No one was more universally respected or more vigorously abused in
Crossbourne than "Tommy Tracks," as he was sneeringly called. His real
name was Thomas Bradly. He was not a native of Crossbourne, but had
resided in that town for some five years past at the time when our story
opens. As he was a capital workman, and had two sons growing up into
young men who were also very skilful hands, it was thought quite natural
that he should have come to settle down in Crossbourne, where skilled
labour was well remunerated. As to where he came from, some said one
thing, some another. He was very reserved on the matter himself, and so
people soon ceased to ask him about it.
Thomas was undoubtedly an oddity, but his eccentricities were of a kind
which did no one any harm, and only served to add force to his words and
example. He was an earnest Christian, and as earnest an abstainer from
all intoxicating drinks; and his family walked with him on the narrow
gospel way, and in their adherence to temperance principles and
practice. He was also superintendent of the church Sunday-school, and
the very life of the Temperance Society and Band of Hope, of both which
associations the vicar, who was himself an abstainer, was the president.
Indeed, he was the clergyman's right-hand in the carrying out of every
good work in the place. He was something of a reader of such sterling
and profitable works as came in his way, but his Bible was his chief
study.
His special characteristics were a clear head, a large stock of shrewd
common sense, and an invincible love of truth and straightforwardness,
so that he could hold his ground against any man in the place, William
Foster the styptic not excepted. Not that Bradly was at all fond of an
argument; he avoided one when he could do so consistently, preferring to
do good by just sowing seeds of truth in his own humble way, leaving it
to God to deal with the tares and weeds.
One of his favourite modes of sowing was to carry along with him at all
times a little bundle of religious and temperance tracts, and to offer
these whenever he had an opportunity, commonly accompanying the offer
with some quaint remark which would often overcome the reluctance to
accept them, even in those who were opposed to his principles and
practice. From this habit of his he was generally known among the
working-classes of Crossbourne by the nickname of "Tommy Tracts," or
"Tracks," as it was usually pronounced--an epithet first given in scorn,
but afterwards generally used without any unkindly feeling. Indeed, he
was rather proud of it than otherwise; nor could the taunts and gibes
which not unfrequently accompanied it ever ruffle in the least his good-
humoured self-possession.
His family, which consisted of himself, his wife, their two sons, and a
daughter, all grown up, and an invalid sister of his own, lived in a
comfortable house on the outskirts of the town.
This house he had built for himself out of the profits of his own
industry. Like its owner, it was rather of an eccentric character,
having been constructed on an original plan of his own, and, in
consequence, differed from any other dwelling-house in the town. Of
course, he was not left without abundance of comments on his
architectural taste, many of them being anything but complimentary, and
all of them outspoken. This moved him nothing. "Well, if the house
pleases me," he said to his critics, "I suppose it don't matter much
what fashion it's of, so long as the chimney-pots is outside, and the
fire-places in." Not that there was anything grand or ambitious in its
outward appearance, nor sufficiently peculiar to draw any special
attention to it. It was rather wider in front than the ordinary
working-men's cottages, and had a stone parapet above the upper windows,
running the whole length of the building, on which were painted, in
large black letters, the words, "Bradly's Temperance Hospital."
As might have been expected, this inscription brought on him a storm of
ridicule and reproach, which he took very quietly; but if any one asked
him in a civil way what he meant by the words, his reply used to be,
"Any confirmed drunkard's welcome to come to my house for advice gratis,
and I'll warrant to make a perfect cure of him, if he'll only follow my
prescription." And when further asked what that prescription might be,
he would reply, "Just this: let the patient sign the pledge, and keep
it." And many a poor drunkard, whom he had lured up to his house, and
then pleaded and prayed with earnestly, had already proved the efficacy
of this remedy.
When blamed by foes or friends for misleading people by putting such
words on his house, he would say--"Where's the harm? Haven't I as much
right to call my house `Temperance Hospital' as Ben Roberts has to call
his public `The Staff of Life'? What has _his_ `Staff of Life' done?
Why, to my certain knowledge, it has just proved a broken staff, and let
down scores of working-men into the gutter. But my `Temperance
Hospital' has helped back many a poor fellow _out_ of the gutter, and
set him on his feet again. It's a free hospital, too, and we're never
full; we takes all patients as comes."
