Fall, and die, and pass away.
Sinketh tower and droppeth wall,
Cloth shall fray and horse shall fall,
Flesh shall die and iron rust,
Pass and perish all things must.
Well I understand and say,
All shall die, both priest and lay;
And small time, for praise or blame,
When man dieth, lives his fame."
Note. This is translated from an old French poem, written before the
time of the story.
Father Thomas stopped beside the anvil, but the smith's back was turned,
so that he did not see him.
"A sad song, my friend--if that were all."
"Eh?" said Dan, looking behind him, and then immediately throwing down
the hammer, and giving a pull to his forelock. Great respect was paid
to priests at that day. "Axe your pardon, Father! Didn't see who it
were."
"I came to see thy wife, my son. Shall I go forward?"
"Not if you're o' my mind. Happen you aren't."
"Is she not at home?"
"Oh, ay, she's at home!"
The smith's tone might have meant that he could have wished she was
somewhere else. Father Thomas waited, till Dan flung down the hammer,
and looked up at him.
"Had ye e'er a mother?" asked he.
"Ay," replied the priest.
"Was she one 'at took th' andirons to you when you didn't suit her?"
"Truly, no. She was a full good and gentle woman."
"And had ye e'er a sister?"
"Ay; three."
"Was they given to rugging your hair when they wasn't pleased?"
"Not at all, my son."
"Ah! you'd best go home, I reckon."
"What meanest thou?" asked Father Thomas, feeling much amused at the
very unusual style of Dan's reception.
"Well!" said Dan, passing his fingers through his hair, "I mean, if
that's the way you was fetched up, you don't know the animal you've got
to deal with here. There's five dragons i' that house o' mine: and each
on 'em's got teeth and claws, and they knows how to use 'em, they does.
If one on 'em wern't a bit better nor t'others, and did not come and
stand by me now and then, I should ne'er ha' lived to talk to you this
even. Nay, I shouldn't! Best go home, Father, while you've getten a
coat on your back, and some hair on your head."
"Is it so bad as that?"
"Ah, it is!" was Dan's short but emphatic reply.
"But surely, my son, thy wife would never use a man ill that meant her
good?"
"Think she'll stop to ask your meanin'?" said Dan, with a contemptuous
grunt. "If she's not changed sin' I come fro' dinner, she'll be a-top
of you before you can say `mercy.' And she's none a comfortable thing
to have a-top of you, I give you fair warning."
"How was she at supper, then?--no better?"
"Supper! I durstn't go in for no supper. I likes hunger better nor a
fray. Happen El'nor 'll steal out to me with a crust after dark. She
does, sometimes."
"And how long does it take thy wife to cool down?"
Dan rubbed his forehead with his blackened hand.
"I was wed to her," said he, "th' year afore the great frost, if you
know when that were--and I'd better have been fruz, a deal. I've had it
mortal hot ever since. She's had that time to cool down in, and she's
no cooler nor she were then. Rather, if either, t'other way on, I
reckon."
Before Father Thomas could reply, the shrillest scream that had ever met
his ears came out of the window of the smithy.
"Ankaret!" it said. "Ankaret! An-ka-ret!"
"Ha! That's Her!" whispered Dan, as if he were awed by the sound.
An answering scream, as shrill, but scarcely so loud, came from the
neighbouring cottage.
"Whatever do you want now?" said the second shriek.
"What dost thou yonder, thou slatternly minx?" returned the first.
"I'll mash every bone of thee, if thou doesn't come in this minute!"
"Then I sha'n't!" shrieked the second voice. "Two can play at that."
"Who is Ankaret?" asked Father Thomas of the smith.
"She's th' eldest o' th' dragons--that's our Ank'ret," said Dan in the
same half-frightened whisper. "If you mun face Her, you'd best do it
while Ank'ret's next door: both on 'em's too much for any man. Th'
Angel Gabriel couldn't match the pair on 'em: leastwise, if he comes
down to axe me, _I_ sha'n't send him forward. And don't you go and say
I sent you, now. For pity's sake, don't!"
