Earlier text: THREE CALICO GOWNS.Our friend Anna came home from school one day with her sunny face all in a cloud, and looking as if it might presently get a sprinkling of tears. There was one to whom she always went in trouble, besides that other One to whom she tried first to speak, and she sought that best earthly friend now. “Mother, I do think it is really mean and rude in the P.’s that they pass me by when nearly all the class of girls are invited. I don’t want to feel bad about such a thing, but I can’t help it. I don’t know as anybody likes to be slighted.” “Of course not, my daughter,” said Mrs. A.; “the feeling of having been rudely treated is always uncomfortable. What do you suppose is the reason you are not included in the party?” “It is because the P.’s feel above us, mother. The girls dress in finer clothes than168 I do, and have more accomplishments; and then we work for a living, and they do not. But, mother, I believe I am as intelligent and as well-bred as they. I can’t bear it, mother.” “It is not pleasant, to be sure, Anna; but think again, darling, before you say you cannot bear it.” “Well, mother, who could? Nobody but you, who seem to have a way of getting round hard places, or walking through them.” “I have had many more years of experience in life than you, ought I not to have learned something of its philosophy? But I wish you to think now whether there is not some way for you to bear this little vexation.” “Oh, yes, mother, I know what you always say, and that, of course, is right; but I don’t see how feeling and acting like a Christian takes away one’s natural feeling about being slighted and ill-treated by others.” “Perhaps it does not. I sometimes think one’s sensibilities are greatly intensified by the better life. A Christian, by trying to bring his own character up to the point of perfect love and honor, often becomes exacting169 of such perfection in others, and failing to find it, feels exquisite pain. Yet the pain will oftener be that God’s great principles of right are violated, than that his personal feelings are hurt. Which is easier for you, child, to be wounded in personal feeling, or to see what is wrong against God?” “I never thought exactly; it is dreadful to see the wrong, but one feels in the other a sense of shame—feels so wronged—it is quite different.” “My precious one,” said Mrs. A., “when you have so learned the love of God as to know no difference between the interests and the honor of his law and your own comfort and pleasure and good name, you will see more clearly how this is, and feel, it is likely, the sense of shame and wrong in a different way.” “But, mother, haven’t we a right to feel hurt when we are wronged or slighted—I mean personally hurt?” “Yes; but may be if we looked a little deeper into the principles of things, or our own principles, we should not suffer so much. What is the secret of your feeling hurt by the P.’s? Does the slight make your real170 self in any respect less or worse? Does it injure you in the estimation of others?” “Why no, mother, I suppose not; but I am as good and as much respected as they are; and I don’t like to have it seem that I am beneath them because I am not so rich, and all that.” “My dear, I believe we have talked this subject over before, and long ago understood that we desire no position, no companionship which is not ours by right of moral and intellectual character. It is the Christian principle to live in all things for the true and the right; to be willing to take our own place in business and society, and fill it well; to think less of what others think of us than of what we in ourselves are; to appear to be only what we are, and be willing to appear thus while we are always looking up to something wiser, and lovelier, and better. I never could get the idea of a Christian’s being above or beneath any one in the sense you mean. His associations are, or should be, such as Christ’s were in his walk among men. Christ, infinitely endowed with all excellence and beauty, was also infinitely humble. He neither sought nor shunned any171 for his own sake, but lived out the divine fullness of his life of suffering and love without regard to his position or popularity with men. I said he did not seek others, but I must except the beloved John, and the household at Bethany, and a few others whom he loved undoubtedly for their own sake, with a personal, human sort of attachment.” “You don’t mean, mother, that we should never seek people for their own sake or our own pleasure?” “No, surely; but only those who are congenial in principles and life. Treat others with courtesy and generosity, and after that allow them to be as indifferent to you as you are to those whom you do not prefer. Every person has a right to select his companions, and every one should possess enough personal dignity and generosity not to be offended if he is not preferred. I suspect you are wrong about the P.’s. If they do not prefer you for your own sake, they have the right not