{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_42568/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_42568","id":"gutenberg_42568","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42568","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Short Stories","Christian life -- Fiction","Conduct of life -- Fiction","Short stories, English"],"text":"Transcriber's Note: Illustrations did not have captions; those provided\nhere are for the benefit of the text-file reader.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Open boat surrounded by fishermen in rain storm]\n\n\nTHE CORNISH FISHERMEN'S WATCH-NIGHT, AND OTHER STORIES.\n\n\nTHE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY: 56, Paternoster Row; 65, St. Paul's\nChurchyard; and 164, Piccadilly.\n\n\n\n\nTABLE OF CONTENTS\n\n\nI. THE CORNISH FISHERMEN'S WATCH-NIGHT.\n\nII. THE BOOK THAT BROUGHT BAGS OF GOLD.\n\nIII. THE MAN THAT EVERYTHING WENT AGAINST.\n\nIV. ABOUT SCOLDING.\n\nV. THE FOOL AND THE BARON.\n\nVI. THE TAILOR'S SPEECH.\n\nVII. NOT A BIT AFRAID.\n\nVIII. TOLD AT A TUNNEL'S MOUTH.\n\nIX. HARVEST HOME.\n\n\n\n\nI. THE CORNISH FISHERMEN'S WATCH-NIGHT.\n\n\nThe old year was drawing to a close, indeed, it had not many hours to\nrun, for the thirty-first of December had dawned upon the lonely Cornish\nvillage of Penwhinnock. It was a pouring wet day, and the wind was\nblowing so fiercely that the billows rolled and tossed as if some evil\nspirit, which could not rest, had taken possession of them. Penwhinnock\noverlooked the sea, being built upon a rocky promontory which commanded\na splendid view of the Channel, and of any craft which might be nearing\nthat part of the coast. The fishermen of the village were hardy, brave,\nstout, and strong; but whispers went abroad that they loved wrecking. It\nwas said that battered and shipwrecked vessels had small chance if\ncaught in the fearful gales which sometimes rose off that coast, and\ntempted the mariners to run for shelter to the bay, which proved after\nall a deceitful haven; and ugly tales were told of dead sailors, and of\ndrowning men hurled back into the waters, on the principle that \"dead\nmen tell no tales,\" forgetting that, in the judgment to come, these\nwould rise in swift witness against their murderers. Ostensibly the\nvillagers of Penwhinnock gained their livelihood by fishing; but many a\nhome contained valuables and wealth which had been obtained by this same\npractice of wrecking. Tourists and visitors looked askance at the\nPenwhinnock folk, and avoided their houses as if they had contained the\nplague, so that few strangers ever came among them or conversed with\nthem.\n\nThere was one, however, who did not avoid them--would not, in fact. This\nperson was the young minister, lately come into the neighbourhood, and\nas full of zeal and courage and self-sacrifice in his great Master's\nwork as he was of health, hardy energy, and fearless pluck. Mr. Ernest\nBoyce was the very man to deal with those rough, semi-civilized, Cornish\nfishermen. Were they valiant, powerful, frank, and fearless? So was he;\nonly in the service of a better Master. He was tall, well-built, and had\neyes and ears as keen as they; but he was gentle, loving, forbearing,\nand considerate. A true gentleman and a true Christian, Mr. Boyce\npresented to those rough Cornish fishermen a pattern of true manliness.\nTheir manliness consisted, for the most part, in being bold to commit\nsin; his, on the other hand, in being brave to serve God. They had\ntalked once or twice of \"frightening him off;\" but his brave, loving,\noutspoken, disinterested Christian honesty of purpose had disarmed them,\nand caused their hostility to slumber, though it had not yet died away.\nPenwhinnock was situated some eight miles or so from his residence, but\nvery regularly every week Mr. Boyce rode over there to hold the\nappointed service. This service was always held in the evening, and Mr.\nBoyce noticed with a sharp, quick intelligence, that while he had a fair\naudience on fine, warm, mild, or quiet evenings, he had scarcely anybody\nto hear him if the evening turned out stormy, rough, or dark; and being\na gentleman of quick perceptions, he lost no time in solving this\nproblem. As to the solution at which he arrived he said but little, but\never after that he ordered his dealings with the fisher-folk\naccordingly,--that is to say, if the afternoon betokened \"big guns,\" he\nwould ride over to Penwhinnock early, and visit freely at the\nfishermen's cottages, inviting, persuading, entreating, and almost\n\"compelling them to come in\" to the meeting. And now that the last day\nof the old year had dawned, amid storm, wind, rain, and roaring of\nbillows, there seemed but little doubt that he would be over as usual,\nvisiting among the villagers, and charging them to attend the\n\"Watch-night service.\" For there was a watch-night service to be held in\nthe accustomed meeting-place, which was a large empty cottage adjoining\na farmhouse, and Mr. Boyce was to preside.\n\nThis was what the Penwhinnock men were discussing as they stood around\nsome of the largest fishing-boats, dragged up on the beach for safety,\nand watched the gathering storm. The wind was blowing \"big guns\" then,\nand the rain was pelting fiercely down upon the bare, rugged rocks, and\nthe mean, small cottages which formed the dwellings of the fishermen,\nand lined each side of the long straggling village street. It would have\nappeared to most landsmen as if the weather could not be much worse; but\nto the experienced eyes of the fishermen the night promised worse\nthings--worse things to many an ill-fated mariner--but in the judgment\nof those hardy, cruel men it might bring to them \"a good catch.\" This\nmeant a brave ship being wrecked, flung hopelessly and helplessly upon\nthe dreadful rocks, decoyed there by false lights, and lured into the\njaws of death; it meant, too, robbery, pillage, cruelty, and, not\nseldom, _murder_!\n\n\"What do you think of the night?\" inquired Bob Trevannion of Will Lowry.\n\n\"Think! Why, many a good ship will go down before another year dawns.\nThat's what I think. And parson thinks so, too, I guess, for see, here\nhe is!\"\n\nTurning their faces towards the place indicated by the speaker, the\ngroup saw Mr. Boyce coming through the rain quietly, on his stout,\nsure-footed pony.\n\n\"Eh!\" said Hugh Hoskyns, a brawny six-footer. \"I guess we'll have to\nattend the cottage to-night.\"\n\n\"So we shall, man,\" replied Will Lowry; \"but we shall leave in time to\ndo a good night's work, if all be well. The _Fleur-de-lis_ is due up\nabout this part toward morning, and our mates will be ready about on the\nhills in good time. But we must needs go to parson's 'Watch-night,' or\nhe'll be poking his nose into our fun, and spoiling it.\"\n\n\"Seems to me you've laid your plans well but I shouldn't wonder if\nparson isn't as deep,\" slily retorted Bob Trevannion. \"He's up to all of\nit most as much as the wreckers themselves.\"\n\n\"Never mind if he is. He'll not know anything this time, for we've put\nup the women and children to it; and though he may ride about this\nafternoon, visiting one and another, he'll not get anything. We shall go\nto his meeting right enough, then we'll wish him 'good-bye,' and while\nhe's trotting off home and out of the storm, we'll look after our own\nbusiness. Never fear!\"\n\nAnd the men chuckled again at thinking of their sagacity in outwitting\nMr. Boyce. It showed the hold which one determined servant of the Lord\ncould obtain over those wicked, resolute men, by his calm, fearless\nfaith and outspoken fidelity. They could not plan their wrecking\nexpedition as of old, but must consider first how to blind and deceive\nhim. But he was more \"'cute\" than they dreamed. Mr. Boyce had not lived\nthirty years in the world without opening both eyes and ears, and he\nread, by the embarrassed silence of the children and the prevaricating,\nevasive replies of the women, that some business was on hand, either\nwrecking or smuggling--for the Penwhinnock folk were smugglers, too--of\nwhich he was to be kept ignorant. But the fisher folk had reckoned\nwithout their host.\n\nMr. Boyce took a cup of tea here, and a broiled fish there, on his\nperegrinations through the village that evening, so strengthening\nhimself for his night's vigil. There were sick folk to be seen,\ninquirers to be instructed, families to be catechized, and sundry other\nduties appertaining to his office to be performed; and, to do the people\njustice, they were never stingy or rude to him. Open-handed hospitality\nwas generally the rule towards Mr. Boyce; but, as generally happens, the\nthing was so overdone, and he was so condoled with in reference to his\nmidnight journey on this particular afternoon, that he felt sure that\nsome mischief was intended. And the women and children unconsciously\nconfirmed all his suspicions. So Mr. Boyce laid his plans.\n\nThe service was to begin at ten o'clock that evening. As I said, it was\nto be held in a large unoccupied cottage adjoining a farmhouse. The thin\npartition between the two downstair rooms had been removed, so that a\npretty fair number could assemble in the place \"where prayer was wont to\nbe made.\" The people came trooping in in great numbers, considering the\nweather, until nearly all the able-bodied men and lads, together with\nmany women and girls, were present. As usual, the service was opened\nwith singing, in which Will Lowry and Hugh Hoskyns joined with apparent\ngood will. Then Mr. Boyce read and prayed, after which another hymn was\ngiven out. Then he preached a sermon on the flight of time, and, not\nsparing the vices which reigned in Penwhinnock, besought his hearers\ntenderly and affectionately to remember that another year of their\nmortal probation was slipping away from them, that each left one less to\nlive, and, though so near its end, they could not know certainly that\nthey would ever see the commencement of the year just about to dawn. He\nreminded them of their mercies, as numerous as the sands of the sea, and\nof their sins, if possible, more numerous still. He besought them to\nexamine themselves in the fading hour of that last day of another year,\nand to humble themselves before God for their manifold offences\ncommitted during that year. As he depicted the great meeting around the\njudgment-seat, there to give account, each one for himself, of the deeds\ncommitted during this and every preceding year, his hearers looked\ngrave. There are solemn hours in the life of the most wicked man and\nwoman upon earth, and this hour was a solemn one in the lives of those\nfishermen. They sat and listened most attentively, while some, I doubt\nnot, half wished that they had never engaged either in wrecking or\nsmuggling.\n\nThe sermon was ended, and it being about a quarter to twelve, Mr. Boyce\ngave out a hymn, thus commencing the short prayer-meeting which he had\nannounced as following the sermon. During the singing of that hymn Mr.\nBoyce very coolly stepped to the door, locked it, and put the key in his\npocket. As the strains of the singing died away, the voices of Hugh\nHoskyns and Bob Trevannion were heard in no gentle tones threatening the\npreacher with violence if he did not give up the key, so as to afford\nthem free egress and ingress. \"They were not going to stay there all\nnight, to suit his fancies,\" they said, and endeavoured to assert their\nindependence of all laws, human and Divine. Two or three minutes passed\nin this way, and then Mr. Boyce spoke plainly.\n\n\"I shall not keep you here all night, friends; but you will not leave\nthis watch-night service yet awhile. I believe that a blessing is\ncoming; I feel sure of it, and the greatest sinners could not find in\ntheir hearts to refuse a blessing from heaven. Could you? And you know\nthat you need a blessing! Most of all, you need the blessing of\nforgiveness!