Father Thomas walked off, and knocked at the house door. He was
beginning to think that if the former part of his task had been easier
than he expected, the latter was going to prove more difficult. The
door was opened by a young woman.
"Good day, my daughter. Is thy mother within?"
"She's here, Father. Pray you, come in."
The priest stepped inside, and sat down on a bench. For those times,
the house was comfortable, and it was very clean. The young woman
disappeared, and presently a pair of heavy boots came clattering down
the stairs, and Father Thomas felt pretty sure that the sweet Filomena
herself stood before him.
"Now then, what do _you_ want?" quoth she, in a tone which did not sound
as if she were delighted to see her visitor.
"My daughter, I am a priest," said Father Thomas gently; "and I am come
to see thee for thy good."
"I've got eyes!" snapped Filomena. "Can't I see you're a priest?
What's the good of such as you? Fat, lazy fellows that lives on the
best o' the land, wrung out of the hard earnings o' the poor, and never
does a stroke o' work theirselves, but sits a-twirling o' their thumbs
all day long. That's what you are--the whole boiling of you! Get you
out o' my house, or I'll help you!"
And Filomena took up a formidable-looking mop which stood in the corner,
as if to let the priest clearly understand the sort of help which she
proposed to give him. She had tried this style of reception when the
Vicar took the liberty of calling on her some months before, with the
result that the appalled gentleman in question never ventured to renew
his visit, and told the anecdote with many shakes of the head over "that
she-bear up at the smithy." She understood how to deal with a man of
the Vicar's stamp, and she mistakenly fancied that all priests were of
his sort. Sadly too many of them were such lazy, careless,
self-indulgent men, who, having just done as much work as served to
prevent the Bishop or their consciences (when they kept any) from
becoming troublesome, let all the rest go, and thought their duty done.
But Father Thomas, as the Vicar had said, was cut from another kind of
stuff. Very sensitive to rudeness or unkindness, his feelings were not
permitted to override his duty of perseverance: and while he dearly
loved peace, he was not ready to buy it at the cost of something more
valuable than itself. While he might be slow to see his duty, yet once
seen, it would not escape him again.
The personal taunts which Filomena had launched at him he simply put
aside as not worth an answer. They did not apply to him. He was
neither fat nor lazy: and if Filomena were so ignorant as to fancy that
the clergy were paid out of the earnings of the poor, what did it
matter, when he knew they were not? He went straight to the root of the
thing. His words were gentle enough, but his tone was one of authority.
"Daughter, what an unhappy woman thou art!"
Filomena's fingers slowly unclosed from the mop, which fell back into
the corner. Father Thomas said no more: he merely kept his eyes upon
her. His calm dignity took effect at last. Her angry eyes fell before
his unchanged look. She was not accustomed to hear her abuse answered
in this manner.
"I just am!" she muttered with intense bitterness.
"Dost thou wish to be happy?"
"That's none for the like of us. It's only for rich folks, isn't
that,--folks as has all they wants, and a bit over."
"No man has that," said Father Thomas, "except the little children who
sit at the feet of Jesus Christ. Become thou as a little child, and
happiness shall come to seek thee."
"Me a little child!" There was no merriment in the laugh which
accompanied the words.
"Ay, even thou. For `if there be a new creature in Christ, old things
pass away; behold, all things are made new.' [Note. 3 Corinthians five
17, Vulgate version.] That is the very childhood, my daughter--to be
made new. Will thou have it? It may be had for the asking, if it be
asked of God by a true heart--that childhood of grace, which is meek,
patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble. For it is not thou that
canst conquer Satan, but Christ in thee, that shall first conquer thee.
Thou in Christ--this is safety: Christ in thee--here is strength. Seek,
and thou shalt find. Farewell."
And without giving Filomena time to answer, Father Thomas turned away,
and was lost in a moment behind the bushes which separated the cottage
from the smithy. She stood for a minute where he left her, as if she
had been struck to stone. The whole style of his address was to her
something completely new, and so unlike anything she had expected that
for once in her life she was at a loss.
Filomena took up the corner of her apron and wiped her forehead, as if
she were settling her brains into their places.
