him a shilling for what the postman or the post-office would have done
for a penny. The truth is, I knew how badly off my neighbours were, and
was glad of an opportunity of putting a shilling in their way without
making a show of charity. I could have given the shilling without
exacting a return; but it was my whim at that time to make the man
fairly earn it, so I only said, "Bring the answer to my house, William,
and then I will pay you for the journey."
"Shall I go at once, sir?" he wanted to know.
I told him yes; and so he shut up the book, and took his departure,
leaving me in his cottage.
"Did you ever see the like of Will?" said Martha, whose wrath was not
yet subsided.
"There are many worse husbands than Will," I replied.
"I don't complain of him as a husband altogether," continued she; "but
it isn't much of a husband's part either, when he won't look out for
work as he ought, and won't try to keep it when he has got it."
"You have told him so, I have no doubt."
"Haven't I, sir? I just have. I have been giving him such a dressing!"
"I thought so. Now do you think that was quite wise, Mrs. Howland?" I
asked.
"I don't know what to say about that, sir; but one can't be always wise,
you know, when things go so uncommonly crooked."
"But, my good friend, you know where it is written, 'The Lord layeth up
sound wisdom for the righteous;' and you being one of that class----"
"No, no, sir; I never set up for being righteous," said my neighbour,
hastily.
"I am sure of that," said I. "If you had done so, it would only have
been self-righteousness. What I understand by the righteous, in the
highest sense, is those who are made so by the righteousness of Christ;
and if any one might be expected to have sound wisdom laid up for them,
I am sure they have a right to it. Now, you trust in the Lord Jesus
Christ; then you are made righteous in Him. Don't you know where it is
written, 'Not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but
that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of
God by faith'?"
Yes, my neighbour knew this; it was a great comfort to her to know
something of the meaning of it, she said.
"Well, then, to come to the point from which we have started, being a
Christian woman, your husband, your children, I, everybody, have a sort
of right to expect from you the fruits of that wisdom which cometh from
above; and, as you know, is 'first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and
easy to be intreated.'"
"To be sure, sir, there's no doubt of that. But, you see, when a poor
woman, whether Christian or not, is hard pushed, and the husband won't
do what he ought, why, then maybe she forgets what she ought to
remember, and wisdom, as you call it, sir, is just nowhere."
"'If any of you lack wisdom,' said the apostle James, 'let him (or her)
ask of God, who giveth to all liberally, and upbraideth not.' There are
two lessons for us there, I think," said I.
"Very likely," said Martha; "and I want teaching badly enough."
"The first lesson is the plain one, that when we are in a sort of
trouble we should go to God, through the Lord Jesus Christ, for
guidance. The next is, that if God does not upbraid us for our folly, we
should take care how we set about upbraiding others."
"And that's true," said Martha; "I never thought of that before."
"And then," I continued, "the Bible, especially the new Testament part
of it, clearly sets before us our Christian duty, whatever may be our
station and position in life. You know what it says about wives; but I
don't think that it is anywhere said, 'Wives, scold your husbands.'"
Mrs. Howland smiled at this. "A funny thing that would be if it did,"
said she.
"But something is said about the husband being the head of the wife."
Martha remembered this, and thought that no good was likely to come by
her scolding her husband, as she acknowledged she had done.
"Certainly no good can come of it, because it is contrary to the law and
the gospel."
"But what is a poor wife to do?" asked Martha, in much perplexity; "you
don't think it is right for Will to be hanging about indoors all day, or
pretty near it, when he ought to be at work, or looking after it--though
it is the Bible he is reading?"
"No; I do not. There is a time for all things, and--but I am not going
to talk to you about your husband, that wouldn't be fair. Leave him to
me; I'll talk to him."
"I'd be thankful to you, sir, if you would," said Martha.
"Only you must promise me not to scold him again, nor yet to upbraid him
(that's the word, you know) about anything past and gone. Because, in
the first place, it does no good, as you acknowledge; and in the second
place it is neither wise nor right. The Christian rule is, 'Be ye kind
one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for
Christ's sake, hath forgiven you.' Now, as it seems that scolding does
not move your husband, why not try another plan? Let me tell you a
fable.