to do so, and you should accord it to them just as you take the privilege of not inviting certain others who might feel so of yourself. And more than this, Anna; if the P.’s live for different principles, making172 friends for other reasons than you do, why, indeed, should you care for their especial regard? A friendship built upon the accidents of fortune, distinction or show, has but a sandy foundation at best. “There is no security of happiness in any earthly advantage. Only take care to be in yourself what in your circumstances is noble and beautiful and good, and you will find the right position without any particular seeking. The love and approval of the good and pure will come to you, and that is what you want, and nothing more, do you, of any friendship? Half the personal ill-feeling in the world comes of people’s aspiring to what they have no fitness for; they have neither the dignity nor the humility to take the place God in his providence assigns them; and instead of reaching out of it by making themselves nobler and better, they attempt to build up by some appearance which is not more than half true. The real Christian will not want a name or reputation he does not by right of goodness or talent deserve; but by living well where he may be, he makes any duty, any position, honorable and good. He has nothing to do with the false; he can afford173 to seem in all things what he is, and to depend for love and favor on his consciousness of worth.” “But, mother, I never thought of depending upon anything else. The P.’s know I am their equal in the school-room, and for all the qualities they ought to respect.” “You remember we spoke of a right of choice on their part; and now are you, a Christian, going to be hurt because fashionable people do not court you? Can you not yet think of a way to bear the vexation? Is it, indeed, so much of a trial, as you think it all through and through? You know, little one, that Christians can look at these things only in the light the Christ-life sheds on their souls, on all their earthly relations, on the path that leads them up to the Source of light and truth and right. Think of it, and tell me to-morrow if you can bear to be slighted by the P.’s.” “Well, Anna,” said Mrs. A., the next day, “have you come to a conclusion?” “Really, mother,” said Anna, “you have a great way of taking the sting out of uncomfortable things. I wonder if I shall ever get so as not to care for my own sake.” “That will depend upon how closely you are united to God. If you live the true Christ-life, nothing of the sort will hurt you much; the consciousness of being right, the joy of his approval, will suffice you. But what about the P.’s?” “Why, mother, nothing about them; I don’t think I shall feel badly any more. If they do not care for me, I shall not for them, only to be kind and polite; and I am sure I want no one’s favor who does not love me for just what I am, and for trying to become better than I am. I shall go to school very happy to-day. I always thought the idea of being above or below any one, as we commonly hear it, had a sort of meanness in it.” “So it has; and, Anna, always remember this: Every soul is created by the same God—purchased by the blood of the same Saviour, and has an individual life as dear to God as any other life. The Christian is peculiarly precious to him, and however humble in this world’s estimate, is an heir to his eternal glory and happiness; and so the Christian should, whatever may be his gifts or calling, possess that quietness and dignity of spirit—that resting in the consciousness175 of God’s love and approval—that he will not be greatly moved by the applause or the displeasure of his fellows.” “And so, mother, it saves a great many uncomfortable feelings to be a Christian.” “It saves a great amount of disappointed pride and wounded vanity, gives many a sweet night’s sleep in thinking God will take care of our reputation, being willing to be what and where he will have us to be. On the whole, Anna, it is a happier, more comfortable thing, for the relations of this life, to be a Christian; not a half-way disciple, but a whole-heart-and-soul believer, who keeps no reserves to sting conscience with. He will not feel a thousand things that sting other men; and the real troubles he must bear are shared by Him whose office it is to carry our human sorrows. Be at peace with God, dear child, and let the love which that peace brings speak in your tones, and manners, and ways, and you need not be embarrassed if duty takes you to a palace or a hovel.” “I shall get my lessons better to-day for that thought, mother. I shall not feel half so vexed if I fail when I have done the best I can.” “That is the intention of religion always, my child, to keep the possessor calm, assured, and quite aside from the little jostlings and harrassments of a self-seeking life.” TRUE worth is in being, not seeming—
In doing each day that goes by
Some little good—not in the dreaming
Of great things to do by-and-by.
