VII.

_THE SELF-DISPARAGER._

"The love of praise, howe'er concealed by art,

Reigns, more or less, and glows in every heart;

The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure,

The modest shun it, but to make it sure."

YOUNG.

This is a talker not unfrequently met with. He speaks in disparaging

terms of himself and his doings, not so much because he means you to

understand him as he speaks, as that he either feigns humility or

desires you to look more favourably upon him than you do, and say to

him, "O dear no, you are quite wrong in your judgment. I see very

differently; and think, Mr. Baker, that you injure yourself and your

performances by talking as you do."

If you speak in words of honest praise of some good feature of his

character, or of something he has done or possesses, he says in effect,

"I wish it was even as you say; but you are mistaken. I have no such

trait as you refer to, and what I have done is far from deserving the

eulogium you have passed upon it. I am a very poor creature, and have no

such goodness as you attribute to me, and am not capable of doing any

such good work as you say I have done."

* * * * *

Miss Slater was a young lady generally acknowledged to possess good

taste and refined judgment. She was also considered to be honest in

spirit and candid in her expression of opinion. What she said she meant,

whether in praise or in censure; and no one could say she was a

flatterer or a cynic.

On a certain occasion, in conversation with Miss Button, she observed to

her, "I was much pleased with that landscape painting which I saw in

your parlour the last time I was at your house. Your mother said that it

was one you did while at Manor House School."

"Yes, Miss Slater," she replied, "it was done by me; but it is a very

inferior piece; not half so good as it might have been."

"I think it is very good indeed: so true to nature. The trees, the

clouds, the birds, the river, and in fact the whole of it commends

itself to my approval. It does you great credit and contains very good

promise for the future, if you continue in the exercise of painting."

"You are, indeed, quite mistaken in your judgment, Miss Slater. It is

really not up to most of my other paintings. I am ashamed of it, and

have often said it is not worthy the beautiful frame which father had

made for it."

Now, if Miss Slater had expressed herself in censure upon any

particular part, Miss Button would probably have shown signs of

uneasiness, if not displeasure.

Under this class of talkers may be mentioned those professors of

religion who affect failings which they know they have not, and who

acknowledge sins of which they know they are not guilty, for the sake of

being reckoned among those who make a merit of "voluntary humility."

They are among the "most unworthy of God's saints." They are the "vilest

of the vile," "not fit to have a name or a place among Christ's people;"

"their righteousness is filthy rags;" they are the "chief of sinners."

Now, there is little doubt that these words are perfectly true; only,

the question is, whether they themselves really believe them to be so.

It often occurs that these "great sinners," these "vilest of the vile,"

while forward to say such things of themselves, are the last to admit

them as true when said of them by others.

This reminds one of an instance in which a member of a Church was giving

way to this kind of self-disparagement, when a fellow member responding

to him said, "True, my brother, you are among the greatest of sinners;"

when he instantly warmed up in self-defence, and replied, "I am no

greater sinner than you are; look at home before you accuse other

people."

It also reminds one of the old story of the monk who heard the

confession of a certain cardinal. "I am the chief of sinners," said the

cardinal. "It is true," said the monk. "I have been guilty of every

kind of sin," sighed the cardinal. "It is a solemn fact, my son," said

the monk. "I have indulged in pride, in ambition, malice, and revenge,"

continued his Eminence. The provoking confessor assented without one

pitying word of doubt or protest. "Why you fool," at last said the

exasperated cardinal, "you don't imagine I mean all this to the letter?"

"Ho, ho!" said the monk, "so you have been a _liar_ too have you?"

Now, in all such cases as the above, it is not difficult to perceive the

want of sincerity; and to talk in that way is anything but wise and

consistent. While, on the one hand, it is unseemly to praise ourselves,

it is, on the other, equally uncalled for to disparage ourselves. There

is a proper place in which a man should stand in respect to himself as

in respect to others. Towards himself let there be a dignified modesty,

and towards others a respectful acknowledgment of any _sincere_

commendation which may be given of his character and of his works. In

all our personal confessions, either before men or God, let us endeavour

to mean what we say and not act the hypocrite, that we may obtain the

eulogium from others or from ourselves, what "humble and self-renouncing

Christians we are."

Under this class of talkers there is another character which we wish to

illustrate, viz., the household-wife, whose "house is never clean, and

whose food is never such as is fit to place before you."

In a certain part of England, long celebrated for being a stronghold of

Methodism, there is a small village, very beautiful for situation, and

well known among the lovers of rural retreats. In this said village

there lived a farmer and his wife, without children, who belonged to the

Methodist Church. Squire Hopkins, which we shall call him, was a man of

some note in the village, for his intelligence, influence, and

character. Even the parson had a good word to say of him, and was not

above holding a brief conversation with him, when he met him in the lane

on the left side of the church. The Squire was a man who never was

ashamed of his name as a Methodist, whether in the presence of the poor,

the rich, or the clergyman. He had stood for many years a member,

trustee, and steward in the Methodist Church. With all these honours,

and the good-will of almost the entire village, the Squire was an

unassuming and quiet man. His religion to him was more than all Church

honours and worldly good opinions. His house was the home of the

"travelling preachers," when, in their appointments, they came to the

village to preach. And a right sort of a home it was too, clean, airy,

pleasant, and possessing all things requisite to convenience and

comfort. There was, however, one drawback in the happiness of this home.

