"IN LABOURS MORE ABUNDANT."
Unlike many wealthy professors of religion, "the Golden Shoemaker" did not
suppose that, in giving his money to the various funds of the church, he
fulfilled, as far as he was concerned, all the claims of the Cause of
Christ. He did not imagine that he could purchase, by means of his
monetary gifts, exemption from the obligation to engage in active
Christian work. He did not desire to be thus exempt. His greatest delight
was to be directly and actively employed in serving his Divine Lord; and
so little did he think of availing himself of the occasion of his sudden
accession to wealth to withdraw from actual participation in the service
of Christ, that he hailed with intense joy the richer opportunities of
service with which he was thus supplied.
For some years "Cobbler" Horn had been a teacher in a small Mission Sunday
School, which was carried on in a low part of the town by several members
of Mr. Durnford's church. But, about a year previous to the change in his
circumstances, he had been persuaded by the minister to transfer his
services to the larger school. He always made the conversion of his
scholars his chief aim; and very soon after he entered on his new sphere,
one of the boys in his class, a bright little fellow about nine years old,
named Willie Raynor, had been very remarkably converted to God. The boy
was promising to become a very thorough-going Christian, and no one
rejoiced more than he in the good fortune of "Cobbler" Horn.
There was considerable speculation, amongst the friends and
fellow-teachers of "the Golden Shoemaker," as to whether his altered
circumstances would lead to the relinquishment of his work in the school.
Little Willie Raynor heard some whisper of this talk, and was much
distressed. His relations with his beloved teacher were very close; and,
without a moment's hesitation, he went straight to "Cobbler" Horn, and
asked him what he was going to do.
"Mr. Horn, you won't leave the school now you are a rich man, will you?
Because I don't think we can do without you!"
"Cobbler" Horn was taken by surprise. The idea of leaving the school had
never occurred to his mind. For one moment, there was a troubled look in
his face.
"Who has put such nonsense into your head, laddie?"
"Oh, I've heard them talking about it. But I said I was sure they were
wrong."
"Why, of course they were, dear lad. Why should I leave the school?
Haven't I more reason than ever to work for the Lord?"
"Oh, I'm so glad!" And Willie went home with a bounding heart.
Meanwhile curiosity continued to be felt and expressed on every hand, as
to the course "the Golden Shoemaker" would actually pursue; and no little
surprise was created as, Sunday after Sunday, he was still seen sitting in
the midst of his class, as quietly and modestly as though he were still
the poor cobbler whom everybody had known so well.
Nor was he content simply to continue the work he had been accustomed to
do for Christ during his previous life. The larger leisure which his
wealth had brought, enabled him to multiply his religious and benevolent
activities to an almost unlimited extent. He went about doing good from
morning to night. He rejoiced to exercise for God the all but boundless
influence which his money enabled him to exert. His original plan--which
he persistently followed--of mending, free of charge, the boots and shoes
of the poorer portion of his former customers was but one amongst many
means by which he strove to benefit his necessitous fellowmen. He never
gave money for the relief of distress, without ascertaining whether there
was anything that he could do personally to help. He made it a point also
to offer spiritual consolation to those upon whom he bestowed temporal
benefactions. Hardly a day but found him in the abode of poverty, or in
the sick-room; and not one of his numberless opportunities of speaking
the words which "help and heal" did he let slip.
One evening, as he was passing through a poor part of the town, he came
into collision with a drunken man, who was in the act of entering a low
public-house. The wretched creature looked up into "Cobbler" Horn's face,
and "Cobbler" Horn recognised him as a formerly respectable neighbour of
his own.
"Richard," he cried, catching the man by the arm, "don't go in there!"
"Shall if I like, Thomas," said the man, thickly, recognising "Cobbler"
Horn in turn. "D'yer think 'cause ye're rich, yer has right t' say where
I shall go in, and where I shan't go in?"
"Oh, no, Richard," said "Cobbler" Horn, with his hand still on the man's
arm. "But you've had enough drink, and had better go quietly home."