\"\n\n\"Yes, that may sound all very well for you to preach, as a parson,\"\nspoke up Bob Trevannion; \"but I don't know as we want so much preaching\njust now. Here we've been for nearly two mortal hours listening to your\nservice, and I say it's precious hard if you won't let us out now.\"\n\n\"You will not leave yet, Bob Trevannion,\" coolly replied Mr. Boyce.\n\"And, beside that, we are just entering upon the last five minutes of\nthe dying year. You remember, too, that my announcement for the\nwatch-night service informed you that we should _watch in_ the new year.\nSo, according to that announcement, your time is not up yet. We will\nspend the last five minutes in prayer, silent prayer, each one for\nhimself and herself. And may the Lord pour you down such a blessing that\nthere shall not be room enough to receive it.\"\n\nAt this the assembly again grew quiet; they could not for very shame\nrefuse to fulfil the conditions of the service. The men sat still,\nmoody, silent, and jealously afraid of Mr. Boyce; but whether they\nprayed I cannot say. Some of the women appeared to be in fervent\nsupplication, with one or two of the older men. Perhaps they were\nbeginning to see, although but dimly, that the wild, lawless life of\ntheir sons, husbands, and brothers was ill befitting \"those who had to\ngive an account of the deeds done in the body,\" and to whom the knell of\nevery passing year told of added sins, with lessened opportunities for\nrepentance. Mr. Boyce bent his head low in earnest pleading with God on\nbehalf of this rough, sinful assembly; pleading with tears for \"a\npresent blessing,\" even the descent of the Holy Spirit. And through it\nall the storm howled and roared, and the sea tossed its restless foaming\nbillows, as though hungry for the lives of those who were out that night\nupon her broad bosom. The rain beat with terrific force against the\nwindows, while even the old trees creaked and bent beneath the power of\nthe wind. So passed the last five minutes of that memorable year.\n\nTwelve o'clock! There were no church bells to ring out the hour, and to\nwelcome with their musical peal the dawning of the new year. But Mr.\nBoyce arose, and said,--\n\n\"Friends, it is twelve o'clock!... Now it is five minutes past. I wish\nyou all a very happy, a very blessed, new year! The old year is gone\ninto eternity, with all its faults, its sins written down in God's book\nof remembrance. This new year comes to you full of mercy. Its record is\nnow spread open before you like a fair white page, upon which you may\ninscribe anything you like. But you will not make any good entries there\nunless God's grace, helps you. And in order to pray for that grace, let\nus bend before God's throne a little longer.\"\n\n\"I vote that we've had enough of your praying for one night, Mr. Boyce,\"\nspoke up Hoskyns. \"We've sat out your watch-night service now, and we\nwant to be going. So I shall go, and my mates too, or we'll know the\nreason why.\" He made a move towards the door as he spoke.\n\n\"You can't go out of that door,\" said Mr. Boyce. \"It is locked, and I\nhave the key in my pocket.\"\n\n\"Then hand it over, if you please,\" said Hugh, roughly; \"or I shall be\nat the pains to make you. And it's not worth while, mister.\"\n\n\"You say rightly, it is not worth while,\" said Mr. Boyce. \"God is in\nthis place. He knows the very secret thoughts of your hearts; He is at\nthis moment noting your secret intentions of doing evil. Will you dare\nto brave God's anger, Hugh?\"\n\n\"I don't want to be trifled with,\" rejoined Hugh. \"I am not a child, to\nbe frightened. When I say I'll do a thing, I mean it; and I've said I'll\nleave this meeting.\"\n\n\"Listen, Hugh Hoskyns,\" said Mr. Boyce, solemnly. \"God will not be\ntrifled with. He says, 'He, that being often reproved, hardeneth his\nneck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy.' He says,\ntoo, 'Behold, now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.'\nWill you spurn all these warnings? Will you say that you do not need a\nblessing? Will you rush away to sin--right from the mercy-seat? Think\nagain, I entreat you. I want to do you good, not to harm you. I will not\nbelieve that you intend evil towards me, knowing, as you do, that I wish\nnothing but good to you. As I said before, I simply want to do you good.\nElse why should I ride over to this place every week, and work among\nyou, were it not for that? Does any one else care enough about you to do\nthat?\"\n\n\"No, no! that they don't,\" were the murmured responses. \"We're much\nobliged to you, Mr. Boyce, for your interest in us. But it seems very\nhard laws to be shut up here against our wills.\"\n\n\"I won't keep you very long, only long enough for the blessing to come,\nthe blessing which I feel sure _is coming_. And consider what a dreadful\nthing it is for you to slight that blessing. Why, how do you know what\nwill happen? God's voice is abroad, on the face of the waters, and in\nnature. Suppose you were going home through this hurricane of wind and\nrain, and one of those large old trees were to fall before you got clear\nof the fields, where would your soul be, if the tree fell upon you?\nAnswer me that question--or, no, answer it to God. And do it _honestly_\nto Him.\" At this they sat still, cowed into silence.\n\nThe wind roared and howled still, as Mr. Boyce was speaking; and just at\nthat moment a loud crash was heard. The farmer to whom the cottage\nbelonged went out to see what was the matter; and to his\nastonishment--for the rest were too frightened to move--he found that\none of the large old trees standing near had been blown down, and had\nonly by a short distance cleared the pathway leading to the cottage.\nSingular to say, God had permitted the winds to do His will just at that\nmoment, and confirmed in a most remarkable manner the words of His\nservant. As the old farmer returned to the cottage and reported what had\nhappened, awe fell upon the people. Even Hugh Hoskyns and Bob\nTrevannion, as they realized how near they had been to death, sat still\nand shuddered. Had not Mr. Boyce been firm, they would at that very time\nhave been in the path of the fallen tree; and once under its dreadful\ntrunk, where would their souls have been? They felt that their portion\nwould have been in _hell_. It was no use to shirk the matter; for, look\nat it which way they would, they felt that they were not fit for heaven,\nand, not being fit for heaven, their place would have been found in _the\nlost world_.\n\nAs I said, awe fell upon the little assembly, and many knees bent in\nprayer that night which had not so bent for years. No more was said\nabout the watch-night service, or their desire to leave it, but one\nafter another, those rude, rough fishermen _prayed_, in broken, uncouth\npetitions, for pardon. The Spirit descended, and strove mightily with\nthe people, until five or six of the roughest, including Bob Trevannion\nand Hugh Hoskyns, were found crying for mercy; and over many more of\nthem Mr. Boyce could rejoice ere the meeting broke up, because, like\nSaul of Tarsus, it could be said of each of them, \"_Behold, he\nprayeth_.\"\n\nThat watch-night service was the commencement of a great revival in the\nvillage. A church was built, and the little believing community gathered\ntogether in one body. Wrecking almost entirely disappeared; and\nsmuggling, although it took longer time to make it die, vanished\ngradually before the clearer light of Gospel truth. The _Fleur-de-lis_\nescaped her threatened fate, through the fact of being detained on her\nvoyage somewhat longer than was anticipated by the wreckers of\nPenwhinnock. Hugh Hoskyns, Will Lowry, Bob Trevannion, and all the rest,\ngrew to delight more in things \"honest, pure, just, true, lovely, and of\ngood report;\" so that those things in which they once delighted became a\nshame to them. No better friends had Mr. Boyce from that time than those\nwho had threatened him with violence during that ever-memorable\nwatch-night service.\n\n[Illustration: \"Fleur-de-lis\", escaping from a gruesome fate at the\nhands of the wreckers]\n\n\n\n\nII. THE BOOK THAT BROUGHT BAGS OF GOLD.\n\n\nDuring the war between France and England a frigate sailed from a South\nAmerican port, on board of which were a Brazilian widow named Maria da\nSilva and her child Francisca. Her husband had been in the service of\nthe British Government; she herself had become a Protestant, and was now\ndriven by persecution from her home. She was coming to Europe in the\nhope of finding a brother, her only surviving relative, who had preceded\nher some years before. The poor woman's health was failing when she came\non board. Anxiety and sorrow soon completed the work which disease had\nbegun, and her death drew near. The sailors were very kind to her in\ntheir rough way, especially Wat Connor, who was an old messmate of her\nhusband's, and had gone through many hardships and dangers with him.\n\nFeeling that her end was near, Maria da Silva expressed to Wat her\nsolicitude respecting her little Francisca, so soon to be left an orphan\namongst strangers. Wat at once promised that little \"Sisker Silver,\" as\nhe called her, should never want a friend as long as he lived. The dying\nwoman raised her eyes in grateful acknowledgment of his kindness, and\nsaid--\n\n\"I have nothing to leave her but this little money. I have a Bible: if\nyou will promise me that she shall learn to read it, I shall die in\npeace.\"\n\n\"She sha'n't want for nothing while I can get it; and as to the\nbook--all right--when she's old enough, I'll see to her tackling it.\"\n\n\"And will you read it, too?\" said she, earnestly.\n\n\"I would if I could,\" said Wat, bluntly; \"if it would do you any good,\nor her either.\"\n\n\"Not for her nor me, but for yourself,\" she said. \"Depend on it, kind,\ndear friend, it will be better to you than bags of gold. This Book\nhelped my husband to bear sickness, meet death, and submit to leave me\nalone in the world; it has supported me under his loss, and enabled me\nto see nothing but love in all the troubles I have had; and now,\ntrusting in its promises, I am not afraid to die--not afraid to leave my\nchild. Do believe what I say, learn to read, and make this precious Book\nyour friend--oh, _do_!\"\n\n\"Well, I will--thank'ee,\" said Wat, taking the book with respect. \"I\ncan't say no fairer.\"\n\nVery soon after this the widow was lowered among the waves. Wat\nimmediately took possession of her purse and clothes, which he made into\na little bundle for the child; and having stowed that and the Bible\nsafely away, he went to work with his charge, with whom he had become\nvery familiar.\n\nWith a gravity, importance, and fatherly tenderness, Wat regularly\nattended to what he called \"rigging little Sisky.\" Perfectly indifferent\nto the jokes of his companions, he went as methodically through all the\nceremonies of the nursery as if he had been \"groom of the chamber\" or\n\"mistress of the robes.\"\n\n\"Where's Wat?\" was asked, one morning, when he was busy with Sisky's\ntoilette.\n\n\"Oh, he's with the child,\" said a messmate.\n\n\"What, topping and tailing his gooseberry?\" was the reply.\n\nFrom that time \"Sisky\" was better known as \"Wat's gooseberry\" than by\nany other name; and Wat himself, being highly diverted with the joke,\ntook to calling her Gooseberry, declaring it was a deal more\nEnglish-like than \"Sisky.\"\n\nWhen the voyage ended, Wat, who had no relations but an old grandmother,\nwas rather at a loss what to do with his charge, who was now about six\nyears old; but after a little consideration, he mounted a stage-coach\nwhich ran from the port where he had landed to the place where his\ngrandmother lived.