The week that followed my first visit to the hospital was full of painful
excitement to us all. Blurdon lay for some days, and was at intervals able
to converse. All the gloomy ferocity, the savage harshness of his tone,
look and manner, which before so repelled and frightened me, had now given
place to a subdued, contrite voice and expression, such as could not but
strengthen my hope that his heart was changed. I need not dwell on those
closing scenes. He gradually sank, and his last words were a petition for
forgiveness.
Before his death the repentant man confided his history to Uncle Rossiter.
He was the son of a pious mother, against whose counsel his restless
spirit had early rebelled. "I am dying now," he said, "because I have all
along chosen to live without God in the world. I set off and followed my
own way, against the warnings and guidings of as good a mother as ever son
was blessed with; against the teachings of the best and wisest book that
ever was written, the Bible; against a right good education; and lastly
against the rein of that conscience which would often have held me in."
I can well remember how we all sat with a great sadness on our hearts and
listened while uncle told the story.
"I cared for none of these things," said Blurdon to him—"that is, I came
to care for none of them, for at first I did, but soon I didn't. And I
came to think, or chose to think, that I knew better than the great,
all-knowing God what things and ways were good for my happiness. That it
was neither good nor necessary to be so particular as the Lord required
was the first notion I took up, and after that the devil himself could not
have wished me to go ahead faster. It was throwing the reins on the neck
of a wild horse. Folks talk of the downward road being bright and easy,
but, to my shame, I know every mile of it only too well, and can testify
that after a bit there is no road so rough and none so dark."
Uncle told us much more which I need not now repeat. "Poor fellow!" he
added; "it was the downward road that led him over that precipice and
brought him to his death. Children, take this lesson to heart: the
downward hill to perdition is covered with paths, so to speak, some broad,
some narrow, some straight, some winding, some smooth, some rough; but,
varied though they all are, both in appearance and in apparent course,
they every one lead to destruction. How many are tempted to set off down
this great widespreading hill, each in pursuit of his particular
employment or pleasure! and how many are thus hurried into danger and
ruined for ever! It is a blessed thing to choose from the first the right
path. Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are paths
of peace."
My sister Charlotte had once gone with uncle to the hospital, and, tired
of waiting in the carriage, thoughtlessly begged leave to follow him into
the ward, but as she entered a faintness and horror seized her, and she
realized the scene in a manner that had otherwise been impossible to her
light-hearted nature. It was days before she could shake off the
impression, and it seemed to create quite a deep feeling in her, making
her unusually grave and sad. The tears filled her eyes now while Uncle
Rossiter was speaking, and she told me afterward that then old Susan's
words had come back to her with a new force, and she saw a resemblance in
her own life and the same evil self-will at work as in Blurdon's early
days. "Do you remember," she asked, "my once saying that everything
pleasant seemed wrong, and everything wrong seemed pleasant? What was that
but choosing the wrong path?" Dear Lotty! that day was a memorable one to
her, for, by God's grace, it became the turning-point of her life.
Three years came and went after the foregoing visit to Rathfelder's Hotel
and the consequent events I have recorded. Painful as the nature of those
events was, I then saw that they were blessings productive of eternal good
to Charlotte and me. To our great joy and comfort, dear Aunt Rossiter's
health continued slowly to improve, but the feelings awakened in my heart
and soul when first I learned how perilously in the midst of life she was
in death never passed away. And good for me it was they did not—good in
every way, as regarded this world and the next, making me more thoughtful,
considerate and excusing toward those whom I loved, for, ah me! had I not
learned that we know not what shall be on the morrow? "For what is your
life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then
vanisheth away." And as for dear Charlotte, the death of Blurdon and all
the circumstances attending it had left so deep an impression on her mind
that even time was powerless to efface it. This influence cannot but be
regarded as a divine interposition in her favour; for she confessed to me
that at that period her soul was in a dangerously rebellious state against
the all-wise, all-merciful Creator. When the truth suddenly flashed upon
her soul she was terrified exceedingly, she said, and began from that hour
to think as she had never thought before, and to resolve—yes, to resolve
to live a new life.
"You see, Mechie," she added, "it was not of course that I thought I could
live such a life as that poor creature did, or come to such an awful end,
but there are few things which vary more than the ways of sin, or are more
skilfully and amiably accommodating to every style of character; and
therefore, while Blurdon took his course as it were down the hill of
perdition, running, jumping, rolling, tumbling headforemost, I more
slowly, less desperately, but equally surely, might even now have been
pursuing one of its many flower-decked paths to ruin—quite as certainly in
my way as that unhappy man in his."
And oh what an improved being darling Lotty has become! Old Susan used to
say that heartfelt holiness made people a deal comelier, and I am sure it
was so with Lotty when she put on that most adorning of all robes, the
compassionate, self-sacrificing, humble religion of the merciful Redeemer.
