THE STORY OF WILLIAM THE CONSUMPTIVE.
Oh, fill me with Thy fulness, Lord,
Until my very heart o'erflow
In kindling thought and glowing word,
Thy love to tell, Thy praise to show.
_Our Missing Link_, a journal devoted to missionary work, has given many
graphic recitals of the good work she accomplished in numerous fields,
but none of much livelier interest than the case of
WILLIAM AT ST. LUKE'S
"William" is a young Englishman. He came to this country eight years
ago. He is now about twenty-four. I first saw him some time last
winter. His sister, who lives with her family in our mission block, had
told me that she had a brother in New York, who was out of health and
out of employment, and was very unhappy in consequence.
I expressed my sympathy, but not knowing of anything that I could do,
asked no questions at the time. A few days after she came to say that
the brother referred to was in her room; that it had become evident
that he was in consumption. He would like to talk with me. I was
alone, and bade her invite him in. He came immediately. A tall, thin
young man, with a pleasant face and easy manners. I did not speak to
him very directly on religious subjects. I believe that I perceived in
this first interview that his views were not very clear. I encouraged
him gradually to tell me about his circumstances. His confidence was
easily won, and in the course of this and subsequent interviews I
learned that his only home was with an aged father, who was himself out
of work and in straitened circumstances. William's clothing was too
thin for the inclement weather we were then encountering, and it was
plain he could not have the nourishing food his declining appetite
required. The sister who first introduced him to me was anxious about
him, but her tenement was too small to accommodate her own family, and
her husband's wages hardly equal to the wants of his own household.
William's great desire was to procure employment. He would work to the
utmost of his failing strength if only he could get work to do. I
obtained from the Sick Relief Fund a few shillings' worth of groceries
per week for him; but employment, means to help himself, was his one
aspiration. I felt sure he was not able to work, but was anxious,
nevertheless, though in vain, to gratify his wish. One evening I
communicated to him a slight hope of an opening to some employment. The
increased brightness of his eye, the red spot on each cheek, and his
sleeplessness that night, proved that he was not able to bear even the
excitement of a sudden hope. Poor fellow! it was plain he would never
work much more.
I must mention here that William's constitution had received the seeds
of disease while at sea during the war. He ran away from home and
engaged in the revenue service. He also served in the army. He has
never been well since his return. His friends tell me that he has been
wild, not that he was immoral, to use their own expression. He had been
religiously trained in England, did nothing that the world would call
bad; but he was wayward, and the occasion to them of great anxiety and
displeasure also.
As I said before, we did not talk much at first about religion, not
that he avoided the subject. He was very conscious of his own situation
as far as the uncertainty of his life was concerned, but he had
apparently no sense of sinfulness before God. Perhaps the reserve was
on my side. I think I never felt so much as in this case the utter
powerlessness of human influence to bring the soul to God. He spoke
calmly of death; but when I asked him what was the ground of his hope
beyond the grave, he replied:
"I have never done any one harm; I have tried to live right."
I replied earnestly: "Do not trust to any such refuge as that."
I then warned him against any hope not founded on Christ alone. He
acknowledged that what I said was true, and seemed for a moment
disturbed. I cannot recall another conversation in our earlier
acquaintance, in which I was able to speak with any earnestness, or in
which he seemed at all impressed. I could only pray: "Lord, open his
eyes!" It is very wonderful to me, on looking back, to see how God was
leading him all this time. Once he told me of a sermon which he had
heard months before, upon the text: "Set thine house in order, for thou
shalt die, and not live." He had never been so impressed by a sermon;
he could not forget it.
Occasionally, I observed that his mind was well stored with the Prayer
Book version of the Psalms. Sometimes he would quote a petition,
telling me it had been specially upon his mind. Upon inquiry, I found
that at home in England, he had been a chorister boy at church. He has
since told me he used to sing the Psalms without any sense of their
meaning. Probably the words were never explained to him, or impressed
upon him in any way. It was a mere form of a church which confirmed its
members at fifteen years old, with very little cognizance of their
spiritual life. William, however, had not been confirmed. It would seem
from his subsequent life that the words he had chanted, from Sunday to
Sunday, had no effect on him, but now, in his last days, God was
bringing them home to his heart, over all the years of his
carelessness, and accomplishing that which he pleased. It has helped me
to believe that it is not in vain to store the mind of thoughtless
Sunday-school scholars with the Word of God, and that in the most
formal Christian Church the words of Scripture are not lost.