"Once upon a time there was a dispute between the sun and the wind which
had the most power. They agreed to test the question upon a traveller on
the road, who was wrapped in a cloak. 'I'll blow the cloak off his
back,' said the wind. 'No, you won't; but I'll make him throw it off,'
said the sun. Now, we will call the wind by the name of Anger, and
the sun shall be Kindness; the man's cloak being Idleness or
Self-indulgence. Well, the wind began to blow with all its might, and
gave the traveller a terrible scolding, so to speak; but it only made
him draw the cloak all the closer about him. Then, when the wind had
done its best, or its worst, and had not succeeded, came out the sun,
and presently it sent down such warm rays (of kindness, you understand)
that the traveller could not stand it any longer, but threw off his
cloak. So the sun beat."
"Well, I never!"
"You try it," said I.
[Illustration: Man falling in wind, top hat flying, pack on back?]
V. THE FOOL AND THE BARON.
In one of the baronial halls of England lived Harold, a celebrated
jester. He was a faithful servant, and a great favourite in the family.
His master was so pleased with his drollery that on one occasion he gave
him a white wand, saying, "There, Harold, keep that as your staff of
office, till you find a greater fool than yourself, and then you may
give it to him."
The wand was henceforth Harold's companion; and as years passed by he
still made fun, and was still high in favour. At length his master was
ill, and there was gloom on every countenance. People passed hither and
thither, and spoke in a whisper, and the whisper was, "He is going to
die." At last the servants were sent for to take their leave; and
Harold, who, averse to sorrow, had hid himself away, was sought out and
conducted to the turret chamber to say a final good-bye to his lord.
"Ill, my noble master?"
"Yes, Harold! I'm going on a long journey."
"Where, cousin?"
"I do not know."
"When, most noble?"
"I cannot say."
"When will it please you to return, my lord?"
"Never."
"Will you take poor Harold with you?"
"I must go alone."
"Have you prepared for this sudden journey?"
"No; I knew of it long ago, but I put it off."
[Illustration: Harold returns the white wand to his master]
"Why, now," said the jester, "here is a wise thing! You go a journey--so
long, so soon; you know not when nor where; you go alone; you will never
return: and you have not made ready, though you were told! There, poor
noble cousin! take with thee Harold's wand; for in truth this day thou
hast found for him a greater fool than himself."
What the fool said to his master was perfectly true, although told in a
quaint, blunt style. It suggests some thoughts and reminds us of certain
facts which we shall do well to think about.
We shall all have to go on a journey soon. You and I, my friend, must be
such travellers as the jester and his master talked of. The journey of
death we must each take. What a mysterious journey it is! There are
certain roads that we know quite well. So frequently have we travelled
them, that we are perfectly familiar with them. The houses we have to
pass have an old look. We recognise each field through which we pass.
Even many of the trees under whose shade we walk are distinctly
remembered by us from time to time. But how different is it with the
last road along which we shall travel! None of us know it. It is
enshrouded in darkness. We shall travel it for the first as well as for
the last time; and those who have trodden it have sent no message to
tell us about it.
And this journey is unavoidable. Many journeys are a matter of choice.
We can either take them or remain at home. But it is not so with the
pilgrimage of death. "It is appointed unto men once to die." Reader,
remember this. Do not, like many, try to banish the thought of death
from your mind. The last day must come to you. Putting death out of your
thoughts will not put it out of existence. Forgetfulness of it cannot
destroy it. Since, then, death must come, let us, like wise men, look it
full in the face. Let us think solemnly about it.
But to return to the story with which we set out. The jester asked the
nobleman if he were prepared for the journey which he was about to take.
All journeys require preparation. No one thinks of taking a journey
without making ready beforehand; we think the matter well over, find out
what we shall need, and provide accordingly. Before the Asiatic
traveller mounts the camel which is to bear him across the hot, sandy,
dreary wilderness, he takes care to fill his wallet with food and his
leathern bottles with water. When the adventurer resolves to make his
way through Indian jungles where the tiger lurks, he shoulders his gun,
and takes with him a native guide. The wary explorer, ere he steps into
his reindeer sledge to cross the ice-bound rivers and snow-clad plains
of Arctic regions, arms himself well against the intense cold.