\n\nNothing could exceed the delight of the child at all she saw. After the\ntedious life on board ship, the green hedges and trees, the fields, the\ncottages, the pretty sights all along the road, made her clap her hands\nwith joy. Wat was happy, too; and if anything could have made him more\nlight-hearted than he was, it was the high spirits and rejoicing of his\nlittle Gooseberry.\n\nSome years had passed since he had been to see his grandmother. Was she\nalive? He looked out rather anxiously at the places he passed, till the\ncoach came to the top of a green lane, with an alder hedge on each side.\n\n\"Into port, captain,\" he cried, checking the coachman; \"here's our\nlanding-place.\" And dismounting, he took Gooseberry on his shoulder and\nthe bundles under his arm, and went down the lane.\n\nOne cottage--two--three--he passed, but at last he stopped at a pretty,\nthough very humble dwelling, with flowers trained round the door. _That_\nwas the house. There was the old boat summer-house that his father had\nmade, and there was his granny knitting in the garden.\n\nThe old lass was well pleased to see him, and he was heartily glad to\nfind her \"all right and tight,\" as he said, and hugged her as if she had\nbeen his mother.\n\nAfter a few words of pleasure and surprise, granny turned towards\nGooseberry, who was staring with her great black eyes on all before her.\n\n\"What, married, my lad? and brought me thy little one?\" she said.\n\nWat told the story, and taking up her bundle, he added, \"When she's able\nto be put forward in life, I shall lay out the money on her, and give\nher them clothes; but till then I shall look to her like my own.\"\n\nGranny remonstrated. The workhouse was the proper place. He might marry,\nand then what could he do with this child? This was right and\nreasonable, as Wat allowed, but he affirmed that it was \"righter and\nmore reasonabler\" that he should keep his promise. Granny, finding him\npositive, consented to let Gooseberry live with her; and though he had a\nmisgiving that she wouldn't have a lively time of it, yet he felt she\nwould be safe for the present. So he emptied his pockets most liberally\nof pay and prize-money, and gave the child into her care.\n\n\"Ye see, mother,\" he said, the night before he left, \"I am bound to have\nher learned to read, and to read this Book; and I'm bound, likewise, to\nlearn to read the Book myself, seeing as I promised I'd do both them\nthings. Now nobody can be at sea and on shore at the same time; and by\nthat rule, how can I leave the Book for her, and take it for myself?\"\n\n[Illustration: Wat, talking to Granny, and Gooseberry near sea]\n\nWat's puzzle was set at rest by Granny's telling him that she would\nteach Gooseberry out of her Bible, which would be the same thing, as all\nBibles were exactly alike.\n\n\"I reckon so,\" he said, with a perplexed look, comparing Sisky's with\nthe old baize-covered one on the settle. \"But there's a lot of signs and\nmarks in this 'un,\" pointing to red ink notes on the margin, and\nunderlinings of several passages.\n\nGranny inspected it, and shook her head.\n\n\"I don't know nought of the writing, lad, but the printing is the same\nas mine,\" she said; and reading the opening of Genesis from both the\nBooks, she succeeded in persuading him that they were one and the same,\nexcept the red ink.\n\n\"Heave to, then!\" he cried. \"I'll have Sisky's; it's trimmer to haul\nabout than yonder woolly-backed one, and I'll try to spell it out when I\nget aboard again.\"\n\nTo say truth, Wat had found his engagement to take care of the child\nless troublesome than his promise to learn to read. He had got on till\nnow extremely well without any knowledge of that art, and he felt a\nhearty repugnance to a job he knew so little about.\n\nIt was not long before Wat got a ship, and sailed again. The parting\nbetween him and Sisky was a sorer trial than he had looked for. Granny\nwas not so sensitive, and couldn't understand how he should care to\nleave a little one like that, who had no call on him, more than his own\nold grandmother whom he had not seen for so long. Sisky openly rebelled\nat the idea of being left behind. When he had really gone the child was\nfor a time inconsolable. Her only consolation seemed to be to sit in the\nold boat summer-house, where she could see the sea, and watch every\nvessel that glided by, hoping, till the hope faded away, that her dear\n\"Daddy Wat\" would come back again.\n\nGranny left her very much to her own devices. She fed her and clothed\nher; and, that done, there was but one thing more she had engaged\nfor--to teach her the Bible. This she tried very earnestly to do; but\nSisky didn't like her, and wouldn't learn, and gave her so much trouble,\nthat, finding the funds sufficient, she put her in charge of Mary\nKeythorn, an excellent young woman, who supported her aged mother by\nteaching the village children.\n\n\"She's as wigglesome and unsettled as ever a sailor on land, or a fish\nout of the sea,\" said Granny, as she delivered her over to Mary; \"but\nWat made me promise she should learn to read this Bible, and I'm bound\nto keep my word.\"\n\nGooseberry pricked up her ears at this. She had never been told it was\nDaddy Wat's desire she should read; but now she knew it, she went to\nwork with her whole heart, and what with fair abilities, a thorough good\nwill, and a gentle and patient teacher, she soon became a pretty good\nscholar.\n\nWat was not quite so prosperous in his studies. Once fairly on board\nagain, he seldom thought of Sisky's Book, and when he did, it made him\nuneasy. He wished in his heart he had never made the promise.\n\nThe ship had been running before a gale for some hours, and everything\nportended a storm. The ship was nearing a coast where many a wreck had\nhappened. All that seamanship could do had been done, and they were now\nwaiting the result.\n\nOne of the passengers, with a Book in his hand, said calmly, as Wat\npassed him,--\n\n\"Do you think there is danger?\"\n\n\"Lots,\" said Wat.\n\nThe man, after a moment's pause, reopened his Book and read on.\n\n\"You take it very comfortable,\" said Wat.\n\n\"I am not afraid. I can depend on this promise,\" said the man, pointing\nto his Book.\n\nWat shook his head.\n\n\"I can't take in that, worse luck, master. May be yourn's the same as\nthis,\" said Wat, taking Sisky's Bible from his pocket, where he always\nkept it when his conscience was troubled, as if to pacify it with a sort\nof showing his good intentions.\n\nThe man looked attentively at the Bible, while Wat, in a few words, told\nhim its history, and confessed his neglect, which he had never more\ntruly lamented.\n\nA sudden call from the mate made him leave the book in the man's hands,\nand it was not till after two or three hours of hard work that he\nreturned with the joyful news that the danger was past.\n\n\"The Lord be praised!\" said the man.\n\n\"Poor Sisky's mother used to talk about the Lord,\" said Wat. \"She told\nme reading that Book would be better than bags of gold to me.\"\n\n\"So it will. Let me teach you,\" said the man.\n\n\"With right good will, my hearty,\" said Wat; \"and I'll pay you with part\nof my 'bacca or rum now, or money when I get my pay.\"\n\n\"My good fellow,\" said the man, \"I want no pay. I am greatly in your\ndebt already. This Book belonged to my sister; it was all she had of my\nfather's goods. He had nothing to leave, but he told her she would find\nit better than bags of gold. She did. You have only to read it, and you\nwill find the same.\"\n\n\"Well, that's curious enough,\" said Wat. \"And how came it you never\nlooked after her and little Sisky?\"\n\n\"I was in Europe; I have been long away from home. Until I heard your\nstory, and saw from this Book who the mother and the child you spoke of\nwere, I did not know her history.\"\n\nThe stranger told him further that he was desirous to provide for his\nsister's child, and after he had been home and arranged all his family\naffairs, he would return to England, and take his niece under his\nprotection, and, as far as he could, repay him for his goodness to her.\n\nWat declared that he could not part with his little Gooseberry, but he\ngratefully set to work to learn to read. As he learned, Da Silva, whose\nheart was penetrated with the truth, kept earnestly endeavouring to\npresent it acceptably to his pupil; and as the letter of the Word\nentered his mind, the grace of God blessed it to his true conversion.\n\nThe voyage ended, he lost no time in going to his Granny's. There he\nfound her, as usual, knitting in the garden.\n\nAfter greetings were passed, he asked for Sisky, and hearing she was at\nschool, went to fetch her. He made his best sailor's bow to Miss Mary in\nsomewhat a shy style, for he had once tried to induce her to look with\nfavour on him, but, for some undeclared reason, she had not consented.\nThe meeting between him and the child was very joyous. She held his\njacket tight, as if to prevent his again giving her the slip.\n\n\"Hear me read, Daddy Wat! Mistress has taught me! I can read quite\nfast!\" she cried.\n\n\"All right. The next thing is to understand it, and then you'll be all\nright for sea,\" said Wat.\n\nSisky opened the Bible and began to read. It happened to be a place that\nWat knew pretty well, so he was well pleased to prompt her now and then,\nand, moreover, to give her a concise commentary, more to Mary's pleasure\nand edification than little Sisky's, who was impatient at the\ninterruption.\n\nBefore they left, Wat felt that Mary looked more kindly on him than she\nhad done in old days. She was still free. He was not long in coming to a\npoint when he was clear upon its propriety. So he, quite suddenly, a few\ndays after his return, asked her without much \"roundabouts,\" as he said,\n\"whether she'd the same objections to sail along with him as she had\nonce manifested.\" Mary honestly answered _no_. She told him her\nobjections before had not arisen from any want of liking for him; but\nshe said, \"I knew that I was but a weak and ignorant Christian, and I\nwas afraid, from the way you talked, you were not one at all; and I\ndared not venture on such a marriage.\"\n\n\"I'm a poor hand at it now,\" he said, with great humility.\n\n\"Poor enough I am,\" she answered; \"but so long as we are of one mind we\nshall help one another on. I feel safe about that.\"\n\nPoor Wat! Every year of his married life brought him, as he said,\n\"fuller bags of gold;\" for a sweeter, kinder, better wife, man never had\nthan Mary made him.\n\nThe peace came. Wat left the service, but his character was so good that\nhe had no difficulty in getting a place in the coast-guard; and in his\ncottage by the sea he maintained wife and children, old granny, and\nlittle Gooseberry, who, however, was little no longer. In his spare time\nhe cultivated a bit of ground, and this with his pay kept all\ncomfortable. Still his family was increasing, and food was dear: money\nwent faster and faster. \"Never mind,\" said Wat, \"godliness with\ncontentment is great gain.\"\n\nOne day when he came home from duty, he found all out, the door locked,\nand the key in the thatch, as usual. He went in, and on the table was a\ncanvas bag. He opened it, expecting to find beans for sowing, but out\ntumbled Spanish dollars. While he was wondering, Sisky, who had been to\nlook for him, ran in. The tale was soon told. Her uncle had come for\nher, and had put that bag on the table for her Daddy Wat.\n\nPhilip da Silva, having settled all his affairs, had resolved to live in\nEngland, all his near relations having moved away from his native place\nor died. He purchased a small property in the neighbourhood, taking care\nthat Wat and his wife should share in his prosperity. Little Sisky, whom\nhe looked on as his child, helped him heartily as years went on to\nforward the happiness and interests of her foster-father and his family.