Title: The look of the thing and other stories
Author: A. L. O. E.
Release date: August 10, 2023 [eBook #71383]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Gen. Prot. Epis. Sunday School. Union and Church Book Society
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
The Look of the Thing.
REBECCA BURTON and Lydia White sat chatting over their tea. They were near neighbours, for they dwelt opposite to each other; and Rebecca, who earned her living by going out washing and charing, and had but a lonely time of it during the long winter evenings, was often invited by kind Widow White to share a meal with her and her little daughter Agnes. Not that Rebecca was one whose society gave much pleasure to her friend: she was a bustling, gossiping woman, very full of her neighbours' concerns. Where there is little thinking, there is apt to be much talking; it has been well said that only empty bottles are never corked up.
Little Agnes, with her large black attentive eyes, sat perched on a high chair beside her mother, listening to every word that was spoken, and not a little amused by Rebecca's idle gossip. While slice after slice of buttered toast and tea-cake were despatched, cup after cup of good black tea poured from the shining tea-pot, the guest talked as eagerly and as fast, as if talking were "the business of life."
"Well, Mrs. White," said Rebecca, helping herself for the third time from the well-filled plate, "I think that you've always had a bit of a fancy for that Mrs. Miles, but she's not a person to my mind. Would you believe it now, when the subscription went round for the poor weavers,—and even I, hard up as I often am, could manage to drop a bit of silver into the plate,—Mrs. Miles was not ashamed to put in only a penny! And she with a house and shop of her own! I'm sure, if I'd been she, I'd a deal rather have given nothing at all!"
"What a mean creature Mrs. Miles must be," thought little Agnes to herself.
"Perhaps," said Mrs. White in her quiet tone, "you do not know that for the last year Mary Miles has been struggling hard to pay the debts brought on by her husband's long illness. She, no doubt, feels it her duty to be just before she is generous, and however willing to give much, knows that it would not be honest to do so."
"Oh, but think of the look of the thing!" exclaimed Rebecca; "who was to know of her debts? But Mrs. Miles,—she's an odd woman," continued the charwoman, lowering her voice, though not sufficiently so to prevent every word being heard by Agnes: "though people say she's so good, I take it she's not all that folk fancy her to be. You think it right to go to church regularly, don't you? I often see you there with your little girl."
"Mother always goes to church," exclaimed Agnes, "even if it is raining ever so hard!"
"That's right," said Rebecca, approvingly; "it always looks well when one is never missed from one's place in church. But I've noticed that Mrs. Miles has kept away these last two Sundays, and I know that she has not been ill, for I've seen her on week-days serving in the shop. Even if she don't care for religion, I wonder that she don't attend steadily, if but for the look of the thing."
"Mrs. Miles goes to church for something better than the look of the thing," said the widow, with a quiet smile; "I am so glad that you mentioned the subject to me, that I may be able to set you right. These last two Sunday mornings have been spent by Mary Miles in nursing poor sick Annie Norris, that her daughter may go to church; and then, in the evening, Mary herself attends a place of worship with her husband. I think it a privilege to go to the house of prayer, but I believe that Mary Miles is doing her Master's work just as truly while nursing a poor sick neighbour, reading the Bible to her, and giving up her Sunday rest that another may be able to enjoy it,—as if she attended every service in the church."
"Ah, well," exclaimed Rebecca, half impatiently, "you are always one to find excuses; you're ready enough to stand up for your friends! Another drop of tea, if you please," and she pushed her cup across the table. Then, turning towards little Agnes, she said, in a different tone, "You must come and pay me a visit some day, my dear,—I have something to show you worth the seeing. I've been subscribing for a long long while to the Illustrated Bible, and with some money which I got as a Christmas box, I've had the numbers bound together into such a beauty of a book. But I dare say that your mother has done the same,—she's one to honour the Bible, as all know. Whenever one sees a large handsome Bible in a parlour, to my mind it's a kind of sign of the respectability of the people in it. None of your nick-nacks, say I; give me a well-bound Bible, with shining edges and gilded cover!" and Rebecca, proud of owning such a volume, sipped her tea with an air of the utmost self-satisfaction.
"Mother," said little Agnes, "your Bible is very old,—it has not a bit of gilding upon it, Could we not buy a new one?"
"My old Bible is more precious to me," said Mrs. White, "than any new one could be. It belonged to my own dear mother."
"It is shabby, though," observed Rebecca, glancing at the plain black volume which lay on a shelf; "you might any ways have it new bound,—you should think of the look of the thing."
"It is in good repair," said Mrs. White; "I am quite contented with my Bible as it is."
Rebecca gave a little meaning nod of her head, as if to say, "I care more for the Bible than you do, though everybody thinks you a saint."
Nothing more, however, passed on the subject; and the guest soon afterwards took her departure.
Agnes, with her thoughtful black eyes fixed upon the old Bible, sat for a while in silence, turning over in her young mind the conversation that had passed between her mother and their neighbour.
"What is my quiet little lassie dreaming about?" asked Mrs. White, who was clearing away the tea things.
"Mother," replied Agnes slowly, "I was thinking over what Rebecca Burton said about Mrs. Miles, and your Bible which looks so old. You and she didn't seem to feel alike. Is it not right, dear mother, to care for the look of the thing?"
"It is right to care something for appearances, but a great deal more for realities," quietly observed Mrs. White.
"I do not understand you at all," said Agnes; "is it not a good thing, mother, to give to the poor, to go to church; and to honour the Holy Bible?"
