whose husband—a good workman, and in the receipt of large wages, often
had fits of intemperance which lasted for several days at a time.
She listened to my story and said, "Ay, it's all very well to speak
about having clean hearths and bright homes and pleasant looks for
your husband. But how much does he see or notice when he comes in half
blind with drink? I tell you, missis, there are men who, with kind
wives, clean hearths, and pretty innocent children round them, would
leave their homes if they were as grand as the Queen's, and find their
pleasure in a public-house."
I knew that her home was a pattern of neatness, and that her
well-trained children would have been a credit to a mother in any
station of life.
The tears were streaming down her cheeks as she spoke, and I knew
too how bravely she had fought, aided by a better strength than her
own, against this great trouble. I held her honest hand, rough with
household toil, in mine, and honouring with all my heart this true wife
and mother, I said to her, "How much worse might things have been,
if you had acted like that young woman in her mad passion? If you
had taunted and aggravated your Tom, he would not have stayed in his
downward course. He has never struck you, or given you bitter words and
oaths. He has never come in and made you cower and tremble before him,
and his terrified children run to hide themselves."
[Illustration: A true helpmeet.]
"No, never, poor fellow! He always slinks into the back kitchen in a
shamed sort of way, as if he couldn't bear the little ones to see him,
and I just get him to bed as quick as I can; for I can't bear that they
should despise their father. He never gave me an ill word or a blow in
his life; but when the fit is over, he doesn't know how to be sorry
enough, or to work hard enough."
"Ah, Margaret," I answered, "that tells me your prayers and your labour
have not been in vain. You have done your duty by your husband, even
when he has failed; and you have withstood temptation in one way, when
he has yielded in another. Go on, brave heart, in God's strength. Still
strive, pray, and wait. It may be the will of your Heavenly Father to
make you the instrument of winning your partner to the Lord's side.
You will never drive him into what is good; but the cords of love are
powerful to draw and to bind, and 'what knowest thou, O wife, whether
thou shalt save thy husband?'"
We bade each other good-bye, and Margaret went homeward, I trust not
the less hopeful for our little talk together. At any rate, a smile had
chased away the tears, and she was enabled to see that her domestic
cloud had still a silver lining, black though it might be at times.
And thank God there is no cloud so dark behind which the eye of faith
cannot discern the rays from Him who is the Sun of Righteousness.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A WORD IN SEASON.
"YOU don't mean to say you are really going to hear that atheist
lecturer, Jim," said a working man to his neighbour who had just
entered his cottage after tea was over.
The two men had walked home from work together, and it was while they
were on the way that Jim Parker had stated his intention of going
to hear the so-called secularist, and asked his fellow-workman to
accompany him. John Turner was not a little surprised when the latter
made his appearance as he said "spruced up," to repeat the invitation.
"Yes, I am going, John," was the answer. "I always like to hear both
sides of a question. Won't you go too?"
"Not I, Jim; I hope I've read my Bible to better purpose than that. I
profess to believe, ay, and I do believe that it is God's Word, and if
I were to go and hear that man it would be like saying that I'm willing
to let somebody try and persuade me that it is not. Nay, nay, 'Let God
be true, but every man a liar,' say I. I cannot afford to be reasoned
or persuaded out of what is my greatest comfort, Jim."
"Why, you might be frightened that you would be persuaded out of your
belief, if you were to go with me, John."
"And so I am, and I'm not ashamed to own it. I'm only an ignorant sort
of fellow, with very little book learning, and this lecturing man is
sure to be up to everything. He could make lots of statements that I
could not contradict. At least I couldn't argue so as to show that he's
wrong, even while I am certain in my own mind that he is. Where would
be the use of a poor working man like me standing up and saying that
yon atheist was going about to rob us working folks of the best riches
we have? Even if they would let me do it, and say what a comfort it is
to feel that God loves a poor sinner like me; that Jesus died for me,
and the Holy Spirit has brought home the blessed lesson to my heart,
that was ready to sink with shame and fear, till that message of pardon
came to me—who would listen?"
"I don't suppose anybody would; because, you see, the folks are going
to hear the other man tell a different tale, and they would not have
him interrupted."