As he spoke, he gradually drew his captive further away from the
public-house. The man struggled furiously, talking all the time in rapid
and excited tones.
"Let me a-be!" he exclaimed with a thickness of tone which was the
combined result of indignation and strong drink. "You ha' no right to
handle me like this! Ain't this a free country? Where's the perlice?"
"Come along, Richard; you'll thank me to-morrow," persisted "Cobbler"
Horn quietly, moving his captive along another step or two. But, by this
time, a crowd was beginning to gather; and it seemed likely that, although
Richard himself might not be able effectually to resist his captor,
"Cobbler" Horn's purpose would be frustrated in another way. In fact the
crowd--a sadly dilapidated crew--had drawn so closely around the centre of
interest, as to render almost impossible the further progress of the
struggling pair.
At this point, some one recognised "Cobbler" Horn.
"Yah!" he cried, "it ain't a fight, after all! It's 'the Golden Shoemaker'
a-collarin' a cove wot's drunk!"
At the announcement of "the Golden Shoemaker," the people crowded up more
closely than ever. While all had heard of that glittering phenomenon,
perhaps few had actually seen him, and the present opportunity was not to
be lost.
"Cobbler" Horn grasped the situation, and resolved, under the inspiration
of the moment, to turn it to good account. He was not afraid that these
people would interfere with his present purpose. He could see that they
were regarding him with too much interest and respect for that. Moreover,
since Richard belonged to another part of the town, his fortunes would not
awaken any special sympathy in the breasts of the crowd. On the other
hand, there was a possibility that the delay caused by the gathering of
the crowd might enable "Cobbler" Horn to make a deeper impression on his
poor degraded friend, than if he had simply dragged him home from the
public-house. Exerting, therefore, all his strength, he thrust the hapless
Richard forth at arm's length, and, in emphatic tones, bespoke for him the
attention of the crowd.
"Look at him!" he exclaimed. "Once he was a respectable man, tidy and
bright; and he wasn't ashamed to look anybody in the face. And now see
what he is!"
The crowd looked, and saw a slovenly and dissipated man, who hung his
head, with a dull feeling of shame. The people gazed upon the wretched man
in silence. They were awed by the solemn and impressive manner in which
they had been addressed.
"This man," resumed "Cobbler" Horn, "once had a thriving business and a
comfortable home. Now his business has gone to the dogs, and his home has
become a den. His wife and children are ragged and hungry; and I question
if he has a penny piece left that he can justly call his own. The most
complete ruin stares him in the face, and he probably won't last another
year."
The crowd still gazed, and listened in silence.
"And, do you ask," continued "Cobbler" Horn, "what has done all this? No,
you don't; you know too well. It's drink--the stuff that many of you love
so much. For there are many of you,"--and he swept the crowd with a
scrutinizing glance--"who are far on the same downward way as this poor
fool. He was my neighbour and friend; and he had as nice a little wife as
ever brightened a home. But it would make the heart of a stone bleed to
see her as I saw her but a few days ago. But, there; go home, Richard!
And may God help you to become a man once more!"
So saying, he released his captive; and the wretched creature, partially
sobered with astonishment and shame, crept through the crowd, which parted
for him to pass, and staggered off on his way towards home.
Then, like some ancient prophet, upon whom the Spirit of the Lord had
come, "the Golden Shoemaker" turned and preached, from the living text of
his besotted friend, a telling impromptu Temperance sermon to the motley
crowd. The whole incident was quite unpremeditated. He had never dreamt
that he would do such a thing as he was doing now. But that by no means
lessened the effect of his burning words, which went home to the hearts,
and even to the consciences of not a few of those by whom they were heard.
When he had finished, he passed on, and left his hearers to their
thoughts. But, for himself, there had been shown to him yet another way in
which he might work for God; and, thereafter, "the Golden Shoemaker" was
often seen at the corners of back streets, and in the recesses of the
slums, preaching, to all who would hear, that glorious Gospel of which the
message of mercy to the victims of strong drink is, after all, only a
part.