"A very good thing, my child, if done not to win the praise of men, but from the motive of love to God."
"I do not know what 'motive' means," said Agnes.
"It is the spring or cause of our actions. Two persons may give exactly the same sum to help a poor creature in great distress. One gives her shilling for the look of the thing, because she wishes the world to think her generous; the other gives it for the love of God, and so that He accept her offering, cares not if her gift be known by not one being on earth. You must see that the motive of the second is piety, the motive of the first is pride. Both women do the same thing, but one does it to please God, while her neighbour only pleases herself."
"But so long as the money is given," said Agnes, "I don't see that the motive matters very much."
"It matters everything," observed Mrs. White, "in the eyes of Him who readeth the heart. The cause of so much self-righteousness in the world is this: people, respectable people I mean, count up all their own kind actions, and never take the trouble of searching into their motives at all. How few would say to themselves, 'I am honest indeed, but only because I have found that the honest thrive best in the end;' 'I go to church regularly, but only because it is thought a respectable thing to do so;' 'I give freely, but only because I could not bear my neighbours to call me mean;' 'I pay what I owe, but only because if I did not, no one would trust me again.'"
"Do you not see, my child, that in all this the love of God is not the motive? If as much gain, and respect, and praise could be had by breaking God's laws as by keeping them, those who now do good deeds to be seen of men, would do evil ones in their stead."
Perhaps little Agnes was growing sleepy, for Mrs. White could not help perceiving that the child did not follow her argument. The mother did not try to explain herself further; she waited for some opportunity of making her little daughter understand more clearly the truth which was so plain to herself.
On the following morning Agnes came running up to her mother with a look of delight. "See, see!" she exclaimed, "What a beautiful watch my uncle has given me!" and she held up for the widow's admiration a very pretty toy watch! "It looks just as well as yours, mother, indeed I think it much the prettier of the two. Just see,—it has a chain, and seals, and a nice shining face, with all the hours marked on it, and slender little bright hands that I can move to any part with my key! Is not my little watch just as good as yours, mother?"
"As far as the look of the thing goes, yes, my dear," replied the smiling parent.
"There's hardly any difference between them," said Agnes; "only mine looks a little the brighter, because, you know, it is new. Please tell me the time, the exact time, that I may set my watch right."
"A quarter of ten," said Mrs. White.
With pride and pleasure little Agnes turned the hands, till they pointed just to the hour. It was almost time for her to set off for school, which she did in very high glee, showing to all the companions whom she met the beautiful present of her uncle.
"I am back a little earlier than usual, am I not, mother?" were the first words of Agnes White, when she returned from morning school. "Oh, you need not look at your watch,—you know I have now a watch of my own!" Agnes pulled out her bright little toy, and there were the hands exactly where she had placed them, pointing to a quarter of ten!
"Did you expect them to move, when there was no mainspring inside?" asked the widow with a smile.
Agnes scarcely knew whether to look vexed or amused. "I was a stupid little girl to fancy that they would move," said she; "mine is a very pretty watch, but it is only good to be looked at," and she laid it down on the table with an air of disappointment.
"Ah, my child," said Lydia White, gently drawing her little daughter towards her; "is not the watch without springs like that of which we were yesterday speaking, good conduct without a good motive? The most precious part of a real watch is that part which is unseen; and in like manner, it is the hidden motive for any good act which alone can give it true value."
"But ought we never to care how our conduct appears?" asked the child.
"Yes, my Agnes," replied her mother, "for those who have been bought with a price, even the precious blood of God's dear Son, are called to glorify their heavenly Master both with their bodies and their souls. We are called so to live that the world may say, 'There must be power in religion, for none are so honest, so true, so kind as those who are servants of God.'"
"I don't quite understand," said Agnes.
"Look again, dear child, at my watch, it may help to make the subject clearer. You know that the watch is a good one, you know that the mainspring is right."
Agnes nodded her head.
"How is it that you know?" asked her mother.
"The hands always point to the right place," replied Agnes; "they go just the same as the church clock."
"But suppose that we pull off the hands," said the widow.
"O mother, that would be a pity,—you never would do such a thing! If the hands were off, you might, wind up the watch, and the watch might go, but it would be of no use to others."
"Nor would it, do honour to its maker, my child. Now turn front the watch to the subject which I am trying to explain by its means. If the motive of love to God be like the mainspring to a Christian, the cause of all his good actions, his outward conduct is like the hands whose steady movements show that the mainspring is within. If they are constantly right, we believe that the hidden wheels are right, we know that the watch has been wisely made, carefully regulated, daily wound up. So when the Christian quietly goes on his circle of duties, ever seeking, by the help of God's grace, to do the will of his Lord,—he shows to the world a living example of the power and truth of religion; he does good not for the look of the thing, but because the love of Christ constraineth him to act as conscience directs.
"And then others, seeing the good example, may be led to follow it," observed Agnes, upon whose mind the meaning of her mother was now dawning.
"It is a common saying, Agnes, that 'example is better than precept,'" observed Mrs. White. "If we must search carefully into our motives for the sake of our own souls, we must also be watchful over our conduct, for others' sakes as well as our own. Never can we too earnestly study, too carefully follow the Saviour's command which refers to the outward behaviour of those who have the hidden motive of love,—'Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.' (Matt. v. 14, 16.)"
No. 2. GOOD-BYE.
