"I must say, Ditto, you read us the most extraordinary variety of
stories."
That was Flora's utterance. Meredith, however, sat looking very gravely
into the water, which was rolling its little waves along at his feet far
below. The sun had got lower while he had been reading; the lights and
colours were changing; shadows fell from the hill-tops and began to lie
broad on the river, cast from the western shore; but all softened in the
haze, which now was getting in a strange way transfused with light; and
a few little flecks of cloud were taking on the most delicate hues.
"Mr. Murray," Meredith broke out, "that story is not exaggerated? I
mean, the doing of the people in the story is not, is it?"
"Miss Flora thinks so."
"Don't you, Mr. Murray?" said the young lady.
"Let us hear your reasons, please."
"Well, Mr. Murray, surely life is given to us for something besides bare
work. We are meant to be happy and enjoy ourselves a little, aren't we?"
"Most certainly."
"Those good men,--I dare say they were good men,--seem to me to have
been mistaken."
"You think, for instance, they might have kept some of their New Year's
money to buy their wives new dresses?"
"Yes; or to get a good dinner, which I suppose they never had; or a
carpet, suppose, for the bit of a room they lived in."
"What do you say, Esther?"
"Oh, I think just as Flora does, Uncle Eden. I think those people were
very extravagant."
"Maggie?"
"Uncle Eden, I do not know if they were extravagant; but it seems to me
they might have kept a _little_ for their own New Year."
"You all overlook one thing."
"What is that, sir?" several voices asked eagerly.
"Those good men were not acting so very contrary to your principle. They
were doing, every one of them, what gave him the most pleasure with his
money. That is what I understand you to advocate. The only difference
is, that they found their pleasure in one thing, and you would find
yours in another."
"But, Mr. Murray," Meredith began.
"Yes, Mr. Murray," said Flora eagerly taking the words out of her
brother's mouth, "you have really not said anything. The question comes
round,--_ought_ we to find our pleasure in what they did, and in nothing
else?"
"That is not the right way of putting it. The Lord does not demand that,
nor desire it; but that we should seek _first_ the kingdom of God. You
may remember too that the spirit of our life, if we are Christians, must
be the same as Christ's; for 'if any man have not the spirit of Christ,
he is none of His.' Now the motto of His life was, 'My meat is to do the
will of Him that sent me.' And that, Miss Flora, must make pleasing God
the great pleasure of a child of God."
"That is what I think," said Meredith.
"Then are we to have no pleasure?" Flora repeated. "I mean, no pleasure
of our own?"
"I have been trying to explain that. I do not know any pleasure much
sweeter than pleasing some one that we dearly love; do you?"
Flora looked very gloomy.
"Put out of your head any notion of bondage or hard lines of action. 'I
_delight_ to do Thy will, O God!'--is the true way of stating it. And
that is the only sort of service, I think, that the Lord really is
pleased with."
"Well, does He want us to do like those people, and give literally all
we have got, for the heathen, or the poor?"
"The Bible rule is, 'Every man _according as he purposeth in his heart_,
so let him give.' If His heart will be satisfied with nothing less than
all, you would not forbid Him?"
Meredith's eyes sparkled, and he looked at Flora, but she would not meet
him.
"It may be and often is the case, that the Lord's best service requires
some of a man's money to be spent on things that seem personal; still,
if he loves God best, all will be really for God. Education,
accomplishments, knowledge, arts, sciences, recreation, travel,
books--provided only that in everything and everywhere the man is doing
the very best he can for the service of his Master and the stewardship
of his goods. That does not shut out but increases his delight in these
things."
"That is enough!" exclaimed Meredith. "You have answered all my
questions, sir. I see my way now."
"It will be a way apart from mamma and me, then, I suppose," said Flora,
her eyes filling and her cheeks reddening.
"No," said Mr. Murray gently, "perhaps not. Meredith, we have had a
sufficient interval of talk; suppose you read again. I am selfish in
saying so; for while my ears listen, my eyes can revel in this wealth of
colour. What will you give us next?"
"May I choose, sir? It touches what we have been talking about, another
little story. It is a story by the bedside of a sick day-labourer."
"I don't believe we shall like it, Ditto," said his sister.
