my present light sufferings, the consequence of my own
sin, with those bitter sufferings of my Saviour, which he endured
for my sake, and I was ashamed of murmuring. But self-ignorance,
conceit, and vanity were so rooted in me, that my progress was very
gradual, and I had the sorrow to feel how much the power of long bad
habits keeps down the growth of religion in the heart, even after
the principle itself has begun to take root. I was so ignorant of
divine things, that I hardly knew words to frame a prayer; but when
I got acquainted with the Psalms, I there learned how to pour out
the fullness of my heart, while in the gospel I rejoiced to see what
great things God had done for my soul.
"I now took down once more from the shelf 'Doddridge's Rise and
Progress;' and oh! with what new eyes did I read it! I now saw
clearly, that not only the thief and the drunkard, the murderer and
the adulterer are sinners, for that I knew before! but I found out
that the unbeliever, the selfish, the proud, the worldly-minded,
all, in short, who live without God in the world, are sinners. I
did not now apply the reproofs I met with to my husband, or my
father, or other people, as I used to do; but brought them home to
myself. In this book I traced, with strong emotions and close
self-application, the sinner through all his course; his first
awakening, his convictions, repentance, joys, sorrows, backsliding,
and recovering, despondency, and delight, to a triumphant
death-bed; and God was pleased to make it a chief instrument in
bringing me to himself. Here it is," continued Mrs. Incle, untying
her little bundle, and taking out a book; "accept it, my dear
father, and I will pray that God may bless it to you, as He has
done to me.
"When I was able to come down, I passed my time with these good old
people, and soon won their affection. I was surprised to find they
had very good sense, which I never had thought poor people could
have; but, indeed, worldly persons do not know how much religion,
while it mends the heart, enlightens the understanding also. I now
regretted the evenings I had wasted in my solitary garret, when I
might have passed them in reading the Bible with these good folks.
This was their refreshing cordial after a weary day, which sweetened
the pains of want and age. I one day expressed my surprise that my
unfortunate husband, the son of such pious parents, should have
turned out so ill: the poor old man said with tears, 'I fear we have
been guilty of the sin of Eli; our love was of the wrong sort. Alas!
like him, _we honored our son more than God_, and God has smitten us
for it. We showed him by our example, what was right; but through a
false indulgence, we did not correct him for what was wrong. We were
blind to his faults. He was a handsome boy, with sprightly parts: we
took too much delight in these outward things. He soon got above our
management, and became vain, idle, and extravagant; and when we
sought to restrain him, it was then too late. We humbled ourselves
before God; but he was pleased to make our sin become its own
punishment. Timothy grew worse and worse, till he was forced to
abscond for a misdemeanor, after which we never saw him, but have
often heard of him changing from one idle way of life to another;
_unstable as water_, he has been a footman, a soldier, a shopman, a
gambler, and a strolling actor. With deep sorrow we trace back his
vices to our ungoverned fondness; that lively and sharp wit, by
which he has been able to carry on such a variety of wild schemes,
might, if we had used him to bear reproof in his youth, have enabled
him to have done great service for God and his country. But our
flattery made him wise in his own conceit; and there is more hope of
a fool than of him. We indulged our own vanity, and have destroyed
his soul.'"
Here Mr. Worthy stopped Mrs. Incle, saying, that whenever he heard
it lamented that the children of pious parents often turned out so
ill, he could not help thinking that there must be frequently
something of this sort of error in the bringing them up; he knew,
indeed, some instances to the contrary, in which the best means had
failed; but he believed, that from Eli, the priest, to Incle, the
laborer, much more than half the failures of this sort might be
traced to some mistake, or vanity, or bad judgment, or sinful
indulgence in the parents.
"I now looked about," continued Mrs. Incle, "in order to see in what
I could assist my poor mother; regretting more heartily than she
did, that I knew no one thing that was of any use. I was so desirous
of humbling myself before God and her, that I offered even to try to
wash." "You wash!" exclaimed Bragwell, starting up with great
emotion, "Heaven forbid, that with such a fortune and education,
Miss Bragwell should be seen at a washing-tub." This vain father,
who could bear to hear of her distresses and her sins, could not
bear to hear of her washing. Mr. Worthy stopped him, saying, "As to
her fortune, you know you refused to give her any; and as to her
education, you see it had not taught her how to do any thing better;
I am sorry you do not see in this instance, the beauty of Christian
humility. For my own part I set a greater value on such an active
proof of it, than on a whole volume of professions." Mr. Bragwell
did not quite understand this, and Mrs. Incle went on. "What to do
to get a penny I knew not. Making of filagree, or fringe, or
card-purses, or cutting out paper, or dancing and singing was of no
use in our village. The shopkeeper, indeed, would have taken me, if
I had known any thing of accounts; and the clergyman could have got
me a nursery-maid's place, if I could have done good plain work. I
made some awkward attempts to learn to spin and knit, when my
mother's wheel or knitting lay by, but I spoiled both through my
ignorance. At last I luckily thought upon the fine netting I used
to make for my trimmings, and it struck me that I might turn this to
some little account. I procured some twine, and worked early and
late to make nets for fishermen, and cabbage-nets. I was so pleased
that I had at last found an opportunity to show my good will by this
mean work, that I regretted my little George was not big enough to
contribute his share to our support, by traveling about to sell my
nets."
"Cabbage-nets!" exclaimed Bragwell; "there's no bearing this.
Cabbage-nets! My grandson hawk cabbage-nets! How could you think of
such a scandalous thing?" "Sir," said Mrs. Incle, mildly, "I am now
convinced that nothing is scandalous which is not wicked. Besides,
we were in want; and necessity, as well as piety, would have
reconciled me to this mean trade." Mr. Bragwell groaned, and bade
her go on.
"In the mean time my little George grew a fine boy; and I adored the
goodness of God who in the sweetness of maternal love, had given me
a reward for many sufferings. Instead of indulging a gloomy distrust
about the fate of this child, I now resigned him to the will of God.
Instead of lamenting because he was not likely to be rich, I was
resolved to bring him up with such notions as might make him
contented to be poor. I thought if I could subdue all vanity and
selfishness in him, I should make him a happier man than if I had
thousands to bestow on him; and I trusted that I should be rewarded
for every painful act of self-denial, by the future virtue and
happiness of my child. Can you believe it, my dear father, my days
now passed not unhappily? I worked hard all day, and that alone is a
source of happiness beyond what the idle can guess. After my child
was asleep at night, I read a chapter in the Bible to my parents,
whose eyes now began to fail them. We then thanked God over our
frugal supper of potatoes, and talked over the holy men of old, the
saints, and the martyrs who would have thought our homely fare a
luxury. We compared our peace, and liberty, and safety, with their
bonds, and imprisonment, and tortures; and should have been ashamed
of a murmur. We then joined in prayer, in which my absent parents
and my husband were never forgotten, and went to rest in charity
with the whole world, and at peace with our own souls."
"Oh! my forgiving child!" interrupted Mr. Bragwell, sobbing; "and
didst thou really pray for thy unnatural father? and didst thou lay
thee down in rest and peace? Then, let me tell thee, thou wast
better off than thy mother and I were. But no more of this; go on."
"Whether my father-in-law had worked beyond his strength, in order
to support me and my child, I know not, but he was taken dangerously
ill. While he lay in this state, he received an account that my
husband was dead in the West Indies of the yellow fever, which has
carried off such numbers of our countrymen; we all wept together,
and prayed that his awful death might quicken us in preparing for
our own. This shock joined to the fatigue of nursing her sick
husband, soon brought my poor mother to death's door. I nursed them
both, and felt a satisfaction in giving them all I had to bestow, my
attendance, my tears, and my prayers. I, who was once so nice and so
proud, so disdainful in the midst of plenty, and so impatient under
the smallest inconvenience, was now enabled to glorify God by my
activity and by my submission. Though the sorrows of my heart were
enlarged, I cast my burden on Him who cares for the weary and
heavy-laden. After having watched by these poor people the whole
night, I sat down to breakfast on my dry crust and coarse dish of
tea, without a murmur: my greatest grief was, lest I should bring
away the infection to my dear boy; for the fever was now become
putrid. I prayed to know what it was my duty to do between my dying
parents and my helpless child. To take care of the sick and aged,
seemed to be my first duty; so I offered up my child to Him who is
the father of the fatherless, and He in mercy spared him to me.
"The cheerful piety with which these good people breathed their
last, proved to me that the temper of mind with which the pious poor
commonly meet death, is the grand compensation made them by
Providence for all the hardships of their inferior condition. If
they have had few joys and comforts in life already, and have still
fewer hopes in store, is not all fully made up to them by their
being enabled to leave this world with stronger desires of heaven,
and without those bitter regrets after the good things of this life,
which add to the dying tortures of the worldly rich? To the forlorn
and destitute, death is not so terrible as it is to him who _sits at
ease in his possessions_, and who fears that this night his soul
shall be required of him."
Mr. Bragwell felt this remark more deeply than his daughter meant he
should. He wept, and bade her proceed.
"I followed my departed parents to the same grave, and wept over
them, but not as one who had no hope. They had neither houses nor
lands to leave me, but they had left me their Bible, their blessing,
and their example, of which I humbly trust I shall feel the benefits
when all the riches of this world shall have an end. Their few
effects, consisting of some poor household goods, and some
working-tools, hardly sufficed to pay their funeral expenses. I was
soon attacked with the same fever, and saw myself, as I thought,
dying the second time; my danger was the same, but my views were
changed. I now saw eternity in a more awful light than I had done
before, when I wickedly thought death might be gloomily called upon
as a refuge from every common trouble. Though I had still reason to
be humble on account of my sin, yet, by the grace of God, I saw
death stripped of his sting and robbed of his terrors, _through him
who loved me, and gave himself for me_; and in the extremity of
pain, _my soul rejoiced in God my Saviour_.