"GOOD-BYE to you, Mr. Aylmer; I'm sorry that we're not to see you again till the summer. You've always been ready with a good word, ay, and a helping hand too for the poor. I'll miss your pleasant smile in those dull, dark wintry days as have little enough to light 'em. And little Emmy—she'll miss you too, won't you, my lamb?" said the Widow Cowell, as she lifted up in her arms a pretty blue-eyed child of about four years of age, to bid good-bye to the Catechist who was going to a distant part, of the country.
"Good-bye, Mary Cowell," said Aylmer, shaking with kindness the thin hand which the widow held out; "and good-bye to you, dear little one," he added, as bending forward he kissed the brow of the child, between her clustering locks of gold. "It's a solemn word, 'good-bye,' when we think of the meaning that's in it."
"I did not know as how it had any particular meaning," said Mary. "It's a word that we're always a-saying, and sometimes with a heavy heart."
"'Good-bye,' is 'God-be-with-you,' shortened to a single word. It is a blessing to the one who departs, echoed back to the one who remains. God be with you, Mary Cowell; may you feel His presence in the street—in the shop—by your board—by your bed—in your heart! You'll have many a temptation to struggle against—God be with you in the hour of temptation! You'll have many a trial to bear; God be with you then, and he will turn all these trials into blessings! You've a little one there, dear to your heart; remember that, like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him!"
"Ay, bless her heart! I love her!" thought Mary, as she led her little girl back into the small room which she hired by the week, in one of the back streets of London. "But if God pities me, like as a father pitieth his children, why does he so often leave me to want, why does he make my lot so hard? I'm sure I'd keep my darling from every trouble if I could, and if I had the means, she should sleep as soft, and fare as well as any little lady in the land!"
And in truth Mary Cowell was a kind and tender mother. The child had ever the largest share of the scanty meal, and while the mother's shawl was threadbare, soft and warm was the knitted tippet that wrapt the little girl. Mary took a pride in her Emmy; she never suffered her to run about the streets dirty and barefoot like many of the children of her neighbours. Emmy's face was washed, and her yellow curls were smoothed out every morning, and proudly did the fond mother look at her little darling. The greatest sorrow which poverty brought to Mary Cowell, was that it hindered her from giving every comfort and pleasure to her child.
"Mother," said Emmy on the following day, as she watched the widow preparing to go out, putting on her rusty black bonnet and thin patched shawl; "mother, you won't take the basket; it's Sunday; I hears the bells a-ringing."
"I must go," said Mary with a sigh.
"But didn't the good man tell us it was bad to go out a-sellin' on the Sunday?" asked the child, with a grave look of inquiry in her innocent eyes.
"Poor folk must eat," said the widow sadly; "God will not be hard upon us if want drives us to do what we never should do if we'd only enough to live on."
"May Emmy go wid you, mother?"
"No, my lamb," answered Mary, "not to stand at the corner of the street in this bitter sharp wind, and just catch your death of cold. It chills one to the bones," added the widow, stirring up in her little grate the fire which burned brightly and briskly, for the weather was frosty and keen. Mary then took the remains of the morning's meal, the half loaf and small jug of milk, and put them on the mantel-piece, out of reach of the child. Her last care was to place a wire-guard before the fire. Having often to leave her little girl alone in the room, Mary dreaded her falling into danger, and had, by self-denial, scraped up a sufficient number of pence, to buy an old wire fire-guard.
"Now remain quiet there, my jewel! Don't get into mischief," said Mary. "Look at the pretty prints on the wall; mother won't be long afore she comes back with something nice for her darling!" So saying the widow kissed the child, took up her basket, and went to the door.
"Good-bye, mother!" cried Emmy. The last sound which Mary heard as she went down the old creaking stair was the "good-bye" from the sweet little voice whose tones she loved so well.
"She's a-blessing me without knowing it," thought Mary, recalling the words of the Catechist. "She's a-saying 'God be with you!' I'm afraid all's not right with me, for it seems as if I couldn't take any comfort from the thought of God being with me! It makes my conscience uneasy to know that He is watching me now that I'm a-going to break his law, and sell on his holy day."
O reader! If ever the thought of the presence of your heavenly Father gives you a feeling of fear, rather than a feeling of comfort, be sure that you are wandering from the right way, and—whatever excuse you may make for yourself—that you are doing or thinking something that puts your soul in danger!
As Mary slowly made her way with her heavy basket to the corner of the street where she usually stood to sell, a friend of hers passed her on the way, but stopped and turned round to ask after Emmy who had not been well. A few words were exchanged between the two women, and then the friend, who had a Prayer-book in her hand, said, "I can't stop longer now; I don't like to be late for church. Good-bye, Mrs. Cowell."
"Good-bye!" repeated poor Mary. "Ah!" she said with a sigh, as she watched her friend hastening on, "God will be with her, to bless her, for I know that Martha serves Him. Oft-times I've heard her say, 'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shalt not want;' and though she's no better off than myself, it's wonderful, it is, how she has always had friends raised up for her in her troubles; and when trials came the thickest, how somehow or other a clear way out was always opened afore her! Martha says the best thing is to trust God and obey him, and that we don't obey because we don't trust. May be there's truth in that word; for if I really believed what Aylmer told me, that God cares for me as I care for my Emmy, I should do even just as he bids me, and keep this day holy. But it's hard to be hindered getting my bread honestly on one day out of seven; I don't see the harm in a poor widow woman selling a little on Sundays."