"It will not hold us long. Let me try.--
"'It is a long while ago, that I was once standing by the bedside of a
sick day-labourer, who had a wife and four children. The man had been
ill for weeks, and the sickness had swallowed up all his money. Death
was near, and he was glad of it; he had only one remaining wish, that he
might receive the symbols of the body and blood of the Lord Jesus in the
Holy Communion. I administered them to him.
"'We sang with a number of friends and neighbours who were gathered
together, the song,
"Who knows how near my end may be!"
"'He sang the words correctly along with us, for he knew the hymn by
heart. His wife and children sang too. As we stopped at the fifth verse,
I saw great tears in his eyes; but I said nothing at the time. The sick
man spoke his confession devoutly, and afterwards received the bread and
the wine which are in figure the body and blood of our Lord Jesus
Christ. His eye beamed with joy. Then after the blessing was said we
sang the most glorious verse of the same hymn,--"I have fed on Jesus'
blood," &c. The neighbours and friends went away, after they had
cordially pressed his hand and said to him, "In the Lord's presence
we'll be together again." I remained alone with the sick man and his
family. Then I asked, why he had wept when we were singing, whether
perhaps it was a trouble to him that he must go away from his wife and
children? He looked at me with open eyes, almost reproachfully, when I
said that, and answered, "Does not Jesus stay with them then? Has not
the Lord said He would be 'the father of the fatherless and a judge of
the widow'? No; they will be well looked after; I have prayed the Lord
that He would be a guardian to them. Isn't it so, mother, that thou art
not worried either, and thy heart is not anxious? Thou, too, hast faith
in Jesus!" "Surely," said the woman, "I believe in Jesus; and I am glad
thou art going to Jesus. In good time I will come after thee with the
children. Jesus will help me by His Holy Spirit to bring them up."
"Well--why did you shed tears then?" "For joy. I was thinking, if the
singing goes so lovely even down here, how beautiful it will be when the
angels sing with us. That was what made me weep, for joy, because such
blessedness is so near before me." And now he made a sign to his wife.
She understood the sign, went to the cupboard, and fetched out a little
sort of a cup dish, which was her husband's money-box. Six groschen were
in it, all that was left over of his possessions. He took them out with
trembling fingers, laid them in my hand, and said, "The heathen are to
have those, that they too may learn how to die happy." I looked at the
wife; she nodded her head pleasantly and said, "We have agreed upon
that. When all is paid that will be needed for the funeral, it will
leave just these six groschen over." "And what will you keep?" "The Lord
Jesus," said she. "And what are you going to leave to your wife and
children?" I asked the man again. "The Lord Jesus," said he; and with
that whispered me in the ear, "He is very good and very rich." So I took
the six groschen for the heathen, and put them, as a great treasure, in
the mission money-box; and it was hard for me to give them out again;
only if I had not paid them out, I should not have fulfilled the dying
man's wish. In the following night he fell asleep. We buried him as a
Christian should be buried, that is, publicly, with the ringing of the
bell, with preaching, singing and prayer; and there was no weeping done,
neither by his wife nor by his three oldest children, neither in the
church nor by the grave. But the youngest child, a boy of five years
old, who followed the bier along with the rest, wept bitterly. I asked
him afterwards, why he had wept so bitterly at his father's grave? The
child answered me, "I was so troubled because father didn't take me with
him to the Lord Jesus; I had begged him so hard to take me." "My child,"
said I, "your father could not take you along with him; only the Saviour
could do that; you ought to have asked _Him_." "Shall I ask Him now
then?" he questioned. "No, my child. See--when the Saviour wants you, He
will call you Himself. But if He chooses that you shall grow to be a man
first, then you must help your mother and let her live with you. Will
you?" He said, "I would like to go to Jesus; and I would like to be big
too, so that mother can live with me." "Well, then, say to the Lord
Jesus that He shall choose." "That is what I will do," said the boy; and
was quite contented and pleased.
"'The faithful Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ give us all a happy end.
Amen.'"
There was the usual pause after Meredith had done reading. Flora,
however, could not keep back long her expression of opinion.
"I protest!" she said. "Those people were utterly fanatical! Mr. Murray,
isn't it true?"
"O Uncle Eden, do you think so?" cried Maggie. "I think it is
beautiful."
"Maggie is too young to understand," remarked Esther. "Those people were
very unnatural, I think."
"How?" said Meredith.
"Yes, how?" Mr. Murray echoed. "I should like to hear the arguments on
both sides."
