TAWNEY RACHEL;
OR, THE FORTUNE-TELLER. WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF DREAMS, OMENS,
AND CONJURERS
BY HANNAH MORE.
Tawney Rachel was the wife of poaching Giles. There seemed to be a
conspiracy in Giles' whole family to maintain themselves by tricks and
pilfering. Regular labor and honest industry did not suit their idle
habits. They had a sort of genius at finding out every unlawful means
to support a vagabond life. Rachel travelled the country with a basket
on her arm. She pretended to get her bread by selling laces,
cabbage-nets, ballads, and history-books, and used to buy old rags and
rabbit skins. Many honest people trade in these things, and I am sure
I do not mean to say a word against honest people, let them trade in
what they will. But Rachel only made this traffic a pretence for
getting admittance into farmers' kitchens, in order to tell fortunes.
She was continually practising on the credulity of silly girls; and
took advantage of their ignorance to cheat and deceive them. Many an
innocent servant has she caused to be suspected of a robbery, while
she herself, perhaps, was in league with the thief. Many a harmless
maid has she brought to ruin by contriving plots and events herself,
and then pretending to foretell them. She had not, to be sure, the
power of really foretelling things, because she had no power of seeing
into futurity; but she had the art sometimes to bring them about
according as she had foretold them. So she got that credit for her
wisdom which really belonged to her wickedness.
Rachel was also a famous interpreter of dreams, and could distinguish
exactly between the fate of any two persons who happened to have a
mole on the right or the left cheek. She had a cunning way of getting
herself off when any of her prophecies failed. When she explained a
dream according to the natural appearance of things, and it did not
come to pass, then she would get out of that scrape by saying, that
"this sort of dreams went by contraries." Now, of two very opposite
things the chance always is, that one of them may turn out to be true;
so in either case she kept up the cheat.
Rachel, in one of her rambles, stopped at the house of farmer Jenkins.
She contrived to call when she knew the master of the house was from
home, which indeed was her usual way. She knocked at the door. The
maids being out haymaking, Mrs. Jenkins went to open it herself.
Rachel asked her if she would please to let her light her pipe. This
was a common pretence, when she could find no other way of getting
into a house. While she was filling her pipe, she looked at Mrs.
Jenkins, and said she could tell her some good fortune. The farmer's
wife, who was a very inoffensive, but a weak and superstitious woman,
was curious to know what she meant. Rachel then looked about very
carefully, and shutting the door with a mysterious air, asked her if
she was sure nobody would hear them. This appearance of mystery was at
once delightful and terrifying to Mrs. Jenkins, who, with trembling
agitation, bade the cunning woman speak out.
"Then," said Rachel in a solemn whisper, "there is to my certain
knowledge a pot of money hid under one of the stones in your cellar."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Jenkins, "it is impossible; for now I think of it,
I dreamed last night I was in prison for debt."
"Did you indeed?" said Rachel, "that is quite surprising. Did you
dream before twelve o'clock, or after?"
"O, it was this morning, just before I awoke."
"Then I am sure it is true, for morning dreams always go by
contraries," cried Rachel. "How lucky it was you dreamed it so late."
Mrs. Jenkins could hardly contain her joy, and asked how the money was
to be come at.
"There is but one way," said Rachel; "I must go into the cellar. I
know by my art under which stone it lies, but I must not tell."
Then they both went down into the cellar, but Rachel refused to point
at the stone, unless Mrs. Jenkins would put five pieces of gold into a
basin, and do as she directed. The simple woman, instead of turning
her out of doors for a cheat, did as she was bid. She put the guineas
into a basin, which she gave into Rachel's hand. Rachel strewed some
white powder over the gold, muttered some barbarous words, and
pretended to perform the black art. She then told Mrs. Jenkins to put
the basin quietly down within the cellar; telling her, that if she
offered to look into it, or even to speak a word, the charm would be
broken. She also directed her to lock the cellar-door, and on no
pretence to open it in less than forty-eight hours.
"If," added she, "you closely follow these directions, then, by the
power of my art, you will find the basin conveyed to the very stone
under which the money lies hid, and a fine treasure it will be." Mrs.
Jenkins, who believed every word the woman said, did exactly as she
was told, and Rachel took her leave with a handsome reward.
When farmer Jenkins came home, he desired his wife to draw him a cup
of cider; this she put off doing so long that he began to be
displeased. At last she begged he would drink a little beer instead.
He insisted on knowing the reason, and when at last he grew angry, she
told him all that had passed; and owned that as the pot of gold
happened to be in the cider-cellar, she did not dare to open the
door, as she was sure it would break the charm. "And it would be a
pity, you know," said she, "to lose a good fortune for the sake of a
draught of cider."
The farmer, who was not so easily imposed upon, suspected a trick. He
demanded the key, and went and opened the cellar-door; there he found
the basin, and in it five round pieces of tin covered with powder.
Mrs. Jenkins burst out a crying; but the farmer thought of nothing but
getting a warrant to apprehend the cunning woman. Indeed, she well
proved her claim to that name, when she insisted that the cellar-door
might be kept locked till she had time to get out of the reach of all
pursuit.
* * * * *
Poor Sally Evans. I am sure she rued the day that ever she listened to
a fortune-teller. Sally was as harmless a girl as ever churned a pound
of butter; but Sally was ignorant and superstitious. She delighted in
dream-books, and had consulted all the cunning women in the country to
tell her whether the two moles on her cheek denoted that she was to
have two husbands, or only two children. If she picked up an old
horseshoe going to church, she was sure that would be a lucky week.
She never made a black-pudding without borrowing one of the parson's
old wigs to hang in the chimney, firmly believing there were no other
means to preserve them from bursting.
She would never go to bed on Midsummer-eve without sticking up in her
room the well-known plant called Midsummer-men, as the bending of the
leaves to the right or to the left, would not fail to tell her whether
Jacob, of whom we shall speak presently, was true or false. She would
rather go five miles about than pass near a churchyard at night. Every
seventh year she would not eat beans, because they grew downward in
the pod, instead of upward; and she would rather have gone with her
gown open than have taken a pin of an old woman, for fear of being
bewitched.
Poor Sally had so many unlucky days in her calendar, that a large
portion of her time became of little use, because on these days she
did not dare set about any new work. And she would have refused the
best offer in the country if made to her on a Friday, which she
thought so unlucky a day, that she often said what a pity it was that
there was any Friday in the week. Sally had twenty pounds left her by
her grandmother. She had long been courted by Jacob, a sober lad, with
whom she lived a fellow-servant at a creditable farmer's. Honest
Jacob, like his namesake of old, thought it little to wait seven years
to get this damsel to wife, because of the love he bore her, for Sally
had promised to marry him when he could match her twenty pounds with
another of his own.
Now, there was one Robert, a rambling, idle young gardener, who,
instead of sitting down steadily in one place, used to roam about the
country, and do odd jobs where he could get them. No one understood
any thing about him, except that he was a down-looking fellow, who
came nobody knew whence, and got his bread nobody knew how, and never
had a penny in his pocket. Robert, who was now in the neighborhood,
happened to hear of Sally Evans and her twenty pounds. He immediately
conceived a longing desire for the latter. So he went to his old
friend Rachel, told her all he had heard of Sally, and promised if she
could bring about a marriage between them, she should go shares in the
money.