"I recovered, however, and was chiefly supported by the kind
clergyman's charity. When I felt myself nourished and cheered by a
little tea or broth, which he daily sent me from his own slender
provision, my heart smote me, to think how I had daily sat down at
home to a plentiful dinner, without any sense of thankfulness for my
own abundance, or without inquiring whether my poor sick neighbors
were starving: and I sorrowfully remembered, that what my poor
sister and I used to waste through daintiness, would now have
comfortably fed myself and child. Believe me, my dear mother, a
laboring man who has been brought low by a fever, might often be
restored to his work some weeks sooner, if on his recovery he was
nourished and strengthened by a good bit from a farmer's table. Less
than is often thrown to a favorite spaniel would suffice; so that
the expense would be almost nothing to the giver, while to the
receiver it would bring health, and strength, and comfort, and
recruited life. And it is with regret I must observe, that young
women in our station are less attentive to the comforts of the poor,
less active in visiting the cottages of the sick, less desirous of
instructing the young, and working for the aged, than many ladies of
higher rank. The multitude of opportunities of this sort which we
neglect, among the families of our father's distressed tenants and
workmen, will, I fear, one day appear against us.
"By the time I was tolerably recovered, I was forced to leave the
house. I had no human prospect of assistance. I humbly asked of God
to direct my steps, and to give me entire obedience to his will. I
then cast my eye mournfully on my child; and, though prayer had
relieved my heart of a load which without it would have been
intolerable, my tears flowed fast, while I cried out in the
bitterness of my soul, _How many hired servants of my father have
bread enough, and to spare, and I perish with hunger._ This text
appeared a kind of answer to my prayer, and gave me courage to make
one more attempt to soften you in my favor. I resolved to set out
directly to find you, to confess my disobedience, and to beg a
scanty pittance with which I and my child might be meanly supported
in some distant county, where we should not, by our presence,
disgrace our more happy relations. We set out and traveled as fast
as my weak health and poor George's little feet and ragged shoes
would permit. I brought a little bundle of such work and necessaries
as I had left, by selling which we subsisted on the road." "I hope,"
interrupted Bragwell, "there were no cabbage-nets in it?" "At
least," said her mother, "I hope you did not sell them near home?"
"No; I had none left," said Mrs. Incle, "or I should have done it. I
got many a lift in a wagon for my child and my bundle, which was a
great relief to me, as I should have had both to carry. And here I
can not help saying, I wish drivers would not be too hard in their
demands; if they help a poor sick traveler on a mile or two, it
proves a great relief to weary bodies and naked feet; and such
little cheap charities may be considered as _the cup of cold water_,
which, if given on right grounds, _shall not lose its reward_." Here
Bragwell sighed to think that when mounted on his fine bay mare, or
driving his neat chaise, it had never once crossed his mind that the
poor way-worn foot traveler was not equally at his ease, nor had it
ever occurred to him that shoes were a necessary accommodation.
Those who want nothing are apt to forget how many there are who want
every thing. Mrs. Incle went on; "I got to this village about seven
this morning; and while I sat on the church-yard wall to rest and
meditate how I should make myself known at home, I saw a funeral; I
inquired whose it was, and learned it was my sister's. This was too
much for me, and I sank down in a fit, and knew nothing that
happened to me from that moment, till I found myself in the
work-house with my father and Mr. Worthy."
Here Mrs. Incle stopped. Grief, shame, pride, and remorse, had quite
overcome Mr. Bragwell. He wept like a child, and said he hoped his
daughter would pray for him; for that he was not in a condition to
pray for himself, though he found nothing else could give him any
comfort. His deep dejection brought on a fit of sickness. "O! said
he, I now begin to feel an expression in the sacrament which I used
to repeat without thinking it had any meaning, the _remembrance of
my sins is grievous, the burden of them is intolerable_. O! it is
awful to think what a sinner a man may be, and yet retain a decent
character! How many thousands are in my condition, taking to
themselves all the credit of their prosperity, instead of giving God
the glory! heaping up riches to their hurt, instead of dealing their
bread to the hungry! O! let those who hear of the Bragwell family,
never say that _vanity is a little sin_. In _me_ it has been the
fruitful parent of a thousand sins--selfishness, hardness of heart,
forgetfulness of God. In one of my sons vanity was the cause of
rapine, injustice, extravagance, ruin, self-murder. Both my
daughters were undone by vanity, thought it only wore the more
harmless shape of dress, idleness, and dissipation. The husband of
my daughter Incle it destroyed, by leading him to live above his
station, and to despise labor. Vanity insnared the souls even of
his pious parents, for while it led them to wish their son in a
better condition, it led them to allow such indulgences as were
unfit for his own. O! you who hear of us, humble yourselves under
the mighty hand of God; resist high thoughts; let every imagination
be brought into obedience to the Son of God. If you set a value on
finery look into that grave; behold the moldering body of my Betsy,
who now says to _Corruption, thou art my father, and to the worm,
thou art my mother, and my sister_. Look to the bloody and brainless
head of her husband. O, Mr. Worthy, how does Providence mock at
human foresight! I have been greedy of gain, that the son of Mr.
Squeeze might be a great man; he is dead; while the child of Timothy
Incle, whom I had doomed to beggary, will be my heir. Mr. Worthy, to
you I commit this boy's education; teach him to value his immortal
soul more, and the good things of this life less than I have done.
Bring him up in the fear of God, and in the government of his
passions. Teach him that unbelief and pride are at the root of all
sin. I have found this to my cost. I trusted in my riches; I said,
'To-morrow shall be as this day and more abundant.' I did not
remember that _for all these things God would bring me to judgment_.
I am not sure that I believe in a judgment: I am not sure that I
believe in a God."
Bragwell at length grew better, but he never recovered his spirits.
The conduct of Mrs. Incle through life was that of an humble
Christian. She sold all her sister's finery which her father had
given her, and gave the money to the poor; saying, "It did not
become one who professed penitence to return to the gayeties of
life." Mr. Bragwell did not oppose this; not that he had fully
acquired a just notion of the self-denying spirit of religion, but
having a head not very clear at making distinctions, he was never
able after the sight of Squeeze's mangled body, to think of gayety
and grandeur, without thinking at the same time of a pistol and
bloody brains; for, as his first introduction into gay life had
presented him with all these objects at one view, he never afterward
could separate them in his mind. He even kept his fine beaufet of
plate always shut; because it brought to his mind the grand
unpaid-for sideboard that he had seen laid out for Mr. Squeeze's
supper, to the remembrance of which he could not help tacking the
idea of debts, prisons, executions, and self-murder.
Mr. Bragwell's heart had been so buried in the love of the world,
and evil habits had become so rooted in him, that the progress he
made in religion was very slow; yet he earnestly prayed and
struggled against sin and vanity; and when his unfeeling wife
declared she could not love the boy unless he was called by their
name instead of Incle, Bragwell would never consent, saying he stood
in need of every help against pride. He also got the letter which
Squeeze wrote just before he shot himself, framed and glazed; this
he hung up in his chamber, and made it a rule to go and read it as
often as he found his heart disposed to VANITY.
'TIS ALL FOR THE BEST.[13]
[13] A profligate wit of a neighboring country having attempted to
turn this doctrine into ridicule, under the same title here
assumed, it occurred to the author that it might not be altogether
useless to illustrate the same doctrine on Christian principles.
"It is all for the best," said Mrs. Simpson, whenever any misfortune
befell her. She had got such a habit of vindicating Providence, that
instead of weeping and wailing under the most trying dispensations,
her chief care was to convince herself and others, that however
great might be her sufferings, and however little they could be
accounted for at present, yet that the Judge of all the earth could
not but do right. Instead of trying to clear herself from any
possible blame that might attach to her under those misfortunes
which, to speak after the manner of men, she might seem not to have
_deserved_, she was always the first to justify Him who had
inflicted it. It was not that she superstitiously converted every
visitation into a _punishment_; she entertained more correct ideas
of that God who overrules all events. She knew that some calamities
were sent to exercise her faith, others to purify her heart; some to
chastise her rebellious will, and all to remind her that this "was
not her rest;" that this world was not the scene for the full and
final display of retributive justice. The honor of God was dearer to
her than her own credit, and her chief desire was to turn all events
to his glory.
Though Mrs. Simpson was the daughter of a clergyman, and the widow
of a genteel tradesman, she had been reduced by a succession of
misfortunes, to accept of a room in an almshouse. Instead of
repining at the change; instead of dwelling on her former gentility,
and saying, "how handsomely she had lived once; and how hard it was
to be reduced; and she little thought ever to end her days in an
alms-house"--which is the common language of those who were never so
well off before--she was thankful that such an asylum was provided
for want and age; and blessed God that it was to the Christian
dispensation alone that such pious institutions owed their birth.
One fine evening, as she was sitting reading her Bible on the little
bench shaded with honey-suckles, just before her door, who should
come and sit down by her but Mrs. Betty, who had formerly been
lady's maid at the nobleman's house in the village of which Mrs.
Simpson's father had been minister. Betty, after a life of vanity,
was, by a train of misfortunes, brought to this very alms-house; and
though she had taken no care by frugality and prudence to avoid it,
she thought it a hardship and disgrace, instead of being thankful,
as she ought to have been, for such a retreat. At first she did not
know Mrs. Simpson; her large bonnet, cloak, and brown stuff gown
(for she always made her appearance conform to her circumstances)
being very different from the dress she had been used to wear when
Mrs. Betty had seen her dining at the great house; and time and
sorrow had much altered her countenance. But when Mrs. Simpson
kindly addressed her as an old acquaintance, she screamed with
surprise. "What! you, madam?" cried she; "you in an alms-house,
living on charity; you, who used to be so charitable yourself, that
you never suffered any distress in the parish which you could
prevent?" "That may be one reason, Betty," replied Mrs. Simpson,
"why Providence has provided this refuge for my old age. And my
heart overflows with gratitude when I look back on his goodness."
"No such great goodness, methinks," said Betty; "why, you were born
and bred a lady, and are now reduced to live in an alms-house."
"Betty, I was born and bred a sinner, undeserving of the mercies I
have received." "No such great mercies," said Betty. "Why, I heard
you had been turned out of doors; that your husband had broke; and
that you had been in danger of starving, though I did not know what
was become of you." "It is all true, Betty, glory be to God! it is
all true."
