{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15034/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15034","id":"gutenberg_15034","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15034","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Short Stories","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"Produced by David Garcia, Bethanne M. Simms-Troester and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: TAWNEY RACHEL.]\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES FOR THE YOUNG;\n\nOR,\n\nCHEAP REPOSITORY TRACTS:\n\nENTERTAINING, MORAL, AND RELIGIOUS.\n\nBY HANNAH MORE AND OTHERS.\n\nA NEW REVISED EDITION.\n\nVOL. VI.\n\nPUBLISHED BY THE\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,\n\n150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nVOL. VI.\n\n\nBlack Giles the Poacher; containing some account of a family who had\nrather live by their wits than their work.\n\nHistory of Widow Brown's Apple-tree; being Part II. of Black Giles the\nPoacher.\n\nTawney Rachel; or, the Fortune-teller: with some account of Dreams,\nOmens, and Conjurers. Being Part III. of Black Giles the Poacher.\n\nThe Happy Waterman.\n\nThe Gravestone.\n\nParley the Porter. An Allegory. Showing how robbers without can never\nget into a house unless there are traitors within.\n\nA New Christmas Tract; or, the Right Way of Rejoicing at Christmas.\nShowing the reasons we have for joy at the event of our Saviour's birth.\n\nA New Christmas Hymn.\n\nBear ye one another's Burdens; or, the Valley of Tears. A Vision.\n\nThe Strait Gate and the Broad Way; being the Second Part of the Valley\nof Tears.\n\nThe Parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard.\n\n\n\n\nBLACK GILES THE POACHER:\n\nCONTAINING SOME ACCOUNT OF A FAMILY WHO HAD RATHER LIVE BY THEIR WITS\nTHAN THEIR WORK[A]\n\nBY HANNAH MORE.\n\nPART I\n\n[Footnote A: This story exhibits an accurate picture of that part of\nthe country where the author then resided; and where, by her\nbenevolent zeal, a great reformation was effected among the poor\ninhabitants of at least twenty parishes, within a circle of thirty\nmiles.]\n\n\nPoaching Giles lives on the borders of one of those great moors in\nSomersetshire. Giles, to be sure, has been a sad fellow in his time;\nand it is none of his fault if his whole family do not end their\ncareer either at the gallows, or at Botany Bay. He lives at that mud\ncottage, with the broken windows stuffed with dirty rags, just beyond\nthe gate which divides the upper from the lower moor. You may know the\nhouse at a good distance by the ragged tiles on the roof, and the\nloose stones which are ready to drop out from the chimney; though a\nshort ladder, a hod of mortar, and half an hour's leisure time would\nhave prevented all this, and made the little dwelling tight enough.\nBut as Giles had never learned any thing that was good, so he did not\nknow the value of such useful sayings as, that \"a tile in time saves\nnine.\"\n\nBesides this, Giles fell into that common mistake, that a\nbeggarly looking cottage, and filthy, ragged children, raised most\ncompassion, and of course drew most charity. But as cunning as he was\nin other things, he was out in his reckoning here; for it is neatness,\nhousewifery, and a decent appearance, which draws the kindness of the\nrich and charitable, while they turn away disgusted with filth and\nlaziness: not out of pride, but because they see that it is next to\nimpossible to mend the condition of those who degrade themselves by\ndirt and sloth; and few people care to help those who will not help\nthemselves.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe common on which Giles' hovel stands is quite a deep marsh in a wet\nwinter, but in summer it looks green and pretty enough. To be sure, it\nwould be rather convenient, when one passes that way in a carriage, if\none of the children would run out and open the gate; but instead of any\none of them running out as soon as they hear the wheels, which would be\nquite time enough, what does Giles do but set all his ragged brats, with\ndirty faces, matted locks, and naked feet and legs, to lie all day upon\na sand-bank hard by the gate, waiting for the slender chance of what may\nbe picked up from travellers. At the sound of a carriage, a whole covey\nof these little scarecrows start up, rush to the gate, and all at once\nthrust out their hats and aprons; and for fear this, together with the\nnoise of their clamorous begging, should not sufficiently frighten the\nhorses, they are very apt to let the gate slap full against you, before\nyou are half way through, in their eager scuffle to snatch from each\nother the halfpence which you may have thrown out to them. I know two\nladies who were one day very near being killed by these abominable tricks.\n\nThus five or six little idle creatures, who might be earning a trifle\nby knitting at home, who might be useful to the public by working in\nthe field, and who might assist their families by learning to get\ntheir bread twenty honest ways, are suffered to lie about all day in\nthe hope of a few chance halfpence, which, after all, they are by no\nmeans sure of getting. Indeed, when the neighboring gentlefolks found\nout that opening the gate was the family trade, they soon left off\ngiving any thing. And I myself, though I used to take out a penny\nready to give, had there been only one to receive it, when I saw a\nwhole family established in so beggarly a trade, quietly put it back\nagain into my pocket, and gave nothing at all. And so few travellers\npass that way, that sometimes, after the whole family have lost a day,\ntheir gains do not Amount to two-pence.\n\nAs Giles had a far greater taste for living by his wits than his work,\nhe was at one time in hopes that his children might get a pretty penny\nby _tumbling_ for the diversion of travellers, and he set about\ntraining them in that indecent practice; but, unluckily, the moors\nbeing level, the carriages travelled faster than the children tumbled.\nHe envied those parents who lived on the London road, over the\nWiltshire downs, which downs being very hilly, it enables the tumbler\nto keep pace with the traveller, till he sometimes extorts from the\nlight and the unthinking a reward instead of a reproof. I beg leave,\nhowever, to put all gentlemen and ladies in mind, that such tricks are\na kind of apprenticeship to the trades of begging and thieving; and\nthat nothing is more injurious to good morals than to encourage the\npoor in any habits which may lead them to live upon chance.\n\nGiles, to be sure, as his children grew older, began to train them to\nsuch other employments as the idle habits they had learned at the gate\nvery properly qualified them for. The right of common, which some of\nthe poor cottagers have in that part of the country, and which is\ndoubtless a considerable advantage to many, was converted by Giles\ninto the means of corrupting his whole family; for his children, as\nsoon as they grew too big for the trade of begging at the gate, were\npromoted to the dignity of thieving on the moor.\n\nHere he kept two or three asses, miserable creatures, which, if they\nhad the good fortune to escape an untimely death by starving, did not\nfail to meet with it by beating. Some of the biggest boys were sent\nout with these lean and galled animals to carry sand or coals about\nthe neighboring towns. Both sand and coals were often stolen before\nthey got them to sell; or if not, they always took care to cheat in\nselling them. By long practice in this art, they grew so dexterous\nthat they could give a pretty good guess how large a coal they could\ncrib out of every bag before the buyer would be likely to miss it.\n\nAll their odd time was taken up under the pretence of watching these\nasses on the moor, or running after five or six half-starved geese;\nbut the truth is, these boys were only watching for an opportunity to\nsteal an odd goose of their neighbor's, while they pretended to look\nafter their own. They used also to pluck the quills or the down from\nthese poor live creatures, or half milk a cow before the farmer's maid\ncame with her pail. They all knew how to calculate to a minute what\ntime to be down in a morning to let out their lank, hungry beasts,\nwhich they had turned over night into the farmer's field to steal a\nlittle good pasture. They contrived to get there just time enough to\nescape being caught in replacing the stakes they had pulled out for\nthe cattle to get over. For Giles was a prudent, long-headed fellow;\nand wherever he stole food for his colts, took care never to steal\nstakes from the hedges at the same time. He had sense enough to know\nthat the gain did not make up for the danger; he knew that a loose\nfagot, pulled from a neighbor's pile of wood after the family were\ngone to bed, answered the end better, and was not half the trouble.\n\nAmong the many trades which Giles professed, he sometimes practised\nthat of a rat-catcher; but he was addicted to so many tricks, that he\nnever followed the same trade long, for detection will sooner or later\nfollow the best-concerted villany. Whenever he was sent for to a\nfarm-house, his custom was to kill a few of the old rats, always\ntaking care to leave a little stock of young ones alive sufficient to\nkeep up the breed; \"for,\" said he, \"if I were to be such a fool as to\nclear a house or a barn at once, how would my trade be carried on?\"\nAnd where any barn was overstocked, he used to borrow a few rats from\nthence, just to people a neighboring granary which had none; and he\nmight have gone on till now, had he not unluckily been caught one\nevening emptying his cage of young rats under parson Wilson's\nbarn-door.\n\nThis worthy minister, Mr. Wilson, used to pity the neglected children\nof Giles, as much as he blamed the wicked parents. He one day picked\nup Dick, who was far the best of Giles' bad boys. Dick was loitering\nabout in a field behind the parson's garden, in search of a hen's\nnest, his mother having ordered him to bring home a few eggs that\nnight, by hook or by crook, as Giles was resolved to have some\npancakes for supper, though he knew that eggs were a penny apiece.\nMr. Wilson had long been desirous of snatching some of this vagrant\nfamily from ruin; and his chief hopes were bent on Dick, as the least\nhackneyed in knavery. He had once given him a new pair of shoes, on\nhis promising to go to school next Sunday; but no sooner had Rachel,\nthe boy's mother, got the shoes into her clutches, than she pawned\nthem for a bottle of gin, and ordered the boy to keep out of the\nparson's sight, and to be sure to play his marbles on Sunday, for the\nfuture, at the other end of the parish, and not near the churchyard.\n\nMr. Wilson, however, picked up the boy once more; for it was not his\nway to despair of any body. Dick was just going to take to his heels,\nas usual, for fear the old story of the shoes should be brought\nforward; but finding he could not get off, what does he do but run\ninto a little puddle of muddy water which lay between him and the\nparson, that the sight of his naked feet might not bring on the\ndreaded subject. Now, it happened that Mr. Wilson was planting a\nlittle field of beans, so he thought this a good opportunity to employ\nDick; and he told him he had got some pretty easy work for him. Dick\ndid as he was bid; he willingly went to work, and readily began to\nplant his beans with dispatch and regularity, according to the\ndirections given him.\n\nWhile the boy was busily at work by himself, Giles happened to come\nby, having been skulking round the back way, to look over the parson's\ngarden wall, to see if there was any thing worth climbing over for on\nthe ensuing night. He spied Dick, and began to scold him for working\nfor the stingy old parson; for Giles had a natural antipathy to\nwhatever belonged to the church.\n\n\"What has he promised thee a day?\" said he; \"little enough, I dare\nsay.\"\n\n\"He is not to pay me by the day,\" said Dick, \"but says he will give me\nso much when I have planted this peck, and so much for the next.\"\n\n\"Oh, oh, that alters the case,\" said Giles. \"One may, indeed, get a\ntrifle by this sort of work. I hate your regular day-jobs, when one\ncan't well avoid doing one's work for one's money. Come, give me a\nhandful of the beans; I will teach thee how to plant when thou art\npaid for planting by the peck. All we have to do in that case is to\ndispatch the work as fast as we can, and get rid of the beans with all\nspeed; and as to the seed coming up or not, that is no business of\nours; we are paid for planting, not for growing. At the rate thou\ngoest on, thou wouldst not get sixpence to-night. Come along, hurry\naway.\"\n\nSo saying, he took his hat-full of the seed, and where Dick had been\nordered to set one bean, Giles buried a dozen; so the beans were soon\nout. But though the peck was emptied, the ground was unplanted. But\ncunning Giles knew this could not be found out till the time when the\nbeans might be expected to come up; \"and then, Dick,\" said he, \"the\nsnails and mice may go shares in the blame; or we can lay the fault\non the rooks or the blackbirds.\" So saying, he sent the boy into the\nparsonage to receive his pay, taking care to secure about a quarter of\nthe peck of beans for his own colt. He put both bag and beans into his\nown pocket to carry home, bidding Dick tell Mr. Wilson that he had\nplanted the beans and lost the bag.\n\nIn the meantime Giles' other boys were busy in emptying the ponds and\ntrout-streams in the neighboring manor. They would steal away the carp\nand tench when they were no bigger than gudgeons. By this untimely\ndepredation they plundered the owner of his property, without\nenriching themselves. But the pleasure of mischief was reward enough.\n\nThese and a hundred other little thieveries they committed with such\ndexterity, that old Tom Crib, whose son was transported last assizes\nfor sheep-stealing, used to be often reproaching his boys, that Giles'\nsons were worth a hundred of such blockheads as he had; for scarce a\nnight passed but Giles had some little comfortable thing for supper\nwhich his boys had pilfered in the day, while his undutiful dogs never\nstole any thing worth having. Giles, in the meantime, was busy in his\nway; but as busy as he was in laying nets, starting coveys, and\ntraining dogs, he always took care that his depredations should not be\nconfined merely to game.\n\nGiles' boys had never seen the inside of a church, and the father\nthought he knew his own interest better than to force them to it; for\nchurch-time was the season of their harvest. Then the hens' nests were\nsearched, a stray duck was clapped under the smockfrock, the tools\nwhich might have been left by chance in a farm-yard were picked up,\nand all the neighboring pigeon-houses were thinned; so that Giles used\nto boast to tawny Rachel, his wife, that Sunday was to them the most\nprofitable day in the week.\n\nWith her it was certainly the most laborious day, as she always did\nher washing and ironing on Sunday morning, it being, as she said, the\nonly leisure day she had; for on the other days she went about the\ncountry telling fortunes, and selling dream-books and wicked songs.\nNeither her husband's nor her children's clothes were ever mended, and\nif Sunday, her idle day, had not come about once in every week, it is\nlikely they would never have been washed either. You might, however,\nsee her as you were going to church smoothing her own rags on her best\nred cloak, which she always used for her ironing-cloth on Sundays, for\nher cloak when she travelled, and for her blanket at night: such a\nwretched manager was Rachel.\n\nAmong her other articles of trade, one was to make and sell\npeppermint, and other distilled waters. These she had the cheap art of\nmaking without trouble and without expense, for she made them without\nherbs and without a still. Her way was, to fill so many quart bottles\nwith plain water, putting a spoonful of mint-water in the mouth of\neach; these she corked down with rosin, carrying to each customer a\nvial of real distilled water to taste, by way of sample. This was so\ngood that her bottles were commonly bought up without being opened;\nbut if any suspicion arose, and she was forced to uncork a bottle, by\nthe few drops of distilled water lying at top, she even then escaped\ndetection, and took care to get out of reach before the bottle was\nopened a second time. She was too prudent ever to go twice to the same\nhouse.\n\n\nTHE UPRIGHT MAGISTRATE.\n\nThere is hardly any petty mischief that is not connected with the life\nof a poacher. Mr. Wilson was aware of this; he was not only a pious\nclergyman, but an upright justice. He used to say, that people who\nwere truly conscientious, must be so in small things as well as in\ngreat ones, or they would destroy the effect of their own precepts,\nand their example would not be of general use. For this reason he\nnever would accept of a hare or a partridge from any unqualified\nperson in his parish. He did not content himself with shuffling the\nthing off by asking no questions, and pretending to take it for\ngranted in a general way that the game was fairly come at; but he used\nto say, that by receiving the booty he connived at a crime, made\nhimself a sharer in it, and if he gave a present to the man who\nbrought it, he even tempted him to repeat the fault.\n\nOne day poor Jack Weston, an honest fellow in the neighborhood, whom\nMr. Wilson had kindly visited and relieved in a long sickness, from\nwhich he had but just recovered, was brought before him as he was\nsitting on the justice's bench. Jack was accused of having knocked\ndown a hare; and of all the birds in the air, who should the informer\nbe but Black Giles the poacher. Mr. Wilson was grieved at the charge;\nhe had a great regard for Jack, but he had a still greater regard for\nthe law. The poor fellow pleaded guilty. He did not deny the fact, but\nsaid he did not consider it a crime, for he did not think game was\nprivate property, and he owned he had a strong temptation for doing\nwhat he had done, which he hoped would plead in his excuse. The\njustice desired to know what this temptation was.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the poor fellow, \"you know I was given over this spring in\na bad fever. I had no friend in the world but you, sir. Under God, you\nsaved my life by your charitable relief; and I trust also you may have\nhelped to save my soul by your prayers and your good advice; for, by\nthe grace of God, I have turned over a new leaf since that sickness.\n\n\"I know I can never make you amends for all your goodness; but I\nthought it would be some comfort to my full heart if I could but once\ngive you some little token of my gratitude. So I had trained a pair of\nnice turtledoves for Madam Wilson; but they were stolen from me, sir,\nand I do suspect Black Giles stole them. Yesterday morning, sir, as I\nwas crawling out to my work, for I am still but very weak, a fine hare\nran across my path. I did not stay to consider whether it was wrong to\nkill a hare, but I felt it was right to show my gratitude; so, sir,\nwithout a moment's thought, I did knock down the hare, which I was\ngoing to carry to your worship, because I knew madam was fond of hare.\nI am truly sorry for my fault, and will submit to whatever punishment\nyour worship may please to inflict.\"\n\nMr. Wilson was much moved with this honest confession, and touched\nwith the poor fellow's gratitude. What added to the effect of the\nstory, was the weak condition, and pale, sickly looks of the offender.\nBut this worthy magistrate never suffered his feelings to bias his\nintegrity; he knew that he did not sit on that bench to indulge pity,\nbut to administer justice. And while he was sorry for the offender,\nhe would never justify the offence.\n\n\"John,\" said he, \"I am surprised that you could for a moment forget\nthat I never accept any gift which causes the giver to break a law.\nOn Sunday I teach you from the pulpit the laws of God, whose minister\nI am. At present I fill the chair of the magistrate, to enforce and\nexecute the laws of the land. Between these and the others there is\nmore connection than you are aware. I thank you, John, for your\naffection to me, and I admire your gratitude; but I must not allow\neither affection or gratitude to be brought as a plea for a wrong\naction. It is not your business nor mine, John, to settle whether the\ngame-laws are good or bad. Till they are repealed we must obey them.\nMany, I doubt not, break these laws through ignorance, and many,\nI am certain, who would not dare to steal a goose or a turkey, make\nno scruple of knocking down a hare or a partridge. You will hereafter\nthink yourself happy that this your first attempt has proved\nunsuccessful, as I trust you are too honest a fellow ever to intend\nto turn poacher. With poaching much more evil is connected: a habit\nof nightly depredation, a custom of prowling in the dark for prey,\nproduces in time a disrelish for honest labor. He whose first offence\nwas committed without much thought or evil intention, if he happens\nto succeed a few times in carrying off his booty undiscovered, grows\nbolder and bolder; and when he fancies there is no shame attending it,\nhe very soon gets to persuade himself that there is also no sin. While\nsome people pretend a scruple about stealing a sheep, they partly live\nby plundering of warrens. But remember, that the warrener pays a high\nrent, and that therefore his rabbits are as much his property as his\nsheep. Do not then deceive yourselves with these false distinctions.\nAll property is sacred; and as the laws of the land are intended to\nfence in that property, he who brings up his children to break down\nany of these fences, brings them up to certain sin and ruin. He who\nbegins with robbing orchards, rabbit-warrens, and fish-ponds, will\nprobably end with horsestealing, or highway robbery. Poaching is a\nregular apprenticeship to bolder crimes. He whom I may commit as a boy\nto sit in the stocks for killing a partridge, may be likely to end at\nthe gallows for killing a man.\n\n\"Observe, you who now hear me, the strictness and impartiality of\njustice. I know Giles to be a worthless fellow, yet it is my duty to\ntake his information; I know Jack Weston to be an honest youth, yet I\nmust be obliged to make him pay the penalty. Giles is a bad man, but\nhe can prove this fact; Jack is a worthy lad, but he has committed\nthis fault. I am sorry for you, Jack; but do not let it grieve you\nthat Giles has played worse tricks a hundred times, and yet got off,\nwhile you were detected in the very first offence, for that would be\ngrieving because you are not so great a rogue as Giles. At this moment\nyou think your good luck is very unequal; but all this will one day\nturn out in your favor. Giles is not the more a favorite of heaven\nbecause he has hitherto escaped Botany Bay or the hulks; nor is it any\nmark of God's displeasure against you, John, that you were found out\nin your very first attempt.\"\n\nHere the good justice left off speaking, and no one could contradict\nthe truth of what he had said. Weston humbly submitted to his\nsentence, but he was very poor, and knew not where to raise the money\nto pay his fine. His character had always been so fair, that several\nfarmers present kindly agreed to advance a trifle each, to prevent his\nbeing sent to prison, and he thankfully promised to work out the debt.\nThe justice himself, though he could not soften the law, yet showed\nWeston so much kindness, that he was enabled, before the year was out,\nto get out of this difficulty. He began to think more seriously than\nhe had ever yet done, and grew to abhor poaching, not merely from fear\nbut from principle.\n\nWe shall soon see whether poaching Giles always got off so\nsuccessfully. Here we have seen that worldly prosperity is no sure\nsign of goodness; and that \"the triumphing of the wicked is short,\"\nwill appear in the second part of the Poacher, containing the\nentertaining story of the Widow Brown's Apple-tree.\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nHISTORY OF WIDOW BROWN'S APPLE-TREE.\n\n\nI think my readers are so well acquainted with Black Giles the\npoacher, that they will not expect to hear any great good, either of\nGiles himself, his wife Rachel, or any of their family. I am sorry to\nexpose their tricks, but it is their fault, not mine. If I pretend to\nspeak about people at all, I must tell the truth. I am sure, if folks\nwould but turn about and mend, it would be a thousand times pleasanter\nto me to write their histories; as it is no comfort to tell of any\nbody's faults. If the world would but grow good, I should be glad\nenough to tell of it; but till it really becomes so, I must go on\ndescribing it as it is; otherwise I should only mislead my readers,\ninstead of instructing them. It is the duty of a faithful historian to\nrelate the evil with the good.