"A man who is dying, and has a wife and four children," said Flora
solemnly, "has no _right_ to give his last six groschen away. I don't
know how much a groschen is, but that don't make any difference. He has
no right to to do it!"
"You emphasise, 'a man who is dying,'" said Meredith. "Would the case be
different if he were a man living and going to live?"
"Why, of course."
"How?"
"He would work then, and earn more. How stupid to ask, Meredith!"
"But an accident might happen to him; or he might fail to get work; or
he might miss his pay."
"Yes, of course. I think it would be fanatical even then. But when he
was dying, and couldn't do anything!"----
"But if in any case he must trust for a day--what does it signify? God
can send help in a day."
"I should not think He would, when people throw away wantonly what they
have got already."
"What is given to Jesus isn't thrown away," said Maggie.
"And He always pays it back with interest," said Mr. Murray. "And what
is entrusted to Him is never neglected. I think that old German peasant
was very safe in his proceeding."
"But so unnatural!" cried Esther. "Not to be sorry to leave his wife and
children!"
"I have no doubt he was very sorry to leave them. The only thing is, he
was more glad to go to Jesus."
"I cannot understand that."
"Not till you know the Lord yourself; and I do not deny that one must
know Him well, to be so eager to go to Him. One does not easily leave
the known for the unknown."
"Let me read another bit of a story, or history," said Meredith. "We
cannot come to an agreement by talking; these things must be _lived
in_--must they not, Mr. Murray?"
"Yes, read. But see the sky!" said Mr. Murray. "And the colours along
the shore! Wonderful, wonderful! What a Sunday evening this is."
Meredith sat silently looking for a few minutes. With every quarter of
an hour of the descending sun, the world was growing now more like a
fairy-tale world. The lights and the shadows and the colours were making
such exquisite work, that the bit of earth the gazers were looking upon
seemed not to belong to the earth of history or the life of experience,
but to be something unearthly, and glorified. With all that, the Sabbath
stillness! There was the lap of the water at the foot of the rocks; the
rustle of the dry leaves down below where Fenton was prowling about; the
call of the bugle sounding out some order for the dragoons on the other
side at the post; between whiles the absolute repose of nature.
"I wonder if the new heavens and the new earth will be anything like
this!" said Mr. Murray with a long breath.
"This is not like our common world. Well, Meredith--it is hard upon you,
but it is better than too much talking."
"It is not hard upon me, sir. I am getting all my ideas cleared up.
"'Holy Scripture saith, that the hearts of the children shall be turned
to the parents, and the hearts of the parents to the children. I will
tell you a story about that, which, I hope, may be of use; so much the
more, that in this regard one sees so much that is senseless.
"'I knew a man once, who was the very ideal of a just living, upright,
honourable man; but Jesus he knew not. Among his fellow-men he was held
in general, well-deserved esteem; for he was pleasant and winning in
intercourse with them, and in his whole character there was something
naturally noble. No prayer was ever heard in his house, neither at
table, nor mornings and evenings, nor was ever the morning and evening
blessing read. But love and peace reigned in the house, between parents
and children, and master and mistress and servants; and nothing
dishonourable was tolerated. In other things, however, the way of the
house was the way of the world; card-playing was had there, now and then
dancing, and sometimes it might happen that an oath came out, when the
angry vein was swollen; nevertheless, worldly gaiety was never permitted
to go beyond bounds; the man would not suffer that. Nobody read the
Bible; though the man had a Bible which he had inherited from his pious
mother and held in high honour; it had the chief place on his
book-shelf; but it was made no use of, only now and then taken down to
have the dust brushed off it. This man had a whole flock of children;
and a wife who clung to him with such inmost affection, that many a time
when she heard his step on the floor she would call him into the room
where she was, and when he came in and asked what she wanted, would
answer him, "Oh, I only just wanted to see you, and now you may go off
again." In outward things he was pretty comfortable; made a living, but
also had a good deal of a burden to carry; was a diligent worker,
however, and by little and little got on in the world. He was not often
seen at church or the Lord's Supper; yet did not absolutely neglect
them. Nevertheless, the man had a special spite against _pious people_,
of whom in his life he had known a few. Those pious people of his
acquaintance can indeed not have been of the right sort; for from their
example he had come to the firm persuasion that pious people, all and
sundry, were no better than hypocrites. He used often to tell of a pious
man he had known, who used to read a great deal in the Bible and in
religious books, and used also to hold meetings for prayer in his house,
while at the same time he was a miser and put out his money to usury.