"Well, that's a queer set-out!" said she at last, to nobody, for she was
left alone. "Me a baby! Whatever would the fellow be at? I reckon I
was one once. Eh, but it would be some queer to get back again! What
did he say? `Meek, patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble.'
_That's_ not me! Old Dan wouldn't think he'd picked up his own wife, if
I were made new o' that fashion. It didn't sound so bad, though.
Wonder how it 'd be if I tried it! That chap said it would make me
happy. I'm none that, neither, nor haven't been these many years. Eh
deary me! to think of me a baby!"
While these extremely new ideas were seething in Filomena's mind, Father
Thomas reached the smithy.
"Glad to see you!" said Dan, laying down his hammer. "You did not 'bide
so long!" with a grim smile.
"Long enough," said the priest shortly.
"I believe you! If you wasn't glad to get your back turned, you liked a
tussle wi' a dragon better nor most folks. Was she white-hot, or no-but
[Only] red? El'nor, she came down to me while you was in there, wi' a
hunch o' bread and cheese, and she said it were gettin' smoother a bit
nor it had been most part o' th' day. What said she to you?"
"Less than I said to her."
"You dunnot mean she hearkened you?"
"Not at first. But in the end, she hearkened me, and made me no
answer."
Dan looked his visitor all over from head to foot.
"Well!" said he, and shook his head slowly. "Well!" and wiped his face
with his apron, "Well!" he exclaimed a third time. "If I'd ha' knowed!
I'd ha' given forty marks [Note 1.] to see th' like o' that. Eh, do
'bide a minute, and let me take th' measure on you! T' chap that could
strike our Filomena dumb mun ha' come straight fro' Heaven, for there
isn't his like o' earth! Now, Father, do just tell a body, what did you
say to her?"
"I told her how to be happy."
Dan stared. "She wants no tellin' that, I'll go bail! she's got every
mortal thing her own way."
"That is not the way to be happy," answered the priest. "Nay, my son,
she is a most unhappy woman, and her face shows it. Thou art happier
far than she."
Dan dropped the big hammer in sheer astonishment, and if Father Thomas
had not made a rapid retreat, more than his eyes and ears would have
told him so.
"Me happier nor our Filomena! Me! Father, dunnot be angered wi' me,
but either you're downright silly, or you're somewhat more nor other
folks."
"I have told thee the truth, my son. Now, wilt thou do somewhat to help
thy wife to be happy? If she is happy, she will be humble and meek--
happy, that is, in the way I mean."
"I'll do aught as 'll make our Filomena meek," replied Dan, with a shake
of his grizzled head: "but how that's going to be shaped beats me, I can
tell you. Mun I climb up to th' sky and stick nails into th' moon?"
"Nay," said the priest with a smile. "Thou shalt pray God to make her
as a little child."
"That's a corker, _that_ is!" Dan picked up the hammer, and began
meditatively to fashion a nail. "Our Ank'ret were a babby once," said
he, as if to himself. "She were a bonnie un, too. She were, so! I
used to sit o' th' bench at th' door of an even, wi' her on my knee,
a-smilin' up like--eh, Father, but I'll tell you what, if them times
could come back, it 'd be enough to make a chap think he'd getten into
Heaven by mistake."
"I trust, my son, thou wilt some day find thee in Heaven, not by
mistake," said the priest. "But if so, Daniel, thou must have a care to
go the right road thither."
"Which road's that, Father?"
"It is a straight road, my son, and it is a narrow road. And the door
to it goes right through the cross whereon Jesus Christ died for thee
and me. Daniel, dost thou love the Lord Jesus?"
"Well, you see, Father, I'm not much acquaint wi' Him. He's a great way
up, and I'm down here i' t' smithy."
"He will come down here and abide with thee, my son, if thou wilt but
ask Him. So dear He loveth man, that He will come any whither on earth
save into sin, if so be He may have man's company. `Greater than this
love hath no man, that he give his life for his friends.'"
"Well, that stands to reason," said Dan. "When man gives his life, he
gives all there is of him."