Rachel undertook the business. She set off to the farm-house, and fell
to singing one of her most enticing songs just under the dairy
window. Sally was so struck with the pretty tune, which was unhappily
used, as is too often the case, to set off some very loose words, that
she jumped up, dropped the skimming dish into the cream, and ran out
to buy the song.
While she stooped down to rummage the basket for those songs which had
the most tragical pictures--for Sally had a most tender heart, and
delighted in whatever was mournful--Rachel looked steadfastly in her
face, and told her she knew by her art that she was born to good
fortune, but advised her not to throw herself away. "These two moles
on your cheek," added she, "show you are in some danger."
"Do they denote husbands or children?" cried Sally, starting up, and
letting fall the song of the Children in the Wood.
"Husbands," muttered Rachel.
"Alas, poor Jacob," said Sally mournfully; "then he will die first,
wont he?"
"Mum for that," quoth the fortune-teller; "I will say no more."
Sally was impatient, but the more curiosity she discovered, the more
mystery Rachel affected. At last she said, "If you will cross my hand
with a piece of silver, I will tell you your fortune. By the power of
my art, I can do this three ways: by cards, by the lines of your hand,
or by turning a cup of tea-grounds; which will you have?"
"O, all, all," cried Sally, looking up with reverence to this sunburnt
oracle of wisdom, who knew no less than three different ways of diving
into the secrets of futurity. Alas, persons of better sense than Sally
have been so taken in; the more is the pity.
The poor girl said she would run up stairs to her little box, where
she kept her money tied up in a bit of an old glove, and would bring
down a bright queen Anne's sixpence very crooked. "I am sure," added
she, "it is a lucky one, for it cured me of a very bad ague last
spring, by only laying it nine nights under my pillow, without
speaking a word. But then you must know what gave virtue to this
sixpence was, that it had belonged to three young men of the name of
John; I am sure I had work enough to get it. But true it is, it
certainly cured me. It must be the sixpence you know, for I am sure I
did nothing else for my ague, except indeed taking some bitter stuff
every three hours, which the doctor called bark. To be sure, I lost
my ague soon after I took it, but I am certain it was owing to the
crooked sixpence, and not to the bark. And so, good woman, you may
come in if you will, for there is not a soul in the house but me."
This was the very thing Rachel wanted to know, and very glad she was
to learn it.
While Sally was above stairs untying her glove, Rachel slipped into
the parlor, took a small silver cup from the beaufet, and clapped it
into her pocket. Sally ran down lamenting that she had lost her
sixpence, which she verily believed was owing to her having put it
into a left glove, instead of a right one. Rachel comforted her by
saying, that "if she gave her two plain ones instead, the charm would
work just as well."
Simple Sally thought herself happy to be let off so easily, never
calculating that a smooth shilling was worth two crooked sixpences.
But this skill was a part of the black art in which Rachel excelled.
She took the money, and began to examine the lines of Sally's left
hand. She bit her withered lip, shook her head, and bade her, poor
dupe, beware of a young man, who had black hair.
"No, indeed," cried Sally, all in a fright, "you mean black eyes, for
our Jacob has got brown hair; 'tis his eyes that are black."
"That is the very thing I was going to say," muttered Rachel; "I meant
eyes, though I said hair; for I know his hair is as brown as a
chesnut, and his eyes as black as a sloe."
"So they are, sure enough," cried Sally; "how in the world could you
know that?" forgetting that she herself had just told her so. And it
is thus that these hags pick out of the credulous all which they
afterwards pretend to reveal to them.
"Oh, I know a pretty deal more than that," said Rachel, "but you must
be aware of this man."
"Why so?" cried Sally with great quickness.
"Because," answered Rachel, "you are fated to marry a man worth a
hundred of him, who has grey eyes, light hair, and a stoop in the
shoulders."
"No, indeed, but I can't," said Sally; "I have promised Jacob, and
Jacob I will marry."
"You cannot, child," returned Rachel, in a solemn tone; "it is out of
your power; you are _fated_ to marry the grey eyes and light hair."
[Illustration]
"Nay, indeed," said Sally, sighing deeply, "if I am fated, I must; I
know there is no resisting one's fate." This is a common cant with
poor deluded girls, who are not aware that they themselves make their
fate by their folly, and then complain there is no resisting it.
"What can I do?" said Sally.
"I will tell you that too," said Rachel. "You must take a walk next
Sunday afternoon to the churchyard, and the first man you meet in a
blue coat, with a large posy of pinks and southernwood in his bosom,
sitting on the churchyard wall, about seven o'clock, he will be the
man."
"Provided," said Sally, much disturbed, "that he has grey eyes, and
stoops."
"O, to be sure," said Rachel; "otherwise it is not the right man."
"But if I should mistake," said Sally; "for two men may happen to have
a coat and eyes of the same color."
"To prevent that," replied Rachel, "if it is the right man, the two
first letters of his name will be R.P. This man has got money beyond
sea."
"Oh, I do not value his money," said Sally, with tears in her eyes,
"for I love Jacob better than house or land; but if I am fated to
marry another, I can't help it; you know there is no struggling
against my fate."
Poor Sally thought of nothing and dreamed of nothing all the week but
the blue coat and the grey eyes. She made a hundred blunders at her
work. She put her rennet into the butter-pan, and her skimming dish
into the cheese-tub. She gave the curds to the hogs, and put the whey
into the vats. She put her little knife out of her pocket, for fear it
should cut love; and would not stay in the kitchen, if there was not
an even number of people, lest it should break the charm. She grew
cold and mysterious in her behavior to faithful Jacob, whom she truly
loved. But the more she thought of the fortune-teller, the more she
was convinced that brown hair and black eyes were not what she was
fated to marry, and therefore, though she trembled to think it, Jacob
could not be the man.
On Sunday she was too uneasy to go to church; for poor Sally had never
been taught, that her being uneasy was only a fresh reason why she
ought to go thither. She spent the whole afternoon in her little
garret, dressing in all her best. First she put on her red ribbon,
which she had bought at last Lammas fair; then she recollected that
red was an unlucky color, and changed it for a blue ribbon, tied in a
true lover's knot; but suddenly calling to mind that poor Jacob had
bought this knot for her of a pedlar at the door, and that she had
promised to wear it for his sake, her heart smote her, and she laid it
by, sighing to think she was not fated to marry the man who had given
it to her.
When she had looked at herself twenty times in the glass--for one vain
action always brings on another--she set off, trembling and quaking
every step she went. She walked eagerly towards the churchyard, not
daring to look to the right or left, for fear she should spy Jacob,
who would have offered to walk with her, and so have spoiled all. As
soon as she came within sight of the wall, she spied a man sitting
upon it. Her heart beat violently. She looked again; but alas, the
stranger not only had on a black coat, but neither hair nor eyes
answered the description. She now happened to cast her eyes on the
church-clock, and found she was two hours before her time. This was
some comfort. She walked away and got rid of the two hours as well as
she could, paying great attention as she went not to walk over any
straws which lay across, and carefully looking to see if there were
never an old horseshoe in the way, that infallible symptom of good
fortune.