And yet Mary's mind was not easy; she had learned enough of God's word to know that by selling her oranges and nuts upon the day which the Lord has set apart for Himself, she was not only sinning herself, but leading others into sin. When little children thronged round her basket, eager to buy her fruit, Mary could not forget—she wished that she could—the solemn warning of the Lord: "Whoso shall offend (cause to sin) one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea."
There was a struggle in the mind of Mary between faith and distrust,—between duty and inclination—between the desire to follow her own will, and the knowledge that in all things we ought to follow the will of God. Which side in the end won the victory will appear in the end of my story. We will leave the widow doubting and hesitating at the corner of the street, and return to little Emmy, whom her mother had left carefully shut up in her lodging.
The child amused herself for some minutes as the widow had desired her to do, by looking at the coarse prints which were stuck with pins on the white-washed wall. But Emmy soon tired of this, she had seen them so often before. Then she sat down in front of the fire, and warmed her little red hands at the kindly blaze, and wished that that tiresome wire-guard were away, that kept so much of the glow out.
"Why should mother not let me get all the good of the fire?" said the little murmuring girl. "I'm sure there's no use in that thing that puts the fire in a cage, and keeps me from doing what I like, and making it blaze up high!" The child did not consider that one much older and wiser than herself was likely to have good reasons for putting on the guard. Emmy was no better judge of these reasons than the widow herself was of the wisdom which had fenced round the day of rest with the command, "On it thou shalt do no manner of work." All that either mother or child had to do was simply to trust and obey. But Emmy had a wilful temper, and could not bear anything like restraint.
Presently from looking at the fire, the child cast her eyes on the mantel-piece above it, and the bread and white jug upon it.
"Why did mother put them up there, when she knew that Emmy might be hungry, and want to eat before she comes home?" And impatiently the child stretched out her hand, and rose on her tiptoes, trying to reach the food. She could not touch the lower part of the shelf; and well was it for Emmy that the guard so wisely placed over the fire, prevented her little frock from catching the flame as she did so!
"Emmy will pull the chair to the place and climb up, and get at the loaf!" cried the child, determined by some means to have her own way, and procure what she thought that she needed. She ran off to a chair placed in a corner, which was almost the only article of furniture, besides the bed, to be found in that bare little room. But the chair was of clumsy and heavy make, and had several articles heaped upon it; all the efforts of Emmy were of no avail to drag it out from its place.
The difficulty which she found in getting what she desired only served to increase the eagerness of the child, and her determination to have the loaf which had been purposely placed out of her reach. Emmy was ready to cry, and accuse her tender mother of unkindness. And was she not in this but too much like many who doubt the love of their Heavenly Father because He has not placed in their hands what they think to be needful for their comfort?
At last a thought came into the mind of little Emmy, as she gazed, through her tears, at the fire. She had not strength to move the big chair, in vain she had struggled to do so; but might she not manage to move the guard, and would it not serve her for a footstool to reach the loaf on the mantel-piece? But then mother had told her so often not to meddle with the guard! Why should mother forbid her to touch it? The voice of discontent and distrust in the bosom of the little child, was much the same as that whose whisperings had led Mary Cowell to go out selling on Sunday. With both parent and daughter it proved to be stronger than conscience. Emmy laid hold of the guard and shook it; but old as it was, she had not the power to pull it from its place. Presently, however, the child felt that though she could not pull she could lift it. With eager pleasure Emmy raised the guard high enough to release its iron hooks from the bars, and then there was nothing to prevent her from removing the fence altogether.
Emmy's first pleasure was to poke up the fire with the little rusty bit of a poker which she had seen her mother use for the purpose, but which she herself had never been permitted to touch. Then, eager to get at the loaf; she put down the guard in front of the fire, so that she might be able to step upon it. Wretched, disobedient little child! With one foot on that trembling, yielding wire-work, one hand stretched up to take food not lawfully her own, her dress so close to the flame that in another moment it must be wrapt in a roaring blaze, what can now save her from destruction?
Suddenly the door opened, and with a cry of terror Mary Cowell sprang forward in time—but just in time, to snatch her only child away from a terrible death!
"Oh, thank God—thank God—that I came home, that He made me turn back!" exclaimed the widow, bursting into tears.
Little Emmy was punished, as she well deserved to be, for breaking her mother's command, and doing what she knew that she ought not to have done. But Mary Cowell, with a contrite heart, owned to herself, and confessed to God, that she had deserved sharper punishment than her child. There had been doubt and disobedience in both; but the older sinner was the greater, for she had most cause to trust the providence of a Father who is almighty as well as all-good. If the child had removed a guard carefully and wisely placed before the fire which, while kept to its proper use, is one of our greatest blessings, but which to those who misuse it may prove the cause of burning and death; what had the mother done? She had tried on the Lord's Day to earn bread by treading her duty under foot, by putting aside, as far as she could, that law by which the great God has fenced round His holy day, "Thou shalt do no manner of work."
Grateful for the warning given her, never again did Mary carry forth her basket on Sunday. Henceforth, by example as well as by precept, she brought up her little one in the fear and love of God. And when, after many years, the widow was called home to her soul's rest, she could with peaceful hope thus bid her daughter farewell.
"Good-bye, my loved one! God be with you in your trouble, He has never failed me in mine! 'Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land and verily thou shall be fed.' Good-bye, until we meet again, through the Saviour's merits,—the Saviour's love,—in His kingdom of glory!"