\n\nAs to Giles and his boys, I am sure old widow Brown has good reason to\nremember their dexterity. Poor woman, she had a fine little bed of\nonions in her neat and well-kept garden; she was very fond of her\nonions, and many a rheumatism has she caught by kneeling down to weed\nthem in a damp day, notwithstanding the little flannel cloak and the\nbit of an old mat which Madam Wilson gave her, because the old woman\nwould needs weed in wet weather. Her onions she always carefully\ntreasured up for her winter's store; for an onion makes a little broth\nvery relishing, and is, indeed, the only savory thing poor people are\nused to get.\n\nShe had also a small orchard, containing about a dozen apple-trees,\nwith which, in a good year, she has been known to make a couple of\nbarrels of cider, which she sold to her landlord towards paying her\nrent, besides having a little keg which she was able to keep back for\nher own drinking.\n\nWell, would you believe it? Giles and his boys marked both onions and\napples for their own. Indeed, a man who stole so many rabbits from the\nwarren, was likely enough to steal onions for sauce. One day when the\nwidow was abroad on a little business, Giles and his boys made a clear\nriddance of the onion-bed; and when they had pulled up every single\nonion, they then turned a couple of pigs into the garden, who, allured\nby the smell, tore up the bed in such a manner, that the widow, when\nshe came home, had not the least doubt but the pigs had been the\nthieves. To confirm this opinion, they took care to leave the little\nhatch half open at one end of the garden, and to break down a bit of a\nfence at the other end.\n\nI wonder how any body can find in his heart not to pity and respect\npoor old widows. There is something so forlorn and helpless in their\ncondition, that methinks it is a call on every body, men, women, and\nchildren, to do them all the kind services that fall in their way.\nSurely, their having no one to take their part, is an additional\nreason for kind-hearted people not to hurt and oppress them. But it\nwas this very reason which led Giles to do this woman an injury. With\nwhat a touching simplicity it is recorded in Scripture, of the youth\nwhom our blessed Saviour raised from the dead, that he was the only\nson of his mother, _and she was a widow_.\n\nIt happened, unluckily for poor widow Brown, that her cottage stood\nquite alone. On several mornings together--for roguery gets up much\nearlier than industry--Giles and his boys stole regularly into her\norchard, followed by their jackasses. She was so deaf that she could\nnot hear the asses, if they had brayed ever so loud, and to this\nGiles trusted; for he was very cautious in his rogueries, since he\ncould not otherwise have contrived so long to keep out of prison; for\nthough he was almost always suspected, he had seldom been taken up,\nand never convicted. The boys used to fill their bags, load their\nasses, and then march off; and if, in their way to the town where the\napples were to be sold, they chanced to pass by one of their neighbors\nwho might be likely to suspect them, they then all at once began to\nscream out, \"Buy my coal? buy my sand?\"\n\nBesides the trees in her orchard, poor widow Brown had in her small\ngarden one apple-tree particularly fine; it was a redstreak, so\ntempting and so lovely that Giles' family had watched it with longing\neyes, till at last they resolved on a plan for carrying off all this\nfine fruit in their bags. But it was a nice point to manage. The tree\nstood directly under her chamber window, so that there was some danger\nthat she might spy them at the work. They therefore determined to wait\ntill the next Sunday morning, when they knew she would not fail to be\nat church. Sunday came; it was a lone house, as I said before, and\nmost of the parish were safe at church. In a trice the tree was\ncleared, the bags were filled, the asses were whipped, the thieves\nwere off, the coast was clear, and all was safe and quiet by the time\nthe sermon was over.\n\nUnluckily, however, it happened, that this tree was so beautiful, and\nthe fruit so fine, that the people, as they used to pass to and from\nchurch, were very apt to stop and admire widow Brown's redstreaks; and\nsome of the farmers rather envied her, that in that scarce season,\nwhen they hardly expected to make a pie out of a large orchard, she\nwas likely to make a cask of cider from a single tree. I am afraid,\nindeed, if I must speak out, she herself rather set her heart too much\nupon this fruit, and had felt as much pride in her tree as gratitude\nto a good Providence for it; but this failing of hers was no excuse\nfor Giles. The covetousness of this thief had for once got the better\nof his caution; the tree was too completely stripped, though the\nyoungest boy Dick did beg hard that his father would leave the poor\nold woman enough for a few dumplings; and when Giles ordered Dick in\nhis turn to shake the tree, the boy did it so gently that hardly any\napples fell, for which he got a good stroke of the stick with which\nthe old man was beating down the apples.\n\nThe neighbors, on their return from church, stopped as usual; but it\nwas--not, alas, to admire the apples, for apples there were none left,\nbut to lament the robbery, and console the widow. Meantime the\nredstreaks were safely lodged in Giles' hovel, under a few bundles of\nhay, which he had contrived to pull from the farmer's mow the night\nbefore, for the use of his jackasses.\n\nSuch a stir, however, began to be made about the widow's apple-tree,\nthat Giles, who knew how much his character laid him open to\nsuspicion, as soon as he saw the people safe in church again in the\nafternoon, ordered his boys to carry each a hatful of the apples, and\nthrust them in at a little casement window, which happened to be open\nin the house of Samuel Price, a very honest carpenter in that parish,\nwho was at church with his whole family. Giles' plan, by this\ncontrivance, was to lay the theft on Price's sons, in case the thing\nshould come to be further inquired into. Here Dick put in a word, and\nbegged and prayed his father not to force them to carry the apples to\nPrice's. But all that he got by his begging was such a knock as had\nnearly laid him on the earth.\n\n\"What, you cowardly rascal,\" said Giles, \"you will go and _peach_, I\nsuppose, and get your father sent to jail.\"\n\nPoor widow Brown, though her trouble had made her still weaker than\nshe was, went to church again in the afternoon; indeed, she rightly\nthought that her being in trouble was a new reason why she ought to\ngo. During the service she tried with all her might not to think of\nher redstreaks; and whenever they would come into her head, she took\nup her prayer-book directly, and so she forgot them a little; and,\nindeed, she found herself much easier when she came out of the church\nthan when she went in--an effect so commonly produced by prayer, that\nmethinks it is a pity people do not try it oftener.\n\nNow it happened oddly enough, that on that Sunday, of all the Sundays\nin the year, the widow should call in to rest a little at Samuel\nPrice's, to tell over again the lamentable story of the apples, and to\nconsult with him how the thief might be brought to justice. But O,\nreader, guess, if you can, for I am sure I cannot tell you, what was\nher surprise, when, on going into Samuel Price's kitchen, she saw her\nown redstreaks lying in the window! The apples were of a sort too\nremarkable for color, shape, and size, to be mistaken. There was not\nsuch another tree in the parish.\n\nWidow Brown immediately screamed out, \"'Las-a-day! as sure as can be,\nhere are my redstreaks; I can swear to them in any court.\" Samuel\nPrice, who believed his sons to be as honest as himself, was shocked\nand troubled at the sight. He knew he had no redstreaks of his own; he\nknew there were no apples in the window when he went to church; he did\nverily believe these apples to be the widow's. But how they came there\nhe could not possibly guess. He called for Tom, the only one of his\nsons who now lived at home. Tom was at the Sunday-school, which he had\nnever once missed since Mr. Wilson the minister had set one up in the\nparish. Was such a boy likely to do such a deed?\n\nA crowd had by this time got about Price's door, among which was Giles\nand his boys, who had already taken care to spread the news that Tom\nPrice was the thief. Most people were unwilling to believe it. His\ncharacter was very good, but appearances were strongly against him.\nMr. Wilson now came in. He was much concerned that Tom Price, the best\nboy in his school, should stand accused of such a crime. He sent for\nthe boy, examined, and cross-examined him. No marks of guilt appeared.\nBut still, though he pleaded _not guilty,_ there lay the redstreaks in\nhis father's window.\n\nAll the idle fellows in the place, who were most likely to have\ncommitted such a theft themselves, fell with great vengeance on poor\nTom. The wicked seldom give any quarter. \"This is one of your\nsanctified ones!\" cried they. \"This was all the good that\nSunday-schools did! For their parts, they never saw any good come by\nreligion. Sunday was the only day for a little pastime; and if poor\nboys must be shut up with their godly books, when they ought to be out\ntaking a little pleasure, it was no wonder they made themselves amends\nby such tricks.\"\n\nAnother said he should like to see parson Wilson's righteous one well\nwhipped. A third hoped he would be clapped in the stocks for a young\nhypocrite as he was; while old Giles, who thought it was the only way\nto avoid suspicion by being more violent than the rest, declared,\nthat \"he hoped the young dog would be transported for life.\"\n\nMr. Wilson was too wise and too just to proceed against Tom without\nfull proof. He declared the crime was a very heavy one, and he feared\nthat heavy must be the punishment. Tom, who knew his own innocence,\nearnestly prayed to God that it might be made to appear as clear as\nthe noonday; and very fervent were his secret devotions on that night.\n\nBlack Giles passed his night in a very different manner. He set off as\nsoon as it was dark, with his sons and their jackasses laden with\ntheir stolen goods. As such a cry was raised about the apples, he did\nnot think it safe to keep them longer at home, but resolved to go and\nsell them at the next town; borrowing without leave a lame colt out of\nthe moor to assist in carrying off his booty.\n\nGiles and his eldest sons had rare sport all the way in thinking, that\nwhile they were enjoying the profit of their plunder, Tom Price would\nbe whipped round the market-place at least, if not sent beyond sea.\nBut the younger boy, Dick, who had naturally a tender heart, though\nhardened by his long familiarity with sin, could not help crying when\nhe thought that Tom Price might perhaps be transported for a crime\nwhich he himself had helped to commit. He had had no compunction about\nthe robbery, for he had not been instructed in the great principles of\ntruth and justice; nor would he, therefore, perhaps have had much\nremorse about accusing an innocent boy. But, though utterly devoid of\nprinciple, he had some remains of natural feeling and of gratitude.\nTom Price had often given him a bit of his own bread and cheese; and\nonce, when Dick was like to be drowned, Tom had jumped into the pond\nwith his clothes on, and saved his life, when he was just sinking: the\nremembrance of all this made his heart heavy. He said nothing; but, as\nhe trotted, barefoot, after the asses, he heard his father and\nbrothers laugh at having outwitted the godly ones; and he grieved to\nthink how poor Tom would suffer for his wickedness, yet fear kept him\nsilent: they called him sulky dog, and lashed the asses till they\nbled.\n\nIn the meantime, Tom Price kept up his spirits as well as he could. He\nworked hard all day, and prayed heartily night and morning.\n\n\"It is true,\" said he to himself, \"I am not guilty of this sin; but\nlet this accusation set me on examining myself, and truly repenting\nof all my other sins; for I find enough to repent of, though I thank\nGod I did not steal the widow's apples.\"\n\nAt length Sunday came, and Tom went to school as usual. As soon as he\nwalked in, there was a great deal of whispering and laughing among the\nworst of the boys; and he overheard them say, \"Who would have thought\nit? This is master's favorite! This is parson Wilson's sober Tommy! We\nsha'n't have Tommy thrown in our teeth again, if we go to get a\nbirdsnest, or gather a few nuts on a Sunday.\" \"Your demure ones are\nalways hypocrites,\" says another. \"The still sow sucks all the milk,\"\nsays a third.\n\nGiles' family had always kept clear of the school. Dick, indeed, had\nsometimes wished to go: not that he had much sense of sin, or desire\nafter goodness, but he thought if he could once read, he might rise in\nthe world, and not be forced to drive asses all his life. Through this\nwhole Saturday night he could not sleep. He longed to know what would\nbe done to Tom. He began to wish to go to school, but he had not\ncourage--sin is very cowardly: so, on the Sunday morning, he went and\nsat himself down under the church-wall. Mr. Wilson passed by. It was\nnot his way to reject the most wicked, till he had tried every means\nto bring them over; and even then he pitied and prayed for them. He\nhad, indeed, long left off talking to Giles' sons; but, seeing Dick\nsitting by himself, he once more spoke to him, desired him to leave\noff his vagabond life, and go with him into the school. The boy hung\ndown his head, but made no answer. He did not, however, either rise up\nand run away, or look sulky, as he used to do. The minister desired\nhim once more to go.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the boy, \"I can't go; I am so big I am ashamed.\"\n\n\"The bigger you are, the less time you have to lose.\"\n\n\"But, sir, I can't read.\"\n\n\"Then it is high time you should learn.\"\n\n\"I should be ashamed to begin to learn my letters.\"\n\n\"The shame is not in beginning to learn them, but in being contented\nnever to know them.\"\n\n\"But, sir, I am so ragged.\"\n\n\"God looks at the heart, and not at the coat.\"\n\n\"But, sir, I have no shoes and stockings.\"\n\n\"So much the worse; I remember who gave you both.\" Here Dick colored.\n\"It is bad to want shoes and stockings; but still, if you can drive\nyour asses a dozen miles without them, you may certainly walk a\nhundred yards to school without them.\"\n\n\"But, sir, the good boys will hate me, and wont speak to me.\"\n\n\"Good boys hate nobody; and as to not speaking to you, to be sure they\nwill not keep you company while you go on in your present evil\ncourses; but as soon as they see you wish to reform, they will help\nyou, and pity you, and teach you; so come along.\" Here Mr. Wilson took\nthis dirty boy by the hand, and gently pulled him forward, kindly\ntalking to him all the way.\n\nHow the whole school stared to see Dick Giles come in! No one,\nhowever, dared to say what he thought. The business went on, and Dick\nslunk into a corner, partly to hide his rags, and partly to hide his\nsin; for last Sunday's transactions sat heavy on his heart, not\nbecause he had stolen the apples, but because Tom Price had been\naccused. This, I say, made him slink behind. Poor boy, he little\nthought there was _One_ saw him who sees all things, and from whose\neye no hole or corner can hide the sinner; for he is about our bed,\nand about our paths, and spieth out all our ways.\n\nIt was the custom in that school for the master, who was a good and\nwise man, to mark down in his pocketbook all the events of the week,\nthat he might turn them to some account in his Sunday evening\ninstructions: such as any useful story in the newspaper, any account\nof boys being drowned as they were out in a pleasure-boat on Sundays,\nany sudden death in the parish, or any other remarkable visitation of\nProvidence; insomuch, that many young people in the place, who did not\nbelong to the school, and many parents, also, used to drop in for an\nhour on a Sunday evening, when they were sure to hear something\nprofitable. The minister greatly approved this practice, and often\ncalled in himself, which was a great support to the master, and\nencouragement to the people.\n\nThe master had taken a deep concern in the story of widow Brown's\napple-tree. He could not believe Tom Price was guilty, nor dared he\npronounce him innocent; but he resolved to turn the instructions of\nthe present evening to this subject. He began thus: \"My dear boys,\nhowever light some of you may make of robbing an orchard, yet I have\noften told you there is no such thing as a _little_ sin, if it be\nwilful or habitual. I wish now to explain to you, also, that there is\nhardly such a thing as a _single_ solitary sin. You know I teach you\nnot merely to repeat the commandments as an exercise for your memory,\nbut as a rule for your conduct. If you were to come here on a Sunday\nonly to learn to read and spell, I should think that was not employing\nGod's day for God's work; but I teach you to read, that you may, by\nthis means, so understand the Bible and the catechism, as to make\nevery text in the one, and every question and answer in the other, to\nbe so fixed in your hearts, that they may bring forth the fruits of\ngood living.\"\n\nMASTER. \"How many commandments are there?\"\n\nBOY. \"Ten.\"\n\nMASTER. \"How many did that boy break who stole widow Brown's apples?\"\n\nBOY. \"Only one, master; the eighth.\"\n\nMASTER. \"What is the eighth?\"\n\nBOY. \"Thou shalt not steal.\"\n\nMASTER. \"And you are very sure that this was the only one he broke?\nNow, suppose I could prove to you that he probably broke, not less\nthan six out of those ten commandments, which the great Lord of heaven\nhimself stooped down from his eternal glory to deliver to men, would\nyou not then think it a terrible thing to steal, whether apples or\nguineas?\"\n\nBOY. \"Yes, master.\"\n\nMASTER. \"I will put the case. Some wicked boy has robbed widow Brown's\norchard.\" Here the eyes of every one were turned on poor Tom Price,\nexcept those of Dick Giles, who fixed his on the ground. \"I accuse no\none,\" continued the master; \"Tom Price is a good boy, and was not\nmissing at the time of the robbery: these are two reasons why I\npresume he is innocent; but whoever it was, you allow that by stealing\nthese apples he broke the eighth commandment?\"\n\nBOY. \"Yes, master.\"\n\nMASTER. \"On what day were these apples stolen?\"\n\nBOY. \"On Sunday.\"\n\nMASTER. \"What is the fourth commandment?\"\n\nBOY. \"Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath-day.\"\n\nMASTER, \"Does that person keep holy the Sabbath-day, who loiters in an\norchard on Sunday when he should be at church, and steals apples when\nhe ought to be at prayer?\"\n\nBOY. \"No, master.\"\n\nMASTER. \"What command does he break?\"\n\nBOY. \"The fourth.\"\n\nMASTER. \"Suppose this boy had parents, who had sent him to church, and\nthat he had disobeyed them by not going; would that be keeping the\nfifth commandment?\"\n\nBOY. \"No, master; for the fifth commandment says, 'Thou shalt _honor_\nthy father and thy mother.'\"\n\nThis was the only part in the case in which poor Dick Giles' heart did\nnot smite him; for he knew he had disobeyed no father--for his father,\nalas, was still more wicked than himself, and had brought him up to\ncommit the sin. But what a wretched comfort was this. The master went\non.\n\nMASTER. \"Suppose this boy earnestly coveted this fruit, though it\nbelonged to another person; would that be right?\"\n\nBOY. \"No, master; for the tenth commandment says, 'Thou shalt not\ncovet.'\"\n\nMASTER. \"Very well. Here are four of God's positive commands already\nbroken. Now, do you think thieves ever scruple to use wicked words?\"\n\nBOY. \"I am afraid not, master.\"\n\nHere Dick Giles was not so hardened but that he remembered how many\ncurses had passed between him and his father while they were filling\nthe bags, and he was afraid to look up. The master went on.\n\n\"I will now go one step further. If the thief to all his other sins\nhas added that of accusing the innocent to save himself--if he should\nbreak the ninth commandment, by bearing false witness against a\nharmless neighbor, then _six commandments are broken for an apple_!\nBut if it be otherwise, if Tom Price should be found guilty, it is not\nhis good character shall save him. I shall shed tears over him, but\npunish him I must, and that severely.\"\n\n\"No, that you sha'n't,\" roared out Dick Giles, who sprung from his\nhiding-place, fell on his knees, and burst out a crying. \"Tom Price is\nas good a boy as ever lived; it was father and I who stole the\napples.\"\n\nIt would have done your heart good to have seen the joy of the master,\nthe modest blushes of Tom Price, and the satisfaction of every honest\nboy in the school. All shook hands with Tom, and even Dick got some\nportion of pity. I wish I had room to give my readers the moving\nexhortation which the master gave. But while Mr. Wilson left the\nguilty boy to the management of the master, he thought it became him,\nas a minister and a magistrate, to go to the extent of the law in\npunishing the father.\n\nEarly on Monday morning, he sent to apprehend Giles. In the meantime,\nMr. Wilson was sent for to a gardener's house, two miles distant, to\nattend a man who was dying. This was a duty to which all others gave\nway, in his mind. He set out directly; but what was his surprise, on\nhis arrival, to see, on a little bed on the floor, poaching Giles\nlying, in all the agonies of death! Jack Weston, a poor young man,\nagainst whom Giles had informed for killing a hare, was kneeling by\nhim, offering him some broth, and talking to him in the kindest\nmanner. Mr. Wilson begged to know the meaning of all this; and Jack\nWeston spoke as follows:\n\n\"At four this morning, as I was going out to mow, passing under the\nhigh wall of this garden, I heard a most dismal moaning. The nearer I\ncame, the more dismal it grew. At last, who should I see but poor\nGiles, groaning and struggling under a quantity of bricks and stones,\nbut not able to stir. The day before, he had marked a fine large net\non this old wall, and resolved to steal it; for he thought it might do\nas well to catch partridges as to preserve cherries: so, sir, standing\non the very top of this wall, and tugging with all his might to loosen\nthe net from the hooks which fastened it, down came Giles, net, wall,\nand all; for the wall was gone to decay. It was very high, indeed, and\npoor Giles not only broke his thigh, but has got a terrible blow on\nhis brain, and is bruised all over like a mummy.\n\n\"On seeing me, sir, poor Giles cried out, 'Oh, Jack, I did try to ruin\nthee by lodging that information, and now thou wilt be revenged by\nletting me lie here and perish.'\n\n\"'God forbid, Giles,' cried I; 'thou shalt see what sort of revenge a\nChristian takes.' So, sir, I sent off the gardener's boy to fetch a\nsurgeon, while I scampered home, and brought, on my back, this bit of\na hammock, which is indeed my own bed, and put Giles upon it: we then\nlifted him up, bed and all, as tenderly as if he had been a gentleman,\nand brought him in here. My wife has just brought him a drop of nice\nbroth; and now, sir, as I have done what I could for his poor\nperishing body, it was I who took the liberty to send to you to come\nand try to help his poor soul, for the doctor says he can't live.\"\n\nMr. Wilson could not help saying to himself, \"Such an action as this\nis worth a whole volume of comments on that precept of our blessed\nMaster, 'Love your enemies: do good to them that hate you.'\"\n\nGiles' dying groans confirmed the sad account Weston had just given.\nThe poor wretch could neither pray himself, nor attend to the\nminister. He could only cry out, \"Oh, sir, what will become of me? I\ndon't know how to repent. O my poor wicked children! Sir, I have bred\nthem all up in sin and ignorance. Have mercy on them, sir; let me not\nmeet them in the place of torment to which I am going. Lord, grant\nthem that time for repentance which I have thrown away!