While the clock was striking seven, she returned to the churchyard,
and, O the wonderful power of fortune-tellers, there she saw him!
there sat the very man: his hair as light as flax, his eyes as blue as
buttermilk, and his shoulders as round as a tub. Every tittle agreed,
to the very nosegay in his waistcoat buttonhole. At first, indeed, she
thought it had been sweet-briar, and glad to catch at a straw,
whispered to herself, It is not he, and I shall marry Jacob still; but
on looking again, she saw it was southernwood plain enough, and that
of course all was over. The man accosted her with some very
nonsensical, but too acceptable compliments. Sally was naturally a
modest girl, and but for Rachel's wicked arts, would not have had
courage to talk with a strange man; but how could she resist her fate,
you know? After a little discourse, she asked him with a trembling
heart, what might be his name.
"Robert Price, at your service," was the answer.
"Robert Price! that is R.P. as sure as I am alive, and the
fortune-teller was a witch. It is all out; it is all out! O the
wonderful art of fortune-tellers!"
The little sleep she had that night was disturbed with dreams of
graves, and ghosts, and funerals; but as they were morning dreams, she
knew those always went by contraries, and that a funeral denoted a
wedding. Still, a sigh would now and then heave, to think that in that
wedding Jacob could have no part. Such of my readers as know the power
which superstition has over the weak and credulous mind, scarcely need
be told, that poor Sally's unhappiness was soon completed. She forgot
all her vows to Jacob; she at once forsook an honest man whom she
loved, and consented to marry a stranger, of whom she knew nothing,
from a ridiculous notion that she was compelled to do so by a decree
which she had it not in her power to resist. She married this Robert
Price, the strange gardener, whom she soon found to be very worthless,
and very much in debt. He had no such thing as "money beyond sea," as
the fortune-teller had told her; but, alas, he had another wife there.
He got immediate possession of Sally's £20. Rachel put in for her
share, but he refused to give her a farthing, and bade her get away,
or he would have her taken up on the vagrant act. He soon ran away
from Sally, leaving her to bewail her own weakness; for it was that
indeed, and not any irresistible fate, which had been the cause of her
ruin. To complete the misery, she herself was suspected of having
stolen the silver cup which Rachel had pocketed. Her master, however,
would not prosecute her, as she was falling into a deep decline, and
she died in a few months of a broken heart, a sad warning to all
credulous girls.
* * * * *
Rachel, whenever she got near home, used to drop her trade of
fortune-telling, and only dealt in the wares of her basket. Mr.
Wilson, the clergyman, found her one day dealing out some very wicked
ballads to some children. He went up with a view to give her a
reprimand; but had no sooner begun his exhortation than up came a
constable, followed by several people.
"There she is, that is she, that is the old witch who tricked my wife
out of the five guineas," said one of them. "Do your office,
constable; seize the old hag. She may tell fortunes and find pots of
gold in Taunton jail, for there she will have nothing else to do."
This was that very farmer Jenkins, whose wife had been cheated by
Rachel of the five guineas. He had taken pains to trace her to her own
parish: he did not so much value the loss of the money, but he thought
it was a duty he owed the public to clear the country of such vermin.
Mr. Wilson immediately committed her. She took her trial at the next
assizes, when she was sentenced to a year's imprisonment.
In the meantime the pawnbroker to whom she had sold the silver cup,
which she had stolen from poor Sally's master, impeached her; and as
the robbery was fully proved upon Rachel, she was sentenced for this
crime to Botany Bay; and a happy day it was for the county of
Somerset, when such a nuisance was sent out of it. She was transported
much about the same time that her husband Giles lost his life, in
stealing the net from the garden wall, as related in the second part
of Poaching Giles.
I have thought it my duty to print this little history, as a kind of
warning to all young men and maidens, not to have any thing to say to
cheats, impostors, cunning women, fortune-tellers, conjurers, and
interpreters of dreams. Listen to me, your true friend, when I assure
you that God never reveals to weak and wicked women those secret
designs of his providence, which no human wisdom is able to foresee.
To consult these false oracles is not only foolish, but sinful. It is
foolish, because they are themselves as ignorant as those whom they
pretend to teach; and it is sinful, because it is prying into that
futurity which God, in mercy as well as wisdom, hides from men.
God indeed _orders_ all things; but when you have a mind to do a
foolish thing, do not fancy you are _fated_ to do it. This is tempting
Providence, and not trusting him. It is, indeed, "charging God with
folly." Prudence is his gift, and you obey him better when you make
use of prudence under the direction of prayer, than when you madly run
into ruin, and think you are only submitting to your fate. Never fancy
that you are compelled to undo yourself, or to rush upon your own
destruction, in compliance with any supposed fatality. Never believe
that God conceals his will from a sober Christian who obeys his laws,
and reveals it to a vagabond gypsy, who runs up and down, breaking
the laws both of God and man. King Saul never consulted the witch till
he had left off serving God. The Bible will direct us what to do,
better than any conjurer; and no days are unlucky but those which we
make so by our own vanity, folly, and sin.
THE HAPPY WATERMAN
A gentleman and lady walking on the bank of the river Thames, spied a
small ferry-boat, with a neatly-dressed waterman, rowing towards them;
on his nearer approach, they read on the stern of his boat these
words, THE HAPPY WATERMAN. Without taking any notice of it, they
determined to enter into conversation with him; and inquiring into his
situation in life, they found that he had a wife and five children,
and supported also an old father and mother-in-law by his own labor.
The gentleman and lady were upon this still more surprised at the
title he had given himself, and said,
"My friend, if this is your situation, how is it that you call
yourself 'the happy waterman'?"
"I can easily explain this to your satisfaction," answered the young
man, "if you will give me leave;" and they desiring him to proceed, he
spoke as follows: "I have observed that the greatest blessings in life
are often looked upon as the greatest distresses, and are, in fact,
made such by means of imprudent conduct. My father and mother died a
few years ago, and left a large family. My father was a waterman, and
I was his assistant in the management of a ferry-boat, by which he
supported his family. On his death, it was necessary, in order to pay
his just debts, to sell our boat. I parted from it, even with tears;
but the distress that I felt spurred me on to industry, for I said,
'I will use every kind of diligence to purchase my boat back again.'
I went to the person who had bought it, and told him my design; he had
given five _guineas_ for it, but told me, as I was once the owner,
that I should have it whenever I could raise five _pounds_. 'Shall the
boat be mine again?' said I; and my heart bounded at the thought.
"I was at this time married to a good young woman, and we lived at a
neighboring cottage; she was young, healthy, and industrious, and so
was I, and we loved one another. What might we not undertake? My
father used to say to me, 'Always do what is right; labor diligently,
and spend your money carefully, and God will bless your store.' We
treasured up these rules, and determined to try the truth of them.
"My wife had long chiefly supported two aged parents: I loved them as
my own; and the desire of contributing to their support was an
additional spur to my endeavors to repurchase the boat. I entered
myself as a day-laborer in the garden of our squire; and my wife was
called occasionally to perform some services at the house, and
employed herself in needle-work, spinning, or knitting at home. Not
a moment in the day was suffered to pass unemployed. We spared for
ourselves, and furnished all the comforts we could to the poor about
us; and every week we dropped a little overplus into a fairing-box,
to buy the boat. If any accident of charity brought us an additional
shilling, we did not enlarge our expense, but kept it for the boat.
The more care we took, the more comfortable we felt, for we were the
nearer the possession of our little boat. Our labor was lightened by
looking forward to the attainment of our wishes.