For whatever men say in blindness
And spite of the fancies of youth,
There’s nothing so kingly as kindness,
And nothing so royal as truth.
We get back our mete as we measure—
We cannot do wrong and feel right,
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure,
For injustice avenges each slight.
The air for the wing of the sparrow,
The bush for the robin and wren,
But always the path that is narrow
And straight for the children of men.
Through envy, through malice, through hating,
Against the world, early and late,
No jot of our courage abating—
Our part is to work and to wait.
And slight is the sting of his trouble
Whose winnings are less than his worth;
For he who is honest is noble,
Whatever his fortune or birth.
FROM what you have said, John, it seems you think yourself a fair kind of man.” “Well, Mr. F——, I will tell you my opinion about that exactly. I don’t think I ever did much that was bad; nor can I say that I ever did a great deal of good. I think you may call me a middling man.” “That is your opinion, John. But don’t you think that everything that exists must have had a cause from which it sprung?” “Certainly I do, Mr. F——, for old John is not so void of sense as not to know that.” “Well, John, what do you suppose causes a man to be good?” “And what do you think causes a man to be bad?” “The devil, most certainly; for God never made anything bad.” “But, John, what is the cause of a middling man?” “W-e-l-l, I sup-p-o-s-e—” “John, I perceive you have got fast there. You say God is the cause of a good man, and Satan is the cause of a bad man, but you say you are neither! You are middling. Doubtless, John, you must have had a cause that made you what you are. “But as there is no middle being between God and Satan, and only the two revealed causes of good and evil in man, then I am at an exceedingly great loss to know what has been the great moral cause that made you middling.” “Why, sir, I have heard a great many folks like me saying that they were middling, that is, neither good nor bad; but, really, when I think of the matter in the way you put it, I begin to be somewhat doubtful whether I am right. Yet, I assure you, sir, I do not think I should be called a very bad man.” “John, did you ever see a middling gold dollar? Or did you ever see a middling bank-note?” “No, never, Mr. F——; they are always either good or bad. But I have known some bad ones to pass for good ones.” “Well, John, if you never saw middling179 money, you never saw middling men; that is, as before God. God is a being of perfect holiness, infinite purity, and he judges according to a perfect standard. To be accepted of him we must be perfectly fitted for his approval. He cannot adopt middling men, and call them good. You must be either righteous or unrighteous—either saint or sinner. A middling man has no existence in God’s sight. So, friend John, I want you, when you go home, to think seriously on this matter. ‘You cannot serve two masters.’ At this moment you are either serving God or Satan. You cannot be a middling man. You have no middling cause, no middling life, no middling death, and no middling destiny!” Reader, as I have said to John, so I say to you. You are, at this moment, either good or bad, righteous or unrighteous, in God’s sight. You cannot be middling. You are either a child of God or a servant of the wicked one. You are pardoned or unpardoned. You are either a subject of God’s grace, or you are under his condemnation. IN the sixteenth day after the battle of Gettysburg, I entered the room where a young wounded colonel was apparently near to death. As I entered, he was roused from his stupor and beckoned me to his bedside, and threw his feeble arms around my neck. “O my father, how glad I am to see you. I was afraid you would not come till it was too late. I am too feeble to say much, though I have a great many things to say to you; you must do all the talking. Tell me all about dear mother and sister.” I soon perceived by the appearance of those in the house, that there was no hope entertained of his recovery. But as I could no longer endure the agony of suspense, I at last inquired of the doctor, “Doctor, what do you think of my son’s case?” “But is there nothing more that can be done to save him?” “No, sir. Every thing that human skill and kindness can do has been done. Your son has been a brave and very successful officer; has been a great favorite in the army; has won the highest esteem of all who have known him, but he now must die. Immediately after the amputation the gangrene set in, and defies all efforts to arrest it.” “Well, Doctor, how long do you think he can live?” “Not more than four days. He may drop away at any hour. We are constantly fearing that an artery will give way, and then it is all over with the