\" He languished\na few days, and died in great misery--a fresh and sad instance, that\npeople who abuse the grace of God, and resist his Spirit, find it\ndifficult to repent when they will.\n\nExcept the minister and Jack Western, no one came to see poor Giles,\nbesides Tommy Price, who had been so sadly wronged by him. Tom often\nbrought him his own rice and milk or apple-dumpling; and Giles,\nignorant and depraved as he was, often cried out that \"he thought now\nthere must be some truth in religion, since it taught even a boy to\n_deny himself_, and _to forgive an injury_.\" Mr. Wilson, the next\nSunday, made a moving discourse on the danger of what are called\n\"petty offences.\" This, together with the awful death of Giles,\nproduced such an effect, that no poacher has been able to show his\nhead in that parish ever since.\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\nTAWNEY RACHEL;\n\nOR, THE FORTUNE-TELLER. WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF DREAMS, OMENS,\nAND CONJURERS\n\nBY HANNAH MORE.\n\n\nTawney Rachel was the wife of poaching Giles. There seemed to be a\nconspiracy in Giles' whole family to maintain themselves by tricks and\npilfering. Regular labor and honest industry did not suit their idle\nhabits. They had a sort of genius at finding out every unlawful means\nto support a vagabond life. Rachel travelled the country with a basket\non her arm. She pretended to get her bread by selling laces,\ncabbage-nets, ballads, and history-books, and used to buy old rags and\nrabbit skins. Many honest people trade in these things, and I am sure\nI do not mean to say a word against honest people, let them trade in\nwhat they will. But Rachel only made this traffic a pretence for\ngetting admittance into farmers' kitchens, in order to tell fortunes.\n\nShe was continually practising on the credulity of silly girls; and\ntook advantage of their ignorance to cheat and deceive them. Many an\ninnocent servant has she caused to be suspected of a robbery, while\nshe herself, perhaps, was in league with the thief. Many a harmless\nmaid has she brought to ruin by contriving plots and events herself,\nand then pretending to foretell them. She had not, to be sure, the\npower of really foretelling things, because she had no power of seeing\ninto futurity; but she had the art sometimes to bring them about\naccording as she had foretold them. So she got that credit for her\nwisdom which really belonged to her wickedness.\n\nRachel was also a famous interpreter of dreams, and could distinguish\nexactly between the fate of any two persons who happened to have a\nmole on the right or the left cheek. She had a cunning way of getting\nherself off when any of her prophecies failed. When she explained a\ndream according to the natural appearance of things, and it did not\ncome to pass, then she would get out of that scrape by saying, that\n\"this sort of dreams went by contraries.\" Now, of two very opposite\nthings the chance always is, that one of them may turn out to be true;\nso in either case she kept up the cheat.\n\nRachel, in one of her rambles, stopped at the house of farmer Jenkins.\nShe contrived to call when she knew the master of the house was from\nhome, which indeed was her usual way. She knocked at the door. The\nmaids being out haymaking, Mrs. Jenkins went to open it herself.\nRachel asked her if she would please to let her light her pipe. This\nwas a common pretence, when she could find no other way of getting\ninto a house. While she was filling her pipe, she looked at Mrs.\nJenkins, and said she could tell her some good fortune. The farmer's\nwife, who was a very inoffensive, but a weak and superstitious woman,\nwas curious to know what she meant. Rachel then looked about very\ncarefully, and shutting the door with a mysterious air, asked her if\nshe was sure nobody would hear them. This appearance of mystery was at\nonce delightful and terrifying to Mrs. Jenkins, who, with trembling\nagitation, bade the cunning woman speak out.\n\n\"Then,\" said Rachel in a solemn whisper, \"there is to my certain\nknowledge a pot of money hid under one of the stones in your cellar.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said Mrs. Jenkins, \"it is impossible; for now I think of it,\nI dreamed last night I was in prison for debt.\"\n\n\"Did you indeed?\" said Rachel, \"that is quite surprising. Did you\ndream before twelve o'clock, or after?\"\n\n\"O, it was this morning, just before I awoke.\"\n\n\"Then I am sure it is true, for morning dreams always go by\ncontraries,\" cried Rachel. \"How lucky it was you dreamed it so late.\"\n\nMrs. Jenkins could hardly contain her joy, and asked how the money was\nto be come at.\n\n\"There is but one way,\" said Rachel; \"I must go into the cellar. I\nknow by my art under which stone it lies, but I must not tell.\"\n\nThen they both went down into the cellar, but Rachel refused to point\nat the stone, unless Mrs. Jenkins would put five pieces of gold into a\nbasin, and do as she directed. The simple woman, instead of turning\nher out of doors for a cheat, did as she was bid. She put the guineas\ninto a basin, which she gave into Rachel's hand. Rachel strewed some\nwhite powder over the gold, muttered some barbarous words, and\npretended to perform the black art. She then told Mrs. Jenkins to put\nthe basin quietly down within the cellar; telling her, that if she\noffered to look into it, or even to speak a word, the charm would be\nbroken. She also directed her to lock the cellar-door, and on no\npretence to open it in less than forty-eight hours.\n\n\"If,\" added she, \"you closely follow these directions, then, by the\npower of my art, you will find the basin conveyed to the very stone\nunder which the money lies hid, and a fine treasure it will be.\" Mrs.\nJenkins, who believed every word the woman said, did exactly as she\nwas told, and Rachel took her leave with a handsome reward.\n\nWhen farmer Jenkins came home, he desired his wife to draw him a cup\nof cider; this she put off doing so long that he began to be\ndispleased. At last she begged he would drink a little beer instead.\nHe insisted on knowing the reason, and when at last he grew angry, she\ntold him all that had passed; and owned that as the pot of gold\nhappened to be in the cider-cellar, she did not dare to open the\ndoor, as she was sure it would break the charm. \"And it would be a\npity, you know,\" said she, \"to lose a good fortune for the sake of a\ndraught of cider.\"\n\nThe farmer, who was not so easily imposed upon, suspected a trick. He\ndemanded the key, and went and opened the cellar-door; there he found\nthe basin, and in it five round pieces of tin covered with powder.\nMrs. Jenkins burst out a crying; but the farmer thought of nothing but\ngetting a warrant to apprehend the cunning woman. Indeed, she well\nproved her claim to that name, when she insisted that the cellar-door\nmight be kept locked till she had time to get out of the reach of all\npursuit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPoor Sally Evans. I am sure she rued the day that ever she listened to\na fortune-teller. Sally was as harmless a girl as ever churned a pound\nof butter; but Sally was ignorant and superstitious. She delighted in\ndream-books, and had consulted all the cunning women in the country to\ntell her whether the two moles on her cheek denoted that she was to\nhave two husbands, or only two children. If she picked up an old\nhorseshoe going to church, she was sure that would be a lucky week.\nShe never made a black-pudding without borrowing one of the parson's\nold wigs to hang in the chimney, firmly believing there were no other\nmeans to preserve them from bursting.\n\nShe would never go to bed on Midsummer-eve without sticking up in her\nroom the well-known plant called Midsummer-men, as the bending of the\nleaves to the right or to the left, would not fail to tell her whether\nJacob, of whom we shall speak presently, was true or false. She would\nrather go five miles about than pass near a churchyard at night. Every\nseventh year she would not eat beans, because they grew downward in\nthe pod, instead of upward; and she would rather have gone with her\ngown open than have taken a pin of an old woman, for fear of being\nbewitched.\n\nPoor Sally had so many unlucky days in her calendar, that a large\nportion of her time became of little use, because on these days she\ndid not dare set about any new work. And she would have refused the\nbest offer in the country if made to her on a Friday, which she\nthought so unlucky a day, that she often said what a pity it was that\nthere was any Friday in the week. Sally had twenty pounds left her by\nher grandmother. She had long been courted by Jacob, a sober lad, with\nwhom she lived a fellow-servant at a creditable farmer's. Honest\nJacob, like his namesake of old, thought it little to wait seven years\nto get this damsel to wife, because of the love he bore her, for Sally\nhad promised to marry him when he could match her twenty pounds with\nanother of his own.\n\nNow, there was one Robert, a rambling, idle young gardener, who,\ninstead of sitting down steadily in one place, used to roam about the\ncountry, and do odd jobs where he could get them. No one understood\nany thing about him, except that he was a down-looking fellow, who\ncame nobody knew whence, and got his bread nobody knew how, and never\nhad a penny in his pocket. Robert, who was now in the neighborhood,\nhappened to hear of Sally Evans and her twenty pounds. He immediately\nconceived a longing desire for the latter. So he went to his old\nfriend Rachel, told her all he had heard of Sally, and promised if she\ncould bring about a marriage between them, she should go shares in the\nmoney.\n\nRachel undertook the business. She set off to the farm-house, and fell\nto singing one of her most enticing songs just under the dairy\nwindow. Sally was so struck with the pretty tune, which was unhappily\nused, as is too often the case, to set off some very loose words, that\nshe jumped up, dropped the skimming dish into the cream, and ran out\nto buy the song.\n\nWhile she stooped down to rummage the basket for those songs which had\nthe most tragical pictures--for Sally had a most tender heart, and\ndelighted in whatever was mournful--Rachel looked steadfastly in her\nface, and told her she knew by her art that she was born to good\nfortune, but advised her not to throw herself away. \"These two moles\non your cheek,\" added she, \"show you are in some danger.\"\n\n\"Do they denote husbands or children?\" cried Sally, starting up, and\nletting fall the song of the Children in the Wood.\n\n\"Husbands,\" muttered Rachel.\n\n\"Alas, poor Jacob,\" said Sally mournfully; \"then he will die first,\nwont he?\"\n\n\"Mum for that,\" quoth the fortune-teller; \"I will say no more.\"\n\nSally was impatient, but the more curiosity she discovered, the more\nmystery Rachel affected. At last she said, \"If you will cross my hand\nwith a piece of silver, I will tell you your fortune. By the power of\nmy art, I can do this three ways: by cards, by the lines of your hand,\nor by turning a cup of tea-grounds; which will you have?\"\n\n\"O, all, all,\" cried Sally, looking up with reverence to this sunburnt\noracle of wisdom, who knew no less than three different ways of diving\ninto the secrets of futurity. Alas, persons of better sense than Sally\nhave been so taken in; the more is the pity.\n\nThe poor girl said she would run up stairs to her little box, where\nshe kept her money tied up in a bit of an old glove, and would bring\ndown a bright queen Anne's sixpence very crooked. \"I am sure,\" added\nshe, \"it is a lucky one, for it cured me of a very bad ague last\nspring, by only laying it nine nights under my pillow, without\nspeaking a word. But then you must know what gave virtue to this\nsixpence was, that it had belonged to three young men of the name of\nJohn; I am sure I had work enough to get it. But true it is, it\ncertainly cured me. It must be the sixpence you know, for I am sure I\ndid nothing else for my ague, except indeed taking some bitter stuff\nevery three hours, which the doctor called bark. To be sure, I lost\nmy ague soon after I took it, but I am certain it was owing to the\ncrooked sixpence, and not to the bark. And so, good woman, you may\ncome in if you will, for there is not a soul in the house but me.\"\nThis was the very thing Rachel wanted to know, and very glad she was\nto learn it.\n\nWhile Sally was above stairs untying her glove, Rachel slipped into\nthe parlor, took a small silver cup from the beaufet, and clapped it\ninto her pocket. Sally ran down lamenting that she had lost her\nsixpence, which she verily believed was owing to her having put it\ninto a left glove, instead of a right one. Rachel comforted her by\nsaying, that \"if she gave her two plain ones instead, the charm would\nwork just as well.\"\n\nSimple Sally thought herself happy to be let off so easily, never\ncalculating that a smooth shilling was worth two crooked sixpences.\nBut this skill was a part of the black art in which Rachel excelled.\nShe took the money, and began to examine the lines of Sally's left\nhand. She bit her withered lip, shook her head, and bade her, poor\ndupe, beware of a young man, who had black hair.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" cried Sally, all in a fright, \"you mean black eyes, for\nour Jacob has got brown hair; 'tis his eyes that are black.\"\n\n\"That is the very thing I was going to say,\" muttered Rachel; \"I meant\neyes, though I said hair; for I know his hair is as brown as a\nchesnut, and his eyes as black as a sloe.\"\n\n\"So they are, sure enough,\" cried Sally; \"how in the world could you\nknow that?\" forgetting that she herself had just told her so. And it\nis thus that these hags pick out of the credulous all which they\nafterwards pretend to reveal to them.\n\n\"Oh, I know a pretty deal more than that,\" said Rachel, \"but you must\nbe aware of this man.\"\n\n\"Why so?\" cried Sally with great quickness.\n\n\"Because,\" answered Rachel, \"you are fated to marry a man worth a\nhundred of him, who has grey eyes, light hair, and a stoop in the\nshoulders.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, but I can't,\" said Sally; \"I have promised Jacob, and\nJacob I will marry.\"\n\n\"You cannot, child,\" returned Rachel, in a solemn tone; \"it is out of\nyour power; you are _fated_ to marry the grey eyes and light hair.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Nay, indeed,\" said Sally, sighing deeply, \"if I am fated, I must; I\nknow there is no resisting one's fate.\" This is a common cant with\npoor deluded girls, who are not aware that they themselves make their\nfate by their folly, and then complain there is no resisting it.\n\n\"What can I do?\" said Sally.\n\n\"I will tell you that too,\" said Rachel. \"You must take a walk next\nSunday afternoon to the churchyard, and the first man you meet in a\nblue coat, with a large posy of pinks and southernwood in his bosom,\nsitting on the churchyard wall, about seven o'clock, he will be the\nman.\"\n\n\"Provided,\" said Sally, much disturbed, \"that he has grey eyes, and\nstoops.\"\n\n\"O, to be sure,\" said Rachel; \"otherwise it is not the right man.\"\n\n\"But if I should mistake,\" said Sally; \"for two men may happen to have\na coat and eyes of the same color.\"\n\n\"To prevent that,\" replied Rachel, \"if it is the right man, the two\nfirst letters of his name will be R.P. This man has got money beyond\nsea.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do not value his money,\" said Sally, with tears in her eyes,\n\"for I love Jacob better than house or land; but if I am fated to\nmarry another, I can't help it; you know there is no struggling\nagainst my fate.\"\n\nPoor Sally thought of nothing and dreamed of nothing all the week but\nthe blue coat and the grey eyes. She made a hundred blunders at her\nwork. She put her rennet into the butter-pan, and her skimming dish\ninto the cheese-tub. She gave the curds to the hogs, and put the whey\ninto the vats. She put her little knife out of her pocket, for fear it\nshould cut love; and would not stay in the kitchen, if there was not\nan even number of people, lest it should break the charm. She grew\ncold and mysterious in her behavior to faithful Jacob, whom she truly\nloved. But the more she thought of the fortune-teller, the more she\nwas convinced that brown hair and black eyes were not what she was\nfated to marry, and therefore, though she trembled to think it, Jacob\ncould not be the man.\n\nOn Sunday she was too uneasy to go to church; for poor Sally had never\nbeen taught, that her being uneasy was only a fresh reason why she\nought to go thither. She spent the whole afternoon in her little\ngarret, dressing in all her best. First she put on her red ribbon,\nwhich she had bought at last Lammas fair; then she recollected that\nred was an unlucky color, and changed it for a blue ribbon, tied in a\ntrue lover's knot; but suddenly calling to mind that poor Jacob had\nbought this knot for her of a pedlar at the door, and that she had\npromised to wear it for his sake, her heart smote her, and she laid it\nby, sighing to think she was not fated to marry the man who had given\nit to her.\n\nWhen she had looked at herself twenty times in the glass--for one vain\naction always brings on another--she set off, trembling and quaking\nevery step she went. She walked eagerly towards the churchyard, not\ndaring to look to the right or left, for fear she should spy Jacob,\nwho would have offered to walk with her, and so have spoiled all. As\nsoon as she came within sight of the wall, she spied a man sitting\nupon it. Her heart beat violently. She looked again; but alas, the\nstranger not only had on a black coat, but neither hair nor eyes\nanswered the description. She now happened to cast her eyes on the\nchurch-clock, and found she was two hours before her time. This was\nsome comfort. She walked away and got rid of the two hours as well as\nshe could, paying great attention as she went not to walk over any\nstraws which lay across, and carefully looking to see if there were\nnever an old horseshoe in the way, that infallible symptom of good\nfortune.\n\nWhile the clock was striking seven, she returned to the churchyard,\nand, O the wonderful power of fortune-tellers, there she saw him!\nthere sat the very man: his hair as light as flax, his eyes as blue as\nbuttermilk, and his shoulders as round as a tub. Every tittle agreed,\nto the very nosegay in his waistcoat buttonhole. At first, indeed, she\nthought it had been sweet-briar, and glad to catch at a straw,\nwhispered to herself, It is not he, and I shall marry Jacob still; but\non looking again, she saw it was southernwood plain enough, and that\nof course all was over. The man accosted her with some very\nnonsensical, but too acceptable compliments. Sally was naturally a\nmodest girl, and but for Rachel's wicked arts, would not have had\ncourage to talk with a strange man; but how could she resist her fate,\nyou know? After a little discourse, she asked him with a trembling\nheart, what might be his name.\n\n\"Robert Price, at your service,\" was the answer.\n\n\"Robert Price! that is R.P. as sure as I am alive, and the\nfortune-teller was a witch. It is all out; it is all out! O the\nwonderful art of fortune-tellers!\"\n\nThe little sleep she had that night was disturbed with dreams of\ngraves, and ghosts, and funerals; but as they were morning dreams, she\nknew those always went by contraries, and that a funeral denoted a\nwedding. Still, a sigh would now and then heave, to think that in that\nwedding Jacob could have no part. Such of my readers as know the power\nwhich superstition has over the weak and credulous mind, scarcely need\nbe told, that poor Sally's unhappiness was soon completed. She forgot\nall her vows to Jacob; she at once forsook an honest man whom she\nloved, and consented to marry a stranger, of whom she knew nothing,\nfrom a ridiculous notion that she was compelled to do so by a decree\nwhich she had it not in her power to resist. She married this Robert\nPrice, the strange gardener, whom she soon found to be very worthless,\nand very much in debt. He had no such thing as \"money beyond sea,\" as\nthe fortune-teller had told her; but, alas, he had another wife there.\nHe got immediate possession of Sally's L20. Rachel put in for her\nshare, but he refused to give her a farthing, and bade her get away,\nor he would have her taken up on the vagrant act. He soon ran away\nfrom Sally, leaving her to bewail her own weakness; for it was that\nindeed, and not any irresistible fate, which had been the cause of her\nruin. To complete the misery, she herself was suspected of having\nstolen the silver cup which Rachel had pocketed. Her master, however,\nwould not prosecute her, as she was falling into a deep decline, and\nshe died in a few months of a broken heart, a sad warning to all\ncredulous girls.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nRachel, whenever she got near home, used to drop her trade of\nfortune-telling, and only dealt in the wares of her basket. Mr.\nWilson, the clergyman, found her one day dealing out some very wicked\nballads to some children. He went up with a view to give her a\nreprimand; but had no sooner begun his exhortation than up came a\nconstable, followed by several people.\n\n\"There she is, that is she, that is the old witch who tricked my wife\nout of the five guineas,\" said one of them. \"Do your office,\nconstable; seize the old hag. She may tell fortunes and find pots of\ngold in Taunton jail, for there she will have nothing else to do.\"\n\nThis was that very farmer Jenkins, whose wife had been cheated by\nRachel of the five guineas. He had taken pains to trace her to her own\nparish: he did not so much value the loss of the money, but he thought\nit was a duty he owed the public to clear the country of such vermin.\nMr. Wilson immediately committed her. She took her trial at the next\nassizes, when she was sentenced to a year's imprisonment.\n\nIn the meantime the pawnbroker to whom she had sold the silver cup,\nwhich she had stolen from poor Sally's master, impeached her; and as\nthe robbery was fully proved upon Rachel, she was sentenced for this\ncrime to Botany Bay; and a happy day it was for the county of\nSomerset, when such a nuisance was sent out of it. She was transported\nmuch about the same time that her husband Giles lost his life, in\nstealing the net from the garden wall, as related in the second part\nof Poaching Giles.\n\nI have thought it my duty to print this little history, as a kind of\nwarning to all young men and maidens, not to have any thing to say to\ncheats, impostors, cunning women, fortune-tellers, conjurers, and\ninterpreters of dreams. Listen to me, your true friend, when I assure\nyou that God never reveals to weak and wicked women those secret\ndesigns of his providence, which no human wisdom is able to foresee.\nTo consult these false oracles is not only foolish, but sinful. It is\nfoolish, because they are themselves as ignorant as those whom they\npretend to teach; and it is sinful, because it is prying into that\nfuturity which God, in mercy as well as wisdom, hides from men.\n\nGod indeed _orders_ all things; but when you have a mind to do a\nfoolish thing, do not fancy you are _fated_ to do it. This is tempting\nProvidence, and not trusting him. It is, indeed, \"charging God with\nfolly.\" Prudence is his gift, and you obey him better when you make\nuse of prudence under the direction of prayer, than when you madly run\ninto ruin, and think you are only submitting to your fate. Never fancy\nthat you are compelled to undo yourself, or to rush upon your own\ndestruction, in compliance with any supposed fatality. Never believe\nthat God conceals his will from a sober Christian who obeys his laws,\nand reveals it to a vagabond gypsy, who runs up and down, breaking\nthe laws both of God and man. King Saul never consulted the witch till\nhe had left off serving God. The Bible will direct us what to do,\nbetter than any conjurer; and no days are unlucky but those which we\nmake so by our own vanity, folly, and sin.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAPPY WATERMAN\n\n\nA gentleman and lady walking on the bank of the river Thames, spied a\nsmall ferry-boat, with a neatly-dressed waterman, rowing towards them;\non his nearer approach, they read on the stern of his boat these\nwords, THE HAPPY WATERMAN. Without taking any notice of it, they\ndetermined to enter into conversation with him; and inquiring into his\nsituation in life, they found that he had a wife and five children,\nand supported also an old father and mother-in-law by his own labor.