Excellent Sister Hopkins was afflicted with one failing, which could not

be hid from those who visited her house. The weakness to which we allude

was on the one side of it, _the love of praise_; and on the other side,

_the disparaging of herself and her doings_. This she did that she might

obtain the other. _She_ disparaged, that _you_ might praise. We do not

say she did not deserve praise, but that her way of seeking it was

neither wise nor commendable.

Sister Hopkins had so habituated herself to this way of speaking, that

it was difficult for her to avoid it. As a housewife she was

unexceptionable. She was careful to have everything in the most cleanly

and orderly condition. She was an excellent cook, and the Squire an

excellent provider, so that their table was always well spread, whenever

good cheer was required. And yet you could not enter the house without

being reminded that her "husband had company yesterday, and she could

not keep the rooms half so decent as she would like;" and when you sat

down to her table, covered with the best provisions, prepared in the

best style of the cookery art, she was sorry that she "had so little,

and so badly cooked." She had been doing this or that, busy here or

there, that she "really had not such things as she would have liked to

have had, and you must excuse it this time." It did not signify how

bountiful or well-prepared the meal was, there was always sure to be

something wanting which would be a text for a short sermon on

self-disparagement.

On one occasion a minister was at breakfast when the table was well

stocked with everything which could be desired--coffee of the finest

flavour, tea of the richest kind, cream and butter fresh from the

dairy, chickens swimming in gravy, with various kinds of preserves, and

other things of a spicy and confectionery sort. No sooner had her guest

begun to partake of her hospitality than Mrs. Hopkins commenced. She was

afraid the coffee was not so good as it might have been, the cream and

butter were not so fresh as she should have liked them, the chickens

were hardly roasted enough, and as for the preserves, they had been

boiled too much, through the carelessness of Mary, the servant. She

meant to have had something better for breakfast, but had been

disappointed; and it was too bad that there was nothing nice for him to

eat.

All this was very heavy for her guest to bear. He simply remarked that

"there was no need for apologies; everything was very good, and there

was plenty of it."

We will now introduce another person to the reader in connection with

Mrs. Hopkins. It is Superintendent Robson, who had just come on the

circuit. He was a good man, plain, homely, practical. Like Mr. Wesley,

he no more dare preach a _fine_ sermon than wear a fine coat. Such was

the action of his religion upon his conscience. He was well known for

his common-sense way of teaching the truths of the Bible. He _would_

speak just as he thought and as he felt, although he might offend Miss

Precision and Mr. Itchingear. He gained the name of being an eccentric

preacher, as most preachers do who _never_ prevaricate and always speak

as they think. The failing of Sister Hopkins had reached the ears of

Superintendent Robson. He had no patience with such a failing, and he

was resolved to cure her. On his first visit to the village to preach,

he stopped, according to custom, at Squire Hopkins's. Thomas, the

ostler, took the preacher's horse, and the preacher entered the house.

He was shown into the best room, and from all appearances felt quite at

home. Everything was in perfect order and cleanliness, fit for the

reception of a prince. The preacher had not been seated long, scarcely

long enough to pass the usual interchange of first salutations and

enquiries, when Mrs. Hopkins began in her old style to say she was

"sorry that things were so untidy; her house was upside down; she was

mortified to be found in such a plight; she really hoped before his

arrival to have had all things in such order as she always liked to see

them. She hoped he would excuse their being so." Superintendent Robson

looked around and about the room in all directions, to find out the

terrible confusion to which his hostess alluded; but he said not a word.

Shortly after the dinner was announced as ready; and as this was the

first visit of the preacher, particular attention had been given to have

a table spread with more than usual good things. The preacher, however,

found from the Squire's wife that there was hardly anything for dinner,

and what there was she was ashamed for him to sit down to. The

Superintendent heard her in mute astonishment. He lifted his dark eyes,

and looking her in the face with penetration and austerity, he rose

gently from the table and said,--

"Brother Hopkins, I want my horse immediately; I must leave this house."

"Why, Brother Robson, what is the matter?"

"Enough the matter! Why, sir, your house isn't fit to stay in, and you

haven't anything fit to eat or drink, and I won't stay."

The preacher mounted his horse and took his departure.

Both the Squire and his lady were confounded at such unexpected conduct.

They stood in their room as though thunderstruck, not knowing what to

say or what to do. But the preacher was gone, and could not be

re-called.

After a few moments poor Sister Hopkins wept like a child. "Dear me,"

said she to the Squire, "this is a terrible thing. It will be all over

the village, and everybody will be laughing at me. How shall I meet the

Superintendent again? I did not mean anything by what I said; it is only

my way. I never thought it wrong. Had I known our new minister didn't

like such a way of talk I would not have talked so. Oh, how vexed I am!"

The result of this was that Mrs. Hopkins saw herself as others saw her.

She ceased making these empty and meaningless apologies, and became a

wiser and better woman. The next time Superintendent Robson went to the

Squire's he found a "house fit for him to stay in and things fit for him

to eat."