colonel. What you wish to do in reference to his death, you had better do at once.” “Have you, or has any one, told him of his real condition?” “No. We have left that painful duty for you to do, as we have been expecting your arrival for several days.” As I entered the room with the dreadful message of death pressing on my heart, the eyes of my son fastened on me. “Come, sit by my side, father. Have you been talking with the doctor about me?” “What did he tell you? Does he think I shall recover?” There was a painful hesitation for a moment. “Don’t be afraid to tell me just what he said.” “He told me you must die.” “How long does he think I can live?” “Not to exceed four days, and that you may drop away any hour,—that an artery may slough at any moment which you cannot survive.” With great agitation he exclaimed, “Father, is that so? Then I must die! I cannot. I must not die! Oh! I am not prepared to die now. Do tell me how I can get ready? Make it so plain that I can get hold of it. Tell me, in a few words, if you can, so that I can see it plainly. I know you can, father, for I used to hear you explain it to others.” ’Twas no time now for tears, but for calmness and light, by which to lead the soul to Christ, and both were given. “My son, I see you are afraid to die.” “Well, I suppose you feel guilty.” “Yes, that is it. I have been a wicked young man. You know how it is in the army.” “You want to be forgiven, don’t you?” “Oh, yes! That is what I want. Can I be, father?” “Can I know it before I die?” “Well now, father, make it so plain that I can get hold of it.” At once, an incident which occurred during the school-days of my son, came to my mind. I had not thought of it before for several years. Now it came back to me, fresh with its interest, and just what was wanted to guide the agitated heart of this young inquirer to Jesus.” “Do you remember while at school in —— you came home one day, and I having occasion to rebuke you, you became very angry and abused me with harsh language?” “Yes, father, I was thinking it all over a few days ago, as I thought of your coming to see me, and felt so bad about it, that I wanted to see you, and once more ask you to forgive me.” “Do you remember, how, after the paroxysm of your anger had subsided, you came in, and threw your arms around my neck, and said, ‘My dear father, I am sorry I abused you so. It was not your loving son that did it. I was very angry. Won’t you forgive me?’” “Yes, I remember it very distinctly.” “Do you remember what I said to you as you wept upon my neck?” “Very well. You said, ‘I forgive you with all my heart,’ and kissed me. I shall never forget those words.” “Certainly. I never doubted your word.” “Did you then feel happy again?” “Yes, perfectly; and since that time I have loved you more than ever before. I shall never forget how it relieved me when you looked upon me so kindly, and said, ‘I forgive you with all my heart.’” “Well, now, this is just the way to come to Jesus. Tell him you are sorry just as you told me, and ten thousand times quicker than a father’s love forgave you, will he forgive you. He says he will. Then you must take his word for it, just as you did mine.”185 “Why, father, is this the way to become a Christian?” “I don’t know of any other.” “Why, father, I can get hold of this. I am so glad you have come to tell me how.” He turned his head upon his pillow for rest. I sank into my chair and wept freely, for my heart could no longer suppress its emotions. I had done my work, and committed the case to Christ. He, too, I was soon assured had done his. The broken heart had made its confession, had heard what it longed for, “I forgive you,” and believed it. It was but a few moments of silence, but the new creation had taken place, the broken heart had made its short, simple prayer, and believed, and the new heart had been given. A soul had passed out from nature’s darkness into marvelous light, and from the power of sin and Satan unto God. I soon felt the nervous hand on my head, and heard the word “father,” in such a tone of tenderness and joy, that I knew the change had come. “Father, my dear father, I don’t want you to weep any more, you need not. I am perfectly happy now. Jesus has forgiven me.186 I know he has, for he says so, and I take his word for it, just as I did yours. Wipe your tears. I am not afraid to die now. If it is God’s will, I would like to live to serve my country, and take care of you and mother, but if I must die, I am not afraid to now, Jesus has forgiven me. Come, father, let us sing,— “‘When I can read my title clear,’” and we did sing. “Now, father, I want you should pray, and I will follow you.” We did pray, and Jesus heard us. “Father, I am very happy. Why, I believe I shall get well. I feel much better.” From that