\nThe gentleman and lady were upon this still more surprised at the\ntitle he had given himself, and said,\n\n\"My friend, if this is your situation, how is it that you call\nyourself 'the happy waterman'?\"\n\n\"I can easily explain this to your satisfaction,\" answered the young\nman, \"if you will give me leave;\" and they desiring him to proceed, he\nspoke as follows: \"I have observed that the greatest blessings in life\nare often looked upon as the greatest distresses, and are, in fact,\nmade such by means of imprudent conduct. My father and mother died a\nfew years ago, and left a large family. My father was a waterman, and\nI was his assistant in the management of a ferry-boat, by which he\nsupported his family. On his death, it was necessary, in order to pay\nhis just debts, to sell our boat. I parted from it, even with tears;\nbut the distress that I felt spurred me on to industry, for I said,\n'I will use every kind of diligence to purchase my boat back again.'\nI went to the person who had bought it, and told him my design; he had\ngiven five _guineas_ for it, but told me, as I was once the owner,\nthat I should have it whenever I could raise five _pounds_. 'Shall the\nboat be mine again?' said I; and my heart bounded at the thought.\n\n\"I was at this time married to a good young woman, and we lived at a\nneighboring cottage; she was young, healthy, and industrious, and so\nwas I, and we loved one another. What might we not undertake? My\nfather used to say to me, 'Always do what is right; labor diligently,\nand spend your money carefully, and God will bless your store.' We\ntreasured up these rules, and determined to try the truth of them.\n\n\"My wife had long chiefly supported two aged parents: I loved them as\nmy own; and the desire of contributing to their support was an\nadditional spur to my endeavors to repurchase the boat. I entered\nmyself as a day-laborer in the garden of our squire; and my wife was\ncalled occasionally to perform some services at the house, and\nemployed herself in needle-work, spinning, or knitting at home. Not\na moment in the day was suffered to pass unemployed. We spared for\nourselves, and furnished all the comforts we could to the poor about\nus; and every week we dropped a little overplus into a fairing-box,\nto buy the boat. If any accident of charity brought us an additional\nshilling, we did not enlarge our expense, but kept it for the boat.\nThe more care we took, the more comfortable we felt, for we were the\nnearer the possession of our little boat. Our labor was lightened by\nlooking forward to the attainment of our wishes.\n\n\"Our family indeed increased, but with it our friends increased also;\nfor the cleanliness and frugality which furnished our cottage, and the\ncontent and cheerfulness that appeared in it, drew the notice of our\nrich neighbors--of my master and mistress particularly, whose rule was\nto assist the industrious, but not to encourage the idle. They did not\napprove of giving money to the poor, but in cold winters, or dear\ntimes, allowed us to buy things at a cheaper rate; this was _money to\nus_, for when we counted our little cash for the week's marketing, all\nthat was saved to us by our tickets to purchase things at reduced\nprices, went into our 'little box.' If my children got a penny at\nschool for a reward to buy gingerbread, they brought it home, they\nsaid, to help me to buy the boat--for they would have no gingerbread\ntill father had got his boat again. Thus, from time to time, our\nlittle store insensibly increased, till one pound only was wanting of\nthe five, when the following accident happened.\n\n\"Coming home one evening from my work, I saw in the road a small\npocketbook: on opening it, I found a bank-note of ten pounds, which\nplainly enough belonged to my master, for his name was upon it, and I\nhad also seen him passing that way in the evening: it being too late,\nhowever, to return to the house, I went on my way. When I told my\nfamily of the incident, the little ones were thrown into a transport\nof joy.\n\n\"'My dears,' said I, 'what is the matter?'\n\n\"'Oh, father, the BOAT! the BOAT! we may now have two or three boats!'\n\n\"I checked them by my looks, and asked them if they recollected whose\nmoney that was. They said, 'Yours, as you found it.' I reminded them\nthat I was not the real owner, and bade them think how they would all\nfeel, supposing a stranger was to take our box of money, if I should\nhappen to drop it on the day I went to buy back the boat.\n\n\"This thought had the effect on their young minds that I desired; they\nwere silent and pale with the representation of such a disaster, and I\nbegged it might be a lesson to them never to forget the golden rule of\n'doing as they would wish others to do by them;' for by attention to\nthis certain guide, no one would ever do wrong to another. I also took\nthis opportunity to explain to them, that the possession of the boat\nby dishonest means would never answer, since we could not expect the\nblessing of God upon _bad deeds_.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"To go on with my story: The next morning I put the pocketbook into my\nbosom, and went to my work, intending, as soon as the family rose, to\ngive it to my master; but what were my feelings when, on searching in\nmy bosom, it was nowhere to be found! I hasted back along the road by\nwhich I came, and looked diligently all the way, but in vain; there\nwas no trace of any such thing. I would not return into my cottage,\nbecause I wished to save my family the pain I felt; and in the hope of\nstill recovering the book, I went to my work, following another path\nwhich I recollected I had also gone by. On my return to the\ngarden-gate, I was accosted by the gardener, who, in a threatening\ntone, told me I was suspected; that our master had lost a pocketbook,\ndescribing what I had found, and that I being the only man absent from\nthe garden at the hour of work, the rest of the men also denying that\nthey had seen any such thing, there was every reason to conclude that\nI must have got it.\n\n\"Before I could answer, my distressed countenance confirmed the\nsuspicion; and another servant coming up, said I was detected, for\nthat a person had been sent to my house, and that my wife and family\nhad owned it all, and had described the pocketbook. I told them the\nreal fact, but it seemed to every one unlikely to be true; every\ncircumstance was against me, and--my heart trembles to look back upon\nit--I was arrested, and hurried away to prison. I protested my\ninnocence, but I did not wonder that I gained no credit.\n\n\"Great grief now oppressed my heart; my poor wife, my dear children,\nand my grey-headed parents, were all at once plunged into want and\nmisery, instead of the ease and happiness which we were expecting; for\nwe were just arriving at the height of our earthly wishes. I had,\nhowever, one consolation left--that I knew _I was innocent_; and I\ntrusted that by persevering in honesty, all might come right at last.\nMy resolution was, as I had certainly been the cause, though without\nany design, of the second loss of the property, that I would offer the\nwhole of our little store, to make it good as far as in my power; and\nI sent for my wife to give her this sad commission, but she informed\nme that even this sacrifice could be of no avail; 'for,' said she,\n'my master has been at the cottage, when I told him freely how you had\nfound the note, but, unfortunately, had lost it again; and I added,\nthat I was sure both I and my husband would make the best return in\nour power; after which I produced our little fairing-box, and begged\nhim to accept the contents, which had been so long raising, as all we\nhad to offer.' But, sir,\" said the waterman, \"conceive my agony, when\nshe added, that my master angrily refused, saying, that our being in\npossession of all that money was of itself the clearest proof of my\nguilt; for it was impossible, with my large family, and no greater\nopportunities than my neighbors, that I could come honestly by such a\nsum; therefore he was determined to keep me in jail till I should pay\nthe whole.\n\n\"My unhappiness was very great; however, my mind by degrees began to be\nmore easy, for I grew confident that I should not trust in God and my\nown innocence in vain--and so it happened: one of my fellow-laborers\nproved to be the person who had picked up the note after I had dropped\nit, having come a few minutes after me along the same road to his work,\nand hearing that the suspicion had fallen altogether upon me, he was\ntempted to turn the accident to his own advantage, and conceal the\nproperty; which having kept in his own box for a few weeks, till he\nthought no suspicion would rest upon him, he went and offered the note\nfor change, and being then suspected, my master had him taken up, and\nI was released.\n\n\"The second change, from so much misery to happiness, was almost too\nmuch for us. My master sent for me, and with many expressions of concern\nfor what had passed, made me give him an account of the means by which I\nhad collected the little fund that fixed his suspicions so strongly upon\nme. I accordingly related the history of it as I have now done; and when\nI came to that part where I checked my children for their inconsiderate\njoy on finding the note, he rose with much kindness in his looks, and\nputting the bank-bill into my hand, he said,\n\n\"'Take it; the bank-note shall be theirs. It is the best and only\nreturn I can make you, as well as a just reward of your honesty; and\nit will be a substantial proof to your children of the goodness of\nyour instructions, for they will thus early see and feel the benefit\nof honesty and virtue.'\n\n\"This kind and worthy gentleman interested himself much in the\npurchase of my boat, which, in less than a week, I was in full\npossession of. The remainder of my master's bounty, and the additional\nadvantage of the ferry, has placed me in comfortable circumstances,\nwhich I humbly trust God will continue to us as long as we continue\nour labor and honest diligence; and I can say from my long experience,\nthat the fruit of our own industry is always sweetest. I have now also\nthe pleasure of being able to help others; for when a rich passenger\ntakes my ferry, as my story is well known in the neighborhood, he\noften gives me more than my fare, which enables me to let the next\npoor person go over for half price.\"\n\nThe lady and gentleman were extremely pleased with the waterman's\nstory, and willingly joined in calling him the happy waterman. They\npassed over in his ferry-boat for the sake of making him a handsome\npresent. And from this time becoming acquainted with his family, they\ndid them every service in their power, giving books and schooling to\nthe little ones, and every comfort to the old father and mother-in-law\nas long as they survived. They were very desirous of knowing what\nbecame of the unfortunate fellow-laborer, who had so dreadfully gone\naside from the principles of honesty, and they learned that he was,\nafter a short imprisonment, set at liberty by his master at the\nearnest entreaty of the honest waterman, as he said it was partly\nthrough his carelessness in losing the note, that the temptation had\nfallen in his fellow-laborer's way; he had, moreover, a very large\nfamily. His master also was so good as to consider that he was a man\nwho had not been blessed with a good education in his youth; so that\nhaving little fear of God before his eyes, and having a great\ntemptation in his way, he had been the more easily led to commit this\nvery wicked action, by which he would have enriched himself at the\nexpense of an innocent man.\n\nI have great pleasure in adding, that the thought of what he had done,\ntogether with the generosity of the waterman, had so strong an effect\nupon this poor fellow, that he afterwards had it written upon his\ncottage door, DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE UNTO. And he has resolved to\nfollow this rule himself in future, and also taught it to all his\nchildren. Indeed, it became a rule well known over the whole parish;\nfor every little child having been informed of this story, was told\nthat he ought to consider, before he did any action, whether he would\nlike his brother, or sister, or school-fellow to do the same by him;\nand if not, that the action was wrong, and not to be done, let the\nprofit be ever so great. Surely, then, those who have lived long, and\nseen much of life, and have had much religious instruction also,\nshould never depart from this simple and certain rule. And it is the\nsame to all ranks--it requires neither learning nor abilities to \"do\nas you would be done unto;\" nor can any station, however great, no,\nnor any circumstances, however trying, excuse men from giving their\nconstant attention to this golden rule.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GRAVESTONE.\n\n\n  Here rests in peace a Christian wife,\n  Safe from the cares and ills of life;\n  Taught by kind Heaven's afflicting rod,\n  She well had learned her way to GOD.\n  Once a gay girl, she trod the green,\n  The foremost in the festive scene;\n  'Twas then she followed all her will,\n  And wedded William of the hill.\n  No heart had he for prayer and praise,\n  No thought of God's most holy ways:\n  Of worldly gains he loved to speak,\n  In worldly cares he spent his week;\n  E'en Sunday passed unheeded by,\n  And both forgot that they must die.\n\n  While thus by Satan quite beguiled,\n  The God of mercy smote her child:\n  Bereft of one sweet infant dear,\n  She shed the mother's mournful tear;\n  A second next she tried to save,\n  Then bore the second to the grave;\n  Both on one day the parent led\n  To silent mansions of the dead.\n  There, while she wept her children's fate.\n  She learned to feel her mortal state;\n  Stood pondering all her errors past,\n  As if that day had been her last;\n\n  And as she held the mournful bier,\n  Dropt for herself a secret tear.\n  Once she believed her sins were few,\n  But this one moment cleared her view;\n  Then first she felt a Saviour's need,\n  Sinner in thought, and word, and deed.\n  Of her own worth she ceased to dream,\n  For Christ's redemption was her theme.\n  Henceforth her ways were ordered right,\n  She \"walked by faith, and not by sight;\"\n  She read God's word, believed it true,\n  And strove to practise what she knew.\n\n  Her husband saw the mighty change,\n  And thought at first her humor strange;\n  Deemed his own worldly ways the best--\n  But soon his error stood confessed.\n  Ceased is the noise, the jarring strife,\n  For now how humble is the wife!\n  He proudly feels each cross event,\n  While she, poor sinner, is content;\n  No more she has her stubborn will,\n  Returns him daily good for ill;\n  And though her love is still the same.\n  She loves him with a purer flame.\n  Oft would she pray the God of grace\n  His lofty spirit to abase;\n\n  Upward his grovelling thoughts to raise,\n  And teach him humble prayer and praise.\n  Heaven heard her voice: the youth so gay,\n  The thoughtless sinner, learned to pray;\n  Sad sickness too, with pain and smart,\n  Was sent to soften all his heart.\n  She followed next her husband's bier,\n  She wiped his last repenting tear;\n  She heard him mourn his former pride,\n  She heard him thank her when he died.\n  Here, then, in hope of endless life,\n  Rest both the husband and the wife;\n  Here too, the babes whom God hath given,\n  And such, we trust, shall enter heaven.\n\n\n\nADDRESS TO PERSONS ATTENDING A FUNERAL.\n\n\n    Ye mourners, who in silent gloom\n  Bear your dear kindred to the tomb,\n  Grudge not, when Christians go to rest;\n  They sleep in JESUS, and are blest.\n  Call then to mind their faith, their love,\n  Their meetness for the realms above;\n  And if to heaven a saint is fled,\n  O mourn the living, not the dead;\n  Weep o'er the thousands that remain,\n  Deep sunk in sin, or racked with pain;\n  Mourn your own crimes and wicked ways,\n  And learn to number all your days;\n  Gain wisdom from this mournful stone,\n  And make this Christian's case your own.\n\n\n\n\n\nPARLEY THE PORTER.\n\nAN ALLEGORY. SHOWING HOW ROBBERS WITHOUT CAN NEVER GET INTO A HOUSE\nUNLESS THERE ARE TRAITORS WITHIN.\n\nBY HANNAH MORE.\n\n\nThere was once a certain gentleman who had a house, or castle,\nsituated in the midst of a great wilderness, but inclosed in a garden.\nNow there was a band of robbers in the wilderness, who had a great\nmind to plunder and destroy the castle; but they had not succeeded in\ntheir endeavors, because the master had given strict orders to \"watch\nwithout ceasing.\" To quicken their vigilance, he used to tell them\nthat their care would soon have an end; that though the nights they\nhad to watch were dark and stormy, yet they were but few; the period\nof resistance Was short--that of rest would be eternal.\n\nThe robbers, however, attacked the castle in various ways. They tried\nat every avenue; watched to take advantage of every careless moment;\nlooked for an open door, or a neglected window. But though they often\nmade the bolts shake and the windows rattle, they could never greatly\nhurt the house, much less get into it. Do you know the reason? It was,\nbecause the servants were never off their guard. They heard the noises\nplain enough, and used to be not a little frightened, for they were\naware both of the strength and perseverance of their enemies. But what\nseemed rather odd to some of these servants, the gentleman used to\ntell them, that while they continued to be afraid, they would be safe;\nand it passed into a sort of proverb in that family, \"Happy is he that\nfeareth always.\" Some of the servants however, thought this a\ncontradiction.\n\nOne day when the master was going from home, he called his servants\nall together, and spoke to them as follows: \"I will not repeat to you\nthe directions I have so often given you; they are all written down in\nthe book of laws, of which every one of you has a copy. Remember, it\nis a very short time that you are to remain in this castle; you will\nsoon remove to my more settled habitation, to a more durable house,\nnot made with hands. As that house is never exposed to any attack, so\nit never stands in need of any repair; for that country is never\ninfested by any sons of violence. Here, you are servants; there, you\nwill be princes.\n\n\"But mark my words, and you will find the same truth in the book of my\nlaws: Whether you will ever attain to _that_ house, will depend on the\nmanner in which you defend yourselves in _this_. A stout vigilance for\na short time will secure your certain happiness for ever. But every\nthing depends on your present exertions. Don't complain and take\nadvantage of my absence, and call me a hard master, and grumble that\nyou are placed in the midst of a howling wilderness, without peace or\nsecurity. Say not, that you are exposed to temptations without any\npower to resist them. You have some difficulties, it is true; but you\nhave many helps and many comforts to make this house tolerable, even\nbefore you get to the other. Yours is not a hard service; and if it\nwere, 'the time is short.' You have arms if you will use them, and\ndoors if you will bar them, and strength if you will use it. I would\ndefy all the attacks of the robbers without, if I could depend on the\nfidelity of the people within. If the thieves ever get in and destroy\nthe house, it must be by the connivance of one of the family. _For it\nis a standing law of this castle, that mere outward attack can never\ndestroy it, if there be no traitor within._ You will stand or fall as\nyou observe this rule. If you are finally happy, it will be by my\ngrace and favor; if you are ruined, it will be your own fault.\"\n\n\"When the gentleman had done speaking, every servant repeated his\nassurance of attachment and firm allegiance to his master. But among\nthem all, not one was so vehement and loud in his professions as old\nParley the porter. Parley, indeed, it was well known, was always\ntalking, which exposed him to no small danger; for as he was the\nforemost to promise, so he was the slackest to perform. And, to speak\nthe truth, though he was a civil-spoken fellow, his master was more\nafraid of him, with all his professions, than he was of the rest, who\nprotested less. He knew that Parley was vain, credulous, and\nself-sufficient; and he always apprehended more danger from Parley's\nimpertinence, curiosity, and love of novelty, than even from the\nstronger vices of some of the other servants. The rest, indeed, seldom\ngot into any scrape of which Parley was not the cause, in some shape\nor other.\"\n\nI am sorry to be obliged to confess, that though Parley was allowed\nevery refreshment, and all the needful rest which the nature of his\nplace permitted, yet he thought it very hard to be forced to be so\nconstantly on duty.\n\n\"Nothing but watching,\" said Parley; \"I have, to be sure, many\npleasures, and meat sufficient; and plenty of chat in virtue of my\noffice; and I pick up a good deal of news of the comers and goers by\nday; but it is hard that at night I must watch as narrowly as a\nhousedog, and yet let in no company without orders, only because there\nare said to be a few straggling robbers here in the wilderness, with\nwhom my master does not care to let us be acquainted. He pretends to\nmake us vigilant through fear of the robbers, but I suspect it is only\nto make us mope alone. A merry companion, and a mug of beer, would\nmake the night pass cheerfully.\"\n\nParley, however, kept all these thoughts to himself, or uttered them\nonly when no one heard--for talk he must. He began to listen to the\nnightly whistling of the robbers under the windows with rather less\nalarm than formerly; and he was sometimes so tired of watching, that\nhe thought it was even better to run the risk of being robbed once,\nthan to live always in fear of robbers.\n\nThere were certain bounds in which the gentleman allowed his servants\nto walk and divert themselves at all proper seasons. A pleasant garden\nsurrounded the castle, and a thick hedge separated it from the\nwilderness, which was infested by the robbers. In this garden they\nwere permitted to amuse themselves. The master advised them always to\nkeep within these bounds. \"While you observe this rule,\" said he, \"you\nwill be safe and well; and you will consult your own safety, as well\nas show your love to me, by not venturing even to the extremity of\nyour bounds. He who goes as far as he dares, always shows a wish to go\nfarther than he ought, and commonly does so.\"\n\nIt was remarkable, that the nearer these servants kept to the castle,\nand the farther from the hedge, the more ugly the wilderness appeared.\nAnd the nearer they approached the forbidden bounds, their own home\nappeared more dull, and the wilderness more delightful. And this the\nmaster knew when he gave his orders, for he never either did or said\nany thing without a good reason. And when his servants sometimes\ndesired an explanation of the reason, he used to tell them they would\nunderstand it when they came to _the other house_; for it was one of\nthe pleasures of that house, that it would explain all the mysteries\nof this, and any little obscurities in the master's conduct would be\nthen made quite plain.\n\nParley was the first who promised to keep clear of the hedge, and yet\nwas often seen looking as near as he durst. One day he ventured close\nup to the hedge, put two or three stones one on another, and tried to\npeep over. He saw one of the robbers strolling as near as could be on\nthe forbidden side. This man's name was Flatterwell, a smooth, civil\nman, \"whose words were softer than butter, having war in his heart.\"\nHe made several low bows to Parley.\n\nNow Parley knew so little of the world, that he actually concluded all\nrobbers must have an ugly look, which should frighten you at once; and\ncoarse, brutal manners, which would, at first sight, show they were\nenemies. He thought, like a poor ignorant fellow as he was, that this\nmild, specious person could never be one of the band. Flatterwell\naccosted Parley with the utmost civility, which put him quite off his\nguard; for Parley had no notion that he could be an enemy who was so\nsoft and civil. For an open foe he would have been prepared. Parley,\nhowever, after a little discourse, drew this conclusion, that either\nMr. Flatterwell could not be one of the gang, or if he was, the\nrobbers themselves could not be such monsters as his master had\ndescribed, and therefore it was a folly to be afraid of them.