The inside of the house was as suggestive of Thomas's principles and
eccentricities of character as the outside.
The front door opened into a long and narrow hall, lighted by a fan-
light. As you entered, your eyes would naturally fall on the words,
"Picture Gallery," facing you, on the farther wall, just over the
entrance to the kitchen. This "picture gallery" was simply the hall
itself, which had something of the appearance of a photographer's
studio, the walls being partly covered with portraits large and small,
interspersed with texts of Scripture, pledge-cards bearing the names of
himself and family, and large engravings from the _British Workman_,
coloured by one of his sons to give them greater effect. The
photographs were chiefly likenesses of those who had been his own
converts to total abstinence, with here and there the portrait of some
well-known temperance advocate.
To the left of the hall was the parlour or company sitting-room, which
was adorned with portraits, or what were designed to be such, of the
Queen and other members of the royal family. Over the fire-place was a
handsome mirror, on either side of which were photographs of the vicar
and his wife; and on the opposite side of the room stood a bookcase with
glass doors, containing a small but judicious selection of volumes,
religious, historical, biographical, and scientific: for Thomas Bradly
was a reader in a humble way, and had a memory tenacious of anything
that struck him. But the pride of this choice apartment was an enormous
illustrated Bible, sumptuously bound, which lay on the middle of a round
table that occupied the centre of the room.
The kitchen, however, was the real daily living-place of the family. It
had been built of unusually large dimensions, in order to accommodate a
goodly number of temperance friends, or of the members of the Band of
Hope, who occasionally met there. Over the doors and windows were large
texts in blue, and over the ample fire-place, in specially large letters
of the same colour, the words, "Do the next thing."
Many who called on Thomas Bradly, and saw this maxim for the first time,
were rather puzzled to know what it meant. "What _is_ `the next
thing'?" they would ask. "Why, it's just this," he would reply: "the
next thing is the thing nearest to your hand. Just do the thing as
comes nearest to hand, and be content to do _that_ afore you concern
yourself about anything else. These words has saved me a vast of
trouble and worry. I've read somewhere as `worry' is one of the
specially prominent troubles of our day. I think that's true enough.
Well, now, I've found my motto there--`Do the next thing'--a capital
remedy for worry. Sometimes I've come down of a morning knowing as I'd
a whole lot of things to get done, and I've been strongly tempted to
make a bundle of them, and do them all at once, or try, at any rate, to
do three or four of 'em at the same time. But then I've just cast my
eyes on them words, and I've said to myself, `All right, Thomas Bradly;
you just go and do the next thing;' and I've gone and done it, and after
that I've done the next thing, and so on till I've got through the whole
bundle."
Opposite the broad kitchen-range was a plate-rack well filled with
serviceable chinaware, and which formed the upper part of a dresser or
plain deal sideboard. Above the rack, and near the ceiling, were the
words, "One step at a time."
This and the maxim over the fire-place he used to call his "two walking-
sticks." Thus, meeting a fellow-workman one day who had lately come to
Crossbourne, about whose character for steadiness he had strong
suspicions, and who seemed always in a hurry, and yet as if he could
never fairly overtake his work--
"James," he said to him, "you should borrow my two walking-sticks."
"Walking-sticks!--what for?" asked the other.
"Why, you'll be falling one of these days if you hurry so; and my two
walking-sticks would be a great help to you." The other stared at him,
quite unable to make out his meaning.
"Walking-sticks, Tommy Tracks! You don't seem to stand in need of them.
I never see you with a stick in your hand."
"For all that I make use of them every day, James; and if you'll step
into my house any night I'll show them to you: for I can't spare them
out of the kitchen, though I never go to my work without them."
"Some foolery or other!" exclaimed the man he addressed, roughly.
Nevertheless his curiosity was excited, and he stopped Bradly at his
door one evening, saying "he was come to see his two walking-sticks."
"Good--very good," said the other. "Come in. There, sit you down by
the table--and, missus, give us each a cup of tea. Now, you just look
over the chimney-piece. There's one of my walking-sticks: `Do the next
thing.' And, now, look over the dresser. There's the other walking-
stick: `One step at a time'. And I'll just tell you how to use them.