"GET away with ye, for an idle good for nothing thief!" exclaimed Mrs. Paton, as with an angry gesture she waved from her door a ragged miserable lad who stood before it. "Never shall you be trusted with another errand by me! To take the biscuits out of the very bag! Don't tell me you were hungry; don't tell me you won't be after doing it again! I was ready, I was, to give you a chance, since I knew that you was a homeless orphan; but I'll not be taken in twice! Go, beg about the streets or starve, or find your way to the workhouse, or the jail! I wash my hands of you, I'll have nothing more to do with ye, I tell you! Ungrateful and good for nothing as you are!" and as if to give force to her words, Mrs. Paton slammed the door in his face.
Rob Barker turned away from the house with the look of a beaten hound. He knew that the reproaches of the woman were not undeserved, that he had not been faithful to his trust. Deprived, when a child, of his parents' care, brought up in the midst of poverty and vice, growing even as the weeds grow, uncared for and unnoticed, save as something worse than useless, he seemed as if born to be trampled upon; he appeared to be bound by no kindly ties to the fellow-creatures who despised him. A feeling of savage despair was creeping over his soul.
"Ay, I'm good for nothing, am I?" Rob muttered, as with slouching gait he sauntered down the street not knowing whither to go, for all the world was alike to him, a desert without a home. Almost fiercely he looked at the passers-by, some on foot, some in carriages, some upon prancing steeds. "They are good for something," thought Rob; "they have their homes and their friends, their kind parents, their merry children. They are loved while they live, and sorrowed for when they die. But I, I have no one left on earth either to love or care for me, or miss me when I'm gone. Life is just one tough hard struggle, there's none will help me through it!"
Rob stopped at the corner of a street, leant against an iron lamp-post, and moodily folded his arms. The bare brown elbows were seen through the holes in his tattered sleeves. His worn-out shoes would hardly hold together.
"I say, you, won't you come in there?" said a voice just behind him. Rob started, he so little expected to be addressed, and turning half round he saw a pale boy, in clothes that were poor but not tattered, who pointed to a door close by, over which was written "Ragged School."
"I'm not wanted there," muttered Rob.
"Every one's welcome," said the little boy, "and it's better to be in a warm room, than standing out here in the cold! I'm late, very late to-day, for I've been sent on an errand, but I think I'm in time for the little address; teacher, she always gives us a bit of a story at the end. I can't wait, but you'd better come in;" and with the force of this simple invitation, Sandy Benne, for such was the young boy's name, drew the half unwilling Rob within the door of a place where a devoted servant of the Good Shepherd was trying to feed His lambs.
Rob did not venture to do more than enter the low white-washed room in which he heard the hum of many voices. A poor-looking room it was; its only furniture, rough benches; its only ornaments, a few hymns and texts in large letters fastened on the wall. Rob stood close by the door, a shy, almost sullen spectator, watching the scene before him. The room was thronged with children, such children as, but for the Ragged School, would have been playing about in the streets. Little rough-headed urchins, who once had been foremost in mischief, pale sickly boys who looked as if they had had no breakfast that morning. Seated, some on the benches, some on the floor, they were conning their tasks with a cheerful industry which might have shamed some of the children of the rich. But a few minutes after the entrance of Rob, at a signal given by the teacher, a tall fair lady in mourning, books and slates were put back in their places, the morning's lessons were ended, and the school looked like a bee-hive when the bees are about to swarm.
"Now we shall have the little address," whispered Sandy, who had kept all eye upon Rob; "the teacher is going to knock upon the floor with her parasol, and then, won't we be quiet as mice!"
There was no need to call "silence;" two little raps upon the floor were enough to make every rough scholar in the place go back to his seat in a minute, and remain there as still as a statue. All the young eyes were fixed on the teacher, the gentle loving lady, who daily left her comfortable house to trudge, sometimes through rain, and snow, and sleet, to spend her time, her strength, and her health, in leading ragged children to the Saviour. Her voice was a little faint, for the lady was weary with her work, though never weary of her work, but her smile was kindly and bright as she began her short address.
"I have promised to give you a story, my dear young friends," she began, "and as I am speaking in a Ragged School, and to those who are called Ragged Scholars, you will not be shocked or surprised if I choose for my subject—a Rag."
The teacher's cheerful smile was reflected on many a young sunburnt face; rags were a theme on which most of the company felt perfectly at home, though few present, except poor Rob, actually wore the articles in question.
"On a miry road," continued the lady, "trodden down by hoofs, rolled over by wheels, till it became almost of the colour of the mud on which it was lying, lay an old piece of linen rag, which had been dropped there by a beggar. Nothing could be more worthless, and long it lay unnoticed, till it caught the attention of a woman who, with a child at her side, was picking her way over the crossing."
"'I may as well pick that up for my bag,' said the woman."
"'Oh, mother, don't dirty your fingers by picking up that rag!' cried the boy with a look of disgust; 'such trash is not worth the trouble of washing! It's good for nothing; just good for nothing; it is better to leave it alone!'"
"'Let me judge of that,' said the woman; and stooping down, she picked up the miry rag, all torn and stained as it was, and carried it with her to her home. There she carefully washed it, and put it with other pieces of linen in a bag; and after a while, it was sold for a trifle to a manufacturer of paper."