\n\n\"Mary dear,\" said Wat, many and many a time, \"what blessings have come\nto me through getting this Book! Bags of gold! why, what are they to\nhaving you for a wife? and, above all, to the hope I've got of being\npardoned for all my sins, and received into heaven when I die?\"\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE MAN THAT EVERYTHING WENT AGAINST.\n\n\n\"I tell you,\" said poor Ned, angrily, \"everything has gone against me\nall my life long. If I had had other people's chances I should have been\na different sort of a man, and you wouldn't have had to come looking me\nup here. But I never had a chance, and so what's the use of talking?\"\n\nNed Bean was one of my neighbours; but at this time he was lodged in the\njail of the next town--and dear lodgings they were likely to prove to\nhim. He was an old man: his scanty white hair, his rough, unshorn chin,\nhis haggard, thin face, now flushed with momentary excitement, his rough\ncountryman's garb, dirty and neglected--all this and more made him an\nobject for pity. A volcano of wrath was pent up in that old man's bosom,\nstriving for vent.\n\nHe had been committed only a few days before for brutally misusing his\npoor old wife--half killing her, in fact, in a fit of ungoverned fury.\nThe case was too serious to be disposed of by the magistrate before whom\nhe had been at first taken, and who had sent it to the higher county\nsessions.\n\nI had the day before visited the injured woman, who lay groaning from\nthe effects of her husband's savage assault; and it was at her request,\nor rather her earnest prayer, that I went the next day to see the\nunhappy prisoner.\n\n\"No,\" said he once more, when I was considering what further to say,\nseeing that his old wife's kind and forgiving messages, which I had\ndelivered, had wrought no softening effect on his mind--\"No; I never had\na chance; and there's the end on't.\"\n\n\"How is it that you never had a chance, neighbour?\" I asked, as kindly\nas I could, for it occurred to me that if poor old Bean were encouraged\nto tell his grievances, I might be better able to put in a word or two\nafterwards.\n\n\"How is it?\" said he. \"Why, haven't I been a poor man all my life? and\nwhen a man is poor everything goes against him, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"I am not sure that it does, neighbour Bean. Some have not found it so,\"\nsaid I; not adding, however, as I might have done, that there were other\npoor men in the world, who were not in the habit of battering their\nwives, as he had done.\n\nHe had always been a lone thing in the world--so he said; he had never\nknown father or mother, brother or sister. He had been brought up in the\nparish workhouse, to which he had been taken when a helpless baby; and\nwhen old enough to do a bit of work he was set to that. According to his\nstatement he was badly used by everybody in the house, and was glad\nenough to get sent out to service as a waggoner's boy at a farm. But\nthere he wasn't treated much better, for he was knocked about by the\nwaggoner till he couldn't stand it any longer, so he ran away. There\nwere bills stuck about the country, describing him, and offering a\nreward to any one for taking him up and bringing him back again. \"But\nthey forgot that I could read the bills as well as they could,\" said\npoor old Bean, with a chuckle.\n\n\"But why did they take the trouble to post bills about you?\"\n\n\"They said I had taken something that wasn't mine--the waggoner's\nmoney,\" old Ned explained, with a little reluctance.\n\n\"I suppose you were not caught and taken back to your place?\"\n\n\"No; I took care to get far enough away, and went into the country with\na set of tramps. I got work in a hop garden, and when hopping was over,\nmaster, seeing I was a likely sort of a young chap, offered to take me\non, and give me regular work.\"\n\n\"Well, that was kind, at all events,\" I remarked. \"Don't you think so,\nneighbour?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know as to that,\" said the old man; \"if he hadn't thought I\nwas worth my money, he wouldn't have took to me. Every man for himself,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"Well, anyhow, in being for himself, your new master was for you as\nwell, I think.\"\n\nBean went on to say he slaved and slaved, and got his pay, but not much\nthanks. But he couldn't do better; and so he stopped, and went on\nslaving \"lots of years,\" till he \"was a man upgrown.\" Then he got\nmarried.\n\n\"To the same poor old creature whom you so badly misused the other day,\nand who has sent you her forgiving messages by me?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, well; just as you like, sir; only she wasn't old then. That\nwas forty years gone by.\"\n\n\"You have lived together forty years, then? and have always been poor,\nas I suppose, neighbour?\"\n\n\"You are safe to say that, master,\" he replied, sharply. \"How is a man\nto get rich on twelve or fourteen shillings a week, and sometimes out of\nwork, and a family to bring up?\"\n\n\"Not very likely to get rich--especially when he spends much of his\nspare time and a large part of his earnings at the beershop,\" I ventured\nto say.\n\n\"What's that to--to anybody?\" asked Bean, fiercely. It seemed as though\nhe meant, \"What's that to _you_?\" but he stopped short at the word. \"It\nwas my own money I spent,\" he added.\n\n[Illustration: Ned, in jail complaining to clergyman]\n\n\"And what became of your sons and daughters--poor things?\" I asked him.\n\n\"They went to the bad, mostly. There was Ned, the oldest--he took to\npoaching, and was sent across the water for knocking a gamekeeper about.\nThen there was Tom; he went for a soldier, and I never heard of him\nafterwards. The girls got married, and didn't make much of that. The\nonly one that did any good was Joe, and he got a place in London, or\nsomewhere; but he went against me, like everybody else. The last time I\nsaw him he had a good coat on his back, and good shoes on his feet, and\nmoney in his pocket; but he wouldn't give his old father a penny. He\ntold me if he did I should only get drunk with it. A pretty sort of a\nson that, sir!\"\n\n\"But about your wife, neighbour. You cannot deny that you are in the\nhabit of treating her roughly; and that last affair, you know, which has\nbrought you here----\"\n\n\"She shouldn't have given me so much tongue,\" said the old man. \"She is\nalways giving me tongue, she is!\"\n\n\"Well, neighbour,\" said I, when poor Bean had come to an end of his\nstory and his complaints, \"I really am very sorry for you. I can plainly\nsee, from everything you have told me, that you have been badly used all\nyour life, up to the present time.\"\n\n\"Ah, I thought you would say so when you came to know the rights of it,\"\nsaid my poor neighbour, suddenly brightening up a little.\n\n\"You have had one enemy in particular who has always set himself against\nyou. I think I happen to know who it is,\" I said.\n\n\"More than one; lots of them,\" poor old Ned protested.\n\n\"Let us stick to that one,\" I went on. \"I'll tell you about him. To\nbegin at the beginning, it was he who would not permit you to get any\ngood out of the teaching you had when you were a poor little orphan boy.\nIt was he, only you did not know it, who sent you wandering over the\ncountry as a tramp and vagabond, when you might have gone on comfortably\nand respectably with your first master. It was he who took away your\ncharacter and branded you as a thief. It was this same enemy of yours\nwho, when you grew older, sent you to the beershop, when you would\notherwise have been industriously at work, or sitting at home quietly\nand happily with your wife and children. It is he who set your children\nagainst you, and drove them, as you say, 'to the bad,' my poor\nneighbour. You don't know it, but this same person has destroyed your\npeace and pleasure in your own house, and has robbed you of pounds and\npounds, which would have helped to make you comfortable in your old\nage.\"\n\n\"I wish I knew who he is!\" exclaimed the old man, rousing himself\nexcitedly.\n\n\"I will tell you, neighbour; but I have one thing more to say about this\nenemy--I have great reason to believe that he is doing a good deal to\nshorten your life.\"\n\n\"You don't say that, sir!\" cried the poor man, with some signs of alarm.\n\"But now you speak of it,\" he continued, \"I have felt sometimes as if I\nwas being poisoned.\"\n\n\"Ah, no doubt. Well, that was your enemy's doing. And not to make a\nlonger story of it, the man I am speaking of has destroyed every chance\nyou ever had of getting on--and you have had chances--he has upset your\npoor old wife's temper, and urged her on to give you so much tongue, as\nyou say.\"\n\n\"I can't think who you can mean, or what you are talking about, sir,\"\nsaid my old neighbour, ponderingly.\n\n\"The name of the man who has done you all this mischief is Edward Bean,\ncommonly called Tipsy Ned. Do you know him?\"\n\nFor a moment or two poor Ned did not speak, but sat looking at me\nsavagely. Then the muscles of his face worked convulsively, and his eyes\nwere slowly withdrawn from my face, and looked down on the prison floor.\nThen he muttered, \"I reckon you are right, sir.\"\n\nI knelt down and prayed with and for my poor old neighbour before I left\nthe jail; and that was the last I saw of him. He was soon afterwards\ntried, and condemned to six months' imprisonment for the assault on his\nwife, but he did not live out the term. His constitution was shattered\nby previous habits. He was taken ill, and died in the infirmary of the\ncounty prison.\n\nThe circumstances I have related have nearly passed from the memory of\nthose in the village where he once lived; but I have revived the story,\n\"to point a moral,\" though it may not \"adorn a tale.\"\n\n\n\n\nIV. ABOUT SCOLDING.\n\n\n\"I'd go and break stones on the road rather than be sitting indoors\ndoing nothing, Will,\" I heard Mrs. Howland say as I was walking up to\nthe cottage door. The words were spoken sharply, and the tone was in a\nhigh pitch.\n\n\"Ho, ho,\" thought I, \"if the wind is in that quarter, perhaps I had\nbetter make my call at another time;\" and I hesitated for a moment. But\nas I really had some business with William Howland, and as I had got so\nfar, I made up my mind not to turn back.\n\nWilliam Howland is a good man, I verily believe; but I am bound (if I\nmust speak out) to say that he is not--well, not to write too\nstrongly--not over fond of hard work. He has a wife and family dependent\non his exertions, and he had recently, two or three weeks previous to\nthis call of mine, lost a place of regular employment, fifteen shillings\na week wages, because he could not or would not get up soon enough in\nthe morning.\n\nThe case was this. He had, three months before (after a good deal of\nknocking about, sometimes in work, and rather oftener out of it),\napplied to a neighbouring farmer for a situation then vacant on the\nfarm.\n\n\"I am afraid you won't suit me, Howland,\" said the farmer; \"but, as you\nsay you want work, I'll try you. But you'll understand, I shall expect\nyou at your post by a quarter before six in the morning.\"\n\n\"That's early, sir,\" said Will.\n\n\"Yes, a quarter of an hour before the regular time, I know. But you will\nhave to be timekeeper to the other men, who begin work at six; and it\nwill be proper for you to be on the farm before they come. However,\nthat's the condition on which I shall employ you. Take the place or\nleave it.