Instead of living solely to please herself and looking as though she did—a
look which no device, no assumed good-nature can conceal or change the
character of—she now endeavoured earnestly to obey the divine injunction:
"In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than himself," and,
"Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of
others." The result was she seemed daily to become more and more all that
is really beautiful and admirable in woman, and her handsome face, no
longer marred by its former expression of selfishness and thoughtless
levity, wore now a sweet, kindly gravity and care for the happiness and
welfare of her fellow-creatures.
* * * * *
"What a very engaging-looking girl that eldest Miss Marlow has become!" a
gentleman observed to another, one evening, when Charlotte and I were at a
party in a friend's house. "I didn't think much of her a couple of years
ago, but latterly she has bloomed out wonderfully. Her whole expression is
altered. There used to be a vacancy, a want of something rather than the
positive presence of anything defective in her countenance and manner, but
that is quite gone now, and she looks sensible, thoughtful, and, it
strikes me, in some way much more amiable."
"Yes, decidedly," rejoined his companion. "And now let me tell you,
Hedding, that in your observations you have unwittingly admitted more in
favour of the power of Christianity than you supposed."
"In favour of Christianity? What has that to do with Miss Marlow's
improved looks?" exclaimed the other, scornfully.
"All—everything," was the unhesitating answer. "I am, as you know, an old
and intimate friend of the Rossiters, and have known the two Marlow girls
since first they came to the Cape. There do not exist in the wide world
more truly worthy, kind-hearted people than the Rossiters, but I could not
help sometimes thinking that their management of the eldest girl was a
mistaken one. She was to the last degree self-willed, pleasure-loving, and
intensely selfish. Now, instead of enforcing a different line of conduct,
they employed persuasion only, founded on good instruction—a mode of
treatment which, while perfectly successful with the more pliable nature
of the younger child, quite failed, so it seemed to me, in the case of the
elder. Yet possibly they were right. Other circumstances have since
occurred which have laid fast hold of her mind and heart, and the good
seed they have sown has sprung up in an abundant harvest." Then followed a
brief account of what I have related.
"But how do I know, or how can you be sure, that the change I see is the
result of what you describe?" objected Mr. Hedding in a cynical tone. He
was a man of infidel principles, and, for that reason, not an intimate
visitor at Fern Bank.
"I am myself a case of 'proof positive,'" replied Mr. Frere, with his
usual imperturbable good humour. "More than two years ago, as you know,"
he continued, his voice failing, "I lost one to whom I was deeply
attached—my wife. While under the influence of this heavy affliction my
society, although every friend pitied me, was but little desired or sought
after. I was only a cloud on their pleasures and naturally shunned by them
as such, or, if not absolutely shunned, at least neglected or set aside
for the time being as quite a useless member of society. But not so by the
Rossiters—no. The very reason that rendered me unacceptable to the world
made those truly Christian people take me at once to their hearts, and I
may say to their home, for from that time, for nearly six months, I dined
with them and spent almost every evening at their house. Now, see the
difference between the two sisters, Charlotte and Maria Marlow. Mechie,
who is a counterpart of her amiable benefactors, eagerly and warmly
seconded their kind endeavours to draw me out of myself, and in her gentle
way led me to submit more patiently to my sudden great sorrow. Charlotte,
on the contrary, although she without doubt compassionated my case,
evidently regarded my frequent presence in the house as oppressive and
disagreeable, and avoided my society as much as she could. She generally
kept apart with some young friend, of whom she had many, and often I only
saw her at the meal-times. At last came the change in her feelings which,
acting upon her whole nature, has by degrees wrought that marked effect in
her appearance which excites your admiration so much, and then neither
Mrs. Rossiter nor sweet Mechie was kinder or more thoughtful and
considerate to me and others than she became. No longer seeking only her
own gratification, she would remain with us of an evening, adding greatly
to our cheerfulness by her pleasant conversation—for Charlotte is
naturally endowed with very good sense and with a vein of quaint
humour—and often lightened the time by reading aloud, an accomplishment
this piquant talent makes her perfect in.
"Very soon she opened her whole heart to me—young people are always
willing to confess—acknowledging her previous utter want of religion,
which made her, she said, the selfish, heartless, unamiable girl she was,
and concluded by begging me to forgive her for all the unfeeling
neglect—so she termed it—and want of kind consideration toward me which
she had shown during my deep distress. She spoke with a gentle, blushing
contrition of manner very unlike her usual self-satisfied style, and which
to those who love and care for her was infinitely gratifying to witness.
Nor have that winsome tone and mien passed away. In her case the seed had
not fallen by the wayside, nor on stony places, nor amongst thorns, but on
good ground, where it still grows and flourishes, abundant in blossoms and
fruit and promise of rich future harvest."
"Hum!" ejaculated Mr. Hedding, apparently not very ready with an answer.
"I don't see, myself," he went on, after a pause, "that a girl properly
brought up and taught to be polite and kind to her friends needs any other
style of instruction, nor do I think she would. It's bad bringing
up—that's the fact of it."