"If the rag had been a living creature, possessed of any feeling, much might it have complained of all that if had then to undergo. It was torn to pieces, reduced to shreds, beaten till it became quite a pulp; no one could have guessed who looked at it then that it had ever been linen at all. But what, my young friends, was the end of all this washing, and beating, and rending? At length a pure, white, beautiful sheet of paper lay beneath the manufacturer's hands; into this fair form had passed the rag which a child had called good for nothing!"
"But the sheet was not to lie useless. Not in vain had it been made so white and clean. It was next carried to the press of a printer. There it was once more damped, so as better to receive an impression: then it was laid over blackened type (that is, letters cast in metal), and pressed down with a heavy roller, until every letter was clearly marked upon the smooth white surface. God's Holy Word had been stamped upon it, the sheet was to form a leaf of a Bible; such honour was given to the once soiled rag, which a child had called good for nothing!"
"And where was this Bible to be; to what home and what heart was it to carry its message of mercy? It was bound, and gilded, and bought, and carried to the royal palace of the Queen. The Bible lay in the sovereign's chamber, it was opened by the sovereign's hand; her eye rested upon it as upon that which was more precious to her than her crown! What was it to her that a portion of the paper had once been a worn-out rag dropped by one of the meanest of her subjects? It had been washed, purified, changed, the Word of God had given it value; well might the Queen prize and love it as her best possession upon earth."
"Dear friends," continued the lady, looking with loving interest on the listening groups before her, "can you not, trace out now a little parable in my story? Need I explain its meaning? There have been some neglected ones in the world, as little cared for, as little regarded as the rag which lay on the miry road. But who shall dare to say that even the soul most stained by sin, most sunk in evil, is good for nothing?"
"Such souls may be raised from the dust, such souls have been raised from the dust. While God spares life we may yet have hope. I have just read of the case of James Stirling, a faithful servant, an earnest worker for God. That man for twenty years was a drunkard, a grief to his wife, a disgrace to his family, an evil example to those around him. If he, by the power of God's Word, was raised from such a depth of sin, who now need despair? What if our sins be many before God, 'the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth from all sin.' The soiled may be made pure and clean. What did the Saviour say to the weeping penitent whom all the world despised? 'Thy sins are forgiven thee, go in peace.' And thus speaks the merciful Lord to the lowly penitent still."
"And when a soul is washed from its guilt, it is not left to be idle and useless. When God gives to a sinner a new heart, it is that His Holy Word may be deeply stamped on that heart. Then those who have been cleansed, forgiven, and raised, bear to others the blessed message which they themselves have received. 'Come, hear what the Lord has done for my soul. Come, taste and see that the Lord is gracious;' such are the Bible words printed, as it were, on the heart of every pardoned sinner, who, having been forgiven much, feels that he loveth much."
"And once more, dear friends, let me refer to the leaf of the Bible described in my little story, as a picture of a soul redeemed. It too will one day be borne to a palace; not the dwelling of an earthly monarch, but the mansion of the King of kings! Precious will it be in his eyes, and counted amongst His treasures. Oh, what a joyful, glorious end may be reserved for some whom the world call good for nothing, when penitent, pardoned, purified spirits shine as stars in the kingdom of heaven!"
The lady ceased, but her words seemed to echo still in the ears of poor Rob. He was fixed to the spot where he stood, scarcely conscious of the bustle around him as the scholars noisily quitted the room. A door of hope had been suddenly opened before the almost despairing lad, a gleam of light had fallen on his darkness. Rob Barker had read the history of his own past life in that of the trampled rag; could a like future be before him, could he ever be one of the "penitent, pardoned, purified" ones, who shall shine at last like the stars?
The teacher's attention had been attracted by the wretched appearance and earnest look of the stranger lad. A feeling of interest and pity made her watch him, as he lingered in that room in which he had first learned that it was possible for such as he to be saved. As Rob walked slowly from the place, the lady overtook him, asked his name, and inquired what had brought him to the Ragged School that morning.
"I believe that God brought me," murmured Rob, and his answer came from his heart.
"Where do you live?" said the lady.
"I have no home, no friends," replied the lad, in a tone of gloomy despair.
"You are young, you look strong and active, you must never give up hope," said the teacher; "God is willing and able to help all who come in faith to Him. Let us see if no way can be found by which you can earn your bread as an honest Christian should do."
The lady herself did something, perhaps to some it may seem very little, to aid the poor homeless lad; she had many poor to think of, many claims on her purse. She gave but a stale roll, an old broom, and the means of procuring a single night's lodging, together with an invitation to come every day and learn at the Ragged School. This was but a small and humble beginning to Rob's new start in life. I am not going to trace his career through all its various stages. He was the crossing-sweeper, the errand-boy, the lad ready for any message or any work, cleaning boots, putting up shutters, carrying parcels to earn a few pence, or some broken victuals.
Life was a struggle to Rob, as it is a struggle to many who, when they rise in the morning scarcely know where they will lie down at night. But Rob Barker was learning more and more to put his trust in that heavenly Father who never forsakes His children. He was learning to be honest, sober, and pious. Gradually the sky brightened over Rob; his character became known and trusted, and greater prosperity came. Having sought first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, other things were added besides, according to the promise of the Lord. Rob entered service, and rose in it; he remained for nearly twenty years under the same kind master, then with his honest earnings, set up in business, and prospered. Rob lived to be known and respected in the world as a good husband, father, and master. He lived to be useful in the station of comfort and honour to which God's mercy had raised him, and to look forward with humble hope and rejoicing to the rest of Paradise and changeless glories of heaven.