\n\nFlatterwell began, like a true adept in his art, by lulling all\nParley's suspicions asleep, and instead of openly abusing his master,\nwhich would have opened Parley's eyes at once, he pretended rather to\ncommend him in a general way, as a person who meant well himself, but\nwas too apt to suspect others. To this Parley assented. The other\nthen ventured to hint by degrees, that though the gentleman might be a\ngood master in the main, yet he must say he was a little strict, and a\nlittle stingy, and not a little censorious. That he was blamed by the\ngentlemen in the wilderness for shutting his house against good\ncompany, and his servants were laughed at by people of spirit for\nsubmitting to the gloomy life of the castle, and the insipid pleasures\nof the garden, instead of ranging in the wilderness at large.\n\n\"It is true enough,\" said Parley, who was generally of the opinion of\nthe person he was talking with; \"my master _is_ rather harsh and\nclose. But, to own the truth, all the barring, and locking, and\nbolting, is to keep out a set of gentlemen who he assures us are\nrobbers, and who are waiting for an opportunity to destroy us. I hope\nno offence, sir, but by your livery I suspect you, sir, are one of the\ngang he is so much afraid of.\"\n\nFLATTERWELL. \"Afraid of me! impossible, dear Mr. Parley. You see I do\nnot look like an enemy. I am unarmed; what harm can a plain man like\nme do?\"\n\nPARLEY. \"Why, that is true enough. Yet my master says, that if we were\nonce to let you into the house, we should be ruined, soul and body.\"\n\nFLATTERWELL. \"I am sorry, Mr. Parley, that so sensible a man as you\nare so deceived. This is mere prejudice. He knows we are cheerful,\nentertaining people; foes to gloom and superstition; and therefore, he\nis so morose, he will not let you get acquainted with us.\"\n\nPARLEY. \"Well, he says you are a band of thieves, gamblers, murderers,\ndrunkards, and atheists.\"\n\nFLATTERWELL. \"Don't believe him: the worst we should do, perhaps, is,\nwe might drink a friendly glass with you to your master's health, or\nplay an innocent game at cards just to keep you awake, or sing a\ncheerful song with the maids; now is there any harm in all this?\"\n\nPARLEY. \"Not the least in the world. And I begin to think there is not\na word of truth in all my master says.\"\n\nFLATTERWELL. \"The more you know us, the more you will like us. But I\nwish there was not this ugly hedge between us. I have a great deal to\nsay, and I am afraid of being overheard.\"\n\nParley was now just going to give a spring over the hedge, but checked\nhimself, saying, \"I dare not come on your side; there are people\nabout, and every thing is carried to my master.\"\n\nFlatterwell saw by this that his new friend was kept on his own side\nof the hedge by fear rather than by principle, and from that moment he\nmade sure of him. \"Dear Mr. Parley,\" said he, \"if you will allow me\nthe honor of a little conversation with you, I will call under the\nwindow of your lodge this evening. I have something to tell you\ngreatly to your advantage. I admire you exceedingly. I long for your\nfriendship; our whole brotherhood is ambitious of being known to so\namiable a person.\"\n\n\"O dear,\" said Parley, \"I shall be afraid of talking to you at night;\nit is so against my master's orders. But did you say you had something\nto tell me to my advantage?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Flatterwell, \"I can point out to you how you may be a\nricher, a merrier, and a happier man. If you will admit me tonight\nunder the window, I will convince you that 'tis prejudice, and not\nwisdom, which makes your master bar his door against us; I will\nconvince you, that the mischief of a 'robber,' as your master\nscurrilously calls us, is only in the name--that we are your true\nfriends, and only mean to promote your happiness.\"\n\n\"Don't say we,\" said Parley, \"pray come alone, I would not see the\nrest of the gang for the world; but I think there can be no great harm\nin talking to _you_ through the bars, if you come alone; but I am\ndetermined not to let you in. Yet I can't say but I wish to know what\nyou can tell me so much to my advantage; indeed, if it is for my good,\nI ought to know it.\"\n\n\"Dear Mr. Parley,\" said Flatterwell, (going out, but turning back,)\n\"there is one thing I had forgot, I cannot get over the hedge at night\nwithout assistance. You know there is a secret in the nature of that\nhedge: you in the house may get over to us in the wilderness of your\nown accord, but we cannot get to your side by our own strength. You\nmust look about and see where the hedge is thinnest, and then set to\nwork to clear away here and there a little bough for me; it wont be\nmissed: and if there is but the smallest hole made on your side, those\non ours can get through; otherwise, we do but labor in vain.\"\n\nTo this Parley made some objection through the fear of being seen.\nFlatterwell replied, that \"the smallest hole from within would be\nsufficient, for he could then work his own way.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Parley, \"I will consider of it. To be sure, I shall even\nthen be equally safe in the castle, as I shall have all the bolts,\nbars, and locks between us; so it will make but little difference.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Flatterwell, who knew it would make all the\ndifference in the world. So they parted with mutual protestations of\nregard. Parley went home charmed with his new friend. His eyes were\nnow clearly open as to his master's prejudices against the \"robbers,\"\nand he was convinced there was more in the name than in the thing.\n\n\"But,\" said he, \"though Mr. Flatterwell is certainly an agreeable\ncompanion, he may not be so safe an inmate. There can, however, be no\nharm in talking at a distance, and I certainly wont let him in.\"\n\nParley, in the course of the day, did not forget his promise to thin\nthe hedge of separation a little. At first he only tore off a handful\nof leaves, then a little sprig, then he broke away a bough or two. It\nwas observable, the larger the breach became, the worse he began to\nthink of his master, and the better of himself. Every peep he took\nthrough the broken hedge increased his desire to get out into the\nwilderness, and made the thoughts of the castle more irksome to him.\n\nHe was continually repeating to himself, \"I wonder what Mr.\nFlatterwell can have to say so much to my advantage? I see he does not\nwish to hurt my master, he only wishes to serve me.\" As the hour of\nmeeting, however, drew near, the master's orders now and then came\nacross Parley's thoughts; so, to divert them, he took the book. He\nhappened to open it at these words: \"My son, if sinners entice thee,\nconsent thou not.\" For a moment his heart failed him. \"If this\nadmonition should be sent on purpose,\" said he; \"but no, 'tis a\nbugbear. My master told me that if I went to the bounds, I should get\nover the hedge. Now I went to the utmost limits, and did not get\nover.\" Here conscience put in, \"Yes, but it was because you were\nwatched.\" \"I am sure,\" continued Parley, \"one may always stop where\none will, and this is only a trick of my master's to spoil sport; so I\nwill even hear what Mr. Flatterwell has to say so much to my\nadvantage. I am not obliged to follow his counsels, but there can be\nno harm in hearing them.\"\n\nFlatterwell prevailed on the rest of the robbers to make no public\nattack on the castle that night. \"My brethren,\" said he, \"you now and\nthen fail in your schemes, because you are for violent beginnings;\nwhile my soothing, insinuating measures hardly ever miss. You come\nblustering and roaring, and frighten people, and set them on their\nguard. You inspire them with terror of _you_, while my whole scheme is\nto make them think well of _themselves_, and ill of their master. If I\nonce get them to entertain hard thoughts of him, and high thoughts of\nthemselves, my business is done, and they fall plump into my snares.\nSo, let this delicate affair alone to me. Parley is a softly fellow:\nhe must not be frightened, but cajoled. He is the very sort of man to\nsucceed with, and worth a hundred of your sturdy, sensible fellows.\nWith them we want strong arguments and strong temptations; but with\nsuch fellows as Parley, in whom vanity and sensuality are the leading\nqualities--as, let me tell you, is the case with far the greater\npart--flattery, and a promise of ease and pleasure, will do more than\nyour whole battle array. If you will let me manage, I will get you all\ninto the castle before midnight.\"\n\nAt night the castle was barricaded as usual, and no one had observed\nthe hole which Parley had made in the hedge. This oversight arose that\nnight from the servants neglecting one of the master's standing\norders--to make a nightly _examination_ of the state of the castle.\nThe neglect did not proceed so much from wilful disobedience, as from\nhaving passed the evening in sloth and diversion, which often amounts\nto nearly the same in its consequences.\n\nAs all was very cheerful within, so all was very quiet without. And\nbefore they went to bed some of the servants observed to the rest,\nthat as they heard no robbers that night, they thought they might soon\nbegin to remit something of their diligence in bolting and barring.\nThat all this fastening and looking was very troublesome, and they\nhoped the danger was now pretty well over. It was rather remarkable,\nthat they never made this sort of observations, but after an evening\nof some excess, and when they had neglected their private business\nwith their master. All, however, except Parley, went quietly to bed,\nand seemed to feel uncommon security.\n\nParley crept down to his lodge. He had half a mind to go to bed too.\nYet he was not willing to disappoint Mr. Flatterwell; so civil a\ngentleman. To be sure, he might have bad designs. Yet what right had\nhe to suspect any body who made such professions, and who was so very\ncivil. \"Besides, it is something for my advantage,\" added Parley. \"I\nwill not open the door, that is certain; but as he is to come alone,\nhe can do me no harm through the bars of the windows. And he will\nthink I am a coward, if I don't keep my word; no, I will let him see\nthat I am not afraid of my own strength; I will show him I can go what\nlength I please, and stop short _when_ I please.\" Had Flatterwell\nheard this boastful speech, he would have been quite sure of his man.\n\nAbout eleven Parley heard the signal agreed upon. It was so gentle as\nto cause little alarm. So much the worse. Flatterwell never frightened\nany one, and therefore seldom failed of any one. Parley stole softly\ndown, planted himself at his little window, opened the casement, and\nspied his new friend. It was pale starlight. Parley was a little\nfrightened, for he thought he perceived one or two persons behind\nFlatterwell; but the other assured him it was only his own shadow,\nwhich his fears had magnified into a company. \"Though I assure you,\"\nsaid he, \"I have not a friend but what is as harmless as myself.\"\n\nThey now entered into earnest discourse, in which Flatterwell showed\nhimself a deep politician. He skilfully mixed up in his conversation\na proper proportion of praise on the pleasures of the wilderness, of\ncompliments to Parley, of ridicule on his master, and of abusive\nsneers on the book in which the master's laws were written. Against\nthis last he had always a particular spite, for he considered it as\nthe grand instrument by which the master maintained his servants in\nallegiance; and when they could be once brought to sneer at the\nbook, there was an end of submission to the master. Parley had not\npenetration enough to see his drift. \"As to the book, Mr.\nFlatterwell,\" said he, \"I do not know whether it be true or false;\nI rather neglect than disbelieve it. I am forced, indeed, to hear it\nread once a week; but I never look into it myself, if I can help it.\"\n\"Excellent,\" said Flatterwell to himself; \"that is just the same\nthing. This is safe ground for me. For whether a man does not believe\nin the book, or does not attend to it, it comes pretty much to the\nsame, and I generally get him at last.\"\n\n\"Why cannot we be a little nearer, Mr. Parley?\" said Flatterwell;\n\"I am afraid of being overheard by some of your master's spies, the\nwindow from which you speak is so high. I wish you would come down\nto the door.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Parley, \"I see no great harm in that. There is a little\nwicket in the door, through which we can converse with more ease and\nequal safety. The same fastenings will be still between us.\" So down\nhe went, but not without a degree of fear and trembling.\n\nThe little wicket being now opened, and Flatterwell standing close on\nthe outside of the door, they conversed with great ease. \"Mr. Parley,\"\nsaid Flatterwell, \"I should not have pressed you so much to admit me\ninto the castle, but out of pure, disinterested regard to your own\nhappiness. I shall get nothing by it, but I cannot bear to think that\na person so wise and amiable should be shut up in this gloomy dungeon,\nunder a hard master, and a slave to the unreasonable tyranny of his\nbook of laws. If you admit me, you need have no more waking, no more\nwatching.\"\n\nHere Parley involuntarily slipped back the bolt of the door.\n\n\"To convince you of my true love,\" continued Flatterwell, \"I have\nbrought a bottle of the most delicious wine that grows in the\nwilderness. You shall taste it; but you must put a glass through the\nwicket to receive it; for it is a singular property in this wine, that\nwe of the wilderness cannot succeed in conveying it to you of the\ncastle, without you hold out a vessel to receive it.\"\n\n\"O here is a glass,\" said Parley, holding out a large goblet, which he\nalways kept ready to be filled by any chance comer.\n\nThe other immediately poured into the capacious goblet a large draught\nof that delicious intoxicating liquor with which the family of the\nFlatterwells have, for near six thousand years, gained the hearts and\ndestroyed the souls of all the inhabitants of the castle, whenever\nthey have been able to prevail on them to hold out a hand to receive\nit. This the wise master of the castle well knew would be the case,\nfor he knew what was in men--he knew their propensity to receive the\ndelicious poison of the Flatterwells; and it was for this reason that\nhe gave them the book of his laws, and planted the hedge, and invented\nthe bolts, and doubled the locks.\n\nAs soon as poor Parley had swallowed the fatal draught it acted like\nenchantment. He at once lost all power of resistance. He had no sense\nof fear left. He despised his own safety, forgot his master, lost all\nsight of the house in the other country, and reached out for another\ndraught as eagerly as Flatterwell held out the bottle to administer\nit. \"What a fool have I been,\" said Parley, \"to deny myself so long.\"\n\n\"Will you now let me in?\" said Flatterwell.\n\n\"Aye, that I will,\" said the deluded Parley. Though the train was now\nincreased to near a hundred robbers, yet so intoxicated was Parley,\nthat he did not see one of them, except his new friend. Parley eagerly\npulled down the bars, drew back the bolts, and forced open the locks,\nthinking he could never let in his friend soon enough. He had,\nhowever, just presence of mind to say, \"My dear friend, I hope you are\nalone.\" Flatterwell swore he was. Parley opened the door--in rushed,\nnot Flatterwell only, but the whole banditti, who always lurk behind\nin his train. The moment they had got sure possession, Flatterwell\nchanged his soft tone, and cried out in a voice of thunder, \"Down\nwith the castle; kill, burn, and destroy.\"\n\nRapine, murder, and conflagration by turns took place. Parley was the\nvery first whom they attacked. He was overpowered with wounds. As he\nfell, he cried out, \"O my master, I die a victim to my unbelief in\nthee, and to my own vanity and imprudence. O that the guardians of all\nother castles would hear me with my dying breath repeat my master's\nadmonition, that _all attacks from without will not destroy, unless\nthere is some confederate within_. O that the keepers of all other\ncastles would learn from my ruin, that he who parleys with temptation\nis already undone. That he who allows himself to go to the very\nbounds, will soon jump over the hedge; that he who talks out of the\nwindow with the enemy, will soon open the door to him; that he who\nholds out his hand for the cup of sinful flattery, loses all power of\nresisting; that when he opens the door to one sin, all the rest fly in\nupon him, and the man perishes as I now do.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA NEW CHRISTMAS TRACT;\n\nOR, THE RIGHT WAY OF REJOICING AT CHRISTMAS, SHOWING THE REASONS WE\nHAVE FOR JOY AT THE EVENT OF OUR SAVIOUR'S BIRTH.\n\n\nThere are two ways of keeping Christmas: some seem to keep it much in\nthe same way in which the unbelieving Jews kept their feast in honor\nof the calf which they had made. \"And they made a calf in Horeb in\nthose days, and the people sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to\nplay.\" But what a sad sort of Christianity is this! I am no enemy to\nmirth of a proper kind, and at proper seasons; but the mirth I now\nspeak of, is the mirth of inconsideration and folly, and is often\nmixed with much looseness of conduct and drunkenness. Is this, then,\nthe sort of mirth proper for Christians? Let us suppose, now, that a\nman should choose a church as the place in which he was to sit and\nsing his jolly song, and to drink till he was intoxicated; surely this\nwould imply that he was a person of extraordinary wickedness. But\nthis, you will say, is what nobody is so bad as to be guilty of; well,\nthen, let us suppose, that instead of choosing a church as the place,\nhe should choose Christmas as the time for the like acts of riot and\ndrunkenness: methinks this must imply no small degree of the same\nkind of wickedness; for, as he that should get intoxicated in a\nchurch, would insult the church, so he that gets intoxicated at\nChristmas, which is the season for commemorating the birth of Christ,\ninsults Christ and his religion.\n\nI know it may be said, that those who take these liberties at\nChristmas do not mean to insult Christ, and that they act from\ninconsideration: to which I answer, that they are very guilty in being\nso inconsiderate; for I would just remark by the way, that these\npeople who are so very inconsiderate in some things, are apt to be\nvery considerate in others. For instance, they are very considerate\nabout their pleasures, but very inconsiderate about their duty. They\nare often, perhaps, very considerate about this world, always very\ninconsiderate about eternity; very considerate for themselves, and\nvery little so about other people; extremely considerate on their own\nside of a bargain, but as inconsiderate about the side of the other\nparty; and when they have committed a sin, they are apt to be very\nconsiderate in finding excuses for it, but very inconsiderate in\ntracing out the guilt and mischief of their wickedness. In short,\nthen, let it be remembered, that inconsideration is often neither more\nnor less than another word for wickedness, and that the inconsiderate\nway of spending Christmas which has been spoken of, is only, in other\nwords, the wicked way of spending it.\n\nBut now let us come to the true way of keeping it.\n\nFirst, then, in order to know how the time of Christ's birth ought to\nbe remembered by us, I would observe, that it is necessary to\nunderstand well _who Christ was, and for what purpose he came on\nearth_. How absurd would it be to celebrate the fifth of November,\nwithout knowing, that on that day the houses of parliament were saved\nfrom fire, and our happy constitution, as well as our religion, was\npreserved to us. Again, how absurd would it be for any man to\ncelebrate the king's birthday, or coronation-day, who did not feel\nwithin his heart loyalty and affection towards his sovereign, and who\ndid not think that any blessings were derived from our kingly\ngovernment.\n\nLet every one, therefore, who wishes to spend Christmas aright, get\nacquainted with the _benefits_ which have followed from Christ's\ncoming into the world. We will endeavor, now, to show very briefly\nwhat these benefits have been. The world, at the time of Christ's\nappearing, was divided into Jews and Gentiles. The word Gentiles\nsignifies nations, that is, all the nations except the Jews. Let us\nspeak of the Gentiles first, and of the Jews afterwards.\n\nThe Gentiles were worshippers of false gods; some of one kind, some of\nanother. They all, however, agreed in this, that they thought one god\nas good as another, and no one among them had any anxiety to bring his\nneighbor over to his religion, which is a plain proof that they had no\ntrue religion among them; for whoever is possessed of true religion,\nis possessed of a great comfort and blessing, which he will therefore\nbe glad to convey to other people also. It was the custom of some of\nthese Gentiles to worship stocks and stones; others bowed down to\nliving animals, such as bulls, or goats, or lizards; and others paid\ntheir stupid adoration to the sun, instead of the Author of it. Many\nof them worshipped their deceased fellow-creatures; and the dead men\nwho were thus turned into gods had been, in general, some of the most\nwicked and abominable of the human race.\n\nNow this ignorance of the true God was followed--as all ignorance of\nhim is apt to be--by great wickedness in their practice. They were\n\"given over\" on this account, as St. Paul, the inspired apostle,\ndeclares, \"to a reprobate mind; to work all uncleanness with\ngreediness.\" They learned to confound good and evil; vices were then\ncommonly practised, such as are not named among Christians. False\nprinciples and false maxims of every kind abounded. Slavery prevailed,\neven in the most civilized lands; for almost all servants were slaves\nin those days. The earth was filled with violence. He that had killed\nthe greatest number of his fellow-creatures got usually the greatest\npraise. \"Wars were carried on with dreadful ferocity, and multitudes\nwere massacred at the public games, in battles fought for the\namusement of the people. Humanity, kindness, and benevolence, were\nmade of no account; and such a thing as a hospital was not known.\nRevenge was both practised and recommended; and those excellent\nChristian graces, humility, universal charity, and forgiveness of\ninjuries, were considered as weaknesses and faults.\"\n\nI shudder to think of the dreadful state of mankind in those days.\nGod grant that the same evils may never return. They are the natural\nconsequences of being without Christianity in the world; for when\nChristianity is gone, there is no rule to go by. Every man may then\nset up a false goodness of his own. Morals, of course, grow worse\nand worse; a fierce and proud spirit comes in the place of Christian\nmeekness and benevolence, and claims the name of virtue; and the\nSaviour of the world, with all his works of mercy, being forgotten,\nman becomes cruel, and unjust, and selfish, and implacable, and\nunmerciful; for all the violent passions of our nature are let loose.\n\nIf we inquire also into the character of the Jews who lived before\nthe coming of our Saviour, we shall find them to have been deplorably\ncorrupt, though they expected his coming, and were, in some measure,\nacquainted with true religion. The little knowledge which they had\nseems to have been perverted through the wickedness of their hearts;\nand the Scriptures assure us, that \"both Jews and Gentiles were all\nunder sin.\" Such was the state into which the world was sunk before\nthe time of our Saviour's appearance in it.\n\nLet us describe, next, who Christ was, and what were the consequences\nof his coming. He is called in Scripture, \"the Son of God;\" and in\nsome places, \"God's only Son;\" which shows that there is no other\nbeing like unto him. We know that a son, by his very birth, derives\nprivileges from his father which belong to no other person; that he\npartakes of the same rank and inheritance with his father; and that\nhe possesses also, in an especial manner, his father's favor, and\naltogether differs from a stranger or a servant. Christ, then, is to\nbe considered, in all such senses as these, as the Son of God. It is\ntrue, he is called also the Son of man, for he was born of a woman,\nnamely, of the virgin Mary, and he took upon him our nature, dwelling\non earth for thirty years. We should take great care, however, that\nhis appearance among us as a man, does not lead us to form any low and\nunworthy notions of him.