"Everybody can tell you—she can tell you herself," said Mr. Frere—"that,
as far as advice, warning, instruction and the most perfect human example
can go, Charlotte Marlow was, and that far beyond your limited meaning,
properly brought up and taught to be kind and polite to every one. But it
too often happens that the true significance and value of what we hear and
see and receive every day is not recognized until some unlooked-for
circumstance occurs which opens our eyes and makes us feel. Now such was
Charlotte Marlow's case; and thus it comes about, doubt the truth as you
like, that from having been an off-hand, unpleasing, selfish young
creature, living entirely for her own gratification—as unpleasing at least
as so handsome and not really heartless a girl could be—she has become a
generous, amiable, sympathizing woman, herself, instead of holding as
before always the first place in her thoughts, now occupying the second."
"Well," objected the other, but in a less confident tone, "I feel certain
I could bring up a girl to be as kind and polite to every one without the
least help from religion as any Christian of them all, and more so, for
the matter of that."
"Yes, you might educate them to be perfect in politeness while the world's
approving or condemning eye marks their conduct, but when position shuts
that out, or time or circumstance renders it uncared for, what remains
then to influence their feelings and behaviour the right way?"
"Habit," replied Mr. Hedding.
"Habit?" repeated Mr. Frere, laughing incredulously. "If you ever have met
or ever do meet with a single young person, man or woman, who from habit
only, when unseen by others, is amiable and polite in opposition to
temper, interest or inclination, you will certainly be the first man who
has witnessed stability on a 'foundationless practice,' for that is all,
in truth, which a habit formed on such principles as yours would or could
be. Why, I have heard you yourself argue that no harm existed in any evil
unless it was found out; and I know that that sentiment is entertained and
practiced by many of your way of thinking—a sentiment which you must
excuse my saying in plain, honest words is but the lowest quality of
caution, and would ultimately degrade the immortal souls of men to a level
with the mere instinct of beasts. Now you must be well aware that
according to your own express opinions so you would educate a child, and,
alter the deteriorating nature of things, so that child would unchecked
become even worse than yourself. Is it likely, therefore, that habit of
any kind, when interfering in any degree with pleasure or comfort, would
have power to control a spirit under no rule but the world's opinion?"
At that instant other friends joined the two speakers, and it was from
them that I afterward heard what had passed.
* * * * *
And now I must lay down, my pen, having completed as far as necessary the
little account of our visit to Rathfelder's Hotel.
It is now many years ago. I do not know if Rathfelder's Hotel still
remains, or what changes may have taken place in that region, but there
must be some of the older residents of Cape Town who remember the
incidents of the latter part of the narrative. This record of former days
I give in the sincere hope that it may in the perusal prove of some
benefit to those young readers who, as Lotty and I were, are living in any
way without proper thought of God or of their earthly benefactors, be they
parents, relatives or Christian friends. They are blessings—the greatest
blessings heaven can bestow—and as such should be regarded. In no slight
degree do Charlotte and myself thus consider dear old nurse Susan, who
still continues, in as high force as heretofore, our friend and servant.
Nor does she with advancing years hate an iota of that authority which her
long established rule over us has given her, and which authority seems to
increase in its influence, instead of lessening. Good, excellent old body!
may God's blessing ever be with her!
UNCLE JOHN'S GIFT.
"See what I have bought for somebody!"
Uncle John held out in his hand a morocco case lined with dark blue
velvet, containing a small watch, while his nephew and two nieces, John,
Emma and Maud, came closer to get a better look, and uttered exclamations
of surprise and delight.
"Who is it for?" said Emma, "Is it for brother?" asked Maud in the same
breath; though John, feeling very certain that the watch was intended for
him, remained silent, anxiously awaiting his uncle's reply.
"I can't tell yet," said Uncle John.
"Not tell, uncle? is it a secret? Isn't the watch yours? and can't you
give it to any one you please?" asked John, hastily.
"The watch is mine, I bought it, and I can give it to any one I please;
and I will tell you now how I shall please to give it. I intend staying
with you two weeks, and at the end of that time this watch shall be given
to the child I find the most truthful."
"Oh, uncle," interrupted Emma, "none of us are liars!"
"I hope not, my dears. But I shall be very particular, and watch closely
for the slightest deviation from the plain truth, and will give, as I have
said, the watch to the child I find to be the most truthful."
"You will have to give us all one, then," said his namesake, "for I am
sure I speak the truth, and Emma and Maud are very truthful, for mamma has
often said so."
"I always try to be," said Maud in a low voice.
"Well, well, we will see," continued Uncle John. "And perhaps I will have
to give you each one like this." He closed the case and put it out of
sight, and John marched off to school thinking how grand he would feel
carrying the watch around with him to show to his admiring friends, and
even hinted the probability to some of them. His Latin lesson was not
perfect, and after recitation his teacher called him:
"John, will you promise me that this lesson shall be learned for
to-morrow?"