"Well," said Betty, "you are an odd sort of a gentlewoman. If from a
prosperous condition I had been made a bankrupt, a widow, and a
beggar, I should have thought it no such mighty matter to be
thankful for: but there is no accounting for taste. The neighbors
used to say that all your troubles must needs be a judgment upon
you; but I who knew how good you were, thought it very hard you
should suffer so much; but now I see you reduced to an alms-house, I
beg your pardon, madam, but I am afraid the neighbors were in the
right, and that so many misfortunes could never have happened to you
without you had committed a great many sins to deserve them; for I
always thought that God is so just that he punishes us for all our
bad actions, and rewards us for all our good ones." "So he does,
Betty; but he does it in his own way, and at his own time, and not
according to our notions of good and evil; for his ways are not as
our ways. God, indeed, punishes the bad, and rewards the good; but
he does not do it fully and finally in this world. Indeed he does
not set such a value on outward things as to make riches, and rank,
and beauty, and health, the reward of piety; that would be acting
like weak and erring men, and not like a just and holy God. Our
belief in a future state of rewards and punishments is not always
so strong as it ought to be, even now; but how totally would our
faith fail, if we regularly saw every thing made even in this world.
We shall lose nothing by having pay-day put off. The longest voyages
make the best returns. So far am I from thinking that God is less
just, and future happiness less certain, because I see the wicked
sometimes prosper, and the righteous suffer in this world, that I am
rather led to believe that God is more just and heaven more certain:
for, in the first place, God will not put off his favorite children
with so poor a lot as the good things of this world; and next,
seeing that the best men here below do not often attain to the best
things; why it only serves to strengthen my belief that they are not
the best things in His eye; and He has most assuredly reserved for
those that love Him such 'good things as eye has not seen nor ear
heard.' God, by keeping man in Paradise while he was innocent, and
turning him into this world as soon as he had sinned, gave a plain
proof that he never intended the world, even in its happiest state,
as a place of reward. My father gave me good principles and useful
knowledge; and while he taught me by a habit of constant employment
to be, if I may so say, independent of the world; yet he led me to a
constant sense of dependence on God--" "I do not see, however,"
interrupted Mrs. Betty, "that your religion has been of any use to
you. It has been so far from preserving you from trouble, that I
think you have had more than the usual share."
"No," said Mrs. Simpson; "nor did Christianity ever pretend to
exempt its followers from trouble; this is no part of the promise.
Nay, the contrary is rather stipulated: 'In the world ye shall have
tribulation.' But if it has not taught me to escape sorrow, I humbly
hope it has taught me how to bear it. If it has taught me not to
feel, it has taught me not to murmur. I will tell you a little of
my story: as my father could save little or nothing for me, he was
desirous of seeing me married to a young gentleman in the
neighborhood, who expressed a regard for me. But while he was
anxiously engaged in bringing this about, my good father died."
"How very unlucky," interrupted Betty.
"No, Betty," replied Mrs. Simpson, "it was very providential; this
man, though he maintained a decent character, had a good fortune,
and lived soberly, yet he would not have made me happy." "Why, what
could you want more of a man?" said Betty. "Religion," returned Mrs.
Simpson. "As my father made a creditable appearance, and was very
charitable; and as I was an only child, this gentleman concluded
that he could give me a considerable fortune; for he did not know
that all the poor in his parish are the children of every pious
clergyman. Finding I had little or nothing left me, he withdrew his
attentions." "What a sad thing!" cried Betty. "No, it was all for
the best; Providence overruled his covetousness for my good. I could
not have been happy with a man whose soul was set on the perishable
things of this world; nor did I esteem him, though I labored to
submit my own inclinations to those of my kind father. The very
circumstance of being left penniless produced the direct contrary
effect on Mr. Simpson: he was a sensible young man, engaged in a
prosperous business. We had long highly valued each other; but while
my father lived, he thought me above his hopes. We were married; I
found him an amiable, industrious, good-tempered man; he respected
religion and religious people; but with excellent dispositions, I
had the grief to find him less pious than I had hoped. He was
ambitious, and a little too much immersed in worldly schemes; and
though I knew it was all done for my sake, yet that did not blind me
so far as to make me think it right. He attached himself so eagerly
to business, that he thought every hour lost in which he was not
doing something that would tend to raise me to what he called my
proper rank. The more prosperous he grew the less religious he
became: and I began to find that one might be unhappy with a husband
one tenderly loved. One day as he was standing on some steps to
reach down a parcel of goods, he fell from the top and broke his leg
in two places."
"What a dreadful misfortune!" said Mrs. Betty. "What a signal
blessing!" said Mrs. Simpson. "Here I am sure I had reason to say
all was for the best; from the very hour in which my outward
troubles began, I date the beginning of my happiness. Severe
suffering, a near prospect of death, absence from the world,
silence, reflection, and above all, the divine blessing on the
prayers and Scriptures I read to him, were the means used by our
merciful Father to turn my husband's heart. During his confinement
he was awakened to a deep sense of his own sinfulness, of the vanity
of all this world has to bestow, and of his great need of a Saviour.
It was many months before he could leave his bed; during this time
his business was neglected. His principal clerk took advantage of
his absence to receive large sums of money in his name, and
absconded. On hearing of this great loss, our creditors came faster
upon us than we could answer their demands; they grew more impatient
as we were less able to satisfy them; one misfortune followed
another, till at length Mr. Simpson became a bankrupt."
"What an evil!" exclaimed Betty. "Yet it led in the end to much
good," resumed Mrs. Simpson. "We were forced to leave the town in
which we had lived with so much credit and comfort, and to betake
ourselves to a mean lodging in a neighboring village, till my
husband's strength should be recruited, and till we could have time
to look about us and see what was to be done. The first night we
got to this poor dwelling, my husband felt very sorrowful, not for
his own sake, but that he had brought so much poverty on me, whom he
had so dearly loved; I, on the contrary, was unusually cheerful, for
the blessed change in his mind had more than reconciled me to the
sad change in his circumstances. I was contented to live with him in
a poor cottage for a few years on earth, if it might contribute to
our spending a blessed eternity together in heaven. I said to him,
'Instead of lamenting that we are now reduced to want all the
comforts of life, I have sometimes been almost ashamed to live in
the full enjoyments of them, when I have reflected that my Saviour
not only chose to deny himself all these enjoyments, but even to
live a life of hardship for my sake; not one of his numerous
miracles tended to his own comfort; and though we read at different
times that he both hungered and thirsted, yet it was not for his own
gratification that he once changed water into wine; and I have often
been struck with the near position of that chapter in which this
miracle is recorded, to that in which he thirsted for a draught of
water at the well in Samaria.[14] It was for others, not himself,
that even the humble sustenance of barley-bread was multiplied. See
here, we have a bed left us (I had, indeed, nothing but straw to
stuff it with), but the Saviour of the world "had not where to lay
his head."' My husband smiled through his tears, and we sat down to
supper. It consisted of a roll and a bit of cheese which I had
brought with me, and we ate it thankfully. Seeing Mr. Simpson
beginning to relapse into distrust, the following conversation, as
nearly as I can remember, took place between us. He began by
remarking, that it was a mysterious Providence that he had been less
prosperous since he had been less attached to the world, and that
his endeavors had not been followed by that success which usually
attends industry. I took the liberty to reply: 'Your heavenly Father
sees on which side your danger lies, and is mercifully bringing you,
by these disappointments, to trust less in the world and more in
himself. My dear Mr. Simpson,' added I, 'we trust every body but
God. As children, we obey our parents implicitly, because we are
taught to believe all is for our good which they command or forbid.
If we undertake a voyage, we trust entirely to the skill and conduct
of the pilot; we never torment ourselves in thinking he will carry
us east, when he has promised to carry us west. If a dear and tried
friend makes us a promise, we depend on him for the performance, and
do not wound his feelings by our suspicions. When you used to go
your annual journey to London, in the mail-coach, you confided
yourself to the care of the coachman that he would carry you where
he had engaged to do so; you were not anxiously watching him, and
distrusting and inquiring at every turning. When the doctor sends
home your medicine, don't you so fully trust in his ability and good
will that you swallow it down in full confidence? You never think of
inquiring what are the ingredients, why they are mixed in that
particular way, why there is more of one and less of another, and
why they are bitter instead of sweet! If one dose does not cure you,
he orders another, and changes the medicine when he sees the first
does you no good, or that by long use the same medicine has lost its
effect; if the weaker fails, he prescribes you a stronger; you
swallow all, you submit to all, never questioning the skill or
kindness of the physician. God is the only being whom we do not
trust, though He is the only one who is fully competent, both in
will and power, to fulfill all his promises; and who has solemnly
and repeatedly pledged himself to fulfill them in those Scriptures
which we receive as his revealed will.'
[14] See John, chap. ii.; and John, chap. iv.
"Mr. Simpson thanked me for my little sermon, as he called it; but
said, at the same time, that what made my exhortations produce a
powerful effect on his mind was, the patient cheerfulness with which
he was pleased to say I bore my share in our misfortunes. A
submissive behavior, he said, was the best practical illustration of
a real faith. When we had thanked God for our supper, we prayed
together; after which we read the eleventh chapter of the epistle to
the Hebrews. When my husband had finished it, he said, 'Surely, if
God's chief favorites have been martyrs, is not that a sufficient
proof that this world is not a place of happiness, no earthly
prosperity the reward of virtue? Shall we, after reading this
chapter, complain of our petty trials? Shall we not rather be
thankful that our affliction is so light?'
"Next day Mr. Simpson walked out in search of some employment, by
which we might be supported. He got a recommendation to Mr. Thomas,
an opulent farmer and factor, who had large concerns, and wanted a
skillful person to assist him in keeping his accounts. This we
thought a fortunate circumstance, for we found that the salary would
serve to procure us at least all the necessaries of life. The farmer
was so pleased with Mr. Simpson's quickness, regularity, and good
sense, that he offered us, of his own accord, a neat little cottage
of his own, which then happened to be vacant, and told us we should
live rent free, and promised to be a friend to us." "All _does_ seem
for the best now, indeed," interrupted Mrs. Betty. "We shall see,"
said Mrs. Simpson, and thus went on:
"I now became very easy and very happy; and was cheerfully employed
in putting our few things in order, and making every thing look to
the best advantage. My husband, who wrote all day for his employer,
in the evening assisted me in doing up our little garden. This was
a source of much pleasure to us; we both loved a garden, and we
were not only contented but cheerful. Our employer had been absent
some weeks on his annual journey. He came home on a Saturday night,
and the next morning sent for Mr. Simpson to come and settle his
accounts, which were got behind-hand by his long absence. We were
just going to church, and Mr. Simpson sent back word that he would
call and speak to him on his way home. A second message followed,
ordering him to come to the farmer's directly; he agreed that he
would walk round that way, and that my husband should call and
excuse his attendance.