"Thou sayest well. And is it hard to love man that giveth his life to
save thine?"
"I reckon it 'd be harder to help it, Father."
Father Thomas turned as if to go. "My son," said he, "wilt thou let the
Lord Jesus say to the angels round His Throne,--`I gave all there was of
Me for Daniel Greensmith, and he doth not love Me for it?'"
The big smith had never had such an idea presented to him before. His
simple, transparent, child-like nature came up into his eyes, and ran
over. Men did not think it in those earlier ages any discredit to their
manliness to let their hearts be seen. Perhaps they were wiser than we
are.
"Eh, Father, but you never mean it'd be like that?" cried poor Dan.
"Somehow, it never come real to me, like as you've put it. Do you mean
'at He _cares_--that it makes any matter to Him up yonder, whether old
Dan at t' smithy loves Him or not? I'm no-but a common smith. There's
hundreds just like me. Does He really care, think you?"
"Thou art a man," said the priest, "and it was for men Christ died. And
there is none other of thee, though there were millions like thee. Is a
true mother content with any babe in exchange for her own, because there
are hundreds of babes in the world? Nay, Daniel Greensmith, it was for
thee the Lord Christ shed His blood on the cruel cross, and it is
thyself whose love and thanksgivings He will miss, though all the harps
of all the angels make music around His ear. Shall He miss them any
longer, my son?"
Once more Dan threw aside the big hammer--this time on the inner side of
the smithy.
"Father," said he, "you've knocked me clean o'er. I never knowed till
now as it were real."
"As a little child!" said Father Thomas to himself, as he went back to
Lincoln. "The road into the kingdom will be far smoother for him than
her. Yet the good Lord can lead them both there."
The very next visit that Dan paid to Avice and Bertha showed them
plainly that a change of some sort had come over him, and as time went
on they saw it still more plainly. His heart had opened to the love of
Christ like a flower to the sunlight. The moment that he really saw
Him, he accepted Him. With how many is it not the case that they do not
love Christ because they do not know Him, and they do not know Him
because no one of those who do puts Him plainly before them?
It was much longer before Father Thomas and Avice saw any fruit of their
prayers for Filomena. There was so much more to undo in her case than
in her husband's, that the growth was a great deal slower and less
apparent. Avice discovered that Dan's complaints were fewer, but she
set it down entirely to the change in himself, long before she noticed
that Filomena's voice was less sharp, and her fats of fury less
frequent. But at length the day came when Filomena, having been
betrayed into a very mild copy of one of her old storms of temper, would
suddenly catch herself up and walk determinately out of the back door
till she grew cool: and when she came back would lay her hand upon her
husband's shoulder, and say--
"Dan, old man, I'm sorry I was bad to thee. Forgive me!"
And Dan, at first astounded beyond measure, grew to accept this
conclusion as a matter of course, and to say--
"Let her alone, and she'll come round."
And then Avice's eyes were opened.
One day, when she was unusually softened by the death of Susanna's baby,
Filomena opened her heart to her niece.
"Eh, Avice, it's hard work! Nobody knows how hard, that hasn't had a
temper as mastered 'em. I've pretty nigh to bite my tongue through,
many a time a day. I wish I'd begun sooner--I do! It'd ha' come easier
a deal then. But I'm trying hard, and I hope our Lord'll help me. Thou
does think He'll help me, doesn't thou, Avice? I'm not too bad, am I?"
"Father Thomas says, Aunt," replied Avice, "that God helps all those who
want His help: and the worse we are, the more we want of His mercy."
"That's true!" said Filomena.
"And Father Thomas says," continued Avice, "that we must all go to our
Lord just like little children, ready to take what He sees good for us,
and telling Him all our needs of body and soul, as a child would tell
its mother."
They were walking slowly up Steephill when Avice said this.
"Father Thomas has one apt scholar," said the priest's unexpected voice
behind her. "But it was a Greater than I, my daughter, who told His
disciples that `whosoever did not receive the kingdom of God as a little
child, should in no wise enter therein.'"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. A mark was 13 shillings 4 pence, and was the largest piece of
money then known.
THE END.