"Our family indeed increased, but with it our friends increased also;
for the cleanliness and frugality which furnished our cottage, and the
content and cheerfulness that appeared in it, drew the notice of our
rich neighbors--of my master and mistress particularly, whose rule was
to assist the industrious, but not to encourage the idle. They did not
approve of giving money to the poor, but in cold winters, or dear
times, allowed us to buy things at a cheaper rate; this was _money to
us_, for when we counted our little cash for the week's marketing, all
that was saved to us by our tickets to purchase things at reduced
prices, went into our 'little box.' If my children got a penny at
school for a reward to buy gingerbread, they brought it home, they
said, to help me to buy the boat--for they would have no gingerbread
till father had got his boat again. Thus, from time to time, our
little store insensibly increased, till one pound only was wanting of
the five, when the following accident happened.
"Coming home one evening from my work, I saw in the road a small
pocketbook: on opening it, I found a bank-note of ten pounds, which
plainly enough belonged to my master, for his name was upon it, and I
had also seen him passing that way in the evening: it being too late,
however, to return to the house, I went on my way. When I told my
family of the incident, the little ones were thrown into a transport
of joy.
"'My dears,' said I, 'what is the matter?'
"'Oh, father, the BOAT! the BOAT! we may now have two or three boats!'
"I checked them by my looks, and asked them if they recollected whose
money that was. They said, 'Yours, as you found it.' I reminded them
that I was not the real owner, and bade them think how they would all
feel, supposing a stranger was to take our box of money, if I should
happen to drop it on the day I went to buy back the boat.
"This thought had the effect on their young minds that I desired; they
were silent and pale with the representation of such a disaster, and I
begged it might be a lesson to them never to forget the golden rule of
'doing as they would wish others to do by them;' for by attention to
this certain guide, no one would ever do wrong to another. I also took
this opportunity to explain to them, that the possession of the boat
by dishonest means would never answer, since we could not expect the
blessing of God upon _bad deeds_."
[Illustration]
"To go on with my story: The next morning I put the pocketbook into my
bosom, and went to my work, intending, as soon as the family rose, to
give it to my master; but what were my feelings when, on searching in
my bosom, it was nowhere to be found! I hasted back along the road by
which I came, and looked diligently all the way, but in vain; there
was no trace of any such thing. I would not return into my cottage,
because I wished to save my family the pain I felt; and in the hope of
still recovering the book, I went to my work, following another path
which I recollected I had also gone by. On my return to the
garden-gate, I was accosted by the gardener, who, in a threatening
tone, told me I was suspected; that our master had lost a pocketbook,
describing what I had found, and that I being the only man absent from
the garden at the hour of work, the rest of the men also denying that
they had seen any such thing, there was every reason to conclude that
I must have got it.
"Before I could answer, my distressed countenance confirmed the
suspicion; and another servant coming up, said I was detected, for
that a person had been sent to my house, and that my wife and family
had owned it all, and had described the pocketbook. I told them the
real fact, but it seemed to every one unlikely to be true; every
circumstance was against me, and--my heart trembles to look back upon
it--I was arrested, and hurried away to prison. I protested my
innocence, but I did not wonder that I gained no credit.
"Great grief now oppressed my heart; my poor wife, my dear children,
and my grey-headed parents, were all at once plunged into want and
misery, instead of the ease and happiness which we were expecting; for
we were just arriving at the height of our earthly wishes. I had,
however, one consolation left--that I knew _I was innocent_; and I
trusted that by persevering in honesty, all might come right at last.
My resolution was, as I had certainly been the cause, though without
any design, of the second loss of the property, that I would offer the
whole of our little store, to make it good as far as in my power; and
I sent for my wife to give her this sad commission, but she informed
me that even this sacrifice could be of no avail; 'for,' said she,
'my master has been at the cottage, when I told him freely how you had
found the note, but, unfortunately, had lost it again; and I added,
that I was sure both I and my husband would make the best return in
our power; after which I produced our little fairing-box, and begged
him to accept the contents, which had been so long raising, as all we
had to offer.' But, sir," said the waterman, "conceive my agony, when
she added, that my master angrily refused, saying, that our being in
possession of all that money was of itself the clearest proof of my
guilt; for it was impossible, with my large family, and no greater
opportunities than my neighbors, that I could come honestly by such a
sum; therefore he was determined to keep me in jail till I should pay
the whole.
"My unhappiness was very great; however, my mind by degrees began to be
more easy, for I grew confident that I should not trust in God and my
own innocence in vain--and so it happened: one of my fellow-laborers
proved to be the person who had picked up the note after I had dropped
it, having come a few minutes after me along the same road to his work,
and hearing that the suspicion had fallen altogether upon me, he was
tempted to turn the accident to his own advantage, and conceal the
property; which having kept in his own box for a few weeks, till he
thought no suspicion would rest upon him, he went and offered the note
for change, and being then suspected, my master had him taken up, and
I was released.
"The second change, from so much misery to happiness, was almost too
much for us. My master sent for me, and with many expressions of concern
for what had passed, made me give him an account of the means by which I
had collected the little fund that fixed his suspicions so strongly upon
me. I accordingly related the history of it as I have now done; and when
I came to that part where I checked my children for their inconsiderate
joy on finding the note, he rose with much kindness in his looks, and
putting the bank-bill into my hand, he said,
"'Take it; the bank-note shall be theirs. It is the best and only
return I can make you, as well as a just reward of your honesty; and
it will be a substantial proof to your children of the goodness of
your instructions, for they will thus early see and feel the benefit
of honesty and virtue.'
"This kind and worthy gentleman interested himself much in the
purchase of my boat, which, in less than a week, I was in full
possession of. The remainder of my master's bounty, and the additional
advantage of the ferry, has placed me in comfortable circumstances,
which I humbly trust God will continue to us as long as we continue
our labor and honest diligence; and I can say from my long experience,
that the fruit of our own industry is always sweetest. I have now also
the pleasure of being able to help others; for when a rich passenger
takes my ferry, as my story is well known in the neighborhood, he
often gives me more than my fare, which enables me to let the next
poor person go over for half price."
The lady and gentleman were extremely pleased with the waterman's
story, and willingly joined in calling him the happy waterman. They
passed over in his ferry-boat for the sake of making him a handsome
present. And from this time becoming acquainted with his family, they
did them every service in their power, giving books and schooling to
the little ones, and every comfort to the old father and mother-in-law
as long as they survived. They were very desirous of knowing what
became of the unfortunate fellow-laborer, who had so dreadfully gone
aside from the principles of honesty, and they learned that he was,
after a short imprisonment, set at liberty by his master at the
earnest entreaty of the honest waterman, as he said it was partly
through his carelessness in losing the note, that the temptation had
fallen in his fellow-laborer's way; he had, moreover, a very large
family. His master also was so good as to consider that he was a man
who had not been blessed with a good education in his youth; so that
having little fear of God before his eyes, and having a great
temptation in his way, he had been the more easily led to commit this
very wicked action, by which he would have enriched himself at the
expense of an innocent man.