"The farmer, more ignorant and worse educated than his plowman, with
all that pride and haughtiness which the possession of wealth,
without knowledge or religion is apt to give, rudely asked my
husband what he meant by sending him word that he would not come to
him till the next day; and insisted that he should stay and settle
the accounts then. 'Sir,' said my husband, in a very respectful
manner, 'I am on my road to church, and I am afraid shall be too
late.' 'Are you so?' said the farmer. 'Do you know who sent for you?
You may, however, go to church, if you will, so you make haste back;
and, d'ye hear, you may leave your accounts with me, as I conclude
you have brought them with you; I will look them over by the time
you return, and then you and I can do all I want to have done to-day
in about a couple of hours, and I will give you home some letters to
copy for me in the evening.' 'Sir,' answered my husband, 'I dare not
obey you; it is Sunday.' 'And so you refuse to settle my accounts
only because it is Sunday.' 'Sir,' replied Mr. Simpson, 'if you
would give me a handful of silver and gold I dare not break the
commandment of my God.' 'Well,' said the farmer, 'but this is not
breaking the commandment; I don't order you to drive my cattle, or
to work in my garden, or to do any thing which you might fancy
would be a bad example.' 'Sir,' replied my husband, 'the example
indeed goes a great way, but it is not the first object. The deed is
wrong in itself.' 'Well, but I shall not keep you from church; and
when you have been there, there is no harm in doing a little
business, or taking a little pleasure the rest of the day.' 'Sir,'
answered my husband, 'the commandment does not say, thou shalt keep
holy the Sabbath _morning_, but the Sabbath _day_.' 'Get out of my
house, you puritanical rascal, and out of my cottage too,' said the
farmer; 'for if you refuse to do my work, I am not bound to keep my
engagement with you; as you will not obey me as a master, I shall
not pay you as a servant.' 'Sir,' said Mr. Simpson, 'I would gladly
obey you, but I have a Master in heaven whom I dare not disobey.'
'Then let him find employment for you,' said the enraged farmer;
'for I fancy you will get but poor employment on earth with these
scrupulous notions, and so send home my papers, directly, and pack
off out of the parish.' 'Out of your cottage,' said my husband, 'I
certainly will; but as to the parish, I hope I may remain in that,
if I can find employment.' 'I will make it too hot to hold you,'
replied the farmer, 'so you had better troop off bag and baggage:
for I am overseer, and as you are sickly, it is my duty not to let
any vagabonds stay in the parish who are likely to become
chargeable.'
"By the time my husband returned home, for he found it too late to
go to church, I had got our little dinner ready; it was a better one
than we had for a long while been accustomed to see, and I was
unusually cheerful at this improvement in our circumstances. I saw
his eyes full of tears, and oh! with what pain did he bring himself
to tell me that it was the last dinner we must ever eat in this
house. I took his hand with a smile, and only said, 'the Lord gave
and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'
'Notwithstanding this sudden stroke of injustice,' said my husband,
'this is still a happy country. Our employer, it is true, may turn
us out at a moment's notice, because it is his own, but he has no
further power over us; he can not confine or punish us. His riches,
it is true, give him power to insult, but not to oppress us. The
same laws to which the affluent resort, protect _us_ also. And as to
our being driven out from a cottage, how many persons of the highest
rank have lately been driven out from their palaces and castles;
persons too, born in a station which he never enjoyed, and used to
all the indulgences of that rank and wealth we never knew, are at
this moment wandering over the face of the earth, without a house or
without bread; exiles and beggars; while we, blessed be God, are in
our own native land; we have still our liberty, our limbs, the
protection of just and equal laws, our churches, our Bibles, and our
Sabbaths.'
"This happy state of my husband's mind hushed my sorrows, and I
never once murmured; nay, I sat down to dinner with a degree of
cheerfulness, endeavoring to cast all our care on 'Him that careth
for us.' We had begged to stay till the next morning, as Sunday was
not the day on which we liked to remove; but we were ordered not to
sleep another night in that house; so as we had little to carry, we
marched off in the evening to the poor lodging we had before
occupied. The thought that my husband had cheerfully renounced his
little all for conscience sake, gave an unspeakable serenity to my
mind; and I felt thankful that though cast down we were not
forsaken: nay I felt a lively gratitude to God, that while I doubted
not he would accept this little sacrifice, as it was heartily made
for his sake, he had graciously forborne to call us to greater
trials."
"And so you were turned adrift once more? Well, ma'am, saving your
presence, I hope you won't be such a fool as to say all was for the
best now." "Yes, Betty: He who does all things well, now made his
kind Providence more manifest than ever. That very night, while we
were sweetly sleeping in our poor lodging, the pretty cottage, out
of which we were so unkindly driven, was burned to the ground by a
flash of lightning which caught the thatch, and so completely
consumed the whole little building that had it not been for the
merciful Providence who thus overruled the cruelty of the farmer for
the preservation of our lives, we must have been burned to ashes
with the house. 'It was the Lord's doing, and it was marvelous in
our eyes.' 'O that men would therefore praise the Lord for his
goodness, and for all the wonders that he doeth for the children of
men!'
"I will not tell you all the trials and afflictions which befell us
afterward. I would also spare my heart the sad story of my husband's
death." "Well, that was another blessing too, I suppose," said
Betty. "Oh, it was the severest trial ever sent me!" replied Mrs.
Simpson, a few tears quietly stealing down her face. "I almost sunk
under it. Nothing but the abundant grace of God could have carried
me through such a visitation; and yet I now feel it to be the
greatest mercy I ever experienced; he was my idol; no trouble ever
came near my heart while he was with me. I got more credit than I
deserved for my patience under trials, which were easily borne while
he who shared and lightened them was spared to me. I had indeed
prayed and struggled to be weaned from this world, but still my
affection for him tied me down to the earth with a strong cord: and
though I did earnestly try to keep my eyes fixed on the eternal
world, yet I viewed it with too feeble a faith; I viewed it at too
great a distance. I found it difficult to realize it--I had deceived
myself. I had fancied that I bore my troubles so well from the pure
love of God, but I have since found that my love for my husband had
too great a share in reconciling me to every difficulty which I
underwent for him. I lost him; the charm was broken, the cord which
tied me down to earth was cut, this world had nothing left to engage
me. Heaven had now no rival in my heart. Though my love of God had
always been sincere, yet I found there wanted this blow to make it
perfect. But though all that had made life pleasant to me was gone,
I did not sink as those who have no hope. I prayed that I might
still, in this trying conflict, be enabled to adorn the doctrine of
God my Saviour.
"After many more hardships, I was at length so happy as to get an
asylum in this alms-house. Here my cares are at an end, but not my
duties." "Now you are wrong again," interrupted Mrs. Betty; "your
duty is now to take care of yourself: for I am sure you have nothing
to spare." "There _you_ are mistaken again," said Mrs. Simpson.
"People are so apt to fancy that money is all in all, that all the
other gifts of Providence are overlooked as things of no value. I
have here a great deal of leisure; a good part of this I devote to
the wants of those who are more distressed than myself. I work a
little for the old, and I instruct the young. My eyes are good: this
enables me to read the Bible either to those whose sight is decayed,
or who were never taught to read. I have tolerable health; so that I
am able occasionally to sit up with the sick; in the intervals of
nursing I can pray with them. In my younger days I thought it not
much to sit up late for my pleasure; shall I now think much of
sitting up now and then to watch by a dying bed? My Saviour waked
and watched for me in the garden and on the mount; and shall I do
nothing for his suffering members? It is only by keeping his
sufferings in view that we can truly practice charity to others, or
exercise self-denial to ourselves."
"Well," said Mrs. Betty, "I think if I had lived in such genteel
life as you have done, I could never be reconciled to an alms-house;
and I am afraid I should never forgive any of those who were the
cause of sending me there, particularly that farmer Thomas who
turned you out of doors."
"Betty," said Mrs. Simpson, "I not only forgive him heartily, but I
remember him in my prayers, as one of those instruments with which
it has pleased God to work for my good. Oh! never put off
forgiveness to a dying bed! When people come to die, we often see
how the conscience is troubled with sins, of which before they
hardly felt the existence. How ready are they to make restitution of
ill-gotten gain; and this perhaps for two reasons; from a feeling
conviction that it can be of no use to them where they are going, as
well as from a near view of their own responsibility. We also hear
from the most hardened, of death-bed forgiveness of enemies. Even
malefactors at Tyburn forgive. But why must we wait for a dying bed
to do what ought to be done now? Believe me, that scene will be so
full of terror and amazement to the soul, that we had not need load
it with unnecessary business."
Just as Mrs. Simpson was saying these words, a letter was brought
her from the minister of the parish where the farmer lived, by whom
Mrs. Simpson had been turned out of the cottage. The letter was as
follows:
"MADAM--I write to tell you that your old oppressor, Mr. Thomas,
is dead. I attended him in his last moments. O, may my latter
end never be like his! I shall not soon forget his despair at
the approach of death. His riches, which had been his sole joy,
now doubled his sorrows; for he was going where they could be of
no use to him; and he found too late that he had laid up no
treasure in heaven. He felt great concern at his past life, but
for nothing more than his unkindness to Mr. Simpson. He charged
me to find you out, and let you know that by his will he
bequeathed you five hundred pounds as some compensation. He died
in great agonies, declaring with his last breath, that if he
could live his life over again, he would serve God, and strictly
observe the Sabbath.
"Yours, etc.
"J. JOHNSON."
Mrs. Betty, who had listened attentively to the letter, jumped up,
clapped her hands, and cried out, "Now all is for the best, and I
shall see you a lady once more." "I am, indeed, thankful for this
money," said Mrs. Simpson, "and am glad that riches were not sent me
till I had learned, as I humbly hope, to make a right use of them.
But come, let us go in, for I am very cold, and find I have sat too
long in the night air."