But how shall you prepare for this journey? You are by nature a lost and
ruined sinner. You have broken God's commands in your heart and in your
daily life; your transgressions are numberless. You cannot change your
own heart, and you cannot blot out your own sins. You can of yourself
make no preparation for the journey you are about to take; you can do
nothing to make yourself meet for God's presence. So far as you are
concerned, the words must stand: "Your iniquities have separated between
you and your God, and your sins have hid His face from you" (Isa. lix.
2). To provide for your helpless condition, God, in tender love and
compassion, gave His only begotten Son, that He should "die for your
sins, and rise again for your justification." Is it, then, the language
of your broken and contrite heart, "What must I do to be saved? How
shall I prepare to meet God?" God's gracious reply is plain and simple:
"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved." Yes, the
blood of Christ shall cleanse you from all unrighteousness, shall
justify you freely and fully before God.
But perhaps you say, "I have not that broken heart, and I lack that
saving faith." Then may God by His Spirit apply these words powerfully
to your heart: "Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince
and a Saviour, for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of
sins" (Acts v. 31). All you need is the Saviour's precious gift, and He
waits to be gracious. "Ask, and it shall be given you."
Thus faith in Christ will make you ready for the last and solemn
journey. It will give you pardon and peace; it will sanctify your heart
and life; it will enable you to say with happy assurance, "Yea, though I
walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for
Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me."
VI. THE TAILOR'S SPEECH.
It was in the kitchen of the "Fighting Cocks," a house noted for strong
ale, that young Hatfield, a poor ailing journeyman tailor, was
haranguing his drinking companions. His face was a little heated by what
he had drunk, his hat was dented in as though it had been used for a
football, and the elbow of his right arm, as he lifted up his pipe, was
seen through his ragged sleeve.
It happened that old Cawthorn, a staid and respectable servant, who
lived in the neighbourhood, had a note to deliver at the bar, and the
landlord of the "Fighting Cocks" being out of the way, old Cawthorn
stood waiting for him, while young Hatfield "laid down the law" to his
companions. As he proceeded, old Cawthorn, who well knew the bad habits
of the speaker, kept talking to himself in reply to the observations
made.
"I have seen a great deal of life, my friends," said the tailor.
"And sad low life, too, I am afraid."
"If people would only be ruled by me----"
"Ay, but bad as things are, we are not come to such a pass as that yet."
"If people would only be ruled by me, old England would lift up her head
again. In the first place I would reform the constitution."
"Beginning with your own, I hope, for that seems not to be over
excellent. What next, I wonder!"
"There should be no places and pensions; no bribery and corruption; no
taxes and oppression; but every man should have his rights, and a poor
man should lift up his head as well as a rich man."
"If you could only rule yourself as well as you think you could rule the
nation, it would at any rate be a good beginning."
"I would inclose all the waste lands in England, every one of them
should be cultivated."
"Better by half weed your own little garden first, for it is sadly out
of order."
"Every man's house, ay, the poorest among them, should have in it a
flitch of good bacon."
"That is more than is ever likely to be found in yours, Master Hatfield,
unless you live a very different life to what you now do."
"I have a notion that we might all of us live much happier than we now
do, and with half the labour."
"A notion, indeed, and nothing but a notion. But if you paid a little
less attention to the country at large, and a little more to your own
habits, you and your poor wife and little ones might live happier than
you do, there is little doubt."
"We seem to be all wrong in religious matters. Instead of being brought
up to particular opinions, every one, young and old, ought to be left at
liberty to think as he pleases."
"And to do as he pleases, too, I suppose? Oh! Harry Hatfield. Some day
or other, if you keep a little closer to your shopboard, you may shine
as a tailor, but you are not likely to become a star in any other
calling."
"Then with regard to property; it stands to reason that if the hundred
thousand pounds possessed by the rich man were to be divided into a
hundred parts, it would make a hundred men comfortable and happy instead
of one."
"All housebreakers and highwaymen, I should think, reason in the same
way."
"It costs the country millions a year to keep up the gaols and the
policemen: every penny of this might be saved."
"Ay, and the land might be overrun with rogues, and the country become a
bear-garden."
"The national debt ought to be wiped away at once--it is a disgrace to
the nation."