I have great pleasure in adding, that the thought of what he had done,
together with the generosity of the waterman, had so strong an effect
upon this poor fellow, that he afterwards had it written upon his
cottage door, DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE UNTO. And he has resolved to
follow this rule himself in future, and also taught it to all his
children. Indeed, it became a rule well known over the whole parish;
for every little child having been informed of this story, was told
that he ought to consider, before he did any action, whether he would
like his brother, or sister, or school-fellow to do the same by him;
and if not, that the action was wrong, and not to be done, let the
profit be ever so great. Surely, then, those who have lived long, and
seen much of life, and have had much religious instruction also,
should never depart from this simple and certain rule. And it is the
same to all ranks--it requires neither learning nor abilities to "do
as you would be done unto;" nor can any station, however great, no,
nor any circumstances, however trying, excuse men from giving their
constant attention to this golden rule.
THE GRAVESTONE.
Here rests in peace a Christian wife,
Safe from the cares and ills of life;
Taught by kind Heaven's afflicting rod,
She well had learned her way to GOD.
Once a gay girl, she trod the green,
The foremost in the festive scene;
'Twas then she followed all her will,
And wedded William of the hill.
No heart had he for prayer and praise,
No thought of God's most holy ways:
Of worldly gains he loved to speak,
In worldly cares he spent his week;
E'en Sunday passed unheeded by,
And both forgot that they must die.
While thus by Satan quite beguiled,
The God of mercy smote her child:
Bereft of one sweet infant dear,
She shed the mother's mournful tear;
A second next she tried to save,
Then bore the second to the grave;
Both on one day the parent led
To silent mansions of the dead.
There, while she wept her children's fate.
She learned to feel her mortal state;
Stood pondering all her errors past,
As if that day had been her last;
And as she held the mournful bier,
Dropt for herself a secret tear.
Once she believed her sins were few,
But this one moment cleared her view;
Then first she felt a Saviour's need,
Sinner in thought, and word, and deed.
Of her own worth she ceased to dream,
For Christ's redemption was her theme.
Henceforth her ways were ordered right,
She "walked by faith, and not by sight;"
She read God's word, believed it true,
And strove to practise what she knew.
Her husband saw the mighty change,
And thought at first her humor strange;
Deemed his own worldly ways the best--
But soon his error stood confessed.
Ceased is the noise, the jarring strife,
For now how humble is the wife!
He proudly feels each cross event,
While she, poor sinner, is content;
No more she has her stubborn will,
Returns him daily good for ill;
And though her love is still the same.
She loves him with a purer flame.
Oft would she pray the God of grace
His lofty spirit to abase;
Upward his grovelling thoughts to raise,
And teach him humble prayer and praise.
Heaven heard her voice: the youth so gay,
The thoughtless sinner, learned to pray;
Sad sickness too, with pain and smart,
Was sent to soften all his heart.
She followed next her husband's bier,
She wiped his last repenting tear;
She heard him mourn his former pride,
She heard him thank her when he died.
Here, then, in hope of endless life,
Rest both the husband and the wife;
Here too, the babes whom God hath given,
And such, we trust, shall enter heaven.
ADDRESS TO PERSONS ATTENDING A FUNERAL.
Ye mourners, who in silent gloom
Bear your dear kindred to the tomb,
Grudge not, when Christians go to rest;
They sleep in JESUS, and are blest.
Call then to mind their faith, their love,
Their meetness for the realms above;
And if to heaven a saint is fled,
O mourn the living, not the dead;
Weep o'er the thousands that remain,
Deep sunk in sin, or racked with pain;
Mourn your own crimes and wicked ways,
And learn to number all your days;
Gain wisdom from this mournful stone,
And make this Christian's case your own.
PARLEY THE PORTER.
AN ALLEGORY. SHOWING HOW ROBBERS WITHOUT CAN NEVER GET INTO A HOUSE
UNLESS THERE ARE TRAITORS WITHIN.
BY HANNAH MORE.
There was once a certain gentleman who had a house, or castle,
situated in the midst of a great wilderness, but inclosed in a garden.
Now there was a band of robbers in the wilderness, who had a great
mind to plunder and destroy the castle; but they had not succeeded in
their endeavors, because the master had given strict orders to "watch
without ceasing." To quicken their vigilance, he used to tell them
that their care would soon have an end; that though the nights they
had to watch were dark and stormy, yet they were but few; the period
of resistance Was short--that of rest would be eternal.
The robbers, however, attacked the castle in various ways. They tried
at every avenue; watched to take advantage of every careless moment;
looked for an open door, or a neglected window. But though they often
made the bolts shake and the windows rattle, they could never greatly
hurt the house, much less get into it. Do you know the reason? It was,
because the servants were never off their guard. They heard the noises
plain enough, and used to be not a little frightened, for they were
aware both of the strength and perseverance of their enemies. But what
seemed rather odd to some of these servants, the gentleman used to
tell them, that while they continued to be afraid, they would be safe;
and it passed into a sort of proverb in that family, "Happy is he that
feareth always." Some of the servants however, thought this a
contradiction.
One day when the master was going from home, he called his servants
all together, and spoke to them as follows: "I will not repeat to you
the directions I have so often given you; they are all written down in
the book of laws, of which every one of you has a copy. Remember, it
is a very short time that you are to remain in this castle; you will
soon remove to my more settled habitation, to a more durable house,
not made with hands. As that house is never exposed to any attack, so
it never stands in need of any repair; for that country is never
infested by any sons of violence. Here, you are servants; there, you
will be princes.
"But mark my words, and you will find the same truth in the book of my
laws: Whether you will ever attain to _that_ house, will depend on the
manner in which you defend yourselves in _this_. A stout vigilance for
a short time will secure your certain happiness for ever. But every
thing depends on your present exertions. Don't complain and take
advantage of my absence, and call me a hard master, and grumble that
you are placed in the midst of a howling wilderness, without peace or
security. Say not, that you are exposed to temptations without any
power to resist them. You have some difficulties, it is true; but you
have many helps and many comforts to make this house tolerable, even
before you get to the other. Yours is not a hard service; and if it
were, 'the time is short.' You have arms if you will use them, and
doors if you will bar them, and strength if you will use it. I would
defy all the attacks of the robbers without, if I could depend on the
fidelity of the people within. If the thieves ever get in and destroy
the house, it must be by the connivance of one of the family. _For it
is a standing law of this castle, that mere outward attack can never
destroy it, if there be no traitor within._ You will stand or fall as
you observe this rule. If you are finally happy, it will be by my
grace and favor; if you are ruined, it will be your own fault."
"When the gentleman had done speaking, every servant repeated his
assurance of attachment and firm allegiance to his master. But among
them all, not one was so vehement and loud in his professions as old
Parley the porter. Parley, indeed, it was well known, was always
talking, which exposed him to no small danger; for as he was the
foremost to promise, so he was the slackest to perform. And, to speak
the truth, though he was a civil-spoken fellow, his master was more
afraid of him, with all his professions, than he was of the rest, who
protested less. He knew that Parley was vain, credulous, and
self-sufficient; and he always apprehended more danger from Parley's
impertinence, curiosity, and love of novelty, than even from the
stronger vices of some of the other servants. The rest, indeed, seldom
got into any scrape of which Parley was not the cause, in some shape
or other."
I am sorry to be obliged to confess, that though Parley was allowed
every refreshment, and all the needful rest which the nature of his
place permitted, yet he thought it very hard to be forced to be so
constantly on duty.