Betty was now ready enough to acknowledge the hand of Providence in
this prosperous event, though she was blind to it when the
dispensation was more dark. Next morning she went early to visit
Mrs. Simpson, but not seeing her below, she went up stairs, where,
to her great sorrow, she found her confined to her bed by a fever,
caught the night before, by sitting so late on the bench, reading
the letter and talking it over. Betty was now more ready to cry out
against Providence than ever. "What! to catch a fever while you were
reading that very letter which told you about your good fortune;
which would have enabled you to live like a lady as you are. I never
will believe this is for the best; to be deprived of life just as
you were beginning to enjoy it!"
"Betty," said Mrs. Simpson, "we must learn not to rate health nor
life itself too highly. There is little in life, for its own sake,
to be so fond of. As a good archbishop used to say, ''tis but the
same thing over again, or probably worse: so many more nights and
days, summers and winters, a repetition of the same pleasures, but
with less relish for them; a return of the same or greater pains,
but with less strength, and perhaps less patience to bear them.'"
"Well," replied Betty, "I did think that Providence was at last
giving you your reward." "Reward!" cried Mrs. Simpson. "O, no! my
merciful Father will not put me off with so poor a portion as
wealth; I feel I shall die." "It is very hard, indeed," said Betty,
"so good as you are, to be taken off just as your prosperity was
beginning." "You think I am good just now," said Mrs. Simpson,
"because I am prosperous. Success is no sure mark of God's favor; at
this rate, you, who judge by outward things, would have thought
Herod a better man than John the Baptist; and if I may be allowed to
say so, you, on your principles, that the sufferer is the sinner,
would have believed Pontius Pilate higher in God's favor than the
Saviour whom he condemned to die, for your sins and mine."
In a few days Mrs. Betty found that her new friend was dying, and
though she was struck at her resignation, she could not forbear
murmuring that so good a woman should be taken away at the very
instant which she came into possession of so much money. "Betty,"
said Mrs. Simpson in a feeble voice, "I believe you love me dearly,
you would do any thing to cure me; yet you do not love me so well as
God loves me, though _you_ would raise me up, and He is putting a
period to my life. He has never sent me a single stroke which was
not absolutely necessary for me. You, if you could restore me, might
be laying me open to some temptation from which God, by removing,
will deliver me. Your kindness in making this world so smooth for
me, I might forever have deplored in a world of misery. God's grace
in afflicting me, will hereafter be the subject of my praises in a
world of blessedness. Betty," added the dying woman, "do you really
think that I am going to a place of rest and joy eternal?" "To be
sure I do," said Betty. "Do you firmly believe that I am going to
the assembly of the first-born; to the spirits of just men made
perfect, to God the judge of all; and to Jesus the Mediator of the
new Covenant?" "I am sure you are," said Betty. "And yet," resumed
she, "you would detain me from all this happiness; and you think my
merciful Father is using me unkindly by removing me from a world of
sin, and sorrow, and temptation, to such joys as have not entered
into the heart of man to conceive; while it would have better suited
your notions of reward to defer my entrance into the blessedness of
heaven, that I might have enjoyed a legacy of a few hundred pounds!
Believe my dying words--ALL IS FOR THE BEST."
Mrs. Simpson expired soon after, in a frame of mind which convinced
her new friend, that "God's ways are not as our ways."
A CURE FOR MELANCHOLY.[15]
[15] This was first printed under the title of THE COTTAGE COOK.
SHOWING THE WAY TO DO MUCH GOOD WITH LITTLE MONEY.
Mrs. Jones was the widow of a great merchant. She was liberal to the
poor, as far as giving them money went; but as she was too much
taken up with the world, she did not spare so much of her time and
thoughts about doing good as she ought; so that her money was often
ill bestowed. In the late troubles, Mr. Jones, who had lived in an
expensive manner, failed; and he took his misfortunes so much to
heart, that he fell sick and died. Mrs. Jones retired, on a very
narrow income, to the small village of Weston, where she seldom went
out, except to church. Though a pious woman, she was too apt to
indulge her sorrow; and though she did not neglect to read and pray,
yet she gave up a great part of her time to melancholy thoughts, and
grew quite inactive. She well knew how sinful it would be for her to
seek a remedy for her grief in worldly pleasures, which is a way
many people take to cure afflictions; but she was not aware how
wrong it was to weep away that time which might have been better
spent in drying the tears of others.
It was happy for her, that Mr. Simpson, the vicar of Weston, was a
pious man. One Sunday he happened to preach on the good Samaritan.
It was a charity sermon, and there was a collection at the door. He
called on Mrs. Jones after church, and found her in tears. She told
him she had been much moved by his discourse, and she wept because
she had so little to give to the plate, for though she felt very
keenly for the poor in these dear times, yet she could not assist
them. "Indeed, sir," added she, "I never so much regretted the loss
of my fortune as this afternoon, when you bade us _go and do
likewise_." "You do not," replied Mr. Simpson, "enter into the
spirit of our Saviour's parable, if you think you can not _go and do
likewise_ without being rich. In the case of the Samaritan, you may
observe, that charity was bestowed more by kindness, and care, and
medicine, than by money. You, madam, were as much concerned in the
duties inculcated in my sermon as Sir John with his great estate;
and, to speak plainly, I have been sometimes surprised that you
should not put yourself in the way of being more useful."
"Sir," said Mrs. Jones, "I am grown shy of the poor since I have
nothing to give them." "Nothing! madam?" replied the clergyman; "Do
you call your time, your talents, your kind offices, nothing? Doing
good does not so much depend on the riches as on the heart and the
will. The servant who improved his two talents was equally commended
by his Lord with him who had ten; and it was not poverty, but
selfish indolence, which drew down so severe a condemnation on him
who had only one. It is by our conformity to Christ, that we must
prove ourselves Christians. You, madam, are not called upon to work
miracles, nor to preach the gospel, yet you may in your measure and
degree, resemble your Saviour _by going about and doing good_. A
plain Christian, who has sense and leisure, by his pious exertions
and prudent zeal, may, in a subordinate way, be helping on the cause
of religion, as well as of charity, and greatly promote, by his
exertions and example, the labors of the parish minister. The
generality, it is true, have but an under part to act; but to all
God assigns some part, and he will require of all whose lot is not
very laborious, that they not only _work out their own salvation_,
but that they promote the cause of religion, and the comfort and
salvation of others.
"To those who would undervalue works of mercy as evidences of piety,
I would suggest a serious attention to the solemn appeal which the
Saviour of the world makes, in that awful representation of the day
of judgment, contained in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, both
to those who have neglected, and to those who have performed such
works; performed them, I mean, on right principles. With what a
gracious condescension does he promise to accept the smallest
kindness done to his suffering members for his sake. You, madam, I
will venture to say, might do more good than the richest man in the
parish could do by merely giving his money. Instead of sitting here,
brooding over your misfortunes, which are past remedy, bestir
yourself to find out ways of doing much good with little money; or
even without any money at all. You have lately studied economy for
yourself; instruct your poor neighbors in that important art. They
want it almost as much as they want money. You have influence with
the few rich persons in the parish; exert that influence. Betty, my
house-keeper, shall assist you in any thing in which she can be
useful. Try this for one year, and if you then tell me that you
should have better shown your love to God and man, and been a
happier woman, had you continued gloomy and inactive, I shall be
much surprised, and shall consent to your resuming your present way
of life."
The sermon and this discourse together made so deep an impression on
Mrs. Jones, that she formed a new plan of life, and set about it at
once, as every body does who is in earnest. Her chief aim was the
happiness of her poor neighbors in the next world; but she was also
very desirous to promote their present comfort; and indeed the
kindness she showed to their bodily wants gave her such an access to
their houses and hearts, as made them better disposed to receive
religious counsel and instruction. Mrs. Jones was much respected by
all the rich persons in Weston, who had known her in her prosperity.
Sir John was thoughtless, lavish, and indolent. The squire was over
frugal, but active, sober, and not ill-natured. Sir John loved
pleasure, the squire loved money. Sir John was one of those popular
sort of people who get much praise, and yet do little good; who
subscribe with equal readiness to a cricket match or a charity
school; who take it for granted that the poor are to be indulged
with bell-ringing and bonfires, and to be made drunk at Christmas;
this Sir John called being kind to them; but he thought it was folly
to teach them, and madness to think of reforming them. He was,
however, always ready to give his guinea; but I question whether he
would have given up his hunting and his gaming to have cured every
grievance in the land. He had that sort of constitutional good
nature which, if he had lived much within sight of misery, would
have led him to be liberal; but he had that selfish love of ease,
which prompted him to give to undeserving objects, rather than be at
the pains to search out the deserving. He neither discriminated
between the degrees of distress, nor the characters of the
distressed. His idea of charity was, that a rich man should
occasionally give a little of his superfluous wealth to the first
object that occurred; but he had no conception that it was his duty
so to husband his wealth and limit his expenses, as to supply a
regular fund for established charity. And the utmost stretch of his
benevolence never led him to suspect that he was called to abridge
himself in the most idle article of indulgence, for a purpose
foreign to his own personal enjoyment. On the other hand, the squire
would assist Mrs. Jones in any of her plans if it cost him nothing;
so she showed her good sense by never asking Sir John for advice, or
the squire for subscriptions, and by this prudence gained the full
support of both.
Mrs. Jones resolved to spend two or three days in a week in getting
acquainted with the state of the parish, and she took care never to
walk out without a few little good books in her pocket to give away.
This, though a cheap, is a most important act of charity; it has its
various uses; it furnishes the poor with religious knowledge, which
they have so few ways of obtaining; it counteracts the wicked
designs of those who have taught us at least one lesson, by their
zeal in the dispersion of _wicked_ books--I mean the lesson of
vigilance and activity; and it is the best introduction for any
useful conversation which the giver of the book may wish to
introduce.
She found that among the numerous wants she met with, no small share
was owing to bad management, or to imposition; she was struck with
the small size of the loaves. Wheat was now not very dear, and she
was sure a good deal of blame rested with the baker. She sent for a
shilling loaf to the next great town, where the mayor often sent to
the bakers' shops to see that the bread was proper weight. She
weighed her town loaf against her country loaf, and found the latter
two pounds lighter than it ought to be. This was not the sort of
grievance to carry to Sir John; but luckily the squire was also a
magistrate, and it was quite in his way; for though he would not
give, yet he would counsel, calculate, contrive, reprimand, and
punish. He told her he could remedy the evil if some one would lodge
an information against her baker; but that there was no act of
justice which he found it so difficult to accomplish.