"No, I should have to sit and drink in poison, and see other people
doing the same without being able to knock the cup away."
"Poison, man! Why, who would want to poison you?"
"Anybody that would try to upset my faith in God, Jim. If anybody
offered you a drink of prussic acid or laudanum, would you take it?"
"I should think not. I'd knock him down first."
"And yet, Jim, you would sit there and let him pour worse poison into
your ears. Poison to kill the spiritual life that's in you; poison to
destroy your soul and bring you not only to the death of the body, but
to eternal death. I tell you, I'd just as soon drink a cup Of poison,
as I would put myself in the way of taking in such soul-destroying
stuff as that miserable blasphemer is trying to delude his fellow-men
with."
"I've got his book," said Jim, "but I haven't read it yet. I thought I
would go and hear him first."
"Don't, Jim, don't," pleaded Turner, earnestly. "It's poison all the
same, whether printed or spoken, and if we take it in, the memory of
it will stay with us, in spite of all we can do. Think what it would
be in a time of trouble, where an earthly friend can't help us, if we
had no Father in heaven to go to, no Saviour to feel for us and plead
our cause! Oh, Jim, it is so precious to me to feel that when I go on
my knees to pray, God is sure to hear and answer, too, in the way that
will be best for me. And these atheist lecturers would take the comfort
from us and give us nothing instead."
"I don't see what they have to give," said Jim, in a meditative sort of
way, as if that thought had never struck him before.
"No, and there's the shame of it," said Turner. "It seems to me, that
if there was nothing else bad about these lecturers, it is dreadfully
cruel of them to go from place to place unsettling people's minds,
taking away what is their great comfort, and giving them nothing in
place of it. The simplest-minded, humblest Christian that just takes
God at His word, and believes the promises which He tells us 'are all
yea and amen in Christ Jesus,' is a happy man, in spite of poverty,
trouble, hard work, sickness, or trial of any kind. He knows that all
these things are only for a little while, and that far-away beyond the
grave there is glory for him in the Father's house, and an 'inheritance
incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, eternal in the
heavens,' bought for him by the precious blood of Jesus."
John Turner's face glowed again as he spoke. He was thoroughly in
earnest, and this earnestness produced an impression on his neighbour
who had a respect for his fellow-workman, though he sometimes laughed
at him as being over-religious. Still, where a man's religion shows
itself in his conduct to others, in the very work he does, and the
temper he displays to all around him even when purposely tried by his
companions, he must, sooner or later, win their goodwill and esteem.
"Why, John, I think you are the very man to go with me to the lecture,"
said Jim. "You've no call to be afraid of losing your religion by
listening to an atheist, such a preacher us you are. Why, I'm not
afraid, and I couldn't hold forth like a parson as you've been doing."
"I wish you were afraid, Jim. You know what the Bible says, 'Let him
that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall;' and, 'Be not
highminded, but fear.' I should like you to burn that bad book, and
have a walk with me, or sit a bit, if you like, instead of going to
hear that man."
"How do you know the book is a bad one, John, when you've never seen
it?" asked Jim, with a laugh.
"Just as I know that clean water cannot come from a muddy pool or from
a sewer. The fountain is unclean, Jim, and what comes out of it must be
the same."
"That's not bad for you, John," said Jim, hesitating. After a little
further kindly pressure, Jim made up his mind he would not go to the
lecture; and surely he was no loser by his wise resolve.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A RASH PROMISE, AND HOW IT ENDED.
MRS. GREAVES was a Bible-woman, and her visits brought comfort to many
a home where the roughest and least God-fearing in a great city had a
welcome for her. We give the following narrative in her own words.
It is several years ago since I knew two young men who were
frequent companions. One of them professed to be a Christian, was a
Sunday-school teacher, and never missing from his place in the house
of God on the Sabbath. He was very self-confident, too, and often
expressed his belief that no arguments could affect him, or cause him
to falter in his faith. Perhaps it was this over-confidence that made
him careless in choosing his acquaintances, for the companion he chose
was a professed infidel. He ridiculed the Bible, boasted of his own
freedom from such weaknesses as church-going, prayer, observance of the
Sabbath, and so on. But yet he was a good workman, sober, diligent,
and leading a decent life, being neither impure in his conduct nor
accustomed to use bad language.