But all this time William's temporal wants were increasingly pressing.
His father had been obliged to sell their little stock of furniture,
and the house was broken up. One night his sister told me that William
had not so much as a place to sleep in. She took him in with her own
children for a few days. I recommended that he should go into St.
Luke's Hospital for a month. Perhaps the rest and nourishment he would
find there would enable him to get through the trying spring weather,
and in the summer he might be better. While this plan was under
consideration, William found that he could stay in the room that his
father had just quitted until the end of the month, which was half
gone. Still clinging to the hope of finding employment, he gave up the
hospital plan, while in his almost empty room was neither food nor
fuel. His sister did what she could. I applied to the Sick Relief
Society for some coal, which was immediately granted. All this time I
had not applied to my Superintendent, whose kind and ready sympathy
never fails me. The reason was, I have constantly on my heart and hands
so many cases of suffering that I cannot represent them all, and am
anxious to get through difficulties, as far as possible, without
unusual assistance. But in this case God's plans were above my reach.
One day Mrs. Knowles called at my room. While we were talking about
some mission business, there was a knock. It was William. I had an
instant sense that he had providentially called.
"Come in," I said, "and tell your story to my Superintendent." This
interview was the beginning of better times for poor William. Mrs.
Knowles immediately provided him with better clothing. I had only
succeeded in getting some flannel from the Society. Her kindness did
not stop here. In a few days she procured him a job of cutting wood.
_A Difficulty._--William did his first day's work with all the energy
his feeble strength would allow, but on being summoned to the same place
again, an unfortunate circumstance occurred. I think it right to state
the facts, because it shows how wonderfully God's grace can overrule. He
commenced his work as before, but his strength giving out, he accepted
an invitation from a lady in an adjoining house to come in and rest. His
delicate appearance enlisted sympathy. She had had some conversation
with him in his previous day's work, and was now prepared to express the
kindest feelings, especially as she herself had lost a brother with
consumption. Observing his exhausted state, she brought forward a glass
of whiskey, which she made him swallow, strongly advising him to procure
more and use it as a stimulant. The lady's intention was only kind, but,
unfortunately, William acted indiscreetly upon the advice. Encouraged by
the momentary relief afforded by the exhilarating beverage, he did
procure more. Whether it was the same day or the next, I am not quite
sure, but he went to his sister's at last, sadly under the influence of
liquor. His weak state, the uncomfortable condition of his affairs,
acting with the liquor upon his brain, caused him for a day or two to
behave in a very inconsistent and unnatural manner. He seemed even to
vary from his habitual truthfulness. Much disgusted, his sister rebuked
him sharply, declared that she would tell me, and of course, the
inference was that I should tell Mrs. Knowles. But that good woman knew
about it as soon as I did. She was grieved and disappointed at what had
occurred, but her uniform kindness did not fail. It was evident he was
no longer able to make any exertion for himself, and she procured him
admission into St. Luke's Hospital.
He went, in the midst of these trying circumstances, not coming to bid
me good-by, and knowing that his sister was seriously displeased. Poor
William! disgraced, unhappy, and sick, he went to that bed which was
about to become to him as the gate of heaven. I went to see him as soon
as possible. I went, intending to talk over with him what had passed,
but found him so humble and so suffering that I had no heart to make
any allusion to it. We neither of us spoke directly upon the subject.
In fact, I said very little upon any subject, for as he lay there with
the tears upon his thin face, expressing brokenly his pain and his
penitence, I felt that God was teaching him, and taking hold of the
very lesson to show him his true character. He was now coming upon a
new ground never understood before.