"And there is a debt scored up on the door there that is a disgrace to
one Harry Hatfield--I suppose you would wipe that away too."
"In a word, my friends, things are very different to what they ought to
be. In this land of liberty, where every man's house is his castle, and
where everything should be properly conducted, there ought to be no
policemen--no oppressive laws--no taxes--no----"
Here the landlord made his appearance, and old Cawthorn, having
delivered his note, left the house, saying, "How true is that proverb of
Solomon, 'Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? there is more hope
of a fool than of him.'"
[Illustration: Harry Hatfield holding forth]
VII. NOT A BIT AFRAID.
"Yes, I know it's a serious case; the doctor said so. But I don't
trouble myself about that; I'm not a bit afraid."
"But you told me just now that you had not attended to religion a great
deal. You know this is the first time I ever saw you; so I know nothing
about you but what you tell me. I suppose, in fact, you have lived like
many more, without much thought about your soul?"
"Yes, sir, that's it."
"And yet you are not afraid?"
"No, sir, I don't feel afraid at all. I'm not troubled in my mind. I
have been no wise wicked."
The minister looked grave.
"You mean you have not been a thief, or a great drinker, or a swearer,
or a liar, or anything of that sort?"
"No, no; I have not been anything of the kind. I know plenty who have;
but I've always tried to live respectable."
"Well, but do you mean to say you are not a sinner?"
"Oh, we are all sinners, of course."
"But does not that mean anything? Does it not _signify_ being a sinner?"
"I've never done anything bad in particular, as I know of. At all
events, I don't feel afraid."
"I wish you did," said the minister earnestly; "I wish you did with all
my heart. I know _I_ should if I were you."
The sick man looked surprised; but he made no answer, so the minister
went on.
"As for me, I could not speak as you do. I know that I am a poor sinner;
and that, but for my Saviour, I must be lost for ever. But I have gone
to Him, and sought His blood to wash away my sins, and I do humbly
believe in Him; and He, and He alone, takes _my_ fear away. You have
told me what _you_ feel, and now I have told you what _I_ feel."
"Well, that's all right, sir, no doubt," was all the sick man said. The
minister went on again:
"Oh, my friend, it will never do to say you are not afraid while you
have not gone to Christ; you ought to be afraid, you have good reason to
be afraid. I _must_ be plain with you. I dare not build you up with
false hopes. Don't you know that you must stand before God, and give
account for all your life? Don't you know about the great judgment day,
when the books will be opened? These books will have in them all you
have ever done in your life. Can you face that? Are you not afraid when
you think of _that_? There will be another book opened then, the book of
life. That will contain the names of all who are saved by Jesus Christ.
And everybody else (do you remember that?) will be cast into the lake of
fire. You know you have not lived to God, you know you have not sought
Christ, your religion has been nothing but a name; and, say what you
will, you know quite well that you have often and often done wrong. Now,
how _can_ you say you are not afraid?"
The man shifted uneasily on his bed.
"Perhaps," said he, "I ought to be more afraid than I am."
"Yes, indeed you ought. I don't want to give you pain, I want to comfort
you; but I dare not give you false comfort. I want you to see the
_truth_. You are a poor sinner in need of a Saviour. You may think
lightly of your sins now, and hardly call them sins at all; but if you
saw them as they really are, oh how black they would look to you! I pray
God to teach you to see _yourself_, and to see your sins, _now_, before
the books are opened. And now let me speak to you about Jesus Christ. He
pitied us poor sinners, and came and died on the cross to save us.
Thousands have been saved by Him. He has never turned _one_ away who
went to Him for salvation. I hope I have gone. I _know_ I have. I could
not rest in my bed if I had not. I want _you_ to go to Him too. He calls
you to Him. Just as you are, He bids you look to Him and be saved. He is
willing to be your Saviour. _Now_, remember, _now_, He is willing to be
your Saviour. Do not put this off. Sometimes people put away such
thoughts because they trouble them. Oh, do not _you_ do so. Here you are
alone on your bed away from everybody. Now _pray_, pray for the Holy
Spirit to teach your heart, pray that Jesus may be your Saviour. Let me
pray with you before I go."