I think he was anxious that no one should have cause of offence; for
he made his decent life an argument in favour of his infidel opinions.
"Here am I," he would say, "living a better life without praying than
some of you psalm-singing folks lead with all your religion."
The young Sunday-school teacher was very anxious about his infidel
companion, and he told him so. He offered to lend him some good books,
and the other said he was willing to read them. He took them in a
pleasant way and read them; but without being in the least changed
in his opinions. He only laughed as before, but when he returned the
books, he said to his friend:
"I have read all you wished me; now it is only fair you should see my
side of the question. You promised me you would read some of mine after
I had done with yours. Here they are. Keep your word as I have done
mine."
The poor young man had made this rash promise without asking counsel of
God. He was too self-confident for that; and he could not bear for an
infidel to reproach him with breaking even a rash promise. So he took
the books and read them, after boasting that they and ten thousand such
could not alter him or turn him from his faith. The result proved the
folly of his boastfulness, and the vanity of trying to stand without
a better strength than our own to hold us up so that we may be safe.
He proved, by miserable experience, that there is no touching pitch
without being defiled. Those wretched books, full of subtle arguments
which he was not scholar enough to answer, or Christian strong enough
to withstand, unsettled his mind, and he became a worse man by far than
the companion who had been his tempter.
Time passed on and saw him worse and worse. An open blasphemer, an evil
liver! At last he was laid on a sick bed without hope of recovery, and,
surely, few more miserable sights have over been witnessed than his
last days offered to those around him.
He raved about his former life, the faith he once possessed, and his
present hopeless condition, and nothing gave him comfort. Many strove
to remind him of God's love and mercy in Christ—of the Saviour's words
of comfort to the dying thief on the cross; of the measure dealt out to
those who began to work in the vineyard even at the eleventh hour.
"I know, I know," he would cry, "but there is no mercy for me. The
dying thief had not been taught as I was. The labourers went into the
vineyard at the eleventh hour; but they went when they were bidden. I
left my work. I sinned against light and knowledge. There is no mercy
for me now."
I am often called up, as you know, to go and pray with the sick and
dying, and, in the middle of the night, a message came to ask me to go
to this young man. Dear friends, that was the most dreadful experience
I ever had, the only time I ever was restrained in prayer.
I knelt by the bedside, but it seemed to me as if the heavens were as
brass above me. I longed to pray but no words could I utter. At last, I
just said the Lord's Prayer, it was all I could say, and I got up from
my knees compelled to own that I was unable to pray.
"I knew it, I knew it," the dying man cried. "I went wrong with my eyes
open. There is no mercy for me."
I shall never forget that hour as long as I live, and whenever I hear
the name of a professed atheist mentioned, that scene comes back to my
mind, and I seem to hear again that despairing cry ringing in my ears.
The poor man died before the morning. God grant that I may never see
such another death-bed.
These are times of many snares, and there are temptations to infidelity
at every step. I have told this true story, with an earnest prayer that
the reading of it may prove a warning and be made a blessing to English
working men and women.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
BEATEN WITH HIS OWN WEAPONS.
THE following anecdote was told by a gentleman at a little Bible reading
meeting:
"I was going by steamer from the south of England to Dublin during my
college days," he said, "and on the voyage I entered into conversation
with a young man, my fellow-passenger. He told me that he was going to
Dublin in the hope of obtaining a situation, as he had heard there were
openings in that city, and trade was slack in the neighbourhood he had
left.
"After some talk, I ventured to put in a word about eternal things, and
asked him if he had ever come to Jesus for pardon, cleansing, peace;
or, if like many another, he was putting off the consideration of that
most important subject—the salvation of his immortal soul—to a more
convenient season.
"The young man laughed at my question, and said, 'I go to a place of
worship now and then, and lately I have been listening to a preacher
who told his hearers that it was of no use for them to take any trouble
about their souls; that Jesus had done everything, so, of course, there
was nothing left for sinners to do. If they were to be saved, they
would be, and if not, why, there was no help for it, they could not
save themselves.'