_The Blessed Change._--Mrs. Knowles saw William before I went to him a
second time. She, too, forbore alluding to the unpleasant circumstances,
but she talked to him of our human sinfulness before God, and our need
of a Saviour. Some of his most interesting conversations have since been
with her. The second time I visited William his bodily strength had
greatly failed, but his face was beautiful with a new light I had never
seen there before.
"I feel very differently now," he said, "God has forgiven all my sins."
He then went on to express his sense of his own unworthiness; not that
he had led a vicious life, but he felt he was a great sinner before
God. In the course of conversation I told him his sister had inquired
kindly about him; his eyes filled with tears, and he said:
"Tell her I have been converted; I am very happy." The week before
Easter, when the Bishop visited the hospital to administer
confirmation, William was placed in a chair to receive the rite, and on
Easter Day partook of his first communion. It was a glorious day for
him. Mrs. Knowles visited him on that day.
A few days after, as I sat by his bedside, he was speaking, as he
always did now, of his sense of sinfulness, and his sense of pardon,
when I reminded him of the early conversation, before alluded to, in
which he had rested on his own moral character for acceptance with God.
"Yes," he replied, "I used to think so, but I have been all wrong. Now
I have no dependence but upon Jesus Christ."
A little before this, he had said to Mrs. Knowles: "I never knew that
just trusting in Christ would give me such peace."
He has said repeatedly: "This sickness is the best thing that has ever
happened to me. If it had not been for this, I should have gone on in
worldliness."
William has never been accustomed to the common religious phraseology.
He is such a babe in such things, that his expressions are sometimes
strikingly artless. At one time I was speaking of his sufferings, he
looked up with a smile, and hesitating how to express the thought in
his mind, said:
"I think it is out of his affections God afflicts us."
His sister had wept much when I delivered his message. As I returned a
kind reply from her, he said:
"Tell her I pray for her and her family every day." Then, when after a
little conversation I had bidden him good-by, he called me back, and
said:
"Be sure and tell my sister I pray for her." He frequently said to me:
"I pray for you everyday;" and on saying this to Mrs. Knowles, he
added, at one time:
"I speak your name to God when I pray."
When he says this with so much earnestness, we always feel that his
prayers are a rare treasure, since the helpless, self-renouncing
prayers are most prevalent in Christ. The tenderness with which William
speaks of his sister's family has sometimes touched me. There is
nothing like the peace of God to beget good will to man. Knowing that
the family had many trials with his sister's ill health and scanty
means, he often sends by me messages of sympathy. A few days since it
was suddenly discovered that their youngest child, two years old, and a
little pet of William's, was in danger of being crippled for life. This
new and unexpected sorrow filled the family with great distress. I
accompanied the father when the child was brought to St. Luke's for
examination. After the physician's opinion had been given, and
arrangements made for placing it in the Children's Ward, we went to see
William. The unexpected appearance of his brother-in-law, whom he had
not seen since coming to the hospital, affected him much. Indeed, the
interview was trying to both. I left them alone, and on my return
shortly afterward, found William still in tears. He was not so well
that morning, and grief for the child, and the sight of the brother
reviving the painful memory of their late alienation, was too much for
him; yet his peace was not greatly disturbed, for all alienation from
man, as from God, had been healed for him.
_The Tried Word._--I went to see the little child the next morning, and
then reported him to his uncle, whose first words were a question,
rather anxiously put, concerning the little one. Wishing to set his mind
at ease, I said:
"Oh, it is all well with him. I just met him coming down, stairs with a
flock of children, and his hands full of bread and butter."
He gave a smile of quiet amusement, which showed the playfulness of
other days might yet be touched. I then went on to tell him the case
was not likely to prove as serious as we had feared, and suggested he
should get the nurse, when convenient, to bring the child in her arms
to his bedside. He was pleased with the idea; but presently the
conversation fell off from the subject. William's eyes wandered to the
texts of the "Silent Comforter" at the foot of his bed. With the air of
one who caught the sight of unutterable things, and has not much more
to do with the world:
"See," said he, "I have a good verse for this morning." He began to
read: "Fear not, I am with thee."
Beginning to cough, I went on: "When thou walkest through the waters,
they shall not overflow thee; and through the fire, thou shalt not be
burned. That is just right for you, William."