It don't require any practice. When you've half-a-dozen things as wants
doing, and can't all be done at once, just you consider which of 'em all
ought to be done first. That's `the next thing.' Go straight ahead at
that, and don't trouble a bit about the rest till that's done. That's
one stick as'll help you to walk through a deal of work with very little
bustle and worry. And, James, just be content in all you do to be
guided by the great Master as owns us all, the Lord Jesus Christ, who
bought us for himself with his own blood. Just be willing to follow
him, and let him lead you `one step at a time,' and don't want to see
the place for the next step till you've put your foot where he tells
you. You'll find that a rare stout walking-stick. You may lean your
whole weight on it, and it won't give way; and it'll help you in peace
through the trials of this life, and on the road to a better."
Such was Thomas Bradly's kitchen. Many a happy gathering was held
there, and many a useful lesson learned in it.
But, besides the rooms already mentioned, there was one adjoining the
kitchen which was specially Thomas Bradly's own. It was of considerable
size, and was entered from the inside by a little door out of the
kitchen. This door was commonly locked, and the key kept by Bradly
himself. The more usual approach to it was from the outside. Its
external appearance did not exactly contribute to the symmetry of the
whole premises; but that was a matter of very small moment to its
proprietor, who had added it on for a special purpose. The house itself
was on the hill-side, on the outskirts of the town, as has been said.
There was a little bit of garden in front and on either side, so that it
could not be built close up to. At present it had no very near
neighbours. A little gate in the low wall which skirted the garden, on
the left hand as you faced the house, allowed any visitor to have access
to the outer door of Bradly's special room without going through the
garden up the front way. On this outer door was painted in white
letters, "Surgery."
"Do you mend broken bones, Tommy Tracks?" asked a working-man of not
very temperate or moral habits soon after this word had been painted on
the door. "If you do, I think we may perhaps give you a job before
long, as it'll be Crossbourne Wakes next Sunday week."
"No," was Bradly's reply; "I mend broken hearts, and put drunkards'
homes into their proper places when they've got out of joint."
"Indeed! You'll be clever to do that, Tommy."
"Ah! You don't know, Bill. P'raps you'll come and try my skill
yourself afore long."
The other turned away with a scornful laugh and a gibe; but the arrow
had hit its mark. But, indeed, what Thomas Bradly said was true.
Broken hearts and dislocated families had been set to rights in that
room. There would appointments be kept by wretched used-up sots, who
would never have been persuaded to ask for Bradly at the ordinary door
of entrance; and there on his knees, with the poor conscience-stricken
penitent bowed beside him, would Thomas pour out his simple but fervent
supplications to Him who never "broke a bruised reed, nor quenched the
smoking flax." And mothers, too, the slaves of the drink-fiend, had
found in that room liberty from their chains. Here, too, would the
vicar preside over meetings of the Temperance and Band of Hope
Committees.
The room was snugly fitted up with a long deal table, as clean as
constant scrubbing could make it, and boasted of a dozen windsor-chairs
and two long benches. There were two cupboards also, one on each side
of a small but brightly burnished grate. In one of these, pledge-books,
cards for members, and temperance tracts and books were kept; in the
other was a stock of Bibles, New Testaments, prayer-books, hymn-books,
and general tracts. A few well-chosen coloured Scripture prints and
illuminated texts adorned the walls; and everything in Bradly's house
was in the most perfect order. You would not find a chair awry, nor
books lying loose about, nor so much as a crumpled bit of paper thrown
on the floor of his "Surgery," nor indeed anywhere about the premises.