"Oh yes! I will certainly study it to-night, and know it perfectly," was
John's ready reply.
That night his father inquired about his lessons. John coloured a little
as he said: "I knew all but my Latin; I promised I would study that
to-night." He intended doing so, but left it until the last, because it
was the hardest; then a friend came in, and John went with him to the
parlour, where the family were sitting, to show him a new book.
"What time is it?" asked Emma.
"I did not look at the clock when I came down," said John.
"When you get your new watch you won't have to stop to look at the clock,"
said his friend.
"His watch!" exclaimed Emma; "he is not certain of getting it."
"Oh!" said the friend; "I thought his uncle had promised to give him one."
"Not exactly," interrupted John hastily, knowing that Uncle John could
hear all that was going on. "There are certain conditions."
"Oh!" And his friend said no more.
"How about the Latin lesson to-day?" asked Uncle John, the next evening,
to his nephew's great confusion, as he replied:
"Well, uncle, the truth is, I forgot it last night, but I mean to take it
up the first thing this evening." And he did so, finding that the hardest
lesson is the easiest when learned first. "I know it perfectly, perfectly.
Emma, just hear me, and see if I do not."
Emma was standing by the window as she took the book and heard it for him,
and they stood together looking out at the passers-by.
"Here comes Mary Baker, I do believe," said Emma. Maud ran to the window,
and was very much disappointed when she did not see her friend coming, as
she expected.
"April fool!" said Emma. And they both laughed at Maud's disappointment.
"But it is not April, brother," said Maud in an aggrieved tone.
"Why, you silly little thing," exclaimed Emma, "I was only in fun. If I
were to say, 'Here comes Queen Victoria,' you wouldn't be goose enough to
believe it, would you?"
"No; but you see Queen Victoria would not be walking down the street, and
I have been expecting Mary every minute;" and Maud's eyes were almost
filled with tears.
"Come, puss, don't think any more about it." John put his arm
affectionately around his sister's neck. "Emma, what has that man in his
wagon?"
They were both looking with great curiosity at the wagon coming toward the
house when John heard his father call him.
"In a second, sir," he replied; but sixty seconds passed, and he heard his
father again. "Yes, yes, sir, in a minute;" but five minutes were gone
before he obeyed, and then he found that his father had left.
"There! you don't know what you missed," Emma said, significantly. "I
heard father say he had something in his pocket for somebody."
"It was not for John, you know," interrupted Maud, "for we heard mother
say so."
"Well, little telltale, we must be on our p's and q's before you, my
darling."
The day before Uncle John's visit ended he was sitting in the bay window,
partly concealed by a curtain. It was twilight, and the three children
came into the room together. On the centre-table there were some wax
flowers covered with a glass case. Their mother prized them very highly,
and had repeatedly told the children to be careful and not touch or knock
the table.
"Oh, I wish I could bring Carlo in here," said John, "just to show you how
the boys have taught him to stand on his two hind legs and beg. There he
is in the hall now."
"Don't call him in," Emma said. "You know mother don't like it."
"No, I sha'n't call him, though I know he would not hurt anything."
John did not call him, but he gave a low whistle. Carlo understood it
perfectly, and came bounding into the room. "Out, out, sir!" and John
tried to order him back, but Carlo thought this was mere play, and jumped
and frisked about until he came near the table, when away went the flowers
and case with a crash. The children looked at each other in dismay.
"Oh, John, what will mother say?" said Emma, reproachfully.
"It is not my fault, Emma."
"Yes, but you whistled for Carlo."
"I did not know he would come in, though." And John tried to drive Carlo
out in earnest, and succeeded after a good deal of shouting and
scampering, and the children left the room unconscious that Uncle John had
witnessed the accident.
"I am very sorry this has happened," said their mother at tea-table.
"Carlo must not be allowed to come in the hall. Of course, I cannot blame
any of you, as you did not call him in, but I am very sorry it happened."
"So am I," said Uncle John—"very sorry indeed. What has Maud to say about
this?"
"Maud I did not ask. She was in the room, and Emma and John told me how it
happened."
"Maud, my dear," Uncle John said, "did any one call Carlo in the room?
Look straight in my eyes and tell me, little one."
Maud's cheeks became rosier; she hesitated a moment, and then said softly:
"Brother whistled, but he said he did not mean that Carlo should hear
him."
"You should have told me this before," said their mother, reproachfully.
"I always want to hear the whole truth."
"So do I," said Uncle John. "And now I will put on my spectacles and read
you all a few notes I have taken during my visit, and then we shall decide
who deserves the watch. Let me see, John is oldest: I will read what I
have against him: A promise to a teacher to study a lesson—did not do it.