\n\nSuppose, now, that the son of a king was to travel, in the dress\nof a private subject, on some merciful and condescending errand to\na distant and obscure part of his territory. Surely it would be very\nungenerous and ungrateful, if the poor villagers, whom he came to\nserve, were to deny to him the honors of a king's son merely because\nthey could not believe that so great a person could stoop so low as\nto come among them, especially if he brought proofs of his power and\ngreatness along with him.\n\nJust so, methinks, are all those persons ungenerous and ungrateful\nwho refuse to Christ that divine honor which belongs to him, merely\nbecause he condescended to be made flesh and blood, and to dwell among\nus. Let us, then, receive with simplicity and humility the scripture\ntestimony concerning him. It speaks of him in terms that are quite\nastonishing. \"His name,\" says the prophet, foretelling his birth,\n\"shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the\neverlasting Father, the Prince of Peace; and the government shall be\non his shoulders.\" The evangelist John tells us, that \"the Word,\"\nmeaning Christ, \"was with God\", and the \"Word was God.\" \"By him,\" it\nis said in the Hebrews, \"God made the world;\" and again, \"Let all the\nangels of God worship him.\" \"All power hath been given him, both in\nheaven and earth,\" and God \"hath committed all judgment to the Son.\"\n\"The hour also cometh when they that are in the graves shall hear the\nvoice of the Son of man, and shall come forth: they that have done\ngood, to the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, to\nthe resurrection of damnation.\"\n\nSuch are a few of the expressions used in Scripture concerning Christ.\nLet us learn from these to adore his divine Majesty, and trust his\npower, as well as to fear his wrath, and to account him able to fulfil\nall the purposes of his coming.\n\nBut let us next describe _what these purposes were_. It may be said in\ngeneral, that \"it was for us men, and for our salvation, that he came\ndown from heaven;\" or, as the Scripture expresses it, \"The Son of man\ncame to seek and to save that which was lost, and to give his life a\nransom for many.\"\n\nThe world, as hath already been shown, was sunk in sin, and not in sin\nonly, but in condemnation also. Ever since the fall of our first\nparent Adam, man had been a sinful creature. But as in Adam all died,\neven so in Christ were all who would receive him, \"to be made alive.\"\nChrist, then, was the second Adam: as Adam was the destroyer, so\nChrist was the restorer of our race. The devil, who is called the\nPrince of darkness, had, as we are told in Scripture, become the god\nand the prince of this world. Christ, therefore, came into the world,\nas a conquerer comes, to recover an empire that was lost, and to bring\nback the rebels to their obedience and to happiness. He came to\noverthrow that kingdom of darkness which, through the power of the\ndevil and the corruption of man, had been set up. \"For this purpose\nthe Son of God was manifested, that he might destroy the works of the\ndevil.\" He came \"to redeem us from all iniquity, and to purify unto\nhimself a peculiar people, zealous of good works.\"\n\nBut how does Christ fulfil his purpose of delivering us? First, I\nwould observe, that he lived a most holy life, hereby setting us an\nexample that we should tread in his steps. He went about doing good:\nnever was any one so kind and gracious to all who came to him as\nJesus Christ. I would here observe also, that he preached the gospel\nto mankind; he told us what we must believe and do, in order to enter\ninto the kingdom of heaven. Through him also the Holy Spirit of God is\ngranted to us. And, to crown all, he died for us. He was nailed to the\ncross, and suffered a cruel death for our sakes, bearing the wrath of\nGod in our stead. \"Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he\nloved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.\"\nChrist is that Lamb of God \"which has been offered up as a sacrifice,\"\nand \"which taketh away the sins of the world.\" Now, then, let us\nrejoice, and say triumphantly, with the prophet of old, \"Unto us a\nchild is born, unto us a son is given.\" \"Behold,\" said the angels,\n\"I bring you good tidings of great joy; for unto you is born this day,\na Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.\" \"Glory to God in the highest,\non earth peace, good will towards men.\"\n\nOh, how many thousands have had reason to bless the season which we\nare now commemorating--the season of the birth of Jesus Christ. The\nworld, it is true, is still wicked, for there are many who do not\nbelieve in this Saviour; and there are not a few who think they\nbelieve in him, and who do not. Nevertheless, even the world in\ngeneral has been the better for his coming, for the thick darkness\nis past, and the true light now shineth. Through Christ's coming,\niniquity has been lessened even among unbelievers; for real\nChristians, though few, have held up to view the nature of true\ngoodness, and even bad men have, in some measure, been constrained to\nimitate them; they have also grown more ashamed than they otherwise\nwould have been of their vices.\n\nBut who can calculate the blessing which Christianity hath been to\nthousands of true believers? How many lives have been made holy here\non earth; how many hearts have been cheered and comforted by it; how\nmany deaths, which would otherwise have been most gloomy, have been\nrendered joyful and triumphant; and, above all, how many immortal\nsouls have been saved and made happy to all eternity, through faith in\nthis blessed Redeemer. \"My sheep,\" says Christ, \"hear my voice, and\nthey follow me, and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall\nnever perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.\" \"I go to\nprepare a place for them, that where I am there they may be also.\"\n\nAnd now, reader, what are your thoughts on the subject of our\nSaviour's appearance on this earth of ours? If you are a true\nChristian, your language will be such as the following: \"It is through\nthe coming of Christ into the world that I have learned to know\nmyself, and to know the God who made me. I am by nature blind and\nignorant; I am also sinful and undone; I am utterly without hope,\nexcept through the mercy of my Saviour; and even though I have been\nborn in a Christian land, I can trace back, in my recollection, many\nproofs of this my natural ignorance and corruption and hardness of\nheart. I was once like a sheep going astray, but I am now returned to\nthe Shepherd of my soul. I followed the bent of my own foolish will,\nbut the grace of God in Jesus Christ has changed my sinful heart; the\nknowledge of my corruption has humbled me; the thought of my Saviour's\ndying for me has stirred up gratitude within me, and that acquaintance\nwith his gospel which I have gained has changed my whole views of\nlife.\n\n\"Christ's character delights me: I read the history of his humble\nbirth, his painful death, and his glorious resurrection, as it is\nrecorded in Scripture, with hope and joy, and with holy confidence and\ntrust. How shall I sufficiently bless God for Jesus Christ? Whatever\nchange has been wrought in me, I trace to Christ's coming into the\nworld. If Christ had never come, how corrupt should I be at this\nmoment; how blind, how dark, how ignorant, how different from what,\nthrough the grace of God, I now am. How miserable, in comparison of my\npresent happiness. I am engaged, indeed, in a sharp conflict with my\nsins; but, through my Saviour's help, I hope to gain ground against\nthem. I have, occasionally, doubts and fears; but in general, I feel\nconfident that the promises of God are sure and certain in Christ\nJesus; for I know in whom I have believed, and I am persuaded that he\nis able to keep that soul which I have committed to him till the great\nday.\"\n\n\n\n\nA NEW CHRISTMAS HYMN.\n\n\n  O how wondrous is the story\n    Of our blest Redeemer's birth!\n  See, the mighty Lord of glory\n    Leaves his heaven to visit earth.\n\n  Hear with transport, every creature,\n    Hear the gospel's joyful sound:\n  Christ appears in human nature,\n    In our sinful world is found!\n\n  Comes to pardon our transgression,\n    Like a cloud our sins to blot;\n  Comes to his own favored nation,\n    But his own receive him not.\n\n  If the angels who attended\n    To declare the Saviour's birth,\n  Who from heaven with songs descended,\n    To proclaim good will on earth;\n\n  If, in pity to our blindness,\n    _They_ had brought the pardon needed;\n  Still, Jehovah's wondrous kindness\n    Had our warmest hopes exceeded!\n\n  If some prophet had been sent\n    With salvation's joyful news,\n  Who that heard the blest event\n    Could their warmest love refuse?\n\n  But 'twas He to whom in heaven\n    Hallelujahs never cease;\n  He, the mighty God, was given--\n    Given to us a Prince of peace.\n\n  None but he who did create us,\n    Could redeem from sin and hell;\n  None but he could reinstate us\n    In the rank from which we fell.\n\n  Had he come, the glorious stranger,\n    Decked with all the world calls great--\n  Had he lived in pomp and grandeur,\n    Crowned with more than royal state--\n\n  Still, our tongues, with praise o'erflowing,\n    On such boundless love would dwell--\n  Still, our hearts, with rapture glowing,\n    Speak what words could never tell.\n\n  But what wonder should it raise,\n    Thus our lowest state to borrow!\n  O the high mysterious ways--\n    God's own Son a child of sorrow!\n\n  'Twas to bring us endless pleasure,\n    He our suffering nature bore;\n  'Twas to give us heavenly treasure,\n    He was willing to be poor.\n\n  Come, ye rich, survey the stable\n    Where your infant Saviour lies;\n  From your full, o'erflowing table,\n    Send the hungry good supplies.\n\n  Boast not your ennobled stations,\n    Boast not that you're highly fed;\n  Jesus, hear it all ye nations,\n    Had not where to lay his head.\n\n  Learn of me, thus cries the Saviour,\n    If my kingdom you'd inherit:\n  Sinner, quit your proud behavior;\n    Learn my meek and lowly spirit.\n\n  Come, ye servants, see your station\n    Free from all reproach and shame;\n  He who purchased your salvation,\n    Bore a servant's humble name.\n\n  Come, ye poor, some comfort gather,\n    Faint not in the race you run;\n  Hard the lot your gracious Father\n    Gave his dear, his only Son.\n\n  Think, that if your humble stations\n    Less of worldly food bestow,\n  You escape those strong temptations\n    Which from wealth and grandeur flow\n\n  See, your Saviour is ascended;\n    See, he looks with pity down:\n  Trust him, all will soon be mended;\n    Bear his cross, you'll share his crown.\n\n\n\n\nBEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS;\nor, THE VALLEY OF TEARS. A VISION.\n\nBY HANNAH MORE.\n\n\nOnce upon a time methought I set out upon a long journey, and the\nplace through which I travelled appeared to be a dark valley, which\nwas called the Valley of Tears. It had obtained this name not only\non account of the many sorrowful adventures which poor passengers\ncommonly meet with in their journey through it, but also because most\nof these travellers entered it weeping and crying, and left it in a\nvery great pain and anguish. This vast valley was full of people of\nall colors, ages, sizes, and descriptions; but whether white, or\nblack, or tawney, all were travelling the same road, or rather, they\nwere taking different little paths which all led to the same common\nend.\n\nNow it was remarkable, that notwithstanding the different complexions,\nages, and tempers of this vast variety of people, yet all resembled\neach other in this one respect, that each had a burden on his back,\nwhich he was destined to carry through the toil and heat of the day,\nuntil he should arrive, by a longer or shorter course, at his\njourney's end. These burdens would in general have made the pilgrimage\nquite intolerable, had not the Lord of the valley, out of his great\ncompassion for these poor pilgrims, provided, among other things, the\nfollowing means for their relief.\n\nIn their full view, over the entrance of the valley, there were\nwritten in great letters the following words:\n\n    BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS.\n\n\nNow I saw in my vision, that many of the travellers hurried on without\nstopping to read this inscription; and others, though they had once\nread it, yet paid little or no attention to it. A third sort thought\nit good advice for other people, but very seldom applied it to\nthemselves. In short, I saw that too many of these people were of the\nopinion, that they had burdens enough of their own, and that there\nwas therefore no occasion to take upon them those of others; so each\ntried to make his own load as light, and his own journey as pleasant\nas he could, without so much as once casting a thought on a poor\noverloaded neighbor.\n\nHere, however, I have to make a rather singular remark, by which\nI shall plainly show the folly of these selfish people. It was so\nordered and contrived by the Lord of this valley, that if any one\nstretched out his hand to lighten a neighbor's burden, in fact he\nnever failed to find that he at that moment also lightened his own.\nBesides, the obligation to help each other, and the benefit of doing\nso, were mutual. If a man helped his neighbor, it commonly happened\nthat some other neighbor came, by and by, and helped him in his turn;\nfor there was no such thing as what we call _independence_ in the\nwhole valley. Not one of all these travellers, however stout and\nstrong, could move on comfortably without assistance; for so the Lord\nof the valley, whose laws were all of them kind and good, had\nexpressly ordained.\n\nI stood still to watch the progress of these poor wayfaring people,\nwho moved slowly on, like so many ticket-porters, with burdens of\nvarious kinds on their backs, of which some were heavier, and some\nwere lighter; but from a burden of one kind or other, not one\ntraveller was entirely free.\n\n\nTHE WIDOW.\n\nA sorrowful widow, oppressed with the burden of grief for the loss of\nan affectionate husband, would have been bowed down by her heavy load,\nhad not the surviving children with great alacrity stepped forward and\nsupported her. Their kindness, after a while, so much lightened the\nload, which threatened at first to be intolerable, that she even went\non her way with cheerfulness, and more than repaid their help, by\napplying the strength she derived from it, to their future assistance.\n\n\nTHE HUSBAND.\n\nI next saw a poor old man tottering under a burden so heavy, that I\nexpected him every moment to sink under it. I peeped into his pack,\nand saw it was made up of many sad articles: there were poverty,\noppression, sickness, debt, and what made by far the heaviest part,\nundutiful children. I was wondering how it was that he got on even so\nwell as he did, till I spied his wife, a kind, meek, Christian woman,\nwho was doing her utmost to assist him. She quietly got behind, gently\nlaid her shoulder to the burden, and carried a much larger proportion\nof it than appeared to me when I was at a distance. She not only\nsustained him by her strength, but cheered him by her counsels. She\ntold him that \"through much tribulation we must enter into the\nkingdom;\" that \"he that overcometh shall inherit all things.\" In\nshort, she so supported his fainting spirit, that he was enabled to\n\"run with patience the race that was set before him.\"\n\n\nTHE KIND NEIGHBOR.\n\nAn infirm blind woman was creeping forward with a very heavy burden,\nin which were packed sickness and want, with numberless other of those\nraw materials out of which human misery is worked up. She was so weak\nthat she could not have got on at all, had it not been for the kind\nassistance of another woman almost as poor as herself; who, though she\nhad no light burden of her own, cheerfully lent a helping hand to a\nfellow-traveller who was still more heavily laden. This friend had\nindeed little or nothing to give; but the very voice of kindness is\nsoothing to the weary. And I remarked in many other cases, that it was\nnot so much the degree of help afforded as the manner of helping, that\nlightened the burdens.\n\nSome had a coarse, rough, clumsy way of assisting a neighbor, which,\nthough in fact it might be of real use, yet seemed, by galling the\ntravellers, to add to the load it was intended to lighten; while I\nobserved in others, that so cheap a kindness as a mild word, or even\nan affectionate look, made a poor burdened wretch move on cheerily.\nThe bare feeling that some human being cared for him, seemed to\nlighten the load.\n\nBut to return to this kind neighbor. She had a little old book in her\nhand, the covers of which were worn out by much use. When she saw the\nblind woman ready to faint, she would read her a few words out of this\nbook, such as the following: \"Blessed are the poor in spirit; for\ntheirs is the kingdom of heaven.\" \"Blessed are they that mourn; for\nthey shall be comforted.\" \"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.\"\n\"For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh out for\nus a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory;\" and one of\nthese little promises operated like a cordial on the sufferer.\n\n\nTHE CLERGYMAN.\n\nA pious minister sinking under the weight of a distressed parish,\nwhose worldly wants he was totally unable to bear, was suddenly\nrelieved by a good widow, who came up, and took all the sick and\nhungry on her own shoulders. The burden of the parish thus divided\nbecame tolerable. The minister being no longer bowed down by the\ntemporal distresses of his people, applied himself cheerfully to his\nown part of the weight. And it was pleasant to see how those two\npersons, neither of them very strong, or rich, or healthy, by thus\nkindly uniting together, were enabled to bear the weight of a whole\nparish; though singly, either of them must have sunk under the\nattempt. And I remember one great grief I felt during my whole journey\nwas, that I did not see more of this union and concurring kindness, by\nwhich all the burdens might have been easily divided. It troubled me\nto observe, that of all the laws of the valley, there was not one\nmore frequently broken than the law of kindness.\n\n\nTHE NEGROES.\n\nI now spied a swarm of poor black men, women, and children, a\nmultitude which no man could number; these groaned, and toiled, and\nsweated, and bled under far heavier loads than I had yet seen. But\nfor a while no man helped them; at length a few white travellers\nwere touched with the sorrowful sighing of those millions, and very\nheartily did they put their hands to the burdens; but their number was\nnot quite equal to the work they had undertaken: I perceived, however,\nthat they never lost sight of these poor, heavy-laden wretches; and as\nthe number of these generous helpers increased, and is continually\nincreasing, I felt a comfortable hope, that before all the blacks got\nout of the valley, the whites would so apply themselves to the burden,\nthat the loads would be effectually lightened.\n\nAmong the travellers, I had occasion to remark, that those who most\nkicked and struggled under their burdens, only made them so much the\nheavier; for their shoulders became extremely galled by these vain\nstruggles. The load, if borne patiently, would in the end have turned\neven to the advantage of the bearers--for so the Lord of the valley\nhad kindly decreed; but as to these grumblers, they had all the smart\nand none of the benefit. But the thing that made all these burdens\nseem so very heavy was, that in every one, without exception, there\nwas a certain inner packet, which most of the travellers took pains to\nconceal, and carefully wrap up; and while they were forward enough to\ncomplain of the other part of their burdens, few said a word about\nthis, though in truth it was the pressing weight of this secret packet\nwhich served to render the general burden so intolerable.\n\nIn spite of all their caution, I contrived to get a peep at it. I\nfound, in each, that this packet had the same label: the word _sin_\nwas written on all as a general title, and in ink so black that they\ncould not wash it out. I observed that most of them took no small\npains to hide the writing; but I was surprised to see that they did\nnot try to get rid of their load, but the label. If any kind friend\nwho assisted these people in bearing their burdens, did but so much as\nhint at the secret packet, or advise them to get rid of it, they took\nfire at once, and commonly denied that they had any such article in\ntheir portmanteau; and it was those whose secret packet swelled to the\nmost enormous size, who most stoutly denied they had any such packet\nat all.\n\nI saw with pleasure, however, that some who had long labored heartily\nto get rid of this inward packet, at length, by prayers, and tears,\nand efforts, not made in their own strength, found it much diminished,\nand the more this packet shrunk in size, the lighter was the other\npart of their burdens also.\n\nThen, methought, all at once, I heard a voice as it had been the voice\nof an angel, crying out, and saying, \"Ye unhappy pilgrims, why are ye\ntroubled about the burden which ye are doomed to bear through this\nValley of Tears? Know ye not, that as soon as ye shall have escaped\nout of this valley, the whole burden shall drop off, provided ye\nneglect not to remove that inward weight of _sin_ which principally\noppresses you? Study, then, the whole will of the Lord of this valley.\nLearn from him how the heavy part of your burdens may now be lessened,\nand how at last it shall be removed for ever. Be comforted. Faith and\nhope may cheer you even in this valley. The passage, though it seems\nlong to weary travellers, is comparatively short; for beyond it there\nis a land of everlasting rest, 'where ye shall hunger no more, neither\nthirst any more; where ye shall be led by living fountains of waters,\nand all tears shall be wiped away from your eyes.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STRAIT GATE AND THE BROAD WAY:\n\nBEING THE SECOND PART OF THE VALLEY OF TEARS.\n\nBY HANNAH MORE.\n\n\nNow I had a second vision of what was passing in the Valley of Tears.\nMethought I saw again the same kind of travellers whom I had seen in\nthe former part, and they were wandering at large through the same\nvast wilderness. At first setting out on his journey, each traveller\nhad a small lamp so fixed in his bosom, that it seemed to make a part\nof himself; but as this _natural light_ did not prove to be sufficient\nto direct them in the right way, the King of the country, in pity to\ntheir wanderings and their blindness, out of his gracious\ncondescension, promised to give these poor wayfaring people an\nadditional supply of light from his own royal treasury.\n\nBut as he did not choose to lavish his favors where there seemed no\ndisposition to receive them, he would not bestow any of his oil on\nsuch as did not think it worth asking for. \"Ask, and ye shall\nreceive,\" was the universal rule he laid down for them. Many were\nprevented from asking through pride and vanity, for they thought they\nhad light enough already; preferring the feeble glimmerings of their\nown lamp, to all the offered light from the King's treasury.\n\nYet it was observed of those who rejected it as thinking they had\nenough, that hardly any acted up to what even their own natural light\nshowed them. Others were deterred from asking, because they were told\nthat this light not only pointed out the dangers and difficulties of\nthe road, but by a certain reflecting power it turned inward on\nthemselves, and revealed to them ugly sights in their own hearts to\nwhich they rather chose to be blind; for those travellers \"chose\ndarkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.\" Now it was\nremarkable that these two properties were inseparable, and that the\nlamp would be of little outward use, except to those who used it as\nan internal reflector. A threat and a promise also never failed to\naccompany the offer of this light from the King: a promise, that to\nthose who improved what they had, more should be given; and a threat,\nthat from those who did not use it wisely, should be taken away even\nwhat they had.