\"\n\nHowland decided that, upon the whole, it was best to take it, which he\ndid; and for a few weeks he managed to be at his post at the appointed\ntime. Then he began to slacken, sometimes being five minutes behind,\nsometimes ten, until at last he seemed to settle in his mind that six\no'clock was the proper time to commence his day's work; and he did not\nalways stick to that. The consequence was he lost his place; and after\nthat, up to the time of my approach to his cottage, he had been out of\nwork.\n\nOn entering, I found Mrs. Howland in a pretty considerable fume.\nApparently she had worked herself into a heat of temper, which, perhaps,\nwas not altogether unaccountable, even if inexcusable, by reason of her\nhusband being seated near the window, with a book open before him.\n\n\"I am glad you are come in, sir,\" said the wife. \"Look at Howland,\nsitting there, reading half the time, and nothing in the house to eat\nbut what I get in debt for. And I wonder the baker trusts us, that I\ndo.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said the husband, who had before accosted me, and was now\nstanding with his hand on the book he had been reading, \"the Lord will\nprovide. I am not a bit afraid of help not coming.\" He said this very\nmildly, and I must give him the credit of having borne his wife's\nscolding with meekness.\n\n\"Yes, sir, and that's how he goes on,\" said Mrs. Howland, almost crying.\n\"When I tell him that there isn't a bit of victuals in the cupboard, all\nI can get from him is, 'The Lord will provide;' and 'tis so with other\nthings,--there's rent not paid, and children's clothes and shoes wearing\nout; and 'tis all the same cry, 'The Lord will provide,' or 'Cast your\nburden upon the Lord,' or something of that sort out of the Bible. I\ndeclare it is enough to provoke a saint.\"\n\n\"Gently, gently, my good friend,\" said I, as persuasively as I could. \"I\nam sure you do not mean to disparage the Bible. You have found it before\nnow a great relief in time of trouble, have you not?\"\n\nI had reason for saying this, knowing as I do that my poor friend,\nMartha Howland, notwithstanding a little infirmity of temper, was a\ntruly Christian woman.\n\n\"Yes,\" said she, \"I have found it to be so; but----\"; and coming to the\n\"but,\" she stopped short. \"Only it does not seem to me right, anyhow,\nfor a man to be sitting in doors half the day, reading the Bible even,\nwhen he ought to be looking out for work to keep his family.\"\n\n\"My Martha is something like another Martha we read of in this book,\"\nsaid William Howland, patting his Bible fondly, and speaking kindly,\nthough with a kind of provoking coolness, as I thought; \"she is troubled\nabout many things, not that she does not attend to the one thing\nneedful; I don't say that,\" he added.\n\n\"And I reckon if Martha's sister Mary had had a family of little\nchildren to look after, and no money coming in, she would have been\ntroubled about many things too,\" retorted Mrs. Howland.\n\n\"Well, to leave these matters now,\" said I, as I thought that if\npeacemakers are to be blessed, they have sometimes a delicate and\ndangerous task to perform, \"I have a little job for you, Howland, which\nwill bring you in a shilling. Will you take this letter for me to ---- (I\nproduced the letter and mentioned the place, about three miles off), and\nwait for an answer?\"\n\nTo be sure he would, and be glad to oblige me, he said.\n\nI thought, but did not say, that possibly I was obliging him by offering\nhim a shilling for what the postman or the post-office would have done\nfor a penny. The truth is, I knew how badly off my neighbours were, and\nwas glad of an opportunity of putting a shilling in their way without\nmaking a show of charity. I could have given the shilling without\nexacting a return; but it was my whim at that time to make the man\nfairly earn it, so I only said, \"Bring the answer to my house, William,\nand then I will pay you for the journey.\"\n\n\"Shall I go at once, sir?\" he wanted to know.\n\nI told him yes; and so he shut up the book, and took his departure,\nleaving me in his cottage.\n\n\"Did you ever see the like of Will?\" said Martha, whose wrath was not\nyet subsided.\n\n\"There are many worse husbands than Will,\" I replied.\n\n\"I don't complain of him as a husband altogether,\" continued she; \"but\nit isn't much of a husband's part either, when he won't look out for\nwork as he ought, and won't try to keep it when he has got it.\"\n\n\"You have told him so, I have no doubt.\"\n\n\"Haven't I, sir? I just have. I have been giving him such a dressing!\"\n\n\"I thought so. Now do you think that was quite wise, Mrs. Howland?\" I\nasked.\n\n\"I don't know what to say about that, sir; but one can't be always wise,\nyou know, when things go so uncommonly crooked.\"\n\n\"But, my good friend, you know where it is written, 'The Lord layeth up\nsound wisdom for the righteous;' and you being one of that class----\"\n\n\"No, no, sir; I never set up for being righteous,\" said my neighbour,\nhastily.\n\n\"I am sure of that,\" said I. \"If you had done so, it would only have\nbeen self-righteousness. What I understand by the righteous, in the\nhighest sense, is those who are made so by the righteousness of Christ;\nand if any one might be expected to have sound wisdom laid up for them,\nI am sure they have a right to it. Now, you trust in the Lord Jesus\nChrist; then you are made righteous in Him. Don't you know where it is\nwritten, 'Not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but\nthat which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of\nGod by faith'?\"\n\nYes, my neighbour knew this; it was a great comfort to her to know\nsomething of the meaning of it, she said.\n\n\"Well, then, to come to the point from which we have started, being a\nChristian woman, your husband, your children, I, everybody, have a sort\nof right to expect from you the fruits of that wisdom which cometh from\nabove; and, as you know, is 'first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and\neasy to be intreated.'\"\n\n\"To be sure, sir, there's no doubt of that. But, you see, when a poor\nwoman, whether Christian or not, is hard pushed, and the husband won't\ndo what he ought, why, then maybe she forgets what she ought to\nremember, and wisdom, as you call it, sir, is just nowhere.\"\n\n\"'If any of you lack wisdom,' said the apostle James, 'let him (or her)\nask of God, who giveth to all liberally, and upbraideth not.' There are\ntwo lessons for us there, I think,\" said I.\n\n\"Very likely,\" said Martha; \"and I want teaching badly enough.\"\n\n\"The first lesson is the plain one, that when we are in a sort of\ntrouble we should go to God, through the Lord Jesus Christ, for\nguidance. The next is, that if God does not upbraid us for our folly, we\nshould take care how we set about upbraiding others.\"\n\n\"And that's true,\" said Martha; \"I never thought of that before.\"\n\n\"And then,\" I continued, \"the Bible, especially the new Testament part\nof it, clearly sets before us our Christian duty, whatever may be our\nstation and position in life. You know what it says about wives; but I\ndon't think that it is anywhere said, 'Wives, scold your husbands.'\"\n\nMrs. Howland smiled at this. \"A funny thing that would be if it did,\"\nsaid she.\n\n\"But something is said about the husband being the head of the wife.\"\n\nMartha remembered this, and thought that no good was likely to come by\nher scolding her husband, as she acknowledged she had done.\n\n\"Certainly no good can come of it, because it is contrary to the law and\nthe gospel.\"\n\n\"But what is a poor wife to do?\" asked Martha, in much perplexity; \"you\ndon't think it is right for Will to be hanging about indoors all day, or\npretty near it, when he ought to be at work, or looking after it--though\nit is the Bible he is reading?\"\n\n\"No; I do not. There is a time for all things, and--but I am not going\nto talk to you about your husband, that wouldn't be fair. Leave him to\nme; I'll talk to him.\"\n\n\"I'd be thankful to you, sir, if you would,\" said Martha.\n\n\"Only you must promise me not to scold him again, nor yet to upbraid him\n(that's the word, you know) about anything past and gone. Because, in\nthe first place, it does no good, as you acknowledge; and in the second\nplace it is neither wise nor right. The Christian rule is, 'Be ye kind\none to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for\nChrist's sake, hath forgiven you.' Now, as it seems that scolding does\nnot move your husband, why not try another plan? Let me tell you a\nfable.\n\n\"Once upon a time there was a dispute between the sun and the wind which\nhad the most power. They agreed to test the question upon a traveller on\nthe road, who was wrapped in a cloak. 'I'll blow the cloak off his\nback,' said the wind. 'No, you won't; but I'll make him throw it off,'\nsaid the sun. Now, we will call the wind by the name of Anger, and\nthe sun shall be Kindness; the man's cloak being Idleness or\nSelf-indulgence. Well, the wind began to blow with all its might, and\ngave the traveller a terrible scolding, so to speak; but it only made\nhim draw the cloak all the closer about him. Then, when the wind had\ndone its best, or its worst, and had not succeeded, came out the sun,\nand presently it sent down such warm rays (of kindness, you understand)\nthat the traveller could not stand it any longer, but threw off his\ncloak. So the sun beat.\"\n\n\"Well, I never!\"\n\n\"You try it,\" said I.\n\n[Illustration: Man falling in wind, top hat flying, pack on back?]\n\n\n\n\nV. THE FOOL AND THE BARON.\n\n\nIn one of the baronial halls of England lived Harold, a celebrated\njester. He was a faithful servant, and a great favourite in the family.\nHis master was so pleased with his drollery that on one occasion he gave\nhim a white wand, saying, \"There, Harold, keep that as your staff of\noffice, till you find a greater fool than yourself, and then you may\ngive it to him.\"\n\nThe wand was henceforth Harold's companion; and as years passed by he\nstill made fun, and was still high in favour. At length his master was\nill, and there was gloom on every countenance. People passed hither and\nthither, and spoke in a whisper, and the whisper was, \"He is going to\ndie.\" At last the servants were sent for to take their leave; and\nHarold, who, averse to sorrow, had hid himself away, was sought out and\nconducted to the turret chamber to say a final good-bye to his lord.\n\n\"Ill, my noble master?\"\n\n\"Yes, Harold! I'm going on a long journey.\"\n\n\"Where, cousin?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\"\n\n\"When, most noble?\"\n\n\"I cannot say.\"\n\n\"When will it please you to return, my lord?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"Will you take poor Harold with you?\"\n\n\"I must go alone.\"\n\n\"Have you prepared for this sudden journey?\"\n\n\"No; I knew of it long ago, but I put it off.\"\n\n[Illustration: Harold returns the white wand to his master]\n\n\"Why, now,\" said the jester, \"here is a wise thing! You go a journey--so\nlong, so soon; you know not when nor where; you go alone; you will never\nreturn: and you have not made ready, though you were told! There, poor\nnoble cousin! take with thee Harold's wand; for in truth this day thou\nhast found for him a greater fool than himself.\"\n\nWhat the fool said to his master was perfectly true, although told in a\nquaint, blunt style. It suggests some thoughts and reminds us of certain\nfacts which we shall do well to think about.\n\nWe shall all have to go on a journey soon. You and I, my friend, must be\nsuch travellers as the jester and his master talked of. The journey of\ndeath we must each take. What a mysterious journey it is! There are\ncertain roads that we know quite well. So frequently have we travelled\nthem, that we are perfectly familiar with them. The houses we have to\npass have an old look. We recognise each field through which we pass.