Such was the career of one who had once been deemed good for nothing by a fellow sinner!
No. 4. HOW LIKE IT IS!
"I HOPE, aunt, that you did not mind my knocking up the house at twelve o'clock last night," said Eddy Burns, as he sat down one Monday morning to the breakfast which had been kept waiting for him nearly an hour.
"I own, my dear boy," replied Mrs. Burns, a gentle looking woman with silvery hair smoothly braided beneath the whitest of caps, "I must own that I should much rather have had you going with me to church, and spending Sunday evening quietly here, than wandering off I know not where, and never returning till midnight."
"Oh, if I were always living in London it would be different," cried Eddy, as he emptied the plate of grilled bacon; "but, you know, when I'm only up on a visit, I must see all that's to be seen, and make the most of my time. What a whirl I was in all last week! sights and shows of all kinds—amusement from morning till night—hither—thither—everywhere."
"Where were you yesterday, Eddy?" asked his aunt.
"Well, if the truth must be told, I was off to Brighton by an excursion train to have a sniff of the sea air, and somehow or other we did not manage to get back till late."
"I was very uneasy and anxious about you," said Mrs. Burns, in a tone of gentle reproach.
"Oh, I'm sorry that I worried you!" exclaimed Eddy; "you're the best of good aunts, and I owe more to you I know than to any one else in the world. I may be a wild, thoughtless young fellow, but I'm not ungrateful—no; there's nothing I hate like ingratitude!"
Mrs. Burns' only answer was a kindly smile. She might have upbraided Eddy for his selfishness, his want of consideration, his neglect of all religious duties, but she felt that this was not the time for doing so.
"Where are you going to-day?" asked the aunt.
"Well, I'm off to the Pantheon to see if my photo is ready," said the lad.
"You did not tell me that you had been sitting for your likeness."
"Oh, everybody sits now-a-days," laughed Eddy, "you would not have me behind the rest of the world. If the photo turn out good you shall have it, aunt;" and the boy passed his hand through his light brown hair with a very self-satisfied look, which seemed to say, "I'm sure they'll make a good picture of a handsome young fellow like me!"
Off started Eddy for the Pantheon, not a little curious to see his own face for the first time on paper. Eddy Burns was by no means free from personal vanity. He had dressed very carefully for his sitting, put on his best waist-coat and his bright new studs for the occasion, and had spent nearly ten minutes in fastening his opera tie. Eddy was now impatient to see the result of all his dressing and study, and hurried up the Pantheon staircase with all the eagerness of a child. When he reached the photograph stall, the youth could not wait until those who had come before him were served; he pushed himself forward, and kept demanding his picture as if every moment of his time were precious.
"What an age the woman takes in looking over her little packets," muttered Eddy.
"This is yours," said the person behind the stall, handing a carte de visite to the impatient lad.
Eddy almost snatched it from her hand, and then, drawing back a few steps, looked at it with angry disappointment, almost tempted to fling it down on the counter in disgust.
"Ugh I what a fright they've made me," growled the youth as he descended the staircase at a slower pace than he had mounted. "I've half a mind to toss it into the fire; but I'll show it first to my aunt, and see what she says of the likeness."
"Is it like?"
About an hour afterwards Eddy entered the parlour of Mrs. Burns.
"Have you brought back your likeness, my dear boy?" was the aunt's first question when she saw him.
"Here it is, aunt; what do you think of it?" said Eddy, seating himself on an easy chair, and drawing the little carte from his pocket. He watched the face of his aunt as she closely examined the picture, and rather wondered at the tender expression in her gentle grey eyes, and the smile which rose to her lips.
"How like it is!" was her first exclamation.
"I'm surprised that you think so," cried Eddy, rather mortified by her words; "I did not fancy myself to be so ugly a dog; but I suppose that no one knows his own face."
"The sun will not flatter," said his aunt with a smile, "he is too truthful often to please. May I keep your photo?" added Mrs. Burns. "I shall value it dearly, for it will so remind me of you."
"Oh, you're welcome to keep it, or light the fire with it!" cried Eddy, "I never wish to see it again. I wonder whether," he continued, half laughing, "if the sun could draw our characters as he draws our faces in such a dreadfully truthful way, we should recognise ourselves at all."
"I rather doubt that we would," said Mrs. Burns, with her eyes thoughtfully fixed upon the photograph, which, though by no means a pleasing, was a very faithful likeness of her nephew.
"Well, aunt, some time or other you shall play the part of the sun, and make a photograph of my character. I should like to know what I really am like, and I've heard that you're so sharp at finding out all that folk are feeling and thinking, that you'll hit me off to a hair." Eddy's eye twinkled as he spoke, and his manner was so careless and gay that it was clear that he was not much afraid that any very unfavourable opinion could be formed of himself. Indeed, he considered himself, on the whole, a very pleasant, kind, good-hearted sort of a fellow.
"You must give me a little time for reflection and observation, Eddy, before I attempt to take your likeness; and you must not be angry when I have done if my picture does not flatter."
"Oh, I like plain truth," cried Eddy; "I don't think that you'll have much worse to say of me than that I like play better than work, and am always up to a lark."
Nothing more was said on the subject at that time. Eddy went out to some place of amusement, and did not return till the evening. He then looked heated and flushed, and flung himself down on a chair by his aunt with an air of indignant displeasure.
"He's the most ungrateful dog that ever I met with!" muttered Eddy between his teeth.
"Of whom do you speak?" asked his aunt.