\n\nI observed that when the road was very dangerous, when terrors and\ndifficulties and death beset the faithful traveller, then, on their\nfervent importunity, the King voluntarily gave large and bountiful\nsupplies of light, such as in common seasons never could have been\nexpected; always proportioning the quantity given to the necessity of\nthe case: \"As their day was,\" such was their light and strength.\n\nThough many chose to depend entirely on their own lamp, yet it was\nobserved that this light was apt to go out, if left to itself. It was\neasily blown out by those violent gusts which were perpetually howling\nthrough the wilderness, and indeed it was the natural tendency of that\nunwholesome atmosphere to extinguish it; just as you have seen a\ncandle go out when exposed to the vapors and foul air of a damp room.\nIt was a melancholy sight to see multitudes of travellers heedlessly\npacing on, boasting they had light enough, and despising the offer of\nmore.\n\nBut what astonished me most of all was, to see many, and some of them,\ntoo, accounted men of firstrate wit, actually busy in blowing out\ntheir own light, because, while any spark of it remained, it only\nserved to torment them, and point out things which they did not wish\nto see. And having once blown out their own light, they were not easy\ntill they had blown out that of their neighbor's also; so that a good\npart of the wilderness seemed to exhibit a sort of universal\n_blind-man's-buff_, each endeavoring to catch his neighbor, while his\nown voluntary blindness exposed him to be caught himself, so that each\nwas actually falling into the snare he was laying for another; till at\nlength, as selfishness is the natural consequence of blindness, \"catch\nhe that catch can,\" became the general cry throughout the wilderness.\n\nNow I saw in my vision, that there were some others who were busy in\nstrewing the most gaudy flowers over the numerous bogs, precipices,\nand pitfalls, with which the wilderness abounded; and thus making\ndanger and death look so gay, that the poor thoughtless creatures\nseemed to delight in their own destruction. Those pitfalls did not\nappear deep or dangerous to the eye, because over them were raised gay\nedifices with alluring names. These were filled with singing men and\nsinging women, and with dancing, and feasting, and gaming, and\ndrinking, and jollity, and madness. But though the scenery was gay,\nthe footing was unsound. The floors were full of holes, through which\nthe unthinking merrymakers were continually sinking. Some tumbled\nthrough in the middle of a song, many at the end of a feast; and\nthough there was many a cup of intoxication wreathed with flowers,\nyet there was always poison at the bottom.\n\nBut what most surprised me was, that though no day passed over their\nheads in which some of these merry-makers did not drop through, yet\ntheir loss made little impression on those who were left. Nay, instead\nof being awakened to more circumspection and self-denial by the\ncontinual dropping off of those about them, several of them seemed to\nborrow from thence an argument of a directly contrary tendency, and\nthe very shortness of the time was only urged as a reason to use it\nmore sedulously for the indulgence of sensual delights. \"Let us eat\nand drink; for to-morrow we die.\" \"Let us crown ourselves with\nrose-buds before they are withered.\" With these, and a thousand other\nsuch little mottoes, the gay garlands of the wilderness were\ndecorated.\n\nSome admired poets were set to work to set the most corrupt sentiments\nto the most harmonious tunes: these were sung without scruple,\nchiefly, indeed, by the looser sons of riot, but not seldom also by\nthe more orderly daughters of sobriety, who were not ashamed to sing,\nto the sound of instruments, sentiments so corrupt and immoral, that\nthey would have blushed to speak or read them; but the music seemed to\nsanctify the corruption, especially such as was connected with love or\ndrinking.\n\nNow I observed, that all the travellers who had so much as a spark of\nlife left, seemed every now and then, as they moved onwards, to cast\nan eye, though with very different degrees of attention, towards the\nHappy land, which they were told lay at the end of their journey; but\nas they could not see very far forward, and as they knew there was a\ndark and shadowy valley, which must needs be crossed before they\ncould attain to the Happy land, they tried to turn their attention\nfrom it as much as they could. The truth is, they were not\nsufficiently apt to consult a map which the King had given them, and\nwhich pointed out the road to the Happy land so clearly, that the\n\"wayfaring man, though simple, could not err.\" This map also defined\nvery correctly the boundaries of the Happy land from the land of\nMisery, both of which lay on the other side of the dark and shadowy\nvalley; but so many beacons and lighthouses were erected, so many\nclear and explicit directions furnished for avoiding the one country\nand attaining the other, that it was not the King's fault, if even one\nsingle traveller got wrong. But I am inclined to think, that in spite\nof the map, and the King's word, and his offers of assistance to get\nthem thither, the travellers in general did not heartily and truly\nbelieve, after all, that there was any such country as the Happy land;\nor at least, the paltry and transient pleasures of the wilderness so\nbesotted them, the thoughts of the dark and shadowy valley so\nfrightened them, that they thought they should be more comfortable by\nbanishing all thought and forecast.\n\nNow I also saw in my dream, that there were two roads through the\nwilderness, one of which every traveller must needs take. The first\nwas narrow, and difficult, and rough, but it was infallibly safe. It\ndid not admit the traveller to stray either to the right hand or to\nthe left, yet it was far from being destitute of real comforts or\nsober pleasures. The other was a _broad and tempting way_, abounding\nwith luxurious fruits and gaudy flowers to tempt the eye and please\nthe appetite. To forget the dark valley, through which every traveller\nwas well assured he must one day pass, seemed, indeed, the object of\ngeneral desire. To this great end, all that human ingenuity could\ninvent was industriously set to work. The travellers read, and they\nwrote, and they painted, and they sung, and they danced, and they\ndrank as they went along, not so much because they all cared for these\nthings, or had any real joy in them, as because this restless activity\nserved to divert their attention from ever being fixed on the _dark\nand shadowy valley_.\n\nThe King, who knew the thoughtless temper of the travellers, and\nhow apt they were to forget their journey's end, had thought of a\nthousand little kind attentions to warn them of their dangers. And as\nwe sometimes see in our gardens written on a board in great letters,\n\"Beware of spring-guns\"--\"Man-traps are set here;\" so had this King\ncaused to be written and stuck up, before the eyes of the travellers,\nseveral little notices and cautions, such as, \"Broad is the way that\nleadeth to destruction;\" \"Take heed, lest ye also perish;\" \"Woe to\nthem that rise up early to drink wine;\" \"The pleasures of sin are but\nfor a season.\"\n\nSuch were the notices directed to the _Broad-way_ travellers; but they\nwere so busily engaged in plucking the flowers, sometimes before they\nwere blown, and in devouring the fruits, often before they were ripe,\nand in loading themselves with _yellow clay_, under the weight of\nwhich millions perished, that they had no time so much as to look at\nthe King's directions.\n\nMany went wrong because they preferred a merry journey to a safe one,\nand because they were terrified by certain notices chiefly intended\nfor the _Narrow-way_ travellers, such as, \"Ye shall weep and lament,\nbut the world shall rejoice;\" but had these foolish people allowed\nthemselves time or patience to read to the end, which they seldom\nwould do, they would have seen these comfortable words added: \"But\nyour sorrow shall be turned into joy;\" also, \"Your joy no man taketh\nfrom you;\" and, \"They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.\"\n\nNow I also saw in my dream, that many travellers who had a strong\ndread of ending at the land of Misery, walked up to the Strait gate,\nhoping, that though the entrance was narrow, yet if they could once\nget in, the road would widen; but what was their grief, when on\nlooking more closely they saw written on the inside, \"Narrow is the\nway:\" this made them take fright; they compared the inscriptions with\nwhich the whole way was lined, such as, \"Be ye not conformed to this\nworld\"--\"Deny yourselves, take up your cross,\" with all the tempting\npleasures of the wilderness.\n\nSome indeed recollected the fine descriptions they had read of the\nHappy land, the Golden city, and the river of Pleasures, and they\nsighed; but then, those joys were distant, and from the faintness\nof their light they soon got to think that what was remote might\nbe uncertain; and while the present good increased in bulk by its\nnearness, the distant good receded, diminished, disappeared. Their\nfaith failed; they would trust no farther than they could see: they\ndrew back and got into the Broadway, taking a common but sad refuge\nin the number and gayety of their companions.\n\nWhen these faint-hearted people, who yet had set out well, turned\nback, their light was quite put out, and then they became worse than\nthose who had made no attempt to get in; \"for it is impossible,\" that\nis, it is next to impossible, \"for those who were once enlightened,\nand have tasted of the heavenly gift, and the good word of God, and\nthe powers of the world to come, if they shall fall away, to renew\nthem again to repentance.\"\n\nA few honest, humble travellers, not naturally stronger than the rest,\nbut strengthened by their trust in the King's word, came up by the\nlight of their lamps, and meekly entered in at the Strait gate. As\nthey advanced farther they felt less heavy, and though the way did not\nin reality grow wider, yet they grew reconciled to the narrowness of\nit, especially when they saw the walls here and there studded with\ncertain jewels called _promises_, such as, \"He that endureth to the\nend shall be saved;\" and, \"My grace is sufficient for thee.\"\n\nSome, when they were almost ready to faint, were encouraged by seeing\nthat many niches in the Narrow-way were filled with statues and\npictures of saints and martyrs, who had borne their testimony at the\nstake, that the Narrow-way was the safe way; and these travellers,\ninstead of sinking at the sight of the painted wheel and gibbet, the\nsword and the furnace, were animated by these words written under\nthem: \"Those that wear white robes came out of great tribulation;\"\nand, \"Be ye followers of them who through faith and patience inherit\nthe promises.\"\n\nIn the meantime there came a great multitude of travellers, all from\nLaodicea: this was the largest party I had yet seen; these were\nneither cold nor hot; they would not give up future hope, they could\nnot endure present pain; so they contrived to deceive themselves by\nfancying, that though they resolved to keep the Happy land in view,\nyet there must needs be many different ways which led to it, no doubt\nall equally sure without being all equally rough; so they set on foot\ncertain little contrivances to attain the end without using the means,\nand softened down the spirit of the King's directions to fit them to\ntheir own practice.\n\nSometimes they would split a direction in two, and only use that half\nwhich suited them. For instance, when they met with the following\nrule, \"Trust in the Lord, and do good,\" they would take the first\nhalf, and make themselves easy with a general sort of trust, that\nthrough the mercy of the King all would go well with them, though they\nthemselves did nothing. And on the other hand, many made sure that a\nfew good works of their own would carry them safely to the Happy land,\nthough they did _not_ trust in the Lord, nor place any faith in his\nword: so they took the second half of the spliced direction. Thus some\nperished by a lazy faith, and others by a working pride.\n\nA large party of Pharisees now appeared, who had so neglected their\nlamp that they did not see their way at all, though they fancied\nthemselves to be full of light; they kept up appearances so well as to\ndelude others, and most effectually to delude themselves with a notion\nthat they might be found in the right way at last. In this dreadful\ndelusion they went on to the end, and till they were finally plunged\nin the dark valley, never discovered the horrors which awaited them on\nthe dismal shore. It was remarkable, that while these Pharisees were\noften boasting how bright their light burned, in order to get the\npraise of men, the humble travellers, whose steady light showed their\ngood works to others, refused all commendation, and the brighter their\nlight shined before men, so much the more they insisted that they\nought to glory, not in themselves, but their Father which is in\nheaven.\n\nI now set myself to observe what was the particular let, molestation,\nand hinderance, which obstructed particular travellers in their\nendeavors to enter in at the Strait gate. I remarked a huge portly\nman, who seemed desirous of getting in, but he carried about him such\na vast provision of bags full of gold, and had on so many rich\ngarments which stuffed him out so wide, that though he pushed and\nsqueezed like one who had really a mind to get in, yet he could not\npossibly do so. Then I heard a voice crying, \"Woe to him that loadeth\nhimself with thick clay.\" The poor man felt something was wrong, and\neven went so far as to change some of his more cumbersome vanities\ninto others which seemed less bulky; but still he and his pack were\nmuch too wide for the gate.\n\nHe would not, however, give up the matter so easily, but began to\nthrow away a little of the coarser part of his baggage; but still I\nremarked, that he threw away none of the vanities which lay near his\nheart. He tried again, but it would not do; still his dimensions were\ntoo large. He now looked up and read these words: \"How hardly shall\nthey who have riches enter into the kingdom of God!\" The poor man\nsighed to find that it was impossible to enjoy his fill of both\nworlds, and \"went away sorrowing.\" If he ever afterwards cast a\nthought towards the Happy land, it was only to regret that the road\nwhich led to it was too narrow to admit any but the meagre children of\nwant, who were not so encumbered by wealth as to be too big for the\npassage. Had he read on, he would have seen that \"with God all things\nare possible.\"\n\nAnother advanced with much confidence of success; for having little\nworldly riches or honors, the gate did not seem so strait to him. He\ngot to the threshold triumphantly, and seemed to look back with\ndisdain on all that he was quitting. He soon found, however, that he\nwas so bloated with pride, and stuffed out with self-sufficiency, that\nhe could not get in. Nay, he was in a worse way than the rich man just\nnamed, for _he_ was willing to throw away some of his outward luggage;\nwhereas this man refused to part with a grain of that vanity and\nself-applause which made him too big for the way. The sense of his own\nworth so swelled him out, that he stuck fast in the gateway, and could\nneither get in nor out.\n\nFinding now that he must cut off all those big thoughts of himself,\nif he wished to be reduced to such a size as to pass the gate, he gave\nup all thoughts of it. He scorned that humility and self-denial which\nmight have shrunk him down to the proper dimensions: the more he\ninsisted on his own qualifications for entrance, the more impossible\nit became to enter, for the bigger he grew. Finding that he must\nbecome quite another manner of man before he could hope to get in, he\ngave up the desire; and I now saw, that though when he set his face\ntowards the Happy land he could not get an inch forward, yet the\ninstant he made a motion to turn back into the world, his speed became\nrapid enough, and he got back into the Broad-way much sooner than he\nhad got out of it.\n\nMany, who for a time were brought down from their usual bulk by some\naffliction, seemed to get in with ease. They now thought all their\ndifficulties over; for having been surfeited with the world during\ntheir late disappointment, they turned their backs upon it willingly\nenough. A fit of sickness perhaps, which is very apt to _reduce_, had\nfor a time brought their bodies into subjection, so that they were\nenabled just to get in at the gateway; but as soon as health and\nspirits returned, the way grew narrower and narrower to them; they\ncould not get on, but turned short, and got back into the world.\n\nI saw many attempt to enter who were stopped short by a large burden\nof worldly cares; others by a load of idolatrous attachments; but I\nobserved that nothing proved a more complete bar than that vast bundle\nof prejudices with which multitudes were loaded. Others were fatally\nobstructed by loads of bad habits which they would not lay down,\nthough they knew they prevented their entrance. Some few, however, of\nmost descriptions who had kept their light alive by craving constant\nsupplies from the King's treasury, got through at last by a strength\nwhich they felt not to be their own.\n\nOne poor man, who carried the largest bundle of bad habits I had seen,\ncould not get on a step; he never ceased, however, to implore for\nlight enough to see where his misery lay: he threw down one of his\nbundles, then another, but all to little purpose, still he could not\nstir. At last, striving as if in agony--which is the true way of\nentering--he threw down the heaviest article in his pack: this was\nselfishness. The poor fellow felt relieved at once, his light burned\nbrightly, and the rest of his pack was as nothing.\n\nThen I heard a great noise as of carpenters at work. I looked to see\nwhat this might be, and saw many sturdy travellers, who, finding they\nwere too bulky to get through, took into their heads not to reduce\nthemselves, but to widen the gate: they hacked on this side, and hewed\non that; but all their hacking and hewing and hammering was to no\npurpose, they got only their labor for their pains: it would have been\npossible for them to have reduced themselves, but to widen the\nNarrow-way was impossible.\n\nWhat grieved me most was, to observe that many who had got on\nsuccessfully a good way, now stopped to rest, and to admire their own\nprogress. While they were thus valuing themselves on their attainment,\ntheir light diminished. While these were boasting how far they had left\nothers behind, who had set out much earlier, some slower travellers,\nwhose beginning had not been so promising but who had walked\ncircumspectly, now outstripped them. These last walked, \"not as though\nthey had already attained,\" but \"this one thing they did, forgetting the\nthings which were behind, they pressed forward towards the mark for the\nprize of their high calling.\" These, though naturally weak, yet by\n\"laying aside every weight, finished the race that was before them.\"\n\nThose who had kept their \"light burning,\" who were not \"wise in their\nown conceit,\" who \"laid their help on One that is mighty,\" who had\n\"chosen to suffer affliction rather than to enjoy the pleasures of sin\nfor a season,\" came at length to the Happy land. They had indeed the\ndark and shadowy valley to cross; but even there they found \"a rod and\na staff\" to comfort them. Their light, instead of being put out by\nthe damps of the valley of the Shadow of Death, often burned with\nadded brightness.\n\nSome, indeed, suffered the terrors of a short eclipse; but even then\ntheir light, like that of a dark lantern, was not put out, it was only\nhid for a while; and even these often finished their course with joy.\nBut be that as it might, the instant they reached the Happy land, all\ntears were wiped from their eyes; and the King himself came forth and\nwelcomed them into his presence, and put a crown upon their heads,\nwith these words: \"Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou\ninto the joy of thy LORD.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PARABLE OF THE LABORERS IN THE VINEYARD.\n\n\nThe kingdom of heaven is compared by our Saviour to \"a householder\nwhich went out early in the morning to hire laborers into his\nvineyard. And again he went out about the third hour, and saw others\nstanding idle in the market-place, and said unto them, Go ye also into\nthe vineyard: and they went their way. And he went out about the sixth\nand ninth hour, and did likewise. And about the eleventh hour he went\nout, and found others standing idle, and saith unto them, Why stand ye\nhere all the day idle? They say unto him, Because no man hath hired\nus. He saith unto them, Go ye also into the vineyard; and whatsoever\nis right, that shall ye receive.\"\n\nBy the _householder_ here spoken of, our Saviour himself is intended;\nand by the _laborers_ _hired into the vineyard_, those persons are\nmeant who enter into his service. These laborers are said to be found\n_standing idle in the market-place_; for the gospel finds men idle,\nthat is, not employed in God's service. They are working busily\nenough, perhaps, for themselves; for men will rise up early, and go to\nbed late, for the sake of getting money, or following pleasure; but\nthen their diligence is of a wrong kind. They are not diligent in the\nway of duty to their Maker. They may be likened to a certain kind of\nservants, who though they may seem busy, and may get from ignorant\npersons some credit for being so, are nevertheless merely running on\ntheir own errands, and doing their own work, so that they are no\nbetter than idle in respect to the work which they ought to be doing\nfor their householder or master.\n\nBut when they become true Christians they are no longer like those\nidle fellows who are always sauntering about with their arms folded,\nin the market-place, pretending that they are in want of employment,\nno man having as yet hired them: they may now be compared to a set of\nlaborers in the vineyard or garden, who, whenever you look at them,\nare sure to be seen either digging, or planting, or watering, or\ndoing, in short, whatever is most wanting in the place where they are\nworking; and they have always an eye, moreover, to the honor and\ninterests of the great Householder their Master.\n\nThe householder is said to _go out at different hours of the day_ to\nhire these servants. This signifies that the light of revelation was\nsent at different periods of the world to the different people in it,\nand in particular to the Jews at one period, and the Gentile nations\nat another. The Jews had been much offended at seeing Christ address\nhimself to the Gentiles, who, as they thought, not having been called\ninto the church or vineyard of God at an early period of the world,\nought not to be received at a later hour. Our Saviour, therefore,\nmakes use of this parable, or story, as a convenient means of showing\nhow unreasonable these Jewish prejudices were.\n\nI mean here, however, to accommodate the parable to the purpose of\nshowing in what manner the gospel often addresses itself _to men in\ndifferent periods of life_, calling one at an early age, and one much\nlater, into the same vineyard of Christ. We are in no danger of\nerring exactly as the Jews did, by raising objections to Christ's\ncalling the great body of the Gentile nations into his church. We may\nbe in great danger, however, of acting much in the same spirit with\nthe Jews, and if we do so, that spirit is most likely to show itself\nin our objecting to extend the privileges of the gospel to some poor\noutcasts or aged sinners among ourselves.\n\nFirst, then, I will put the case of one who is brought to obey the\ngospel _in the morning of life_, and is one of the youngest of the\nlaborers in our Lord's vineyard. He sets out well, as I will suppose,\nand goes on well through all the following stages of life; even his\nmost early prayers are not a mere matter of form, but they spring out\nof a persuasion already rising up in his mind, that he is entirely\ndependent on God, and needs the help of his Holy Spirit. It pleases\nGod, in answer to his infant prayers, to strengthen this child against\nhis early temptations, so that he does as Christ commands, and not as\nwicked children may require or expect of him. Such a child as this\nwill also be diligent in learning his lessons, and improving his time;\nfor he will be like the laboring men in the vineyard, spoken of in\nthe parable, and not like the idle ones in the market-place.