He tells a friend he is to have a watch at the end of two weeks—that
remains to be seen. He tells his father he will come in one second, then
in one minute—did not go for five or ten. He whistles for a dog to come
into the room, and, I fear, would let punishment fall on the poor animal,
and by silence implies falsehood. That is all I have against him. Now for
Emma: I heard her telling her mother she did not have a minute of time to
spare, and was idle for an hour after; said her biscuit, one morning, was
burnt as black as a coal—it was only very brown; said one time she was
roasting, another time starving, and again dying, and one day was in
dreadful agony when she scratched her finger; one morning tells Maud that
her friend was coming up the street when there was no person in sight.
Come! I await the verdict: to whom shall I give the watch? Which of you
thinks you most deserve to have it?"
"Oh, Uncle John, we did not mean to tell stories," exclaimed Emma and
John, with burning cheeks.
"No, my dear; I am glad to say neither you nor John have been guilty of
telling lies, but I promised to give it to the most truthful."
"Maud deserves it," cried all.
"Yes, Maud deserves it. Here, little one; we know you would rather not
take it, but it belongs to you. I do not want to be severe, but I love and
prize perfect truth above everything else. And if we are truthful in small
matters, we can never be false and dishonest in great ones; but if we
allow falsehood to take even a small lodging-place in our hearts, it will
be a plague-spot that will spread and poison the soul and ruin character.
Whatever it may cause you at the time, cling to the truth, and you will
never regret it, for it is the sure and firm foundation-stone of every
noble character."
A GIRL WHO COULDN'T BE TRUSTED.
It is the easiest thing in the world for some people to make a promise.
They will say yes or no to anything that may be asked of them, sometimes
knowing what they say, but often without knowing; sometimes intending to
keep their word, and sometimes without thinking or caring anything about
it. Such persons are usually very polite and pleasant, full of smiles and
soft words, and if one could only rely upon them, they would be very
obliging, for you know they will promise anything. But there is just the
difficulty; for these easy-tempered, good-natured people who never can
bear to say no are oftentimes so very easy-tempered that they are able to
utter a falsehood as easily as a truth and feel no disturbance of
conscience whatever.
Bessie Hill's character, it must be confessed, was such a one as has just
been described. She was a child whom every one loved, for she seemed to
love every one, and she appeared so anxious to please, so unwilling to be
disobliging, that one who had known her only a short time might have
considered her disposition very nearly perfect. Yet if Mr. A., her
music-teacher, had been questioned as to what he knew of Bessie, he might
have told how every week for a whole quarter she had repeatedly promised
to practice for an hour each day, and how, every week in the quarter, she
had failed to keep her word, until, at length, his patience would have
been completely exhausted had not his little pupil renewed more earnestly
than ever the assurance that she would really try to do better. Yet he
knew that while he hoped for the best his hope was doomed to be
disappointed.
And Miss Ellers, who every Sabbath went to Sunday-school thinking, "How
glad I will be if Bessie has learned her lesson, as she said she would
do!" and every Sabbath went away sorry because of Bessie's broken promise;
and Mrs. Banks, who day after day worried through one imperfect recitation
after another in the constant expectation of an improvement which it
seemed must come, it had been so often promised,—both of these might have
agreed with Mr. A. in saying that Bessie was certainly the most amiable of
all their pupils, but, at the same time, the most unreliable. Bessie's
mother, too, mourned over this fault of her child, and tried, but tried in
vain, to help the little girl to overcome it. She would persist in
promising to meet her schoolmates at certain hours and places, and in then
going home and forgetting all about her engagements, leaving her friends
to wonder where Bessie Hill could be. And she would not give up her habit
of running over to Aunt Hester's in the morning and saying: "Auntie, I
will come and play with the baby this afternoon," when she knew very well
that when afternoon came the baby would probably be left to amuse himself
while his little cousin across the street was occupied with some new toy
or book, just as though she had made no promise at all. At last Bessie
found out by experience what her friends had so long been trying to teach
her—that it was very important that she should learn to keep her word.
Among Bessie's companions was one whom she often visited, and whose home
was at some distance from Mr. Hill's. The road, over which it was
necessary to pass in going from one house to the other was a lonely one,
and Bessie had been often told that it was not safe for her to attempt to
go back and forth alone. There was usually some one willing to accompany
her, and she was too young to be without protection. So it happened that
one pleasant Saturday morning her father said: "Come, Bessie, I am going
to take a long ride to-day. If you would like to go and see Mary Brown
(for that was the little girl's name), I will leave you there on my way
and stop for you on my return."
"Thank you, father," answered Bessie. "I would like it very much." So the
arrangement was made.
"Now, you will be sure to wait for me this afternoon, will you not?" said
the gentleman to his daughter as he left her at Mr. Brown's door. "Oh yes,
father, I will wait, of course," Bessie replied, and for once she really
intended to keep her word. But when afternoon came, and with it no
appearance of her father, Bessie began to grow impatient. She suddenly
remembered an arithmetic lesson which she had promised to learn for the
next Monday, and which she had not before thought of, and she felt
slightly uneasy in regard to the verse which she had assured Miss Ellers
she would be able to recite on the next day, and which now for the first
time came to her recollection. You see her conscience was not quite dead,
after all, only it troubled her at the wrong time. However that may be,
Bessie imagined that she had a sufficient excuse for not keeping the
promise to her father, as, by observing that, she would be in danger of
breaking two others made before it; so she said to Mary: "Mary, I don't
believe father will be here till evening, and mother will be anxious about
me, so I am going home. See, it is growing dark already."