"Nothing but watching," said Parley; "I have, to be sure, many
pleasures, and meat sufficient; and plenty of chat in virtue of my
office; and I pick up a good deal of news of the comers and goers by
day; but it is hard that at night I must watch as narrowly as a
housedog, and yet let in no company without orders, only because there
are said to be a few straggling robbers here in the wilderness, with
whom my master does not care to let us be acquainted. He pretends to
make us vigilant through fear of the robbers, but I suspect it is only
to make us mope alone. A merry companion, and a mug of beer, would
make the night pass cheerfully."
Parley, however, kept all these thoughts to himself, or uttered them
only when no one heard--for talk he must. He began to listen to the
nightly whistling of the robbers under the windows with rather less
alarm than formerly; and he was sometimes so tired of watching, that
he thought it was even better to run the risk of being robbed once,
than to live always in fear of robbers.
There were certain bounds in which the gentleman allowed his servants
to walk and divert themselves at all proper seasons. A pleasant garden
surrounded the castle, and a thick hedge separated it from the
wilderness, which was infested by the robbers. In this garden they
were permitted to amuse themselves. The master advised them always to
keep within these bounds. "While you observe this rule," said he, "you
will be safe and well; and you will consult your own safety, as well
as show your love to me, by not venturing even to the extremity of
your bounds. He who goes as far as he dares, always shows a wish to go
farther than he ought, and commonly does so."
It was remarkable, that the nearer these servants kept to the castle,
and the farther from the hedge, the more ugly the wilderness appeared.
And the nearer they approached the forbidden bounds, their own home
appeared more dull, and the wilderness more delightful. And this the
master knew when he gave his orders, for he never either did or said
any thing without a good reason. And when his servants sometimes
desired an explanation of the reason, he used to tell them they would
understand it when they came to _the other house_; for it was one of
the pleasures of that house, that it would explain all the mysteries
of this, and any little obscurities in the master's conduct would be
then made quite plain.
Parley was the first who promised to keep clear of the hedge, and yet
was often seen looking as near as he durst. One day he ventured close
up to the hedge, put two or three stones one on another, and tried to
peep over. He saw one of the robbers strolling as near as could be on
the forbidden side. This man's name was Flatterwell, a smooth, civil
man, "whose words were softer than butter, having war in his heart."
He made several low bows to Parley.
Now Parley knew so little of the world, that he actually concluded all
robbers must have an ugly look, which should frighten you at once; and
coarse, brutal manners, which would, at first sight, show they were
enemies. He thought, like a poor ignorant fellow as he was, that this
mild, specious person could never be one of the band. Flatterwell
accosted Parley with the utmost civility, which put him quite off his
guard; for Parley had no notion that he could be an enemy who was so
soft and civil. For an open foe he would have been prepared. Parley,
however, after a little discourse, drew this conclusion, that either
Mr. Flatterwell could not be one of the gang, or if he was, the
robbers themselves could not be such monsters as his master had
described, and therefore it was a folly to be afraid of them.
Flatterwell began, like a true adept in his art, by lulling all
Parley's suspicions asleep, and instead of openly abusing his master,
which would have opened Parley's eyes at once, he pretended rather to
commend him in a general way, as a person who meant well himself, but
was too apt to suspect others. To this Parley assented. The other
then ventured to hint by degrees, that though the gentleman might be a
good master in the main, yet he must say he was a little strict, and a
little stingy, and not a little censorious. That he was blamed by the
gentlemen in the wilderness for shutting his house against good
company, and his servants were laughed at by people of spirit for
submitting to the gloomy life of the castle, and the insipid pleasures
of the garden, instead of ranging in the wilderness at large.
"It is true enough," said Parley, who was generally of the opinion of
the person he was talking with; "my master _is_ rather harsh and
close. But, to own the truth, all the barring, and locking, and
bolting, is to keep out a set of gentlemen who he assures us are
robbers, and who are waiting for an opportunity to destroy us. I hope
no offence, sir, but by your livery I suspect you, sir, are one of the
gang he is so much afraid of."
FLATTERWELL. "Afraid of me! impossible, dear Mr. Parley. You see I do
not look like an enemy. I am unarmed; what harm can a plain man like
me do?"
PARLEY. "Why, that is true enough. Yet my master says, that if we were
once to let you into the house, we should be ruined, soul and body."
FLATTERWELL. "I am sorry, Mr. Parley, that so sensible a man as you
are so deceived. This is mere prejudice. He knows we are cheerful,
entertaining people; foes to gloom and superstition; and therefore, he
is so morose, he will not let you get acquainted with us."
PARLEY. "Well, he says you are a band of thieves, gamblers, murderers,
drunkards, and atheists."
FLATTERWELL. "Don't believe him: the worst we should do, perhaps, is,
we might drink a friendly glass with you to your master's health, or
play an innocent game at cards just to keep you awake, or sing a
cheerful song with the maids; now is there any harm in all this?"
PARLEY. "Not the least in the world. And I begin to think there is not
a word of truth in all my master says."
FLATTERWELL. "The more you know us, the more you will like us. But I
wish there was not this ugly hedge between us. I have a great deal to
say, and I am afraid of being overheard."
Parley was now just going to give a spring over the hedge, but checked
himself, saying, "I dare not come on your side; there are people
about, and every thing is carried to my master."
Flatterwell saw by this that his new friend was kept on his own side
of the hedge by fear rather than by principle, and from that moment he
made sure of him. "Dear Mr. Parley," said he, "if you will allow me
the honor of a little conversation with you, I will call under the
window of your lodge this evening. I have something to tell you
greatly to your advantage. I admire you exceedingly. I long for your
friendship; our whole brotherhood is ambitious of being known to so
amiable a person."
"O dear," said Parley, "I shall be afraid of talking to you at night;
it is so against my master's orders. But did you say you had something
to tell me to my advantage?"
"Yes," replied Flatterwell, "I can point out to you how you may be a
richer, a merrier, and a happier man. If you will admit me tonight
under the window, I will convince you that 'tis prejudice, and not
wisdom, which makes your master bar his door against us; I will
convince you, that the mischief of a 'robber,' as your master
scurrilously calls us, is only in the name--that we are your true
friends, and only mean to promote your happiness."
"Don't say we," said Parley, "pray come alone, I would not see the
rest of the gang for the world; but I think there can be no great harm
in talking to _you_ through the bars, if you come alone; but I am
determined not to let you in. Yet I can't say but I wish to know what
you can tell me so much to my advantage; indeed, if it is for my good,
I ought to know it."
"Dear Mr. Parley," said Flatterwell, (going out, but turning back,)
"there is one thing I had forgot, I cannot get over the hedge at night
without assistance. You know there is a secret in the nature of that
hedge: you in the house may get over to us in the wilderness of your
own accord, but we cannot get to your side by our own strength. You
must look about and see where the hedge is thinnest, and then set to
work to clear away here and there a little bough for me; it wont be
missed: and if there is but the smallest hole made on your side, those
on ours can get through; otherwise, we do but labor in vain."
To this Parley made some objection through the fear of being seen.
Flatterwell replied, that "the smallest hole from within would be
sufficient, for he could then work his own way."
"Well," said Parley, "I will consider of it. To be sure, I shall even
then be equally safe in the castle, as I shall have all the bolts,
bars, and locks between us; so it will make but little difference."