And the minister knelt down and prayed. And when he rose from his knees,
the sick man held out his hand, and his eyes were wet with tears, and he
did not say again that he was not afraid; but he said in a low voice, "I
hope God will forgive me. You'll come and see me again, sir?"
[Illustration: Man carrying tools walking with dog]
VIII. TOLD AT A TUNNEL'S MOUTH.
A group of navvies waited for the relief party at the mouth of a tunnel.
"Sing us a song, Sam!" said one.
"Got a cold, Bill; try the new hand."
A loud laugh followed this remark, and that for two reasons; one was
Sam's cold, which was not strange, seeing that for fourteen hours they
had worked (as only English navvies can) in that long tunnel, at times
half choked with smoke and steam, and then half-frozen with the bitter
winter wind; the other reason was his suggestion for the fresh hand to
sing, whose strange silent manner had not made him a favourite in the
rough but hearty gang of navvies. Once Sam had watched and saw him reach
over a part of his dinner to a mate who was "not up to the mark," when
the said mate could not swallow the hard fare he had provided himself
with; and Sam wished to know more, being, as he would have said, "kinder
curus on sich p'ints," so he asked.
"P'rhaps you'll oblige?"
"How long have we got, mates?"
"Matter of half-hour before the relief comes."
"I'll sing you a song at last, if you'll hear a story first."
"Hear! hear!" said Sam; and the rest agreed. So the new hand placed
himself a little nearer the middle of the group, and leaning on his
pick, began:
[Illustration: New man, leaning on pick surreounded by others]
"A bargain is a bargain, mates, and I shall keep you to your word; if
you don't hear me out--no song. I'm going to talk about my little Meg;
and if you don't know why I am quiet-like now, you will before I have
done. Once I had as nice a home as any man need wish for, and the girl I
brought to it was the right sort, I can tell you; none of your flashy,
dressy, empty-headed ones, but a right down decent hard-working maid she
was. But she was religious, always wanted to go to church or chapel, or
what not, on the Sunday, and I didn't care for that; so I told her,
'Alice,' says I, 'you have married me, and you'll have to stick to me,
or else there'll be a row.' Well, she begged to go, but I would not hear
a word of it; so she gave in.
"So we went on for more than a year; I was middlin' steady, and she kept
the home up well, only I noticed she seemed less happy-like; and if I
stopped her going to church or chapel on Sunday, I couldn't get her to
go out for pleasure with me; for she said, 'Fair's fair; I keep away
from one place to please you, I keep away from others to please myself.'
And I thought there was something in that; don't you?"
The men made a murmur, half yes, half no, and seemed to grow more
attentive; it was level with their understanding.
He went on.
"Soon after that Meg was born, and how glad Alice was, to be sure! why,
that child, I believe she would have worked her fingers to the bone for
it. Some folks talk as if our little ones were a curse to us; why,
mates, them as says so are worse than a jackdaw, and as empty as a bag
of wind; they ain't got no heart themselves."
"No; they're all jaw," said Sam.
"Well, anyway, we didn't call Meg a curse by a long stretch; she crowed
and grew, and every year bound us more together; for whatever little
differences we had in other things we were one on the babe--she was the
best in the world. But while Meg grew strong the mother grew weak, until
she was as thin as a shadow; then I asked the doctor, who said she
wanted change of air. I asked her if she would like to go and see her
mother, and take Meg; lor', how pleased she was! So she went, and I saw
her off.
"How I got on without her I don't know; badly enough it was. When she
came back little Meg was four years old. Mates, I didn't know the wife,
so white and ill she was; but the child was brighter than ever, the
sunshine of our lives. To make the story short, while I hoped and hoped
Alice would mend, she didn't; and the sight of her face, so ghost-like,
kind of haunted me--she was queer and lonely-like and--well, lads, I
took to drink!"
The fresh hand's voice quivered a little, but he grasped the pick
firmer, and continued: "Most every night I kept away from home, not
because I hated it, boys, for my heart was there, but I just could not
bear to see Alice; somehow death appeared written in her face, and I
wanted to give him plenty of room--I was not ready for him. The
neighbours kept the place and Meg tidy, and I took home what was left
after paying score at the 'Lion.'"
Bill gave Sam a good nudge to look at the speaker, for the tears had
gathered in his eyes and were rolling in little channels down his
cheeks.