Neither Mary nor herself knew that the darkness was caused by the
gathering storm, and not by the approach of night.
So Bessie set out on her return, feeling, meanwhile, very guilty and
unhappy. She had not gone more than halfway before the raindrops began to
fall. They came faster and faster until the single drops became torrents
of water. Bessie took shelter under a large tree, and looked about her in
dismay. Above her all was blackness, around her the pouring rain. The
branches over her head swayed to and fro in the wind until Bessie was
afraid that they might fall and crush her, and the rain penetrated beneath
them, and came and made a little pool at her feet. Bessie remembered the
story of the flood which had once been sent to punish people for their
wickedness, and she began to fear that the water around her would continue
to rise gradually until she should be swallowed up in the waves, just like
the transgressors who were drowned in the time of Noah. She was in the act
of looking about her to see whether there might not be a board that she
could get to float upon, as some were represented as doing in the picture
in the large Bible at home, when suddenly the sky grew brighter, the
clouds overhead began to break and move away, and before her, reaching
from the glowing hills in the east higher and higher up along the
brightening heavens, shone, all the more beautiful for the darkness that
had gone before, a rainbow. Bessie was comforted. "How foolish I was!" she
said to herself; "I might have known that there could not be another
flood, for God promised Noah that there never should be one again. I
remember now that the rainbow was the sign of the promise." And as Bessie
thought of the faithfulness of the great Father in keeping his word to his
children, and of how far she had been from imitating his example, she
began to cry. As she stood there under the tree, the very image of
distress, troubled with mingled sorrow for her naughtiness and anxiety to
reach her home, Dr. Burroughs came riding slowly along, his old gray horse
looking almost as rueful as Bessie herself, and his gig bespattered with
mud from top to bottom.
"What, little girl! out here in this storm? Crying too! Well, I don't
wonder. Jump in here by me, and I'll take you where you can get some dry
clothes. Strange that your mother should let you be out when she saw the
shower coming on!"
"She didn't let me," sobbed Bessie; "I promised father to wait for him at
Mr. Brown's, and instead of that I started alone. I'm so sorry."
"Yes, I should think you would be," said the doctor. He was a kind-hearted
man, but not sparing of his words. "I guess you will remember to keep your
promise the next time you make one. When people neglect to keep their word
they generally get into trouble." And with this remark the doctor left
Bessie to her own reflections, not speaking again till he came before her
own home. There he put her down, saying: "Let me give you one piece of
advice, little girl: Never make a promise unless you mean to keep it, and
never break a promise after it is made."
Bessie entered the house feeling very miserable and forlorn, but it is to
be hoped a wiser and a better girl than when she had left it in the
morning.
Reader, whoever you may be, whether boy or girl, if you would be happy and
prosperous in this world, if you would enjoy the confidence of your
friends, would win the favour of the God above, speak always the "truth in
the love of it." Be so honest, so upright in your engagements that all who
know you may be able to trust in your good faith, your fidelity to your
word. Remember that "it is better not to vow than to vow and not perform,"
and that the seat of faithfulness is in the heart where God's Holy Spirit
dwells, for "the fruit of the Spirit is faith."
THE MOTHER'S LAST GIFT.
Thirty years ago there was seen to enter the city of London a lad about
fourteen years of age. He was dressed in a dark frock that hid his under
apparel, and which appeared to have been made for a person evidently
taller than the wearer. His boots were covered with dust from the high
road. He had on an old hat with a black band, which contrasted strangely
with the colour of the covering of his head. A small bundle, fastened to
the end of a stick and thrown over the shoulder, was the whole of his
equipment. As he approached the Mansion House, he paused to look at the
building, and seated himself on the steps of one of the doors. He was
about to rest a while, but the coming in and going out of half a dozen
persons before he had time to finish untying his bundle made him leave
that spot for the next open space where the doors were in part closed.
Having taken from the bundle a large quantity of bread and cheese, which
he seemed to eat with a ravenous appetite, he amused himself by looking at
the building before him with all the eager curiosity of one unaccustomed
to see similar objects.
The appearance of the youth soon attracted my curiosity, and gently
opening the door, I stood behind him without his being the least conscious
of my presence. He now began rummaging his pockets, and after a deal of
trouble brought out a roll of paper, which he opened. After satisfying
himself that a large copper coin was safe, he carefully put it back again,
saying to himself in a low voice: "Mother, I will remember your last
words: 'A penny saved is twopence earned.' It shall go hard with me before
I part with you, old friend."