\nEven many of the trees under whose shade we walk are distinctly\nremembered by us from time to time. But how different is it with the\nlast road along which we shall travel! None of us know it. It is\nenshrouded in darkness. We shall travel it for the first as well as for\nthe last time; and those who have trodden it have sent no message to\ntell us about it.\n\nAnd this journey is unavoidable. Many journeys are a matter of choice.\nWe can either take them or remain at home. But it is not so with the\npilgrimage of death. \"It is appointed unto men once to die.\" Reader,\nremember this. Do not, like many, try to banish the thought of death\nfrom your mind. The last day must come to you. Putting death out of your\nthoughts will not put it out of existence. Forgetfulness of it cannot\ndestroy it. Since, then, death must come, let us, like wise men, look it\nfull in the face. Let us think solemnly about it.\n\nBut to return to the story with which we set out. The jester asked the\nnobleman if he were prepared for the journey which he was about to take.\nAll journeys require preparation. No one thinks of taking a journey\nwithout making ready beforehand; we think the matter well over, find out\nwhat we shall need, and provide accordingly. Before the Asiatic\ntraveller mounts the camel which is to bear him across the hot, sandy,\ndreary wilderness, he takes care to fill his wallet with food and his\nleathern bottles with water. When the adventurer resolves to make his\nway through Indian jungles where the tiger lurks, he shoulders his gun,\nand takes with him a native guide. The wary explorer, ere he steps into\nhis reindeer sledge to cross the ice-bound rivers and snow-clad plains\nof Arctic regions, arms himself well against the intense cold.\n\nBut how shall you prepare for this journey? You are by nature a lost and\nruined sinner. You have broken God's commands in your heart and in your\ndaily life; your transgressions are numberless. You cannot change your\nown heart, and you cannot blot out your own sins. You can of yourself\nmake no preparation for the journey you are about to take; you can do\nnothing to make yourself meet for God's presence. So far as you are\nconcerned, the words must stand: \"Your iniquities have separated between\nyou and your God, and your sins have hid His face from you\" (Isa. lix.\n2). To provide for your helpless condition, God, in tender love and\ncompassion, gave His only begotten Son, that He should \"die for your\nsins, and rise again for your justification.\" Is it, then, the language\nof your broken and contrite heart, \"What must I do to be saved? How\nshall I prepare to meet God?\" God's gracious reply is plain and simple:\n\"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.\" Yes, the\nblood of Christ shall cleanse you from all unrighteousness, shall\njustify you freely and fully before God.\n\nBut perhaps you say, \"I have not that broken heart, and I lack that\nsaving faith.\" Then may God by His Spirit apply these words powerfully\nto your heart: \"Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince\nand a Saviour, for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of\nsins\" (Acts v. 31). All you need is the Saviour's precious gift, and He\nwaits to be gracious. \"Ask, and it shall be given you.\"\n\nThus faith in Christ will make you ready for the last and solemn\njourney. It will give you pardon and peace; it will sanctify your heart\nand life; it will enable you to say with happy assurance, \"Yea, though I\nwalk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for\nThou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI. THE TAILOR'S SPEECH.\n\n\nIt was in the kitchen of the \"Fighting Cocks,\" a house noted for strong\nale, that young Hatfield, a poor ailing journeyman tailor, was\nharanguing his drinking companions. His face was a little heated by what\nhe had drunk, his hat was dented in as though it had been used for a\nfootball, and the elbow of his right arm, as he lifted up his pipe, was\nseen through his ragged sleeve.\n\nIt happened that old Cawthorn, a staid and respectable servant, who\nlived in the neighbourhood, had a note to deliver at the bar, and the\nlandlord of the \"Fighting Cocks\" being out of the way, old Cawthorn\nstood waiting for him, while young Hatfield \"laid down the law\" to his\ncompanions. As he proceeded, old Cawthorn, who well knew the bad habits\nof the speaker, kept talking to himself in reply to the observations\nmade.\n\n\"I have seen a great deal of life, my friends,\" said the tailor.\n\n\"And sad low life, too, I am afraid.\"\n\n\"If people would only be ruled by me----\"\n\n\"Ay, but bad as things are, we are not come to such a pass as that yet.\"\n\n\"If people would only be ruled by me, old England would lift up her head\nagain. In the first place I would reform the constitution.\"\n\n\"Beginning with your own, I hope, for that seems not to be over\nexcellent. What next, I wonder!\"\n\n\"There should be no places and pensions; no bribery and corruption; no\ntaxes and oppression; but every man should have his rights, and a poor\nman should lift up his head as well as a rich man.\"\n\n\"If you could only rule yourself as well as you think you could rule the\nnation, it would at any rate be a good beginning.\"\n\n\"I would inclose all the waste lands in England, every one of them\nshould be cultivated.\"\n\n\"Better by half weed your own little garden first, for it is sadly out\nof order.\"\n\n\"Every man's house, ay, the poorest among them, should have in it a\nflitch of good bacon.\"\n\n\"That is more than is ever likely to be found in yours, Master Hatfield,\nunless you live a very different life to what you now do.\"\n\n\"I have a notion that we might all of us live much happier than we now\ndo, and with half the labour.\"\n\n\"A notion, indeed, and nothing but a notion. But if you paid a little\nless attention to the country at large, and a little more to your own\nhabits, you and your poor wife and little ones might live happier than\nyou do, there is little doubt.\"\n\n\"We seem to be all wrong in religious matters. Instead of being brought\nup to particular opinions, every one, young and old, ought to be left at\nliberty to think as he pleases.\"\n\n\"And to do as he pleases, too, I suppose? Oh! Harry Hatfield. Some day\nor other, if you keep a little closer to your shopboard, you may shine\nas a tailor, but you are not likely to become a star in any other\ncalling.\"\n\n\"Then with regard to property; it stands to reason that if the hundred\nthousand pounds possessed by the rich man were to be divided into a\nhundred parts, it would make a hundred men comfortable and happy instead\nof one.\"\n\n\"All housebreakers and highwaymen, I should think, reason in the same\nway.\"\n\n\"It costs the country millions a year to keep up the gaols and the\npolicemen: every penny of this might be saved.\"\n\n\"Ay, and the land might be overrun with rogues, and the country become a\nbear-garden.\"\n\n\"The national debt ought to be wiped away at once--it is a disgrace to\nthe nation.\"\n\n\"And there is a debt scored up on the door there that is a disgrace to\none Harry Hatfield--I suppose you would wipe that away too.\"\n\n\"In a word, my friends, things are very different to what they ought to\nbe. In this land of liberty, where every man's house is his castle, and\nwhere everything should be properly conducted, there ought to be no\npolicemen--no oppressive laws--no taxes--no----\"\n\nHere the landlord made his appearance, and old Cawthorn, having\ndelivered his note, left the house, saying, \"How true is that proverb of\nSolomon, 'Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? there is more hope\nof a fool than of him.'\"\n\n[Illustration: Harry Hatfield holding forth]\n\n\n\n\nVII. NOT A BIT AFRAID.\n\n\n\"Yes, I know it's a serious case; the doctor said so. But I don't\ntrouble myself about that; I'm not a bit afraid.\"\n\n\"But you told me just now that you had not attended to religion a great\ndeal. You know this is the first time I ever saw you; so I know nothing\nabout you but what you tell me. I suppose, in fact, you have lived like\nmany more, without much thought about your soul?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, that's it.\"\n\n\"And yet you are not afraid?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I don't feel afraid at all. I'm not troubled in my mind. I\nhave been no wise wicked.\"\n\nThe minister looked grave.\n\n\"You mean you have not been a thief, or a great drinker, or a swearer,\nor a liar, or anything of that sort?\"\n\n\"No, no; I have not been anything of the kind. I know plenty who have;\nbut I've always tried to live respectable.\"\n\n\"Well, but do you mean to say you are not a sinner?\"\n\n\"Oh, we are all sinners, of course.\"\n\n\"But does not that mean anything? Does it not _signify_ being a sinner?\"\n\n\"I've never done anything bad in particular, as I know of. At all\nevents, I don't feel afraid.\"\n\n\"I wish you did,\" said the minister earnestly; \"I wish you did with all\nmy heart. I know _I_ should if I were you.\"\n\nThe sick man looked surprised; but he made no answer, so the minister\nwent on.\n\n\"As for me, I could not speak as you do. I know that I am a poor sinner;\nand that, but for my Saviour, I must be lost for ever. But I have gone\nto Him, and sought His blood to wash away my sins, and I do humbly\nbelieve in Him; and He, and He alone, takes _my_ fear away. You have\ntold me what _you_ feel, and now I have told you what _I_ feel.\"\n\n\"Well, that's all right, sir, no doubt,\" was all the sick man said. The\nminister went on again:\n\n\"Oh, my friend, it will never do to say you are not afraid while you\nhave not gone to Christ; you ought to be afraid, you have good reason to\nbe afraid. I _must_ be plain with you. I dare not build you up with\nfalse hopes. Don't you know that you must stand before God, and give\naccount for all your life? Don't you know about the great judgment day,\nwhen the books will be opened? These books will have in them all you\nhave ever done in your life. Can you face that? Are you not afraid when\nyou think of _that_? There will be another book opened then, the book of\nlife. That will contain the names of all who are saved by Jesus Christ.\nAnd everybody else (do you remember that?) will be cast into the lake of\nfire. You know you have not lived to God, you know you have not sought\nChrist, your religion has been nothing but a name; and, say what you\nwill, you know quite well that you have often and often done wrong. Now,\nhow _can_ you say you are not afraid?\"\n\nThe man shifted uneasily on his bed.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said he, \"I ought to be more afraid than I am.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed you ought. I don't want to give you pain, I want to comfort\nyou; but I dare not give you false comfort. I want you to see the\n_truth_. You are a poor sinner in need of a Saviour. You may think\nlightly of your sins now, and hardly call them sins at all; but if you\nsaw them as they really are, oh how black they would look to you! I pray\nGod to teach you to see _yourself_, and to see your sins, _now_, before\nthe books are opened. And now let me speak to you about Jesus Christ. He\npitied us poor sinners, and came and died on the cross to save us.\nThousands have been saved by Him. He has never turned _one_ away who\nwent to Him for salvation. I hope I have gone. I _know_ I have. I could\nnot rest in my bed if I had not. I want _you_ to go to Him too. He calls\nyou to Him. Just as you are, He bids you look to Him and be saved. He is\nwilling to be your Saviour. _Now_, remember, _now_, He is willing to be\nyour Saviour. Do not put this off. Sometimes people put away such\nthoughts because they trouble them. Oh, do not _you_ do so. Here you are\nalone on your bed away from everybody. Now _pray_, pray for the Holy\nSpirit to teach your heart, pray that Jesus may be your Saviour. Let me\npray with you before I go.