"Yes," he replied, with his own peculiarly beautiful smile.
"I notice," said I, "that the very words of God are best for you. You
love the hymns, but, after all, God's own words are the safest to rest
upon."
"Yes," he replied, "I live upon those texts. When the nurse comes in,
in the morning, to turn the leaf over, _I am eager_."
I did not speak, but watched him as he lay, his longing eyes fixed upon
the words before him, with an absorbed and admiring gaze, as if all
else were forgotten. His soul was hanging its eternal destiny on the
words of God. A few days before this he had said to Mrs. Knowles:
"You remember when we first talked of the Shepherd's Psalm, I said I
should be glad when I could say: 'When I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil' Now," he added, emphatically, "_I
can say it._ I fear no evil, for thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
His listener then went on to speak of the beautiful figure of the rod
and staff.
_Sunshine and Shadow._--God leads his little ones gently, the Good
Shepherd bears the lambs, that the enemy may not too much affright them
through the dark valley.
"Is your peace never disturbed, William?" I asked one day.
"Not often," he answered. "Sometimes there comes a cloud--it is a
temptation, I suppose."
"Yes," I said, "Satan, perhaps, envies you. He knows that he will never
get your soul, but he will trouble you a little."
"I suppose so," he replied thoughtfully.
Wishing to express to me his happiness in God, and not knowing quite
how to do so, he said:
"It is like this, sometimes--I feel like a boy let out from school; I
am so happy, I want to shout." At another time he said:
"I have much _communion_." Then, as if to illustrate this, he added:
"Last night, I awoke about two o'clock, and I was praying in my sleep."
"Can you recall your prayer?" I asked.
"No," he said, "but I was praying to God."
"God is very good, William, to let you talk with him so in the night."
"Yes," he answered; and then turning his face toward his pillow, he
said, in a low voice: "Praise God!"
"And bless his holy name," I responded.
We were both silent for a few moments, and then--I think it was in
connection with this conversation--I asked:
"William, if you were to get well now, do you think you would try to
live to the glory of God?"
"Indeed, I would," he answered.
"And bring others to know him?" I asked.
"Yes," he said again.
"Well, William, I suppose you think that here upon this bed you cannot
do much; but I think you can glorify him here on this very bed."
"Yes," he answered, a little doubtfully; then added: "I try to pray to
him all the time."
I was half sorry for the suggestion, which seemed somewhat to bewilder
him, and said: "That is all you can do, is it not?"
"And that is little enough," he replied sorrowfully.
I tried to make him understand that to receive much of God's grace was
the surest way to serve him.
"What shall I render unto God for all his benefits? I will take the cup
of salvation, and call on the name of the Lord."
When I saw William the next morning, he said, immediately:
"I did last night what you told me. I prayed for strength to glorify
God here."
"I think," I answered, "that you will do that if you lie here and
meekly suffer his will; and I must tell you that, after these
conversations with you, I go home thanking God for what you have told
me of His love to you. I think I love the Saviour better, since I have
seen what he can be to one in sickness and death."
"_That is good_" he said emphatically, "_I would have it so_."
As I left him this time, the thought in my own mind was: "Oh, speak
good of the Lord."
On my return to William and his brother-in-law, after the interview
which I described in my last paragraph, and which occurred only a few
days ago, I saw that he was too much agitated for conversation. I read
him a hymn and said a few words. He was suffering more than usual that
day, and his usually peaceful spirit seemed a little clouded. When I
rose to go, it seemed that he would have detained me. We had bidden
good-by, and turned away, when I looked back. I wanted to leave some
word of Christ or thought of him at the last. "William," I said,
bending over him, "Jesus says: 'Let not your heart be troubled--in my
Father's house are many mansions.'"
He took hold of my hand, and looked up, the red lines of tears about
his eyes. I could not quite understand their expression of unutterable
longing, but I could feel at the moment that death must be penal, and
its waters cold sometimes, even to a believer.
In these deeply anxious hours,
O, if Jesus only smile!
Only Jesus
Can these restless tears beguile.