"Certainly not," said Flatterwell, who knew it would make all the
difference in the world. So they parted with mutual protestations of
regard. Parley went home charmed with his new friend. His eyes were
now clearly open as to his master's prejudices against the "robbers,"
and he was convinced there was more in the name than in the thing.
"But," said he, "though Mr. Flatterwell is certainly an agreeable
companion, he may not be so safe an inmate. There can, however, be no
harm in talking at a distance, and I certainly wont let him in."
Parley, in the course of the day, did not forget his promise to thin
the hedge of separation a little. At first he only tore off a handful
of leaves, then a little sprig, then he broke away a bough or two. It
was observable, the larger the breach became, the worse he began to
think of his master, and the better of himself. Every peep he took
through the broken hedge increased his desire to get out into the
wilderness, and made the thoughts of the castle more irksome to him.
He was continually repeating to himself, "I wonder what Mr.
Flatterwell can have to say so much to my advantage? I see he does not
wish to hurt my master, he only wishes to serve me." As the hour of
meeting, however, drew near, the master's orders now and then came
across Parley's thoughts; so, to divert them, he took the book. He
happened to open it at these words: "My son, if sinners entice thee,
consent thou not." For a moment his heart failed him. "If this
admonition should be sent on purpose," said he; "but no, 'tis a
bugbear. My master told me that if I went to the bounds, I should get
over the hedge. Now I went to the utmost limits, and did not get
over." Here conscience put in, "Yes, but it was because you were
watched." "I am sure," continued Parley, "one may always stop where
one will, and this is only a trick of my master's to spoil sport; so I
will even hear what Mr. Flatterwell has to say so much to my
advantage. I am not obliged to follow his counsels, but there can be
no harm in hearing them."
Flatterwell prevailed on the rest of the robbers to make no public
attack on the castle that night. "My brethren," said he, "you now and
then fail in your schemes, because you are for violent beginnings;
while my soothing, insinuating measures hardly ever miss. You come
blustering and roaring, and frighten people, and set them on their
guard. You inspire them with terror of _you_, while my whole scheme is
to make them think well of _themselves_, and ill of their master. If I
once get them to entertain hard thoughts of him, and high thoughts of
themselves, my business is done, and they fall plump into my snares.
So, let this delicate affair alone to me. Parley is a softly fellow:
he must not be frightened, but cajoled. He is the very sort of man to
succeed with, and worth a hundred of your sturdy, sensible fellows.
With them we want strong arguments and strong temptations; but with
such fellows as Parley, in whom vanity and sensuality are the leading
qualities--as, let me tell you, is the case with far the greater
part--flattery, and a promise of ease and pleasure, will do more than
your whole battle array. If you will let me manage, I will get you all
into the castle before midnight."
At night the castle was barricaded as usual, and no one had observed
the hole which Parley had made in the hedge. This oversight arose that
night from the servants neglecting one of the master's standing
orders--to make a nightly _examination_ of the state of the castle.
The neglect did not proceed so much from wilful disobedience, as from
having passed the evening in sloth and diversion, which often amounts
to nearly the same in its consequences.
As all was very cheerful within, so all was very quiet without. And
before they went to bed some of the servants observed to the rest,
that as they heard no robbers that night, they thought they might soon
begin to remit something of their diligence in bolting and barring.
That all this fastening and looking was very troublesome, and they
hoped the danger was now pretty well over. It was rather remarkable,
that they never made this sort of observations, but after an evening
of some excess, and when they had neglected their private business
with their master. All, however, except Parley, went quietly to bed,
and seemed to feel uncommon security.
Parley crept down to his lodge. He had half a mind to go to bed too.
Yet he was not willing to disappoint Mr. Flatterwell; so civil a
gentleman. To be sure, he might have bad designs. Yet what right had
he to suspect any body who made such professions, and who was so very
civil. "Besides, it is something for my advantage," added Parley. "I
will not open the door, that is certain; but as he is to come alone,
he can do me no harm through the bars of the windows. And he will
think I am a coward, if I don't keep my word; no, I will let him see
that I am not afraid of my own strength; I will show him I can go what
length I please, and stop short _when_ I please." Had Flatterwell
heard this boastful speech, he would have been quite sure of his man.
About eleven Parley heard the signal agreed upon. It was so gentle as
to cause little alarm. So much the worse. Flatterwell never frightened
any one, and therefore seldom failed of any one. Parley stole softly
down, planted himself at his little window, opened the casement, and
spied his new friend. It was pale starlight. Parley was a little
frightened, for he thought he perceived one or two persons behind
Flatterwell; but the other assured him it was only his own shadow,
which his fears had magnified into a company. "Though I assure you,"
said he, "I have not a friend but what is as harmless as myself."
They now entered into earnest discourse, in which Flatterwell showed
himself a deep politician. He skilfully mixed up in his conversation
a proper proportion of praise on the pleasures of the wilderness, of
compliments to Parley, of ridicule on his master, and of abusive
sneers on the book in which the master's laws were written. Against
this last he had always a particular spite, for he considered it as
the grand instrument by which the master maintained his servants in
allegiance; and when they could be once brought to sneer at the
book, there was an end of submission to the master. Parley had not
penetration enough to see his drift. "As to the book, Mr.
Flatterwell," said he, "I do not know whether it be true or false;
I rather neglect than disbelieve it. I am forced, indeed, to hear it
read once a week; but I never look into it myself, if I can help it."
"Excellent," said Flatterwell to himself; "that is just the same
thing. This is safe ground for me. For whether a man does not believe
in the book, or does not attend to it, it comes pretty much to the
same, and I generally get him at last."
"Why cannot we be a little nearer, Mr. Parley?" said Flatterwell;
"I am afraid of being overheard by some of your master's spies, the
window from which you speak is so high. I wish you would come down
to the door."
"Well," said Parley, "I see no great harm in that. There is a little
wicket in the door, through which we can converse with more ease and
equal safety. The same fastenings will be still between us." So down
he went, but not without a degree of fear and trembling.
The little wicket being now opened, and Flatterwell standing close on
the outside of the door, they conversed with great ease. "Mr. Parley,"
said Flatterwell, "I should not have pressed you so much to admit me
into the castle, but out of pure, disinterested regard to your own
happiness. I shall get nothing by it, but I cannot bear to think that
a person so wise and amiable should be shut up in this gloomy dungeon,
under a hard master, and a slave to the unreasonable tyranny of his
book of laws. If you admit me, you need have no more waking, no more
watching."
Here Parley involuntarily slipped back the bolt of the door.
"To convince you of my true love," continued Flatterwell, "I have
brought a bottle of the most delicious wine that grows in the
wilderness. You shall taste it; but you must put a glass through the
wicket to receive it; for it is a singular property in this wine, that
we of the wilderness cannot succeed in conveying it to you of the
castle, without you hold out a vessel to receive it."
"O here is a glass," said Parley, holding out a large goblet, which he
always kept ready to be filled by any chance comer.
The other immediately poured into the capacious goblet a large draught
of that delicious intoxicating liquor with which the family of the
Flatterwells have, for near six thousand years, gained the hearts and
destroyed the souls of all the inhabitants of the castle, whenever
they have been able to prevail on them to hold out a hand to receive
it. This the wise master of the castle well knew would be the case,
for he knew what was in men--he knew their propensity to receive the
delicious poison of the Flatterwells; and it was for this reason that
he gave them the book of his laws, and planted the hedge, and invented
the bolts, and doubled the locks.