"Of Arthur Knox, to be sure; who was my school fellow, and to whom I lent half my pocket money one quarter—which, by the by, he has never returned to me. There's no saying how many scrapes I've helped that Arthur out of, for he was always getting into scrapes. And now—would you believe it—he passed me to-day in the street as if he had quite forgotten me. A dead cut, if ever there was one."
"Perhaps he did not see you," suggested Mrs. Burns.
"Oh, but he did though," cried Eddy, quickly, "I caught his eye as we met. But he has lately come in to some money, and that has turned his head, I suppose; and he was walking with some grandly dressed folk; I fancy he did not choose they should know that I was an acquaintance of his. Oh, I hate ingratitude of all things. A man may be honest, pleasant, kind—anything that you like, but once show me that he's ungrateful, and I would not care ever to set eyes upon him again."
"Ingratitude is hateful, Eddy, and yet—"
"Oh, don't you try to defend Arthur Knox!" exclaimed the lad, with increased impatience of manner; "why, I once sat up a whole night to nurse him, and that's not what every one would do, I can tell you. I really cared for the fellow, and that makes his conduct the harder to bear. To cut me dead in the streets! Did you ever know any being so ungrateful?"
"I know a youth," replied Mrs. Burns, "who has, I think, shown himself to be quite as ungrateful as Arthur."
"I can hardly believe it," said Eddy.
"You shall hear and judge for yourself. A youth—I need not give you his name—had incurred a very heavy debt, which no efforts of his own would ever enable him to pay. There was nothing before him but, utter ruin, when a friend, who knew and pitied his distress, before he had even been asked to relieve, came forward and freely offered to pay not a part only, but the whole of the debt. But the sacrifice was great to him who made it; the generous Friend who had once been possessed of great wealth brought himself to poverty and want, and for years endured the greatest hardships, on account of his kindness to another."
"What wonderful goodness!" cried Eddy.
"Nor was this all," continued Mrs. Burns. "The Benefactor adopted the youth as his son, gave him his own name; provided him with food, clothing, lodging, all that he really required; and when the lad was old enough, placed him in a situation in which he would be able comfortably to earn his living."
"Now that was a friend!" exclaimed Eddy. "And what return did this youth make for such unheard of kindness?"
"I grieve to say," replied Mrs. Burns, "that I believe that the youth almost entirely forgot the Benefactor to whom he owed everything. His Friend desired him to come to his house—but that house appeared to be the very last place which the lad cared to enter. Months, perhaps years, would pass without his crossing the threshold. Letters received from his Benefactor were never opened by the youth, he thought it a weariness even to read them."
"What a heartless wretch!" exclaimed Eddy.
"He never did any one thing to please the Friend who had paid his debt at such vast cost, and who had cared for him from childhood. He loved the company of those who were enemies to his Benefactor; he did not, indeed, like them, speak openly against him—"
"I should think not," interrupted the indignant Eddy, "it was hateful enough to forget him."
"Nay, but I have not told you all. You have heard how freely and lovingly the Friend had bestowed many goods on the youth: he had, however, as he had a perfect right to do, reserved a portion for himself. Even this portion he was laying up to increase the future wealth of his adopted son; but, he forbade the youth, in the mean time, to do what he pleased with this portion."
"No one could complain of that," observed Eddy.
"But the youth did complain," said his aunt, "and he did not content himself with murmurs, he resolved to spend all as he pleased. Against right, conscience, and gratitude, he wasted on idle follies what his generous Friend had reserved. Eddy, what say you now to this youth?"
"Say?" repeated her nephew, "I say that he is the most ungrateful, despicable, good for nothing being in the world. Is he living still?"
"Living—yes, and not far hence," replied Mrs. Burns, with a glance of meaning; "is not my photograph like?"
"What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed the astonished Eddy, opening his eyes wide, and fixing them on his aunt.
"Is not the likeness that of every soul that forgets and neglects the greatest of Benefactors—the best and kindest of Friends? Oh, Eddy what hath God done for us, can we number up a thousandth part of the benefits received from His love? Think of the heavy debt of sin, that sin which, unpardoned, is death! Did not the Lord of glory leave the throne of heaven to live in poverty and want, and then endure the scourge and the cross, that our heavy debt might be paid? Was not that the proof of most wonderful love? And think how, from our feeble infancy, God has watched over, cared for, and blessed us. For the sight of our eyes, the strength of our limbs, for the faculties of memory and reason, we have to thank our great Benefactor. For the home in which we dwell, the food which we eat, the friends whom we love—we must thank him. For all that we have in this world, and for all that we hope for in the next, we must bless and praise our Redeemer."
Eddy looked more thoughtful than usual, and, after a pause, his aunt went on: "And what return do many of us make for all this goodness and love? What is the conduct of many of those who bear the name of Christians? Do they care to please the Lord, or only to please themselves? When God invites them to His house of prayer, do they not neglect his invitation, and prefer any place of amusement? Would they not rather read any light book than the Bible, which is the word of God, and contains His gracious message? And to mention but one thing more, that precious portion of time, the Lord's Day, which God has reserved in His wisdom to be an especial blessing to the soul, the time which he commands us to hallow—do not many rob him of it lot their own purposes; their business, their trade, their amusement? If ingratitude be hateful towards man—oh, what must it be towards God!"
"Aunt, you are hard upon me," said Eddy.
"Since you take the picture for yourself, dear boy, I can only say—Is it not like?"