\n\nNow what a vast quantity of good may such a person be the means of\ndoing in the course of a long life on earth. First of all, he is a\nblessing to his young connections and school-fellows, for he will\noften reprove vice and irreligion in them, even though it should be\nmuch against the modesty of his own natural inclinations. Then he\ngrows up to be a bold witness for God in the face of all the gay and\nunthinking young men or women among whom he is thrown in early life.\nNext, he proceeds to do good about the village or town where he is\nsettled. After this, perhaps, he marries, when his wife, and all\nher connections, and his own offspring also, have the advantage of\nobserving him. They remark his humble, candid, pious, and affectionate\nspirit, and his diligent and self-denying life, and they profit both\nby his kind services and his example.\n\nNow, too, his income very probably increases through his good\ncharacter and industry, and hence he is able to assist the poor, the\nfatherless, the widow, and to pay for the instruction of the ignorant;\nfor he spends little on himself. Having no vices he has few wants,\nand his family, being trained to religious habits, and preserved from\nthe gay and expensive customs of the world, have few wants also. Thus\nis happiness of all kinds spread abroad. He explains, also, as he has\nopportunity, those Christian doctrines which have led him into this\nlife of usefulness, and is a great promoter of the gospel, so that a\nlittle world of Christians is continually gathering together around\nhim, and even a new generation is coming forward, which shall, by and\nby, rise up and call him blessed.\n\nIn the midst of all this usefulness, however, he is very modest and\nlowly. He gives God the praise of every good thing he does, and he is\nsincerely pained when flattering and inconsiderate people load him\nwith their extravagant commendations; for he sees a thousand faults in\nhimself which he is much engaged in overcoming, though others perceive\nthem not. He is conscious of neglecting many an opportunity of doing\ngood, and of failing to suppress sufficiently many an evil thought;\nand though some irreligious people may fancy that he already carries\nthings too far, as they absurdly term it, yet there is nothing of\nwhich he is himself more sure than that he falls short in every\nduty, and especially in those things of which they least see the\nimportances--in zeal for religion, in the duties of prayer and praise,\nand in all the feelings and expressions of gratitude to his Creator\nand Redeemer.\n\nBut while we are thus describing the amiable character of a Christian,\nlet it be remarked also, that he meets with various difficulties, and\nis exposed to not a few misrepresentations, His virtuous singularity,\nfor instance, is considered by some, who do not understand his\nprinciples, to be unnecessary preciseness, and is thought to arise\nfrom a conceited or disobliging spirit. His courage in reproving vice,\nif unsuccessful, is called, by those whom he reproves, impertinence.\nHis activity in doing good is not seldom ascribed to forwardness. Even\nhis extraordinary liberality is accounted for, by those who do not\ncare to follow his example, by saying that it is mere vanity, or\nlavish imprudence. And, above all, his piety is apt to be thought, by\nthe impious and irreligious, to be mere hypocrisy, or at best a poor,\npitiable sort of weakness.\n\nThus, then, while the Christian has many peculiar hopes, and joys, and\nconsolations on the one hand, he experiences many trials and hardships\non the other. Nevertheless, he bears up under them all; many of them,\nindeed, appear light to him in comparison of what they seem to other\nmen, and grow more and more light as he becomes used to them. He goes\non, therefore, cheerful and contented: he labors much, he suffers\nmuch, he renounces much, he contends much in the cause of Christ;\nand he does this in every place to which he moves, in every changing\nsituation and circumstance, and in every season of life through which\nhe passes.\n\nAnd now at last, after a long life, death closes in upon him; he looks\nwith thankfulness back to what is past, and with composure to the\nimportant and decisive hour that is approaching. He trusts, indeed,\nnot in himself, but in his Saviour, for, after all, he is but \"an\nunprofitable servant, having done no more than it was his duty to do;\"\nbut he has much comfortable proof that his Christian faith has not\nbeen a mere name; and he is able to take up the same language with the\napostle, and to say, with a measure of the same confidence, \"I have\nfought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith;\nhenceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the\nLord the righteous Judge shall give me at that day.\" This then is one\nof those who, to borrow the phrase in the parable, may be said to have\n\"borne the burden and heat of the day.\"\n\nThere is another class of persons who may now be spoken of as entering\ninto the vineyard of Christ at a somewhat later hour; at the age, we\nwill suppose, of _twenty-five or thirty_. These have lost an hour\nindeed; they have idled away one precious season of life. Alas, it is\nalso to be feared, that during the heat and self-confidence of youth,\nthey have done much evil, as well as neglected to do good. Perhaps it\nhas also happened that they have already formed some rash connection,\nand established themselves on some irreligious plan; but now they\nrepent; they break through all difficulties; they turn away from\nthe path in which they had set out in life, and they turn into\nthe vineyard of Christ. They become humble, diligent, and useful\nChristians; for even those also give a good part at least of their\nhealth and strength to the cause of their Saviour, and with grief and\nshame at having been thus far idle, they become fellow-laborers with\nthose happier persons already spoken of.\n\nBut let us come to a class of persons who repent somewhat later still;\nI mean at the age of _forty or fifty_. How affecting is the condition\nof such persons when it is well considered. They now discover that\nthey have been all their lives living, as it were, to no purpose; that\nthe whole of these forty or fifty years has been idly thrown away, or\nif spent in labor, it has been mere labor in vain. For even though\nthey may have been diligent, yet they have been merely diligent in\ndoing their own will, and not the will of God; they have been working\nin their own vineyard, and not in the vineyard of Christ; they have\nbeen year after year pushing their own fortune, building up their own\ncredit, exalting their own consequence, indulging their own ease,\nfollowing their own pleasure, caring about their own interest, or\nfamily interest, while the great interests of the kingdom of Christ\nhave been quite out of the question.\n\nNow, therefore, they have to repent perhaps of the very things they\nhave been the most proud of. They have also to resist many sinful\nhabits which have become, as it were, a second nature; they have to\ndisentangle themselves from a multitude of irreligious connections,\nwhose opinions have hitherto ruled over them; they have to unteach\neven their own children many a false principle which they had taught\nthem. With many a weary and painful step, they have to measure back\nthe whole ground which they have been treading; and they have to undo,\nas it were, every thing which for fifty years they have been doing.\nWhen more than half of life is over, they have to enter upon the work\nwhich they were sent into the world to do; but at length they hire\nthemselves into the vineyard of Christ, and he receives them, though\nit is the ninth hour: and now they husband well their time, and begin\nto be fruitful in every good work; and whatever they do, they do all\nto the glory of God: they perform what he commands, and simply because\nhe commands it: they become a part of the church of Christ, and are\nnumbered among the laborers in his vineyard.\n\nBut if the case of such as were last spoken of is affecting, what\nshall be said of those _aged persons_ whom it still remains for us to\ndescribe? Some there are--but, alas, it is to be feared, that it is\nthe case of very few--who even at seventy, or more than seventy years\nold, repent, and become the servants of Christ When scarcely an hour\nof life remains, when the evening is closing in, and the \"night cometh\nin which no man can work,\" then it pleases God to send his grace\npossibly to a few of these also, and they go for the short hour that\nremains into the same vineyard of Christ.\n\nHow mournful is the view which we have now to take of such an aged\nsinner's condition. Here is a person, the whole term of whose earthly\nexistence, one poor uncertain hour excepted, has been spent in a\nsinful course. How plain is it in his case, that there can be no such\nthing as merit, and that if ever he is saved, it must be through the\nmere mercy of God--a doctrine, indeed, which is equally true in the\ncase of all. Let us run over the woful tale of his wicked life, and\nas before we thought fit to describe an eminent and distinguished\nChristian, so now, by way of making the difference more particularly\nstriking, let us draw the picture of one who, though no thief or\nmurderer, and therefore not accounted one of the most abandoned of\nmankind, yet is lying under a load of much more than ordinary guilt.\nThose persons who feel themselves guilty of any part of the crimes we\nshall enumerate, should take their share of the reproof, and if they\nhave not repented, so as to enter into the vineyard of Christ, they\nshould remember, that though they may be criminals of a smaller size,\nyet they are still remaining under condemnation.\n\nTo a perverse and disobedient childhood has succeeded, as we will\nsuppose, a wild and vicious youth, and then a proud and ambitious\nmanhood, and after this a fretful or covetous old age. In the course of\nhis long life many temptations have broken in upon him, and by turns he\nhas yielded to them all. Many different situations have been filled by\nhim, and in each, as he now sees, he has either neglected or betrayed\nhis trust. He has been a negligent and bad father, an unreasonable,\nnay, secretly an unfaithful husband, a careless inattentive brother,\na hollow, flattering, and designing friend; perhaps, also, a mean\ntime-serving politician, and even a mischievous common acquaintance.\nDo you ask what has been the turn of his common conversation? Instead of\nbeing pious, useful, benevolent, candid, and sincere, it has at one time\nbeen proud and passionate, at another vain and flourishing, at another\nslanderous and revengeful; now again, it has been selfish, crafty, and\ndissembling, often also daringly impious and profane, and not seldom\nexceedingly polluting and impure. Do you ask what have been the sinful\ndeeds he has done? O what a dreadful variety has there been in them! At\none time he has been trying to overreach his fellow-trader; at another,\nhe has been endeavoring to seduce some unhappy maiden: at one time he is\nseen quarrelling with his neighbor; at another, he falls out with one of\nhis own family, after which he grows mad with every one around him, and,\nat last, equally mad and out of humor with himself. He has been selfish,\ngriping, and avaricious on all occasions, and what he has saved or\ngained by oppression and fraud, he has spent on his profligacy: he has\ngot drunk with the money which he has acquired by dishonesty, and he has\npaid for his debauchery at night by the sum which he has contrived in\nthe morning to keep back from the poor. At the same time he has been\nturbulent, factious, and complaining--always talking of what is amiss in\nothers, and very sudden and severe in judging them, but very proud and\nconfident in himself, disdaining even the smallest blame. Would you get\ninto favor with him, you must flatter him at every word; and you will\nplease him best by doing it grossly and to his face, for he is quite\nused to praise: he has long lived among those who look up to him as\ntheir patron, or gape at him as their principal wit, or glory in him as\ntheir chief songster, possibly as the chairman of their drinking club,\nand as their merry leader in debauchery.\n\nTo all these sins he adds that of being the decided enemy of every\nreligious man. Is the gospel preached at his very door, he stands in\nthe front rank of its enemies; he denies its efficacy, makes a joke of\nits doctrines, reviles its followers, and is the avowed hinderer of\nits progress. Christianity, indeed, is against him, and therefore it\nis no wonder that he is against Christianity. Hence it is, that the\nreligion of every man around him, however pure and excellent, if it is\nbut zealous and fervent, is declared, without distinction, to be mere\nhypocrisy, enthusiasm, bigotry, and cant.\n\nBut let us look a little also to the various _consequences_ of his\nlife of sin. Who can trace a thousandth part of the miseries which\nhave arisen even from one single source; I mean from the levity and\ninconsideration which have made one leading feature in his character?\nWho can calculate the effects of all those evil principles which he\nhas scattered at random, reaching even to distant places and\ngenerations? Who can calculate the mischief which he may have caused\neven in one of his light convivial hours? View the inscription on that\ngravestone, which is now almost overgrown with thorns. Ah, it is the\nname of an old companion, an ale-house friend, who once used to sing\nwith him, in one joyful chorus, \"the praises of the flowing bowl,\" and\nwho thus was encouraged in those habits of intemperance which led to\nthat untimely grave.\n\nLet us open one other source of no less painful reflection. Behold\nthat miserable female, once the gay partner of his guilty pleasures,\nwhom if he has not been the first to seduce, he has at least carried\non and confirmed in a life of sin, and whom he has left afterwards to\nsink in want, to grow loathsome through disease, and to become a\nnuisance to the village or the town. He has helped to ruin but not to\ndeliver her; he has soon left her to the tender mercies of some of her\nown sex as hardened as herself, among whom she has sunk, and groaned,\nand died.\n\nWhich way, then, shall this aged sinner turn his eyes? Every scene,\nevery place, every month and day of his life, which he can call to\nremembrance, reminds him of some sin. Shall he look to some of his\nmore reputable actions? Alas, even when his conduct has been most\ncreditable, his motives have been unchristian and impure. \"True, I\nhave had some character,\" he now says to himself, \"but I have had no\ntitle to it. Men have not known me; or if a few have known me, and yet\npraised me, they have praised me because they have wanted to carry\nsome point of their own by pleasing me: nay, my companions have even\npraised me for what was evil, for the same people seem now, methinks,\nto blame me in proportion as they discern any thing in me that is\ngood.\" Thus the recollection of the applauses he used to receive from\nthese wicked men is one aggravation of his pain.\n\nBut shall he look to his more innocent and early years? Alas, the\nreview of his infancy only serves to remind him how naturally and how\nsoon he went astray; how soon \"he forsook the guide of his youth, and\nforgot the covenant of his God.\" Thus, if he looks backward, all is\nmisery, and horror, and despair. Shall he then look forward and\ncomfort himself by thinking how effectually he will repair all the\nevil he has done? But how shall he now repair it? Of those whom he has\ncorrupted many are dead, and of the survivors very few can now be\nfound. Go, then, and bring these few back to God. Alas, one will mock,\nanother will dissemble, a third will despise. Go, try to reclaim even\nthe children of thine own loins, who are all trained through thy means\nin an evil course. Nay, even these also will scoff at thy rebuke, and\nsay, \"Our old father is grown troublesome and peevish through age; he\nis turned religious only because he has just done with this life, and\nhas one foot in the grave.\"\n\nWhat then, I say, can this aged sinner do to remedy the evils he has\ncaused? He can only abhor himself for what is past, and repent\nsincerely of all that he has done. See him then at length abhorring\nhimself, and \"repenting in dust and ashes.\" See him retiring to his\nchamber, and, for the first time, communing seriously with his own\nheart. See him reviewing the whole of his past life, from the first\ndawn of reason to the present hour, endeavoring to survey with\nexactness his thoughts, words, and actions, and all his most secret\npractices, intentions, and inclinations. See him meditating also on\nhis numberless omissions, taking the law of God for his rule, and\nbeginning now, for the first time, to discover what manner of person\nhe has been. How does he stand amazed at his own former stupidity and\nblindness and hardness of heart, and how astonished also at the\npatience of God, which has so long borne with him.\n\nAnd now his heart relents, the tears of penitential sorrow begin to\nflow; the lion also is changed into a lamb, and the same person who\nbefore might have been compared to the woman in the gospel, \"out of\nwhom there went seven devils,\" or to \"Saul breathing out threatenings\nand slaughter,\" may now be likened to the Magdalen weeping at the feet\nof Jesus, or to Paul trembling and astonished, and crying out, as he\nlay on the ground, \"Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?\" or to the\nsame Paul, when it was afterwards said of him, \"Behold, he prayeth.\"\nWith trembling limbs, and with a body bowed down with age, behold then\nthis repenting sinner walking to that public worship which he had so\nlong neglected; with weak and failing eyes he opens the scripture; at\nthe age of seventy he begins to inquire with childlike simplicity into\nthe nature of the gospel, and knowing how short his time is, he makes\nhaste to obey it.\n\nAnd now, perhaps his old companions deride him; for as he once sneered\nat others who were religious, and called them all hypocrites, so is he\nnow sneered at, and called a hypocrite in his turn: he becomes the\nscoff of the drunkard and the merry jest of the profane, and they that\n\"sit in the gate make songs of him.\" Now also the very sins of his\nyouth, which had been scarcely mentioned before, are brought forward\nby his former favorites and friends as present evidence against him;\nhis crimes are even aggravated, and are all blazed abroad; but it is\none proof of his sincerity, that even these cutting reproaches do not\nshake him from his purpose, nor induce him to turn back to his old\ncompanions. No, they may laugh, they may smile at what they call his\npretended sanctity, but in truth he is no hypocrite.\n\n                  \"The tear\n  That drops upon his Bible is sincere.\"\n\nHe is disposed to doubt, indeed, for a time, his own sincerity; for\nhis guilt is so great, and the blessings of the gospel, including as\nthey do the gift of eternal life, appear so large in his eyes, that\nhe cannot at once raise his hopes so high. His sincerity is proved,\nhowever, by his proceeding to repair, as far as he has opportunity,\neach evil that he has done; by his mourning over what he cannot cure,\nand by the determination of his mind, through the help of divine\ngrace, to walk for the future in newness of life. In short, he feels\nthat if his life were prolonged a thousand years, and youth and health\nwere restored to him, he should choose to spend his strength and the\nutmost length of his days in the service of the same Master, and to be\na laborer in the same vineyard.\n\nBut here, methinks, some objector rises up, and says, \"What then,\nshall this man be accepted of God, like him who has been moral and\norderly all his days, or like the first person you mentioned?\" We\nshall now answer this objection by proceeding with the parable.\n\nThe Jews are there represented as _murmuring against the good man of\nthe house_, on account of his rewarding the more late and early\nlaborers, the ancient Jews and the newly converted Gentiles, by giving\neach of them a penny, \"saying, These last have wrought but one hour,\nand thou hast made them equal unto us, who have borne the burden and\nheat of the day. But he answered one of them, and said, Friend, I do\nthee no wrong: didst not thou agree with me for a penny? Take that\nthine is, and go thy way: I will give unto this last even as unto\nthee. Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own?\" It was\nno injury to the Jews that the poor Gentiles were admitted, though at\na later hour, into the church, and the Jews had therefore no right to\ncomplain; on the contrary, they ought to have rejoiced at it. In like\nmanner, it can be no injury to those among us who may have served\nChrist from our youth, that any poor outcast should be admitted to\nthe same Christian privileges with ourselves; and we also ought to\nrejoice, as the angels of God are said to do, over one sinner that\nrepenteth. Again it may be remarked, that even the first calling of\nthe Jews arose not from any superior merit in them, but from the\nsovereign goodness of God. Surely, therefore, it was most unreasonable\nin those people to complain of God's extending the same mercy to the\nGentiles. Much in the same manner, it may be remarked in respect to\nthe present day, that the salvation even of the best of men arises\nnot from any merit of their own, but merely from God's free mercy in\nChrist; and surely, therefore, one pardoned sinner among us ought not\nto complain of the extension of the same pardon to another.\n\nBut the parable, in the two last verses of it, proceeds a step\nfurther, for it is there added by our Saviour, \"Is thine eye evil\nbecause I am good?\" which is as if he said, \"What, do you take offence\nthen at my being so merciful? Does it provoke your envy to see a vile\nGentile called at the eleventh hour, and made equal to yourselves, who\nprofess to have been the people of God from the beginning, and to have\nborne the whole burden and heat of the day?\" Some very awful words are\nthen added, wherein it is implied, that they who are ready to make\nthis objection, brought thereby their own religious character into\nsuspicion; and that these very penitents of the eleventh hour, whom\nthey now presumed to despise, should hereafter even take place above\nthem--for it is said, \"So the first shall be last, and the last first;\nfor many are called, but few chosen.\"\n\nThese words appear to be a prophecy of our Judge, which relates to the\ngreat day of judgment. Then many a popular but irreligious character,\nmany a one who has been praised to the stars in this ignorant and\nmisjudging world, and whose supposed virtues have both deceived\nhimself, and dazzled all around him, shall sink at once into\neverlasting shame and disgrace; while many a poor, despised, yet\nrepenting sinner, shall come forward and receive his crown of glory.\n\nO, what a wonderful change in many of the appearances which we now\nsee, shall we witness on the day of judgment. Let us not fail to\nremark, that then also many a false though flaming professor of the\ngospel, many a vain, forward, and conceited teacher, many a\nself-confident enthusiast, and many a narrow-minded and fiery bigot,\nwho has spent his life in little else than in judging and condemning\nothers, shall be brought forward in the face of the assembled world,\nand shall receive his own condemnation. Then also many a diffident and\ntrembling believer, and many a meek and lowly Christian, who has been\nlaboring with little noise in some obscure corner of his Lord's\nvineyard, and on whom the bigots, not seeing him among their party,\nhave presumptuously dealt damnation, shall take that prize which has\nbeen denied to those who set themselves up as judges over him, and\nshall be bid to enter into the joy of his Lord. \"So the first shall\nbe last, and the last first; for many are called, but few chosen.\"","title":"Stories for the Young; Or, Cheap Repository Tracts: Entertaining, Moral, and Religious. Vol. VI.","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":35603}