hour all his symptoms changed—pulse went down, and countenance brightened. The current of life had changed. The doctor soon came in and found him cheerful and happy—looked at him—felt his pulse, which he had been watching with intense anxiety and said,— “Why, Colonel, you look better.” “I am better, Doctor. I am going to get well. My father has told me how to become a Christian, and I am very happy. I believe I shall recover, for God has heard my prayer.187 Doctor, I want you should become a Christian too. My father can tell you how to get hold of it.” In the evening three surgeons were in consultation, but saw no hope in the case, and one of them took his final leave of the colonel. Next morning the two surgeons, who had been in constant attendance came in and began as usual to dress the wound. On opening the bandage, they suddenly drew back, and throwing up their arms exclaimed,— “Great God, this is a miracle! The gangrene is arrested, and the colonel will live! God has heard your prayers!” “Why, Doctor,” replied the colonel, “I told you yesterday, that I believed I should get well, for I asked Jesus that I might live to do some good. I knew he heard my prayer, and now you see he has. Bless the Lord with me, Doctor.” Meanwhile, “Our son must die,” had gone over the wires, and made sadness at home. Next day, “Our son will live, and is happy in Christ,” followed, and joy came again to the loved ones. After his recovery, the colonel returned to the people whose sons he had led with honor through fifteen hard fought battles. They, in return, gave him the best office in the gift of a loyal and grateful people. Among them he now lives in prosperity and honor, he is a member of the church of Christ, and the father of a happy family growing up around him, and consecrated, to the service of his Redeemer. I, too, was made a better man and better minister by that scene, where this dear son, struggling with his guilt and fear of death, was led to Jesus, and found the pardon of his sins. I there resolved never to forget that charge he made me, in his extremity: “Make it so plain that I can get hold of it.” I have made this the motto of every sermon I have preached, and God has blessed the effort. RICHEST MAN IN THE PARISH.
THE richest man in our parish was the squire. He dwelt in a great house on the hill that overlooked, with its broad white face, the whole of the village below, with its clustering cottages and neat farmers’ houses, and seemed to say proudly, as it looked down, “I have my eyes on you all, and intend to keep you in order.” And in truth, a great many eyes it had, with its rows of high windows brightly reflecting the summer sun, from early morning till evening, when not unfrequently the last flush in the west left them glowing as with red fire. When strangers looked up at the great house, and inquired about it, the people of our parish used to tell them with some awe what treasures of grand furniture, and pictures, and choice specimens of art, the squire had collected in its many handsome rooms; what was the worth of one picture alone, that he had refused thousands of pounds for, and the number of others that were beautiful enough, and190 valuable enough, to have adorned a palace. They were very proud to be able to say that so rich a man belonged to them, and lived among them, and to point out his crimson-lined and curtained pew at church, and the great tombstone that stood behind the pathway in the churchyard, recording the virtues of his ancestors, and testifying, as well as it could, to his own riches. I suppose the squire knew the homage that was paid to him, and liked it, and was proud in his turn, not of his neighbors, but of himself, and of the wealth he possessed. Whenever he rode abroad, he met with bows and smiles from rich and poor, everybody made way for him, everybody courted him. A man with so much money, and so much land, and such fine furniture, and pictures, and statues, and gardens, was not to be pushed in a corner and thought little of, and he knew it, as he went along the lanes and roads on his thoroughbreds, and nodded to this man, and “good-morninged” that, with some degree of condescension. He knew that he was courted, and admired, and deferred to, because of his riches, and was quite satisfied that it should be so. He did not wish to be thought ill-natured,191 so he gave, every year, a treat to his workpeople, and sent money, and coal, and blankets to the poor at Christmas, but he thought little more about them. They were poor, and he was rich; those two words, “poor” and “rich,” indicated a great difference, and he was quite well pleased there should be such a difference. One summer morning, he was taking a ride through the woods that skirted one side of his estate. It was very hot, and in the