When a neighbour once said to him, "I see, Tommy Tracks, you hold with
the saying, `Cleanliness is next to godliness,'"--"Nay, I don't," was
his reply. "I read it another way: `Cleanliness is a part of
godliness.' I can't understand a dirty or disorderly Christian--
leastways, it's very dishonouring to the Master; for dirt and untidiness
and confusion are types and pictures of sin. A true Christian ought to
be clean and tidy outside as well as in. Christ's servants should look
always cleaner and neater than any one else; for aren't we told to adorn
the doctrine of God our Saviour in _all_ things? And don't dirtiness
and untidiness in Christians bring a reproach on religion? And then, if
things are out of their place--all sixes and sevens--why, it's just
setting a trap for your feet. You'll stumble, and lose your temper and
your time, and fuss the life out of other people too, if things aren't
in their proper places, and you can't lay hold of a thing just when you
want it. It's waste of precious time and precious peace, and them's
what Christians can't afford to lose. Why, Jenny Bates, poor soul, used
to lose her temper, and she'd scarce find it afore she lost it again,
and just because she never had anything in decent order. And yet she
were a godly woman; but her light kept dancing about, instead of shining
steadily, as it ought to have done, just because she never knew where to
put her hand on anything she wanted, and everything was in her way and
in her husband's way, except what they was looking for at the time.
It's a fine thing when you can stick by the rule, `A place for
everything, and everything in its place.'"
But now it is not to be supposed for a moment that a man like Thomas
Bradly could escape without a great deal of persecution in such a place
as Crossbourne. All sorts of hard names were heaped upon him by those
who were most rebuked by a life so manifestly in contrast to their own.
Many gnashed upon him with their teeth, and would have laid violent
hands on him had they dared. Sundry little spiteful tricks also were
played off upon him. Thus, one morning he found that the word "Surgery"
had been obliterated from his private door, and the word "Tomfoolery"
painted under it. He let this pass for a while unnoticed and
unremedied, and then restored the original word; and as his friends and
the police were on the watch, the outrage was not repeated. All open
scoffs and insults he took very quietly, sometimes just remarking, when
any one called him "canting hypocrite," or the like, that "he was very
thankful to say that it wasn't true."
But besides this, he had an excellent way of his own in dealing with
annoyances and persecutions, which turned them to the best account. At
the back of a shelf, in one of the cupboards in his "Surgery," he kept a
small box, on the lid of which he had written the word "Pills." When
some word or act of special unkindness or bitterness had been his lot,
he would scrupulously avoid all mention of it to his wife or children on
his return home, but would retire into his "Surgery," write on a small
piece of paper the particulars of the act or insult, with the name of
the doer or utterer, and put it into the box. Then, at the end of each
month, he would lock himself into his room, take out the box, read over
the papers, which were occasionally pretty numerous, and spread them out
in prayer, like Hezekiah, before the Lord, asking him that these hard
words and deeds might prove as medicine to his soul to keep him humble
and watchful, and begging, at the same time, for the conversion and
happiness of his persecutors. After this he would throw the papers into
the fire, and come out to his family all smiles and cheerfulness, as
though something specially pleasant and gratifying had just been
happening to him--as indeed it had; for having cast his care on his
Saviour, he had been getting a full measure of "the peace of God, which
passeth understanding, to keep his heart and mind through Christ Jesus."
Nor would his nearest and dearest have ever known of this original way
of dealing with his troubles, had not his wife accidentally come upon
the "pill-box" one day, when he had sent her to replace a book in the
cupboard for him. Well acquainted as she was with most of his oddities,
she was utterly at a loss to comprehend the box and its contents. On
opening the lid, she thought at first that the box contained veritable
medicine; but seeing, on closer inspection, that there was nothing
inside but little pieces of paper neatly rolled up, her curiosity was,
not unnaturally, excited, and she unfolded half-a-dozen of them. What
could they mean? There was writing on each strip, and it was in her
husband's hand. She read as follows: "Sneaking scoundrel. John
Thompson"--"Jim Taylor set his dog at me"--"Hypocritical humbug; you
take your glass on the sly. George Walters!"--and so on.
She returned the papers to the box, and in the evening asked her
husband, when they were alone, what it all meant. "Oh! So you've found
me out, Mary," he said, laughing. "Well, it means just this: I never
bring any of these troubles indoors to you and the children; you've got
quite enough of your own. So I keep them for the Lord to deal with; and
when I've got a month's stock, I just read them over. It's as good as a
medicine to see what people say of me. And then I throw 'em all into
the fire, and they're gone from me for ever; and when I've added a word
of prayer for them as has done me the wrong, I come away with my heart
as light as a feather."
It need hardly be said that Mrs Bradly was more than satisfied with
this solution of the puzzle.