As soon as poor Parley had swallowed the fatal draught it acted like
enchantment. He at once lost all power of resistance. He had no sense
of fear left. He despised his own safety, forgot his master, lost all
sight of the house in the other country, and reached out for another
draught as eagerly as Flatterwell held out the bottle to administer
it. "What a fool have I been," said Parley, "to deny myself so long."
"Will you now let me in?" said Flatterwell.
"Aye, that I will," said the deluded Parley. Though the train was now
increased to near a hundred robbers, yet so intoxicated was Parley,
that he did not see one of them, except his new friend. Parley eagerly
pulled down the bars, drew back the bolts, and forced open the locks,
thinking he could never let in his friend soon enough. He had,
however, just presence of mind to say, "My dear friend, I hope you are
alone." Flatterwell swore he was. Parley opened the door--in rushed,
not Flatterwell only, but the whole banditti, who always lurk behind
in his train. The moment they had got sure possession, Flatterwell
changed his soft tone, and cried out in a voice of thunder, "Down
with the castle; kill, burn, and destroy."
Rapine, murder, and conflagration by turns took place. Parley was the
very first whom they attacked. He was overpowered with wounds. As he
fell, he cried out, "O my master, I die a victim to my unbelief in
thee, and to my own vanity and imprudence. O that the guardians of all
other castles would hear me with my dying breath repeat my master's
admonition, that _all attacks from without will not destroy, unless
there is some confederate within_. O that the keepers of all other
castles would learn from my ruin, that he who parleys with temptation
is already undone. That he who allows himself to go to the very
bounds, will soon jump over the hedge; that he who talks out of the
window with the enemy, will soon open the door to him; that he who
holds out his hand for the cup of sinful flattery, loses all power of
resisting; that when he opens the door to one sin, all the rest fly in
upon him, and the man perishes as I now do."
[Illustration]
A NEW CHRISTMAS TRACT;
OR, THE RIGHT WAY OF REJOICING AT CHRISTMAS, SHOWING THE REASONS WE
HAVE FOR JOY AT THE EVENT OF OUR SAVIOUR'S BIRTH.
There are two ways of keeping Christmas: some seem to keep it much in
the same way in which the unbelieving Jews kept their feast in honor
of the calf which they had made. "And they made a calf in Horeb in
those days, and the people sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to
play." But what a sad sort of Christianity is this! I am no enemy to
mirth of a proper kind, and at proper seasons; but the mirth I now
speak of, is the mirth of inconsideration and folly, and is often
mixed with much looseness of conduct and drunkenness. Is this, then,
the sort of mirth proper for Christians? Let us suppose, now, that a
man should choose a church as the place in which he was to sit and
sing his jolly song, and to drink till he was intoxicated; surely this
would imply that he was a person of extraordinary wickedness. But
this, you will say, is what nobody is so bad as to be guilty of; well,
then, let us suppose, that instead of choosing a church as the place,
he should choose Christmas as the time for the like acts of riot and
drunkenness: methinks this must imply no small degree of the same
kind of wickedness; for, as he that should get intoxicated in a
church, would insult the church, so he that gets intoxicated at
Christmas, which is the season for commemorating the birth of Christ,
insults Christ and his religion.
I know it may be said, that those who take these liberties at
Christmas do not mean to insult Christ, and that they act from
inconsideration: to which I answer, that they are very guilty in being
so inconsiderate; for I would just remark by the way, that these
people who are so very inconsiderate in some things, are apt to be
very considerate in others. For instance, they are very considerate
about their pleasures, but very inconsiderate about their duty. They
are often, perhaps, very considerate about this world, always very
inconsiderate about eternity; very considerate for themselves, and
very little so about other people; extremely considerate on their own
side of a bargain, but as inconsiderate about the side of the other
party; and when they have committed a sin, they are apt to be very
considerate in finding excuses for it, but very inconsiderate in
tracing out the guilt and mischief of their wickedness. In short,
then, let it be remembered, that inconsideration is often neither more
nor less than another word for wickedness, and that the inconsiderate
way of spending Christmas which has been spoken of, is only, in other
words, the wicked way of spending it.
But now let us come to the true way of keeping it.
First, then, in order to know how the time of Christ's birth ought to
be remembered by us, I would observe, that it is necessary to
understand well _who Christ was, and for what purpose he came on
earth_. How absurd would it be to celebrate the fifth of November,
without knowing, that on that day the houses of parliament were saved
from fire, and our happy constitution, as well as our religion, was
preserved to us. Again, how absurd would it be for any man to
celebrate the king's birthday, or coronation-day, who did not feel
within his heart loyalty and affection towards his sovereign, and who
did not think that any blessings were derived from our kingly
government.
Let every one, therefore, who wishes to spend Christmas aright, get
acquainted with the _benefits_ which have followed from Christ's
coming into the world. We will endeavor, now, to show very briefly
what these benefits have been. The world, at the time of Christ's
appearing, was divided into Jews and Gentiles. The word Gentiles
signifies nations, that is, all the nations except the Jews. Let us
speak of the Gentiles first, and of the Jews afterwards.
The Gentiles were worshippers of false gods; some of one kind, some of
another. They all, however, agreed in this, that they thought one god
as good as another, and no one among them had any anxiety to bring his
neighbor over to his religion, which is a plain proof that they had no
true religion among them; for whoever is possessed of true religion,
is possessed of a great comfort and blessing, which he will therefore
be glad to convey to other people also. It was the custom of some of
these Gentiles to worship stocks and stones; others bowed down to
living animals, such as bulls, or goats, or lizards; and others paid
their stupid adoration to the sun, instead of the Author of it. Many
of them worshipped their deceased fellow-creatures; and the dead men
who were thus turned into gods had been, in general, some of the most
wicked and abominable of the human race.
Now this ignorance of the true God was followed--as all ignorance of
him is apt to be--by great wickedness in their practice. They were
"given over" on this account, as St. Paul, the inspired apostle,
declares, "to a reprobate mind; to work all uncleanness with
greediness." They learned to confound good and evil; vices were then
commonly practised, such as are not named among Christians. False
principles and false maxims of every kind abounded. Slavery prevailed,
even in the most civilized lands; for almost all servants were slaves
in those days. The earth was filled with violence. He that had killed
the greatest number of his fellow-creatures got usually the greatest
praise. "Wars were carried on with dreadful ferocity, and multitudes
were massacred at the public games, in battles fought for the
amusement of the people. Humanity, kindness, and benevolence, were
made of no account; and such a thing as a hospital was not known.
Revenge was both practised and recommended; and those excellent
Christian graces, humility, universal charity, and forgiveness of
injuries, were considered as weaknesses and faults."
I shudder to think of the dreadful state of mankind in those days.
God grant that the same evils may never return. They are the natural
consequences of being without Christianity in the world; for when
Christianity is gone, there is no rule to go by. Every man may then
set up a false goodness of his own. Morals, of course, grow worse
and worse; a fierce and proud spirit comes in the place of Christian
meekness and benevolence, and claims the name of virtue; and the
Saviour of the world, with all his works of mercy, being forgotten,
man becomes cruel, and unjust, and selfish, and implacable, and
unmerciful; for all the violent passions of our nature are let loose.