THE INFORMER.
She dropped in on the blacksmith. He was at dinner. She inquired if
his bread was good. "Ay, good enough, mistress; for you see it is as
white as your cap, if we had but more of it. Here's a sixpenny loaf;
you might take it for a penny roll!" He then heartily cursed Crib
the baker, and said he ought to be hanged. Mrs. Jones now told him
what she had done; how she had detected the fraud, and assured him
the evil should be redressed on the morrow, provided he would appear
and inform. "I inform," said he, with a shocking oath, "hang an
informer! I scorn the office." "You are nice in the wrong place,"
replied Mrs. Jones; "for you don't scorn to abuse the baker, nor to
be in a passion, nor to swear, though you scorn to redress a public
injury, and to increase your children's bread. Let me tell you
there's nothing in which you ignorant people mistake more than in
your notions about _informers_. Informing is a lawful way of
obtaining redress; and though it is a mischievous and a hateful
thing to go to a justice about every trifling matter, yet laying an
information on important occasions, without malice, or bitterness of
any kind, is what no honest man ought to be ashamed of. The shame is
to commit the offense, not to inform against it. I, for my part,
should perhaps do right, if I not only informed against Crib, for
making light bread, but against you, for swearing at him."
"Well, but madam," said the smith, a little softened, "don't you
think it a sin and a shame to turn informer?" "So far from it, that
when a man's motives are good," said Mrs. Jones, "and in clear cases
as the present, I think it a duty and a virtue. If it is right that
there should be laws, it must be right that they should be put in
execution; but how can this be, if people will not inform the
magistrates when they see the laws broken? I hope I shall always be
afraid to be an offender against the laws, but not to be an informer
in support of them. _An informer by trade_ is commonly a knave. A
rash, malicious, or passionate informer is a firebrand; but honest
and prudent informers are almost as useful members of society as the
judges of the land. If you continue in your present mind on this
subject, do not you think that you will be answerable for the crimes
you might have prevented by informing, and thus become a sort of
accomplice of the villains who commit them."
"Well, madam," said the smith, "I now see plainly enough that there
is no shame in turning informer when my cause is good." "And your
_motive right_; always mind that," said Mrs. Jones. Next day the
smith attended, Crib was fined in the usual penalty, his light bread
was taken from him and given to the poor. The justices resolved
henceforward to inspect the bakers in their district; and all of
them, except Crib, and such as Crib, were glad of it; for honesty
never dreads a trial. Thus had Mrs. Jones the comfort of seeing how
useful people may be without expense; for if she could have given
the poor fifty pounds, she would not have done them so great, or so
lasting a benefit, as she did them in seeing their loaves restored
to their lawful weight: and the true light in which she had put the
business of _informing_ was of no small use, in giving the
neighborhood right views on that subject.
There were two shops in the parish; but Mrs. Sparks, at the Cross,
had not half so much custom as Wills, at the Sugarloaf, though she
sold her goods a penny in a shilling cheaper, and all agreed that
they were much better. Mrs. Jones asked Mrs. Sparks the reason,
"Madam," said the shopkeeper, "Mr. Wills will give longer trust.
Besides his wife keeps shop on a Sunday morning while I am at
church." Mrs. Jones now reminded Mr. Simpson to read the king's
proclamation against vice and immorality next Sunday at church; and
prevailed on the squire to fine any one who should keep open shop on
a Sunday. This he readily undertook: for while Sir John thought it
_good-natured_ to connive at breaking the laws, the squire fell into
the other extreme, of thinking that the zealous enforcing of penal
statutes would stand in the stead of all religious restraints. Mrs.
Jones proceeded to put the people in mind that a shopkeeper who
would sell on a Sunday, would be more likely to cheat them all the
week, than one who went to church.
She also labored hard to convince them how much they would lessen
their distress, if they would contrive to deal with Mrs. Sparks for
ready money, rather than with Wills on long credit; those who
listened to her found their circumstances far more comfortable at
the year's end, while the rest, tempted, like some of their betters,
by the pleasure of putting off the evil day of payment, like them,
at last found themselves plunged in debt and distress. She took care
to make a good use of such instances in her conversation with the
poor, and by perseverance, she at length brought them so much to her
way of thinking, that Wills found it to be his interest to alter his
plan, and sell his goods on as good terms, and as short credit as
Mrs. Sparks sold hers. This completed Mrs. Jones's success; and she
had the satisfaction of having put a stop to three or four great
evils in the parish of Weston, without spending a shilling in doing
it.
Patty Smart and Jenny Rose were thought to be the two best managers
in the parish. They both told Mrs. Jones, that the poor would get
the coarse pieces of meat cheaper, if the gentlefolks did not buy
them for soups and gravy. Mrs. Jones thought there was reason in
this: so away she went to Sir John, the squire, the surgeon, the
attorney, and the steward, the only persons in the parish who could
afford to buy these costly things. She told them, that if they would
all be so good as to buy only prime pieces, which they could very
well afford, the coarse and cheap joints would come more within the
reach of the poor. Most of the gentry readily consented. Sir John
cared not what his meat cost him, but told Mrs. Jones, in his gay
way, that he would eat any thing, or give any thing, so that she
would not tease him with long stories about the poor. The squire
said he should prefer vegetable soups, because they were cheaper,
and the doctor preferred them because they were wholesomer. The
steward chose to imitate the squire; and the attorney found it would
be quite ungenteel to stand out. So gravy soups became very
unfashionable in the parish of Weston; and I am sure if rich people
did but think a little on this subject, they would become as
unfashionable in many other places. When wheat grew cheaper, Mrs.
Jones was earnest with the poor women to bake large brown loaves at
home, instead of buying small white ones at the shop. Mrs. Betty had
told her, that baking at home would be one step toward restoring the
good old management. Only Betty Smart and Jenny Rose baked at home
in the whole parish; and who lived so well as they did? Yet the
general objection seemed reasonable. They could not bake without
yeast, which often could not be had, as no one brewed, except the
great folks and the public houses. Mrs. Jones found, however, that
Patty and Jenny contrived to brew as well as to bake. She sent for
these women, knowing that from them she could get truth and reason.
"How comes it," she said to them, "that you two are the only two
poor women in the parish who can afford to brew a small cask of
beer? Your husbands have no better wages than other men." "True,
madam," said Patty, "but they never set foot in a public house. I
will tell you the truth. When I first married, our John went to the
Checkers every night, and I had my tea and fresh butter twice a-day
at home. This slop, which consumed a deal of sugar, began to _rake_
my stomach sadly, as I had neither meat nor rice; at last (I am
ashamed to own it) I began to take a drop of gin to quiet the pain,
till in time, I looked for my gin as regularly as for my tea. At
last the gin, the ale-house, and the tea began to make us both sick
and poor, and I had like to have died with my first child. Parson
Simpson then talked so finely to us on the subject of improper
indulgences, that we resolved, by the grace of God, to turn over a
new leaf, and I promised John, if he would give up the Checkers, I
would break the gin bottle, and never drink tea in the afternoon,
except on Sundays, when he was at home to drink it with me. We have
kept our word, and both our eating and drinking, our health and our
consciences are better for it. Though meat is sadly dear, we can buy
two pounds of fresh meat for less than one pound of fresh butter,
and it gives five times the nourishment. And dear as malt is, I
contrive to keep a drop of drink in the house for John, and John
will make me drink half a pint with him every evening, and a pint
a-day when I am a nurse."
PUBLIC HOUSES.
As one good deed, as well as one bad one, brings on another, this
conversation set Mrs. Jones on inquiring why so many ale-houses were
allowed. She did not choose to talk to Sir John on this subject, who
would only have said, "let them enjoy themselves, poor fellows: if
they get drunk now and then, they work hard." But those who have
this false good-nature forget that while the man is _enjoying
himself_, as it is called, his wife and children are ragged and
starving. True Christian good-nature never indulges one at the cost
of many, but is kind to all. The squire who was a friend to order,
took up the matter. He consulted Mr. Simpson. "The Lion," said he,
"is necessary. It stands by the roadside; travelers must have a
resting-place. As to the Checkers and the Bell, they do no good, but
much harm." Mr. Simpson had before made many attempts to get the
Checkers put down, but, unluckily, it was Sir John's own house, and
kept by his late butler. Not that Sir John valued the rent, but he
had a false kindness, which made him support the cause of an old
servant, though he knew he was a bad man, and kept a disorderly
house. The squire, however, now took away the license from the Bell.
And a fray happening soon after at the Checkers (which was near the
church) in time of divine service, Sir John was obliged to suffer
the house to be put down as a nuisance. You would not believe how
many poor families were able to brew a little cask, when the
temptation of those ale-houses was taken out of their way. Mrs.
Jones, in her evening walks, had the pleasure to see many an honest
man drinking his wholesome cup of beer by his own fire-side, his
rosy children playing about his knees, his clean cheerful wife
singing her youngest baby to sleep, rocking the cradle with her
foot, while with her hands she was making a dumpling for her kind
husband's supper. Some few, I am sorry to say, though I don't chose
to name names, still preferred getting drunk once a week at the
Lion, and drinking water at other times. Thus Mrs. Jones, by a
little exertion and perseverance, added to the temporal comforts of
a whole parish, and diminished its immorality and extravagance in
the same proportion.
The good women being now supplied with yeast from each other's
brewings, would have baked, but two difficulties still remained.
Many of them had no ovens; for since the new bad management had
crept in, many cottages have been built without this convenience.
Fuel also was scarce at Weston. Mrs. Jones advised the building a
large parish oven. Sir John subscribed to be rid of her importunity,
and the squire, because he thought every improvement would reduce
the poor's rate. It was soon accomplished; and to this oven, at a
certain hour, three times a week, the elder children carried their
loaves which their mothers had made at home, and paid a half-penny,
or a penny, according to their size, for the baking.