\"\n\nAnd the minister knelt down and prayed. And when he rose from his knees,\nthe sick man held out his hand, and his eyes were wet with tears, and he\ndid not say again that he was not afraid; but he said in a low voice, \"I\nhope God will forgive me. You'll come and see me again, sir?\"\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Man carrying tools walking with dog]\n\n\nVIII. TOLD AT A TUNNEL'S MOUTH.\n\n\nA group of navvies waited for the relief party at the mouth of a tunnel.\n\n\"Sing us a song, Sam!\" said one.\n\n\"Got a cold, Bill; try the new hand.\"\n\nA loud laugh followed this remark, and that for two reasons; one was\nSam's cold, which was not strange, seeing that for fourteen hours they\nhad worked (as only English navvies can) in that long tunnel, at times\nhalf choked with smoke and steam, and then half-frozen with the bitter\nwinter wind; the other reason was his suggestion for the fresh hand to\nsing, whose strange silent manner had not made him a favourite in the\nrough but hearty gang of navvies. Once Sam had watched and saw him reach\nover a part of his dinner to a mate who was \"not up to the mark,\" when\nthe said mate could not swallow the hard fare he had provided himself\nwith; and Sam wished to know more, being, as he would have said, \"kinder\ncurus on sich p'ints,\" so he asked.\n\n\"P'rhaps you'll oblige?\"\n\n\"How long have we got, mates?\"\n\n\"Matter of half-hour before the relief comes.\"\n\n\"I'll sing you a song at last, if you'll hear a story first.\"\n\n\"Hear! hear!\" said Sam; and the rest agreed. So the new hand placed\nhimself a little nearer the middle of the group, and leaning on his\npick, began:\n\n[Illustration: New man, leaning on pick surreounded by others]\n\n\"A bargain is a bargain, mates, and I shall keep you to your word; if\nyou don't hear me out--no song. I'm going to talk about my little Meg;\nand if you don't know why I am quiet-like now, you will before I have\ndone. Once I had as nice a home as any man need wish for, and the girl I\nbrought to it was the right sort, I can tell you; none of your flashy,\ndressy, empty-headed ones, but a right down decent hard-working maid she\nwas. But she was religious, always wanted to go to church or chapel, or\nwhat not, on the Sunday, and I didn't care for that; so I told her,\n'Alice,' says I, 'you have married me, and you'll have to stick to me,\nor else there'll be a row.' Well, she begged to go, but I would not hear\na word of it; so she gave in.\n\n\"So we went on for more than a year; I was middlin' steady, and she kept\nthe home up well, only I noticed she seemed less happy-like; and if I\nstopped her going to church or chapel on Sunday, I couldn't get her to\ngo out for pleasure with me; for she said, 'Fair's fair; I keep away\nfrom one place to please you, I keep away from others to please myself.'\nAnd I thought there was something in that; don't you?\"\n\nThe men made a murmur, half yes, half no, and seemed to grow more\nattentive; it was level with their understanding.\n\nHe went on.\n\n\"Soon after that Meg was born, and how glad Alice was, to be sure! why,\nthat child, I believe she would have worked her fingers to the bone for\nit. Some folks talk as if our little ones were a curse to us; why,\nmates, them as says so are worse than a jackdaw, and as empty as a bag\nof wind; they ain't got no heart themselves.\"\n\n\"No; they're all jaw,\" said Sam.\n\n\"Well, anyway, we didn't call Meg a curse by a long stretch; she crowed\nand grew, and every year bound us more together; for whatever little\ndifferences we had in other things we were one on the babe--she was the\nbest in the world. But while Meg grew strong the mother grew weak, until\nshe was as thin as a shadow; then I asked the doctor, who said she\nwanted change of air. I asked her if she would like to go and see her\nmother, and take Meg; lor', how pleased she was! So she went, and I saw\nher off.\n\n\"How I got on without her I don't know; badly enough it was. When she\ncame back little Meg was four years old. Mates, I didn't know the wife,\nso white and ill she was; but the child was brighter than ever, the\nsunshine of our lives. To make the story short, while I hoped and hoped\nAlice would mend, she didn't; and the sight of her face, so ghost-like,\nkind of haunted me--she was queer and lonely-like and--well, lads, I\ntook to drink!\"\n\nThe fresh hand's voice quivered a little, but he grasped the pick\nfirmer, and continued: \"Most every night I kept away from home, not\nbecause I hated it, boys, for my heart was there, but I just could not\nbear to see Alice; somehow death appeared written in her face, and I\nwanted to give him plenty of room--I was not ready for him. The\nneighbours kept the place and Meg tidy, and I took home what was left\nafter paying score at the 'Lion.'\"\n\nBill gave Sam a good nudge to look at the speaker, for the tears had\ngathered in his eyes and were rolling in little channels down his\ncheeks.\n\n\"One night there was a noise in the bar at the 'Lion.' Somebody sung\nout, 'Mind the little 'un;' then there was a fall and a cry--Meg's\ncry--and I ran out, to see the landlady catch her up, and the blood\nflowing from a great gash in the forehead. 'Pure accident,' some one\nsaid; but I caught hold of Meg, the landlady bound her up somehow, and I\nrushed home with her--home to her mother, and the sight of the child\nseemed to put life into Alice; she fondled and sang to the little one in\na way that almost broke my heart. The doctor came and bound the head up,\nbut the little eyes were fast closed and he gave no hope.\n\n\"Once she opened the little eyes, gave one stare wild enough to shudder\nat, and then closed them; so we sat, Alice with her on her breast in\nbed, and I on a chair by the side.\n\n\"'John,' said Alice, 'I don't think I shall be here long, and I want to\ntalk to you a bit; will you listen?'\n\n\"I nodded, for I could not speak.\n\n\"'Before I knew you, John, I used to read my Bible and pray to God;\nsince then I have given it up; you did not like it, John; but I have got\nto die; and it's all dark now, husband. What am I to do?'\n\n\"I kept quite still; what could I say?\n\n\"'John, I'm too weak to read now; won't you read a bit to me, and give\nme a little comfort before I die--if there is any for me?'\n\n\"Not for years had I touched the book she spoke of, and where to find it\nnow I did not know; but I hunted round, for I thought, if this will give\nher ease, I'm bound to try; and at last I found it behind the tea-tray.\nI asked her where to read; she said anywhere. So I opened and read where\nJesus went into a house in which a little child lay dead; how the people\nmocked and jeered Him when He said she slept (and I looked at our poor\nMeg, so white and pained, wondering if He would have come to her); how\nJesus took that little girl's hand, her cold, dead hand, and said,\n'Arise.'\n\n\"'Oh, John, if He were only here to speak to Meg and make her well!'\nsaid Alice.\n\n\"'Perhaps it's only a tale,' I said--and stopped.\n\n\"'No, John,' said Alice. 'When I was well I could live and not think\nmuch of Him; but since I've been ill He seems very real to me sometimes;\neven now, John, I believe He is here!'\n\n\"Mates, that was a cold, dark night, and the wind howled outside, the\nfire was all but out, and the candle flickered about with the draught. I\ntell you I felt bad, for her words did seem so full of meaning, her eyes\nalmost looked me through.\n\n\"'John, if He's here, He can save our Meg. John dear, won't you ask Him?\nWon't you pray?'\n\n\"'Alice, I can't; I don't know how.'\n\n\"'Husband, look at the darling; think of her--of her! John, try. Oh,\nJohn, try!'\"\n\nThe whole group of navvies gathered round him here with open eyes and\nstrained ears, watching eagerly for what was coming.\n\n\"I don't know what voice whispered back her words like an echo; but I\nheard, and fell upon my knees crying to the Lord--if He was there--to\nhave mercy on my sinful soul, and to heal our little lamb. Oh, mates,\nhow I did cry, to be sure! and how I did hope it might be true that He\nwas there! for I felt sure, if He was, He would help us--the old story I\nhad learned years before and forgotten so long--the story of His cruel\ndeath, seemed to rise like a strange bright picture in the awful\nstillness of that room: how He died for _sinners_, that such might be\nbrought back to God--this broke down my hardened heart. Just then,\nwhilst I was on my knees, and the tears of penitence were on my cheeks,\nMeg, dear little Meg, opened her eyes once more. 'Oh, father, I have had\nsuch a beautiful dream,' she said; 'the Lord whom mammy loves has come,\nand called to such a lovely house your poor tired Meg. Father, take care\nof dear mammy!'\n\n\"The little eyes grew more weary, closed at last, and with one long sigh\nMeg was gone to the lovely home.\"\n\nThe rough men were touched indeed as he stopped to gasp down his\nemotion.\n\n\"Lads, the mother went before long, clinging to the Lord whom Meg saw,\nresting on His word as she passed through the Valley of the Shadow into\nthe Light beyond. The old place was too full of sorrow for me; so I\nwandered on till I got to this place; and if I'm quiet, it is because I\nthink of them. Ever as I work the sense of His presence is with me;\ntheir dying words are in my ears. Oh! mates, take my story home to your\nhearts--home to your wives and little ones, and with them seek the\nSaviour, whose love so strangely made me turn from evil unto God.\"\n\nNot a word had interrupted him all through; but now Sam's voice was\nheard but little above a whisper,\n\n\"Mate, we want the song.\"\n\nJohn cleared his voice a little, and, as the men hushed down again,\nsang:--\n\n    \"I stay a little while below;\n    The changing seasons come and go,\n    But Christ my joy heals every woe,\n    In Him I live and fear no foe.\n\n    \"The night is dark and sad to me,\n    But even in the gloom I see\n    My Saviour bright who died to free\n    My soul from misery.\n\n    \"Though He has taken those above\n    Who once have cheered me with their love,\n    Clad in the robe His hands have wove,\n    They safely rest, where'er I rove.\n\n    \"So still to Him my steps do tend;\n    His power is present to defend;\n    On His sweet mercy I depend;\n    His love to me will never end.\n\n    \"Friends, come to Him, just as you are;\n    His arms of mercy reach as far\n    As ever son of man can need;\n    His blood can pardon, and His love can feed.\"\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Hay-makers piling hay on wagons]\n\nIX. HARVEST HOME.\n\n\nGo and stand on the hill yonder, and look round. What do you see? Gold\nhere--gold there--gold everywhere!\n\nAll so busy--so earnest.\n\n\"How is Mr. Sharp's barley?\" says one. \"How will Mr. Bell's wheat turn\nout, think you?\" says another. \"Oh,\" cries a third, \"if the fine weather\ndoes but hold we shall do well. It was a very good change of the moon,\nand I hope to get in my bit in safety.\"\n\nThe trouble is to get labourers. When there is no work about there is\nplenty of grumbling among labourers; and no wonder, for if they don't\nwork, how can they eat? and when there is abundance of work there is\nplenty of grumbling among employers; and no wonder, for if hands are so\nscarce, and wages run so high, that it is almost impossible to house the\ngrain and seed in time, where is the rent to come from? Well, this is a\nworld where grumbling is to be looked for, but there is a harvest coming\nat the close of it when all murmurs, all cares, will be done away; when\nthe reapers, who will be the holy angels, will be enough for their work,\nand when no fear that a single grain of good seed will perish, but all\nwill be safely gathered into the heavenly garner.