"It was easy to see how the young man had misunderstood the preacher's
meaning, and put his own interpretation upon it: that in hearing of the
full, free, perfect, finished work of Jesus, the Saviour of all men,
but specially of them that believe, he professed to find an excuse for
his own indifference and inaction.
"But I determined not to argue the matter by taking his version of the
preacher's teaching as a ground to go upon. So I said, as if passing
from the subject altogether, 'You tell me you are going to Dublin in
order to obtain employment. Shall you go in search of work when we
arrive there?'
"'Of course I shall. When a fellow has got his living to earn, it does
not answer for him to let the grass grow under his feet. I shall be
over the side and off as soon as possible after the vessel stops.'
"'But why take so much trouble? According to what you have told me, you
think that whatever is to be will be. If you are to get employment, you
will get it. Why not sit quietly down on deck here, and wait until some
one comes to offer you a situation?'
"The young man stared for some moments without replying, as if he
thought only a madman could have made such a suggestion. Then, breaking
into a contemptuous laugh, he answered, 'Do you take me for a fool? I
think I should prove myself to be one if I were to follow your advice.
I might sit here until my hair grew grey, if I were allowed to do so,
before anybody would seek me and offer me work. No, no. If I want a
situation, I must bestir myself at once and look after it. I shall
need all the help that a good written character can give, as well as a
push from a friend in Dublin, who advised me to come here, if I am to
succeed.'
"'Then, my friend,' I said, 'if it would be the height of folly to
neglect the use of every means for the promotion of your temporal
interests, how much more foolish to despise those which concern your
everlasting welfare?'
"'You've caught me fairly,' returned my acquaintance, good-humouredly;
'beaten me with my own weapons, and I'm not sorry for it.'
"Encouraged by the spirit in which my words had been received, I
ventured to use the little remaining time in what he called 'a bit of a
preach out of church.' I urged him to use the means in his power, not
to save his own soul, for that no man can do, but to lay hold of that
salvation which is by Christ alone, 'who will have all men to be saved,
and come to a knowledge of the truth.'
"'If you want to learn about worldly things,' I said, 'you obtain the
best books written on the subject, or put yourself under a teacher.
You try to get into the company of those who know more about it than
yourself. Do the same; use like means in regard to spiritual knowledge.
There is a Book in which God's grace, His infinite mercy, wisdom,
truth—above all, His love for poor sinners, and his eternal plan for
their redemption—are plainly set forth. There are places in which you
may hear this Book explained. There are plenty of men and women who
have experienced the loving-kindness of the Lord, who have known the
burden and misery of sin, and can tell you how the dear Saviour, who
said, 'Come unto Me,' has welcomed, pardoned, cleansed, comforted those
who have accepted the invitation.
"'But if you want to know about these things, you must use the means.
'You shall have,' is the Saviour's promise but first He bids you 'ask.'
You can no more expect to have an answer to prayer without praying, or
to know about eternal things without the guide which God has given to
teach you, than to obtain the situation you seek by sitting still on
the deck of the vessel, and waiting for some one to bring you an offer
of employment.'
"We were drawing near to our destination, and there was not time
for more; but the young man gave me a hearty grasp of the hand, and
promised not to forget our conversation.
"I added, 'You told me you had a friend here who had invited you to
come, and promised to speak a good word for you. Do not forget that
you have also a Friend in heaven, an Advocate with the Father, Jesus
Christ the righteous, who bids you come, whose plea on your behalf is
all-powerful, and who ever liveth to make intercession for you.'
"We parted, and I saw no more of my companion of the voyage. I can only
hope that our conversation did not prove altogether fruitless. I repeat
it, that some one else may be stirred to use more diligently the many
means of glace which have been opened to us by the goodness and love
of Him 'who is not willing that any should perish, but that all should
come to repentance.'"
Salvation is of God, and of God alone. But hear His own word: "Work out
your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God that worketh
in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WIDOW HENDERSON;
OR, THE REBELLIOUS HEART SUBDUED.
IN our little country town, there was not a prettier-looking home
than that in which Widow Henderson lived. She and her orphan child
dwelt in a charming cottage, which was not only picturesque enough for
sketching, but also thoroughly comfortable inside, which is not always
the case with cottages which look well on paper.