Mrs. Jones found that no poor women in Weston could buy a little
milk, as the farmers' wives did not care to rob their dairies. This
was a great distress, especially when the children were sick. So
Mrs. Jones advised Mrs. Sparks, at the Cross, to keep a couple of
cows, and sell out the milk by halfpennyworths. She did so, and
found, that though this plan gave her some additional trouble, she
got full as much by it as if she had made cheese and butter. She
always sold rice at a cheap rate; so that, with the help of the milk
and the public oven, a fine rice-pudding was to be had for a trifle.
CHARITY SCHOOLS FOR SERVANTS.
The girls' school, in the parish, was fallen into neglect; for
though many would be subscribers, yet no one would look after it. I
wish this was the case at Weston only: many schools have come to
nothing, and many parishes are quite destitute of schools, because
too many gentry neglect to make it a part of the duty of their
grown-up daughters to inspect the instruction of the poor. It was
not in Mr. Simpson's way to see if girls were taught to work. The
best clergyman can not do every thing. This is ladies' business.
Mrs. Jones consulted her counselor, Mrs. Betty, and they went every
Friday to the school, where they invited mothers, as well as
daughters, to come, and learn to cut out to the best advantage. Mrs.
Jones had not been bred to these things; but by means of Mrs.
Cowper's excellent cutting-out book, she soon became mistress of the
whole art. She not only had the girls taught to make and mend, but
to wash and iron too. She also allowed the mother or eldest daughter
of every family to come once a week, and learn how to dress _one
cheap dish_. One Friday, which was cooking day, who should pass but
the squire, with his gun and dogs. He looked into the school for the
first time. "Well, madam," said he, "what good are you doing here?
What are your girls learning and earning? Where are your
manufactures? Where is your spinning and your carding?" "Sir," said
she, "this is a small parish, and you know ours is not a
manufacturing county; so that when these girls are women, they will
be not much employed in spinning. We must, in the kind of good we
attempt to do, consult the local genius of the place: I do not think
it will answer to introduce spinning, for instance, in a country
where it is quite new. However, we teach them a little of it, and
still more of knitting, that they may be able to get up a small
piece of household linen once a year, and provide the family with
the stockings, by employing the odds and ends of their time in these
ways. But there is another manufacture which I am carrying on, and I
know of none within my own reach which is so valuable." "What can
that be?" said the squire. "_To make good wives for working men_,"
said she. "Is not mine an excellent staple commodity? I am teaching
these girls the arts of industry and good management. It is little
encouragement to an honest man to work hard all the week, if his
wages are wasted by a slattern at home. Most of these girls will
probably become wives to the poor, or servants to the rich; to such
the common arts of life are of great value: now, as there is little
opportunity for learning these at the school-house, I intend to
propose that such gentry as have sober servants, shall allow one of
these girls to come and work in their families one day in a week,
when the house-keeper, the cook, the house-maid or the laundry-maid,
shall be required to instruct them in their several departments.
This I conceive to be the best way of training good servants. They
would serve this kind of regular apprenticeship to various sorts of
labor. Girls who come out of charity-schools, where they have been
employed in knitting, sewing, and reading, are not sufficiently
prepared for hard or laborious employments. I do not in general
approve of teaching charity children to write, for the same reason.
I confine within very strict limits my plan of educating the poor. A
thorough knowledge of religion, and of some of those coarser arts of
life by which the community may be best benefitted, includes the
whole stock of instruction, which, unless in very extraordinary
cases, I would wish to bestow."
"What have you got on the fire, madam?" said the squire; "for your
pot really smells as savory as if Sir John's French cook had filled
it." "Sir," replied Mrs. Jones, "I have lately got acquainted with
Mrs. Whyte who has given us an account of her cheap dishes, and nice
cookery, in one of the Cheap Repository little books.[16] Mrs. Betty
and I have made all her dishes, and very good they are; and we have
got several others of our own. Every Friday we come here and dress
one. These good woman see how it is done, and learn to dress it at
their own house. I take home part for my own dinner, and what is
left I give to each in turn. I hope I have opened their eyes on a
sad mistake they have got into, _that we think any thing is good
enough for the poor_. Now, I do _not_ think any thing good enough
for the poor which is not clean, wholesome, and palatable, and what
I myself would not cheerfully eat, if my circumstances required it."
[16] See the Way to Plenty for a number of cheap recipes.
"Pray, Mrs. Betty," said the squire, "oblige me with a basin of your
soup." The squire found it so good after his walk, that he was
almost sorry that he had promised to buy no more legs of beef, and
declared, that not one sheep's head should ever go to his kennel
again. He begged his cook might have the recipe, and Mrs. Jones
wrote it out for her. She has also been so obliging as to favor me
with a copy of all her recipes. And as I hate all monopoly, and see
no reason why such cheap, nourishing, and savory dishes should be
confined to the parish of Weston, I print them, that all other
parishes may have the same advantage. Not only the poor, but all
persons with small income may be glad of them.'
"Well, madam," said Mr. Simpson, who came in soon after, "which is
best, to sit down and cry over our misfortunes, or to bestir
ourselves to do our duty to the world?" "Sir," replied Mrs. Jones,
"I thank you for the useful lesson you have given me. You have
taught me that an excessive indulgence of sorrow is not piety, but
selfishness; that the best remedy for our own afflictions is to
lessen the afflictions of others, and thus evidence our submission
to the will of God, who perhaps sent these very trials to abate our
own self-love, and to stimulate our exertions for the good of
others. You have taught me that our time and talents are to be
employed with zeal in God's service, if we wish for his favor here
or hereafter; and that one great employment of those talents which
he requires, is the promotion of the present, and much more the
future happiness of all around us. You have taught me that much good
may be done with little money; and that the heart, the head, and the
hand are of some use as well as the purse. I have also learned
another lesson, which I hope not to forget, that Providence, in
sending these extraordinary seasons of scarcity and distress, which
we have lately twice experienced, has been pleased to overrule these
trying events to the general good; for it has not only excited the
rich to an increased liberality, as to actual contribution, but it
has led them to get more acquainted with the local wants of their
poor brethren, and to interest themselves in their comfort; it has
led to improved modes of economy, and to a more feeling kind of
beneficence. Above all, without abating any thing of a just
subordination, it has brought the affluent to a nearer knowledge of
the persons and characters of their indigent neighbors; it has
literally brought 'the rich and poor to meet together;' and this I
look upon to be one of the essential advantages attending
Sunday-schools also, where they are carried on upon true principles,
and are sanctioned by the visits as well as supported by the
contributions of the wealthy."
May all who read this account of Mrs. Jones, and who are under the
same circumstances, go _and do likewise_.
ALLEGORIES.
THE PILGRIMS.
Methought I was once upon a time traveling through a certain land
which was very full of people; but, what was rather odd, not one of
all this multitude was at home; they were all bound to a far distant
country. Though it was permitted by the lord of the land that these
pilgrims might associate together for their present mutual comfort
and convenience; and each was not only allowed, but commanded, to do
the others all the services he could upon their journey, yet it was
decreed, that every individual traveler must enter the far country
singly. There was a great gulf at the end of the journey, which
every one must pass alone, and at his own risk, and the friendship
of the whole united world could be of no use in shooting that gulf.
The exact time when each was to pass was not known to any; this the
lord always kept a close secret out of kindness, yet still they were
as sure that the time must come, and that at no very great distance,
as if they had been informed of the very moment. Now, as they knew
they were always liable to be called away at an hour's notice, one
would have thought they would have been chiefly employed in packing
up, and preparing, and getting every thing in order. But this was so
far from being the case, that it was almost the only thing which
they did not think about.
Now, I only appeal to you, my readers, if any of you are setting out
upon a little common journey, if it is only to London or York, is
not all your leisure time employed in settling your business at
home, and packing up every little necessary for your expedition? And
does not the fear of neglecting any thing you ought to remember, or
may have occasion for, haunt your mind, and sometimes even intrude
upon you unseasonably? And when you are actually on your journey,
especially if you have never been to that place before, or are
likely to remain there, don't you begin to think a little about the
pleasures and the employment of the place, and to wish to know a
little what sort of a city London or York is? Don't you wonder what
is doing there, and are you not anxious to know whether you are
properly qualified for the business or the company you expect to be
engaged in? Do you never look at the map or consult Brooke's
Gazetteer? And don't you try to pick up from your fellow-passengers
in the stage-coach any little information you can get? And though
you may be obliged, out of civility, to converse with them on common
subjects, yet do not your secret thoughts still run upon London or
York, its business, or its pleasures? And above all, if you are
likely to set out early, are you not afraid of oversleeping, and
does not that fear keep you upon the watch, so that you are commonly
up and ready before the porter comes to summon you? Reader! if this
be your case, how surprised will you be to hear that the travelers
to the _far country_ have not half your prudence, though embarked on
a journey of infinitely more importance, bound to a land where
nothing can be sent after them, in which, when they are once
settled, all errors are irretrievable.
I observed that these pilgrims, instead of being upon the watch,
lest they should be ordered off unprepared; instead of laying up any
provision, or even making memoranda of what they would be likely to
want at the end of their journey, spent most of their time in
crowds, either in the way of traffic or diversion. At first, when I
saw them so much engaged in conversing with each other, I thought it
a good sign, and listened attentively to their talk, not doubting
but the chief turn of it would be about the climate, or treasures,
or society, they should probably meet with in the _far country_. I
supposed they might be also discussing about the best and safest
road to it, and that each was availing himself of the knowledge of
his neighbor, on a subject of equal importance to all. I listened to
every party, but in scarcely any did I hear one word about the land
to which they were bound, though it was their home, the place where
their whole interest, expectation, and inheritance lay; to which
also great part of their friends were gone before, and whither they
were sure all the rest would follow. Instead of this, their whole
talk was about the business, or the pleasure, or the fashion of the
strange but bewitching country which they were merely passing
through, in which they had not one foot of land which they were sure
of calling their own for the next quarter of an hour. What little
estate they had was _personal_, and not real, and that was a
mortgaged, life-hold tenement of clay, not properly their own, but
only lent to them on a short, uncertain lease, of which three-score
years and ten was considered as the longest period, and very few
indeed lived in it to the end of the term; for this was always at
the _will of the lord_, part of whose prerogative it was, that he
could take away the lease at pleasure, knock down the stoutest
tenement at a single blow, and turn out the poor shivering, helpless
inhabitant naked, to that _far country_ for which he had made no
provision. Sometimes, in order to quicken the pilgrim in his
preparation, the lord would break down the tenement by slow degrees;
sometimes he would let it tumble by its own natural decay; for as it
was only built to last a certain term, it would often grow so
uncomfortable by increasing dilapidations even before the ordinary
lease was out, that the lodging was hardly worth keeping, though the
tenant could seldom be persuaded to think so, but finally clung to
it to the last. First the thatch on the top of the tenement changed
color, then it fell off and left the roof bare; then the grinders
ceased because they were few; then the windows became so darkened
that the owner could scarcely see through them; then one prop fell
away, then another, then the uprights became bent, and the whole
fabric trembled and tottered, with every other symptom of a falling
house. But what was remarkable, the more uncomfortable the house
became, and the less prospect there was of staying in it, the more
preposterously fond did the tenant grew of his precarious
habitation.