Another one he had known, who in externals made as fair pretences; but
with that was of such ungovernable temper and such unmeasured brutality
that on more than one occasion he had beaten a man nearly to death.
Therefore, as I said, he held all pious people to be a humbug.'"
Meredith paused a moment, and Flora spoke up.
"There!" she said, "_I_ know such people. Don't you think, Mr. Murray,
that sort of good people do more harm than good?"
"What sort of good people are they, Miss Flora?"
"Why, sir, I mean, like these Meredith was reading about. I know such
people. They are selfish, and envious, and get angry, care for nobody in
the world but themselves, and are not at all particular about telling
the truth."
"Therefore _not_ good people."
"But they are members of the Church, sir, and they go to the Communion."
"Don't you know, the Lord forewarned His disciples that a large portion
of His so-called Church would be none of His? You need not be surprised
at it. It is just what He told us would be."
"Then how are we to know?"
"You can know with certainty about yourself," said Mr. Murray with a
smile. "It is not difficult to find out in your own heart whether Christ
or self comes first. For other people, you can afford to wait till the
judge comes, cannot you?"
"You are thinking, Flo, are you not, that this man and his family were
just about the right pattern?" said her brother.
"I think such people are pleasant," Flora confessed. "They make no
pretences. That man seems to have been just and kind and nice."
"Ah, you make a mistake," said Mr. Murray again. "We all make pretences,
of one sort or another, true or false. Such people as you are speaking
of pretend _not_ to be Christians; and no doubt with perfect truth."
"But is not God pleased with justice and kindness and benevolence?"
"_With_ disobedience?"
"Surely He commands us to love one another?"
"He commands first that we love _Him_."
"Isn't that loving Him?"
"Love always shows itself towards the beloved one; _afterwards_ towards
the objects the beloved one cares for."
"May I go on?" said Meredith as Flora paused. "I think my story will
illustrate this."
"Go on, by all means. Perhaps an illustration will make it clear to
everybody."
"'This man was a scholar in the law; and was already pretty well on in
years, when one of his sons, a special favourite with him on account of
his fine parts and who was just studying law at the time, at the
University, learned to know his Saviour, and turned to Him with all his
heart. The instrument of his conversion was a faithful minister, whose
preaching he had attended diligently, and with whom he afterwards came
into very intimate terms of intercourse. Now when this son's heart was
filled with intense love to his Saviour, such as I have seen equalled in
few men, nothing was more natural than that he should send longing
wishes towards the parents and brothers and sisters whom he loved so
tenderly; wishes that they too might learn to know the Saviour; and so,
in his letters, he poured his whole heart out, told them without reserve
what had gone on in his own heart, and how he was now rejoicing in the
certainty that his sins were forgiven and in the sure hope of
everlasting life. "Oh that all men were as happy as I!" he cried out in
his letters. For a long time he was left without an answer. At last came
a letter from his father, it ran thus: "My son, your letters were wont
always formerly to be a refreshment and a delight to me; now, on the
contrary, they are a vexation and a bitter grief. I see that you are
exactly in the way to become like those hypocrites of whom you used to
hear me tell. I beg that you will either write as you have been
accustomed to do, or not write at all."
"'The son answered, "Father, you have always enjoined it upon me to tell
the truth; you always impressed it upon me that there is no more
contemptible and cowardly being than a liar, for he has not even the
spirit to be honest; and now do you want to compel me to be untrue?
Either I must write you what is according to my heart; for lie I cannot
and will not, neither will I make believe; or I must indeed do as you
say and not write at all." This startled the father, for he had in
former times said to his friends,--"The lad will not tell a falsehood;
he would sooner let his head be taken off;"--and he was honest enough to
write to his son, "Well, write what you like; if you are not a
hypocrite, you are a fanatic; but you shall tell no lies; there you are
right and I was wrong."