Outside, the porch and walls were hidden by a mass of climbing plants.
Roses bloomed, woodbine scented the air, the passion-flower spread its
curious petals; and in winter, when all these were gone, the hale ivy
clung still, all green and flourishing, and saved the pretty cottage
from looking ragged and bare. There was a very sweet union of nature
and art outside Widow Henderson's cottage, for with all its wild beauty
everything was in good order.
Poor thing! She was very young, only seven and twenty; yet that little
bright-eyed lass of eight years old called her "mother." All the people
in the village pitied her, and made a pet of orphan Effie, though
the mother was a stranger from a far-away town and county. But Frank
Henderson, her father, had been born and brought up at Deerhurst, and
when he first talked about going to sea, it was made a trouble of by
the whole parish. The people said it was like taking a ray of sunshine
from the place, because, from a child, Frank had always been the
willing helper of all who needed a helping hand, and he had a kind word
and a cheerful smile for everybody.
Years sped on though, and Deerhurst folk grew proud of the smart young
sailor who, at long intervals, enlivened their firesides with his
wonderful tales of far-away lands, and of the strange things he saw
there.
"Frank was not," they said, "the lad to go through the world with his
eyes shut."
And when he became first mate, then captain, and lastly owner of a
goodly ship, the village people remembered how they had always felt
sure he would do great things, and congratulated themselves on their
foresight.
Many a prayer had been offered for Frank, too, by the dwellers in
his native village, and for seven years, his path in life had been
very smooth, though it lay across the trackless waters. At length
his prosperity seemed to have reached a climax, for Frank bought and
furnished the pretty cottage at Deerhurst, and brought thither his
stranger bride.
A few short months of wedded happiness fled swiftly by, and then Frank
went away to sea. Alas for the poor young wife, he never returned. A
brief newspaper paragraph brought the first sad intelligence that the
captain of the brig "Middlesex" had been washed overboard and drowned,
in the terrible Bay of Biscay, during a gale.
This was woeful news for the whole village; but what was the grief of
all the rest compared with that which Margaret Henderson felt when she
heard of the loss of her gallant young husband? She was like one turned
to stone. Hers was unforgiving grief. She could moan out, "'The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath taken away,'" but when a Christian friend would
fain have persuaded her to add, "'Blessed be the name of the Lord,'"
she shook her head.
"I cannot, I cannot," she said, despairingly. "It would be just a
mockery; for my heart is always rebelling and calling for Frank. Oh,
we were so happy; and to think he should be taken from me in such a
shocking way. What had I done to deserve such a blow?"
Even the advent of little Effie failed to subdue that stubborn spirit
which could not consent to say, "Thy will be done." And during eight
long years, Margaret never learned to bow in submission to Him who had
seen fit to chasten her.
As far as worldly matters went, Mrs. Henderson lacked no comfort,
for the sale of the ship brought her a large sum of money. But she
never looked on the bright side of her lot, or compared her blessings
with the wants of many who might have pleaded that they were at least
as deserving as she was, and yet scarcely knew how to find rest and
shelter for their little ones, or food to satisfy their hunger, while
she possessed all in abundance.
For eight long years, then, Margaret Henderson fought against God; only
she spoke not of her mental conflict, but hid her murmurings in her
heart, where they rather increased; like the seed which, though buried
in the ground, dies not entirely, but brings forth more fruit.
Sunny-haired, blue-eyed Effie Henderson, found home but a cold place of
refuge for her little warm heart. Petted by young and old at Deerhurst,
she could hardly understand why her mother's brow should wear a
constant cloud, her face be the gravest, and her voice sound more
harshly than any other.
When dear little Effie came bounding into the house, ready to tell
some new tale of kindnesses received from their friendly neighbours,
her mother would coldly bid her "be quiet, for the noise made her
head ache." Or when the little girl, emboldened by seeing a softer
expression on her mother's face, threw her arms round her neck and
kissed her cheek lovingly, Mrs. Henderson would resolutely turn aside
without returning the caress, and bid Effie "go sit on her own chair
and not tease."