\n\nNow, here is a true story, though the names of the people are not given,\nbecause they are yet alive; very likely they may see this, and if they\ndo, they will exclaim, \"Oh, yes; this is true indeed!\"\n\nThere was a great revival of religion in a certain parish; many persons\nwho had lived in utter deadness as to God and a world to come were\nawakened out of their sleep, and wept and prayed earnestly for faith to\nthe saving of their souls. The picture of the great Harvest Home was\nbrought before them with such power that they felt nothing was of\nconsequence compared with the question of their being among the tares or\nthe wheat.\n\nA lady, who was staying there on a visit, was much touched by what she\nsaw around her, and especially interested in one woman, who gave proof\nthat her repentance was sincere, and her faith a living faith.\n\nShe often thought of this poor woman--for she was very poor--after her\nreturn home; and having met with a book which she thought would give\ncomfort and encouragement, she put it by, determining to send it some\ntime. But \"some time\" did not satisfy her, she had so strong a desire\nto do it at once, that she folded it up to post it. Still, she was not\nsatisfied--what more had she to do? It came into her mind, \"Put in\nhalf-a-crown; she is very poor, and it will be a help to her.\" So she\nput in the half-crown, directed the parcel plainly and fully, and put it\nin the post. The postman next day duly delivered the packet to the\nwoman. \"Oh,\" she said, not opening it, \"this must be a mistake, I don't\nknow anybody that would send a book to me. You had best inquire who\nexpected one\" (perhaps there were others of her name in the place, but\nthis I do not know). The postman recommended her to open it and see if\nshe could make out that it was hers, he would inquire on his return if\nshe still said it was not.\n\nWith the parcel in her hand she met a neighbour who, like herself, now\nfeared the Lord and lived in prayer. \"What have you there?\" she said.\n\"Oh, it's a parcel that must have come by mistake,\" she replied. \"I know\nnobody away from home--and look!\" she exclaimed as she untied the paper\nand the half-crown dropped out. They consulted together, and wondered\nmuch who it could be that had sent it; but guessed wrong altogether, and\nmade sure they had done so. At length the neighbour said, \"Have you been\nasking the Lord for anything lately?\" \"No, nothing particular, except it\nwas for the money to pay my club that is due to-day, and if I don't pay\nin I am forfeit, you know!\" \"Good, now,\" said the neighbour; \"don't you\nsee who has sent it? Why, the Lord, to be sure. He heard your prayer,\nand knew it was just what you wanted; so He put it into some Christian\nheart to send it. Go and pay it in (it was just the money), and give Him\nthe thanks.\"\n\nNow, see what it is to be one of the grains of wheat that are to be\ngathered into His garner! When the harvest comes the angels will look\nafter the very smallest, and not only so, but till then the very\nsmallest and meanest will be kept and cared for and ministering spirits,\neither of their fellow Christians (like this lady) or those blessed\ncreatures who, we are told, \"are sent forth to minister to the heirs of\nsalvation,\" will be employed by their Saviour to help them in every\nneed.\n\n\"Ah! but I have seen Christians left a long time in great trouble,\" says\none. \"So have I,\" says another. Have you? Well, be sure of this, while\nGod's word stands true it must have been that they neglected fervent\nprayer to be helped out of it; or else their remaining in trouble was\nfor their good in the end; for it is written, \"All things whatsoever ye\nshall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive,\" and it is written\nalso, \"No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly.\"\n\nA gentleman who farmed his own land and was known to treat his labourers\nwell had a company of Irishmen every year--year after year, who came to\nwork all through the harvest. They were very sober, clean, hard-working,\nand well conducted; so that they were allowed to sleep in a barn, and\nhad the use of a fire in the back kitchen to boil their milk (which was\ngiven them) and their potatoes. They felt quite at home when they got to\nthis estate, and had as much confidence in the kindness of their\nemployers as they had in them.\n\nOne day one of them, Paddy Brady, asked to see the lady of the house.\nShe was a most benevolent woman, and took a lively interest in these\nIrish reapers. Paddy, making his most genteel bow (she used to say they\nwere quite gentlemen in their manners), asked her if she would be so\nobliging as to direct a letter for him.\n\n\"Surely, Paddy, I will,\" she answered, \"but if you can write a whole\nletter yourself, why can't you direct it?\"\n\n\"Sure, it's another thing quite,\" said Paddy. \"Biddy Brady, my wife,\nknows me so well she can read the inside as plain as if I was speaking;\nbut there's never a one of the men as'll carry it across the water as\nhas got the least bit of notion of me, and how can they read my writing,\nso strong of the brogue?\"\n\nThe lady couldn't see the wisdom of this reason, but she didn't like to\ninterfere with Paddy's view, and he was satisfied with it. So, though\nshe laughed to herself, the letter was directed according to his desire.\n\n\"And now, my lady, if you'd just do me the favour to give me one of them\nthings to put in the corner, I'll pay you for it and thank you all the\nsame as if you gave it out of your free generosity,\" said Paddy, who\nlooked with admiration at the direction, which, however, would have\ngiven him more trouble to read than his own writing--\"so strong of the\nbrogue\" within.\n\nThe lady took a Queen's head and put it on the letter, refusing the\npenny. \"Put by the penny,\" she said, \"you will have that much more to\ncarry home to your wife.\"\n\n\"God bless you, my lady! I hope I'll have to work for you many years\nyet; and beyant all and everything I hope we'll both get good luck in\nthe grand harvest that's to come at the end!\"\n\nHis eyes were full of grateful feeling as he spoke, and she was, as you\nwill believe, much touched with his simple earnestness.\n\nThere was everything in Paddy's wish. Whether he knew anything of the\nLord of the harvest, and, in spite of ignorance and the false teaching\nof his priest, looked for His coming with hope and love, I cannot say;\nbut certain it is, to be under the care of the angel reapers there,\ninstead of being left to the winds of destruction, should be every one's\nchief concern.\n\n[Illustration: Harvest]\n\n\nJ. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS, LONDON.\n\n\n\n\nBOOKS FOR WORKING PEOPLE.\n\nPublished by The Religious Tract Society.\n\n\nTalks about Home Life. By the Rev. George Everard, M.A., Vicar of St.\nMark's, Wolverhampton. 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BURTON'S BEST BEDROOM, Contains: Mrs. Burton's Best\nBedroom, by the Author of \"Jessica's First Prayer\"--\"Well done,\nCabby!\"--Mad! quite Mad!--The Best Robe--Song of the Train--Is there a\nHoly Spirit?--Two Kinds of Seed--The Pipe, and What it leads to--The New\nYear's Gift.\n\nNo. 3, entitled THE HARWOODS' TWO CHRISTMAS DAYS, Contains: The\nHarwoods' Two Christmas Days--The Shortest Way Home--\"It will soon be\nover!\"--What's behind the Hedge?--A Hero in Humble Life--The Way of\nDeath--The Saviour of Sinners.\n\nNo. 4, entitled HOW JOHN WALTERS GOT RICH, Contains: How John Walters\ngot Rich--Trust the Pilot--The Factory Girl--Thoughts to think\nabout--Seeking Work at Harvest Time--Our Wedding Day--\"I am afraid he'll\nnever forgive me\"--Working Men, come to Jesus.\n\nNo. 5, entitled THE BEST JUG TO FETCH BEER IN, Consists of Temperance\nTales and Sketches: The Best Jug to Fetch Beer in--Farmer Jackson's\nChristmas Eve--The Drunkard's Pet--The Ballad Singer--\"Try that\"--The\nBiggest Drop--A Palace for the Poor.\n\nNo. 6, entitled THE MAN THAT KILLED HIS NEIGHBOURS, Contains: The Man\nthat Killed his Neighbours--The Palm Pickers--The Village Shop--Little\nMary's Answer--What do you want?--\"Come, what'll you have?\"--Come Home!\n\nNo. 7, entitled THE FOOLS' PENCE, Contains: The Fools' Pence--My Clever\nCousin--Going to the Golden City--By the Sea--Sober Truths about\nDrunkenness--The Two Pilots--Come to Jesus for Peace.\n\nNo. 8, entitled JOHN HAMMOND'S TWO WEDDING DAYS, Contains: John\nHammond's Two Wedding Days, and Come to Jesus.\n\nNo. 9, entitled \"A SHORT LIFE AND A MERRY ONE,\" Contains: \"A Short Life\nand a Merry One\"--Lucy Forbes' Letter--The Widow's Mite--Swallowing the\nBible--Ned's Decision--Tom Take-a-Text, the Tinker of Fellside--\"I have\ndrunk my Last Glass\"--The Best Shop to go to--\"He's so obliging\"--The\nFlaw in the Tire--Surface Smiles--The Wise Shilling--The Sunny Side.\n\nNo. 10, entitled THE GUNNER'S YEOMAN, Contains: The Gunner's Yeoman; or,\nthe Narrow Squeak--Keep Looking up--Home Again--The Emigrant's Wife--The\nReturn of the Castaway--A Cheer for the Lifeboat--The Bitten Strap--Safe\nin the Lifeboat.\n\nNo. 11, entitled DICK WILSON'S HOME AND WHAT CHANGED IT, Contains: Dick\nWilson's Home, and What changed it--England's Brave Firemen--Sandy\nBeith, the Highland Drover--How to choose a Wife--Be Diligent--At\nGrandmother's Grave--Sowing and Reaping--The Lost One's Return--Aunt\nJenny's Trust.\n\nNo. 12, entitled SHOW YOUR COLOURS, Contains: Show your Colours--An Old\nLancer's True Tale--\"Don't be Afraid, Little One\"--The Dying Soldier and\nhis Bible--Soldiers of Christ--Every Inch a Soldier, Every Inch a\nChristian--The Return of the Wounded--Be True to your Colours--Love your\nEnemies--An Incident of the Franco-German War.\n\n    _The above 12 Books are bound in a volume, entitled_--\nMRS. BURTON'S BEST BEDROOM, By the Author of \"Jessica's First Prayer,\"\nand other Readings for Working Men's Homes. With coloured Frontispiece\nof \"The Snow Sweepers,\" by Sir John Gilbert, and upwards of One Hundred\nlarge Engravings by Barnes, French, Gilbert, Staniland, Fildes, and\nother eminent artists. 2s. cloth boards.\n\n\n_For the Working Classes in Town and Country._\n\nONE PENNY MONTHLY.\n\nTHE COTTAGER AND ARTISAN consists of Eight Large Pages Monthly,\nBeautifully Illustrated with _Engravings by the best Artists._ And is\nfull of interesting and instructive reading printed in clear type.\n\nTHE VOLUMES\n\nAre profusely illustrated with pictures of Natural History, Town and\nCountry Life, etc., by eminent English and foreign artists. They form\nsuitable presents to the Club, Institute, or District Library, and are\ninteresting and instructive books for the home reading of working people\nin the city, town, or village. 1s. 6d. in cover, printed in oil colours;\n2s. 6d. cloth boards, gilt edges.\n\n    \"Its bright sunny pictures are excellent specimens of art, and its\n    brief and striking articles are sure to become favourites with old\n    and young.\"--_Christian._\n\n    \"Noted for its superior wood engravings and suitable\n    letterpress.\"--_Literary World._\n\n    \"Full of good pictures.\"--_Scotsman._\n\n    \"A very presentable volume, with its bold, striking cuts, its\n    short tales, and its articles in large type for aged or weak\n    eyes.\"--_Sunday School Chronicle._\n\nLondon: 56, Paternoster Row; 65, St. Paul's Churchyard; and 164,\nPiccadilly.\n\n_May be had of any Bookseller._","title":"The Cornish Fishermen's Watch-Night, and Other Stories","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":18443}