Pleased with this remark, I gently touched the lad on the shoulder. He
started, and was about to move away when I said:
"My good lad, you seem tired, and likewise a stranger in the city."
"Yes, sir," he answered, putting his hand to his hat. He was again about
to move forward.
"You need not hurry away, my boy," I observed. "Indeed, if you are a
stranger and willing to work, I can perhaps help to find what you
require."
The boy stood mute with astonishment, and colouring to such an extent as
to show all the freckles of a sunburnt face, stammered out:
"Yes, sir."
"I wish to know," I added, with all the kindness of manner I could assume,
"whether you are anxious to find work, for I am in want of a youth to
assist my coachman."
The poor boy twisted his bundle about, and after having duly placed his
hand to his head, managed to answer, in an awkward kind of way, that he
would be very thankful.
I mentioned not a word about what I had overheard with regard to the
peony, but, inviting him into the house, I sent for the coachman, to whose
care I entrusted the newcomer.
Nearly a month had passed after this meeting and conversation occurred
when I resolved to make some inquiries of the coachman regarding the
conduct of the lad.
"A better boy never came into the house, sir, and as for wasting anything,
bless me, sir, I know not where he has been brought up, but I really
believe he would consider it a sin if he did not give the crumbs of bread
to the poor birds every morning."
"I am glad to hear so good an account," I replied.
"And as for his good-nature, sir, there is not a servant among us that
doesn't speak well of Joseph. He reads to us while we sup, and he writes
all our letters for us. Oh, sir, he has got more learning than all of us
put together; and what's more, he doesn't mind work, and never talks about
our secrets after he writes our letters."
Determined to see Joseph myself, I requested the coachman to send him to
the parlour.
"I understand, Joseph, that you can read and write."
"Yes, sir, I can, thanks to my poor, dear mother."
"You have lately lost your mother, then?"
"A month that very day when you were kind enough to take me into your
house, an unprotected orphan," answered Joseph.
"Where did you go to school?"
"Sir, my mother has been a widow ever since I can remember. She was a
daughter of the village schoolmaster, and having to maintain me and
herself with her needle, she took the opportunity of her leisure moments
to teach me not only how to read and write, but to cast up accounts."
"And did she give you that penny which was in the paper that I saw you
unroll so carefully at the door?"
Joseph stood amazed, but at length replied with emotion, and a tear
started from his eye:
"Yes, sir, it was the very last penny she gave me."
"Well, Joseph, so satisfied am I with your conduct that not only do I pay
you a month's wages willingly for the time you have been here, but I must
beg of you to fulfil the duties of collecting clerk to our firm, which
situation has become vacant by the death of a very old and faithful
assistant."
Joseph thanked me in the most unassuming manner, and I was asked to take
care of his money, since I had promised to provide him with suitable
clothing for his new occupation.
It will be unnecessary to relate how, step by step, this poor lad
proceeded to win the confidence of myself and partner. The accounts were
always correct to a penny, and whenever his salary became due he drew out
of my hands no more than he absolutely wanted, even to a penny. At length
he had saved a sufficient sum of money to be deposited in the bank.
It so happened that one of our chief customers, who carried on a
successful business, required an active partner. This person was of
eccentric habits and considerably advanced in years. Scrupulously just, he
looked to every penny, and invariably discharged his workmen if they were
not equally scrupulous in their dealings with him.
Aware of this peculiarity of temper, there was no person I could recommend
but Joseph, and after overcoming the repugnance of my partner, who was
unwilling to be deprived of so valuable an assistant, Joseph was duly
received into the firm of Richard Fairbrothers & Co. Prosperity
attended Joseph in this new undertaking, and never suffering a penny
difference to appear in his transactions, he so completely won the
confidence of his senior partner that he left him the whole of his
business, as he expressed it in his will, "even to the very last penny."
NOT THE BEST WAY.
Alice and Eva were sitting together in the pleasant sitting-room, one
engaged in reading and the other in arranging an almost countless variety
of pieces of calico destined to form, at some future time, a quilt which
might fitly have had written upon it the motto of our country, _E pluribus
unum_—one composed of many. So completely was Eva surrounded by the bright
stripes of cloth that, at a distance, one might have supposed her to be
clothed in a garment very much like that which Joseph wore—a "coat of many
colours." She was considering whether or not it would be a proof of good
taste to place a red block next to a blue one when she happened to
remember a piece of green chintz which some one had given her, and which,
with the red calico, would form precisely the contrast she desired. But
the chintz was, unfortunately, in her own room, and how she should rise to
go after it without displacing the groups which had been formed so
carefully was a problem which Eva was unable to solve. While she was
puzzling over it her brother, two years younger than herself, came into
the room. He was a bright-eyed, active boy who thought nothing too
difficult when fun was in prospect, but, as we shall see, was not always
as ready to exert himself in order to oblige others.
"Oh, Willie," Eva exclaimed as soon as she saw him, "I am so glad you've
come! Won't you please go up stairs and get something for me?"