"'Soon after this the time of the holidays came about, and the son took
his journey to his parents, to spend the holidays with them as it was
his wont to do; for it has been already remarked that love and peace
reigned in that house. As he came in, his mother met him with tears, and
looked at him in a very critical way, as if she feared he were not right
in his head; but he caught her heartily round the neck and kissed her
and hugged her, whispering at the same time, "Mother, don't look at me
with such a doubtful face; I have got all my five senses yet." Then he
went to his father in the sitting-room, and would have fallen on his
neck too but the father at first kept him off with all his strength;
till his son asked him, "Thou art my dear good father always, and always
wilt be so; am I thy son no longer? and why not? what have I done that
is wrong? is reading the Bible and praying anything wrong?" Then the
father kissed his son and spoke--"I must honour the truth, thou hast
done nothing wrong, my son!" For an hour or so they talked together
about the professors at the University, and about the lectures the son
had been attending there; and in the meantime the mother had got supper
ready, and they went to table. The son stood up, folded his hands and
prayed. With that the father thrust his chair back till it cracked, and
ran out of the room, and the mother full of anxiety ran after him. The
son, however, did not follow them, but after he had heartily prayed for
his father and his mother, he sat down, and with tears ate his supper.
When he found his parents did not come back, he sought his own room, and
once more poured out his heart before his faithful God and Saviour; then
he slept quietly until morning. Next morning naturally the first thing
was to go at his prayers again; then he read a chapter in his beloved
Bible; and went afterwards to the dwelling-room, as he was accustomed.
His father was there, sitting in his arm-chair, and turned pale one
minute and red the next. The son gave him his hand cordially and bade
him good-morning, and to his mother as well. "My son," his father then
asked him, "are you master in the house? or am I? The son answered, "Who
but you, father?" "Why do you take upon you then to introduce prayer at
meals, seeing you know that it is not our habit here?" "Father," the son
answered, "did I then say that you and my mother were to pray? I asked
expressly only, 'Come, Lord Jesus, be _my_ guest'--whereas elsewhere
usually the prayer is, 'be _our_ guest.' I knew it was not your custom
to pray; therefore it would have been an untruth to say, 'our guest,'
and that would have been assuming, too, for it would have been trying to
draw you in." "But why did you not let the whole thing entirely alone?
you knew very well we have no such regulation here." "Not for you,
father; for me, however, there is such a regulation; and if I had taken
my supper without praying, I should have been false to my God; and it is
certainly not your pleasure that I should be false towards God, since
you cannot endure any falsehood towards men." "No," said his father,
"you are not to be false; well, pray away, for all I care; but only when
we are alone, not when strangers are by, else we should become a
laughing-stock." "Father, I could not be untrue to God for my own dear
father's sake; should I for the sake of strangers? I am not ashamed of
my God and Saviour before any man, neither before strangers nor before
the king himself; and I will be faithful and true to my God. If it is
not your pleasure to have this thing done when strangers are present,
then do not call me to table." The father said, "Boy, where did you get
your pluck?" "I love the Lord," the son answered, "who has redeemed me;
I would go into death a thousand times for Him." "You are no hypocrite,
my boy," said the father; "well, for all I care, you may be pious, if
you only will not be a hypocrite."
"'From that time the ice was broken; and I have myself seen it with my
own eyes, how father and mother and son used to read together in the
Bible, pray and sing together, and how the brothers and sisters one
after the other turned to the Lord. Rarely have I known a house in which
the Lord Jesus was so fearlessly acknowledged as in that house. And do
you know what of this history I would like to inscribe in your hearts,
yea, would like to burn into your hearts with letters of fire? It is
this. Let your Christianity be no lip work; let your religion not
consist in words; lip-work Christianity is hypocritical Christianity.
True religion is a fact. The genuine believer is upright and makes no
pretence, neither to God nor man. The heartfelt conviction--"Boy, you
are no hypocrite"--ought to be forced upon the beholder by the walk and
behaviour of every real believer; if that had been the case, the world
would present a different aspect from what it offers now. But most
people's Christianity is a fashion of speech; and so it is lying and
hypocrisy; therefore it can at one and the same time, like Pilate,
chastise and set free, pray and neglect prayer, confess and not confess,
just as happens to be convenient in the circumstances. It is not
required that you should preach to everybody you fall in with, as if it
were your vocation to set up lights for everybody's guidance; much more
would often be spoiled than mended in that way. But to be a Christian,
to walk as a Christian, and thus to confess one's Christianity honestly
in action, just because it is so and you are not going to be false
either towards God or towards men; that is the way in which the hearts
of the parents are turned to the children, and the hearts of the
children turned to the parents.'"