On some occasions the lord ordered his messengers, of which he had a
great variety, to batter, injure, deface, and almost demolish the
frail building, even while it seemed new and strong; this was what
the landlord called _giving warning_, but many a tenant would not
take warning, and so fond of staying where he was, even under all
these inconveniences, that at last he was cast out by ejectment, not
being prevailed on to leave the dwelling in a proper manner, though
one would have thought the fear of being turned out would have
whetted his diligence in preparing for _a better and more enduring
inheritance_. For though the people were only tenants at will in
these crazy tenements, yet, through the goodness of the same lord,
they were assured that he never turned them out of these habitations
before he had on his part provided for them a better, so that there
was not such a landlord in the world, and though their present
dwelling was but frail, being only slightly run up to serve the
occasion, yet they might hold their future possession by a most
certain tenure, the _word of the lord himself_. This word was
entered in a covenant, or title-deed, consisting of many sheets,
and because a great many good things were given away in this deed, a
book was made of which every soul might get a copy.
This indeed had not always been the case, because, till a few ages
back, there had been a sort of monopoly in the case, and "the wise
and prudent," that is the cunning and fraudful, had hid these things
from "the babes and sucklings;" that is, from the low and ignorant,
and many frauds had been practiced, and the poor had been cheated of
their right; so that not being allowed to read and judge for
themselves, they had been sadly imposed upon; but all these tricks
had been put an end to more than two hundred years when I passed
through the country, and the meanest man who could read might then
have a copy; so that he might see himself what he had to trust to;
and even those who could not read, might hear it read once or twice
every week, at least, without pay, by learned and holy men, whose
business it was. But it surprised me to see how few comparatively
made use of these vast advantages. Of those who had a copy, many
laid it carelessly by, expressed a _general_ belief in the truth of
the title-deed, a _general_ satisfaction that they should come in
for a share of the inheritance, a _general_ good opinion of the lord
whose word it was, and a _general_ disposition to take his promise
upon trust, always, however, intending, at a _convenient season_ to
inquire further into the matter; but this convenient season seldom
came; and this neglect of theirs was construed by their lord into a
forfeiture of the inheritance.
At the end of this country lay the vast gulf mentioned before; it
was shadowed over by a broad and thick cloud, which prevented the
pilgrims from seeing in a distinct manner what was doing behind it,
yet such beams of brightness now and then darted through the cloud,
as enabled those who used a telescope, provided for that purpose,
to see the _substance of things hoped for_; but it was not every
one who could make use of this telescope; no eye indeed was
_naturally_ disposed to it; but an earnest desire of getting a
glimpse of the invisible realities, gave such a strength and
steadiness to the eye which used the telescope, as enabled it to
discern many things which could not be seen by the natural sight.
Above the cloud was this inscription: "_The things which are seen
are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal._" Of
these last things many glorious descriptions had been given; but as
those splendors were at a distance, and as the pilgrims in general
did not care to use the telescope, these distant glories made little
impression.
The glorious inheritance which lay beyond the cloud, was called
"_The things above_," while a multitude of trifling objects, which
appeared contemptibly small when looked at through the telescope,
were called "_the things below_." Now as we know it is nearness
which gives size and bulk to any object, it was not wonderful that
these ill-judging pilgrims were more struck with these baubles and
trifles, which by laying close at hand, were visible and tempting to
the naked eye, and which made up the sum of _the things below_, than
with the remote glories of _the things above_; but this was chiefly
owing to their not making use of the telescope, through which, if
you examined thoroughly _the things below_, they seemed to shrink
almost down to nothing, which was indeed their real size: while _the
things above_ appeared the more beautiful and vast, the more the
telescope was used. But the surprising part of the story was this;
not that the pilgrims were captivated at first sight with _the
things below_, for that was natural enough; but that when they had
tried them all over and over, and found themselves deceived and
disappointed in almost every one of them, it did not at all lessen
their fondness, and they grasped at them again with, the same
eagerness as before. There were some gay fruits which looked
alluring, but on being opened, instead of a kernel, they were found
to contain rottenness; and those which seemed the fullest, often
proved on trial to be quite hollow and empty. Those which were the
most tempting to the eye, were often found to be wormwood to the
taste, or poison to the stomach, and many flowers that seemed most
bright and gay had a worm gnawing at the root; and it was observable
that on the finest and brightest of them was seen, when looked at
through the telescope, the word _vanity_ inscribed in large
characters.
Among the chief attractions of _the things below_ were certain
little lumps of yellow clay, on which almost every eye and every
heart was fixed. When I saw the variety of uses to which this clay
could be converted, and the respect which was shown to those who
could scrape together the greatest number of pieces, I did not much
wonder at the general desire to pick up some of them; but when I
beheld the anxiety, the wakefulness, the competitions, the
contrivances, the tricks, the frauds, the scuffling, the pushing,
the turmoiling, the kicking, the shoving, the cheating, the
circumvention, the envy, the malignity, which was excited by a
desire to possess this article; when I saw the general scramble
among those who had little to get much, and of those who had much to
get more, then I could not help applying to these people a proverb
in use among us, _that gold may be bought too dear_.
Though I saw that there were various sorts of baubles which engaged
the hearts of different travelers, such as an ell of red or blue
ribbon, for which some were content to forfeit their future
inheritance, committing the sin of Esau, without his temptation of
hunger; yet the yellow clay I found was the grand object for which
most hands were scrambling, and most souls were risked. One thing
was extraordinary, that the nearer these people were to being
turned out of their tenements, the fonder they grew of these pieces
of clay; so that I naturally concluded they meant to take the clay
with them to the _far country_, to assist them in their
establishment in it; but I soon learned this clay was not current
there, the lord having further declared to these pilgrims that as
_they had brought nothing into this world, they could carry nothing
away_.
I inquired of the different people who were raising the various
heaps of clay, some of a larger, some of a smaller size, why they
discovered such unremitting anxiety, and for whom? Some, whose piles
were immense, told me they were heaping up for their children; this
I thought very right, till, on casting my eyes around, I observed
many of the children of these very people had large heaps of their
own. Others told me it was for their grand-children; but on inquiry
I found these were not yet born, and in many cases there was little
chance that they ever would. The truth, on a close examination,
proved to be, that the true genuine heapers really heaped for
themselves; that it was in fact neither for friend nor child, but to
gratify an inordinate appetite of their own. Nor was I much
surprised after this to see these yellow hoards at length _canker,
and the rust of them become a witness against the hoarders, and eat
their flesh as it were fire_.
Many, however, who had set out with a high heap of their father's
raising, before they had got one third of their journey, had
scarcely a single piece left. As I was wondering what had caused
these enormous piles to vanish in so short a time, I spied scattered
up and down the country all sorts of odd inventions, for some or
other of which the vain possessors of the great heaps of clay had
trucked and bartered them away in fewer hours than their ancestors
had spent years in getting them together. O what a strange
unaccountable medley it was! and what was ridiculous enough, I
observed that the greatest quantity of the clay was always exchanged
for things that were of no use that I could discover, owing I
suppose to my ignorance of the manners of the country.
In one place I saw large heaps exhausted, in order to set two idle
pampered horses a running; but the worst of the joke was, the horses
did not run to fetch or carry any thing, and of course were of no
kind of use, but merely to let the gazers see which could run
fastest. Now, this gift of swiftness, exercised to no useful
purpose, was only one out of many instances, I observed, of talents
employed to no end. In another place I saw whole piles of the clay
spent to maintain long ranges of buildings full of dogs, on
provisions which would have nicely fattened some thousands of
pilgrims, who sadly wanted fattening, and whose ragged tenements
were out at elbows, for want of a little help to repair them. Some
of the piles were regularly pulled down once in seven years, in
order to corrupt certain needy pilgrims to belie their consciences,
by doing that for a bribe which they were bound to do from
principle. Others were spent in playing with white stiff bits of
paper, painted over with red and black spots, in which I thought
there must be some conjuring, because the very touch of these
painted pasteboards made the heaps fly from one to another, and back
again to the same, in a way that natural causes could not account
for. There was another proof that there must be some magic in this
business which was that if a pasteboard with red spots fell into a
hand which wanted a black one, the person changed color, his eyes
flashed fire, and he discovered other symptoms of madness, which
showed there was some witchcraft in the case. These clean little
pasteboards, as harmless as they looked, had the wonderful power of
pulling down the highest piles in less time than all the other
causes put together. I observed that many small piles were given in
exchange for an enchanted liquor which when the purchaser had drank
to a little excess, he lost the power of managing the rest of his
heap without losing the love of it; and thus the excess of
indulgence, by making him a beggar, deprived him of that very
gratification on which his heart was set.
Now I find it was the opinion of sober pilgrims, that either
hoarding the clay, or trucking it for any such purposes as the
above, was thought exactly the same offense in the eyes of the lord;
and it was expected that when they should come under his more
immediate jurisdiction in the _far country_, the penalty annexed to
hoarding and squandering would be nearly the same. While I examined
the countenances of the owners of the heaps, I observed that those
who I well knew never intended to make any use at all of their heap,
were far more terrified at the thought of losing it, or of being
torn from it, than those were who were employing it in the most
useful manner. Those who best knew what to do with it, set their
hearts least upon it, and were always most willing to leave it. But
such riddles were common in this odd country. It was indeed a very
land of paradoxes.