"Well, I guess you can go after it just as well as I can," was the
unbrotherly reply. "You girls seem to think that all a boy is good for is
to wait on you, and I think you might just as well learn to wait on
yourselves."
Eva did not answer, but wisely concluded to do without the chintz as well
as she could. Willie sat down and began to whittle, taking care to let
some of the splinters fall among his sister's work. Eva seemed to take no
notice of this, but went quietly on with her cutting and planning. She
grew tired of it, however, before long, and made up her mind to rest a
while. So she began in silence to gather up her work. As she did so it
would have been very easy for her to pick up the few chips which were
scattered here and there about her, but Eva had not yet forgiven her
brother for his want of kindness; so she said to herself: "Willie can pick
up his own whittlings if he wants to. I'm not going to do it for him. I
think it would be just as well to let mother see how he makes the room
look when she is out. If he does not care, I am sure I needn't, and so I
will let them remain just as they are."
What an affectionate brother and sister! and how they disobeyed the
command, "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ"!
Willie, failing to find any more amusement in the use of his jack-knife,
put it away, and began to study his French lesson for the next day.
Eva, on her part, commenced reading a story-book. But either it was less
interesting than she had expected to find it, or her conscience would not
allow her to enjoy it, for she soon laid it aside, and, for want of better
employment, leaned her head on the window and watched the passers-by.
Willie also failed to make such progress as he had intended, and after
some time had passed exclaimed in a sort of despair, "Oh dear! I cannot
translate this at all! Eva, won't you just read it to me?" Eva had now an
excellent opportunity of showing her brother that she knew how to return
good for evil, for she was a fine scholar and might easily have given him
all the help he needed. But she resisted the "still small voice" which
pleaded with her to do so, and chose rather to "pay him back" for the
manner in which he had treated her. "Out of the fulness of the heart the
mouth speaketh," and as Eva felt cross it was not strange that she spoke
crossly: "If you will not do anything for me, you can't expect me to do
anything for you. You may learn your lesson the best way you can. I'm not
going to help you." Alice, who had all along been watching the conduct of
her brother and sister without remark, now thought it time to interfere.
"Bring your book here, Willie," she said; "perhaps I can help you."
Willie eagerly accepted this offer, and with Alice's aid the translation
was made easily and quickly. The lesson, which was a passage from a
celebrated French author, happened to be the history of a savage race who
lived long ago in a far-off country. These people, so the history went,
having killed their rulers and thus freed themselves from the power of
law, resolved that in the future every one should attend to his own
interests without respect to those of his neighbours. Each one said: "Why
should I kill myself by working for people for whom I do not care? I will
only think of myself; I will live happily; what difference does it make to
me what others may be? I will satisfy all my needs, and, provided that I
have what I wish, I do not care though all around me are miserable."
So when the time came for planting corn every one said to himself: "I will
plant only enough for my own wants; a greater quantity would do me no
good; and why should I take trouble for nothing?" Now, the country where
these people lived was divided into lowlands, which were well watered and
fertile, and mountainous districts, which were less fruitful. Well, it
happened that the first season was a very dry one, and while the people
who lived in the valleys had plenty of food, those who lived on the
mountains, having no harvest, suffered from famine. The next year the case
was entirely different. This time the season was a rainy one, and the
inhabitants of the lowlands were as much troubled by too great a supply of
water as their fellow-countrymen had been by the want of it. And now the
mountaineers rejoiced in plenty while their brethren starved. These
foolish men continued their system of selfishness both when they were
attacked by foreign enemies and when disease came upon them. Each one
refused help to every other, and finally the whole nation perished.
"One would suppose that this story had been written expressly for you and
Eva," Alice remarked when she had finished reading it.
"Why, I hope you don't think we are as bad as those savages!" exclaimed
Willie, indignantly.
"Well, I think you have been acting very much like them. Don't you think
so, Eva?"
Eva's face turned crimson, but she did not exactly like to confess the
truth, so she made no answer.
"Well," said Willie, more frankly, "perhaps we haven't been very kind to
each other to-day, but then we wouldn't keep on acting so all our lives,
as those people did."
"No, I should hope not," Alice replied, "for I believe you see the folly
and wickedness of such conduct. You know if we act selfishly and unkindly,
it is not because we have never been taught to do better, for we have all
read often of the example of Christ, who 'went about doing good,' and of
whom it is written that 'he pleased not himself.' Surely we ought not to
be unwilling to perform little acts of kindness toward others, although it
may cost us some trouble and self-denial to do so. And even when we think
that we have not been treated rightly ourselves, there is no reason why we
should act unkindly in return; at least I never heard of any, did you?"
Willie answered "No," very emphatically, but Eva still kept silence. Yet
the next morning when she, as usual, recited a Scripture text to her
sister, Alice noticed that she had chosen this: "Be ye kind one to
another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's
sake hath forgiven you."
THE END.