lanes the sun and the flies teased both himself and his horse, so when they turned in beneath the shadow of the oaks and beeches, it was a great relief to both. The squire gave Dandy the rein, and went along softly. He was soon thinking of other things than oaks and beeches. Perhaps the glitter of the sunshine here and there, as it lay upon a cluster of trembling leaves, or turned to richer red the tall heads of the willow herb beside his path, suggested the crimson draperies and gilded ornaments of his home, for he was thinking of a sight he had seen there only the day before; when there had been at the birthday of his eldest son a grand gathering of friends, and a feast such as a rich man makes to the192 rich, with dainties, and spices, and wines, served in gold, and silver, and rarest china, in the utmost profusion, and with the greatest display. He remembered the hilarity of the guests, the healths drank, the speeches made, the compliments so freely given and taken; and with some pride he remembered, too, it had been said, that within the memory of man, no one had given so grand a feast in the parish as he had done that day. Dandy’s feet fell softly, and made little noise on the soft carpet of grass and last year’s leaves, that covered and hid the stout roots of the oaks. It was no wonder, then, that presently the squire heard a gentle sound not far away. He became aware that some other human being than himself was in the wood, and checking his horse, he listened a moment, as words, half prayer, half praise, met his ears. “Who can be praying here?” he asked himself, and as the voice was near, he pushed aside a bough or two, and stretched his head, till he could see into a little shady hollow not far from the roadside, and discovered the strange wood-guest. Ah! it was only an old man, a pauper, or next door to one, whom he had frequently193 seen before, breaking stones by the highway. But what was the deaf old man about? “Praying!” With his eyes shut, and his head uplifted, and his hat just taken off, held in his toil-swollen fingers, while before him was spread out his dinner—a piece of dry bread, part of a small loaf, and a can of water by his side—bread and water, nothing else; but the old man was thanking God for it, and was content. More than content. An expression of happy praise was on his uplifted face. Such an expression the squire had not seen on any face at his own loaded table for many years. And he was thanking God for bread and water, and was happy! The old man was a sincere Christian. The richest man in the parish did not understand how, when the soul loves God, the least mercies from his hands are felt to be priceless blessings; how bread and water, with a thankful heart, are sweeter to the taste than any food without it; and he felt humiliated. What right had that old man to thank God for bread and water, when he never thanked him for all his great possessions? The woods closed in on him again, he left the stonebreaker behind, and his face soon assumed its usual self-satisfied expression. But during that morning’s ride, again and again returned to him the picture he had seen in the green hollow, of the man who had thanked God for bread and water, and the thought of his own great riches did not give him quite its usual satisfaction. Had those riches ever made him as happy as that old man looked to be over his poor meal? He was obliged to confess to himself that they had not, and it was to him a sad confession. His pride was sorely touched, and his heart disquieted, and the farther he rode, the more he felt a sense of discomfort and discontent, that was strangely new to him. Presently the bright sun became overcast, great clouds gathered, and the woods looked dark and gloomy. Dandy walked along untroubled by nervous fears and fancies, but an influence came over the squire for which he could not account. A strange sinking was at his heart, and an impression of coming calamity. Then a voice struck his inward ear, a voice not of this world, one of those voices God sends sometimes to be heard for our good195 and guidance, and the words it uttered were terrible to him. That voice spoke to him clearly and distinctly, “This night the richest man in the parish will die.” Strange and fearful were these words. He did not look round to know whence they proceeded; he knew it was an inward and spiritual voice that spoke, and he believed what it said. With a shudder he remembered the parable of the rich man in the Gospel, to whom had come the same terrible warning—“This night thy soul shall be required of thee.” “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? and what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” were words that haunted him now, and a cold perspiration covered him from head to foot. He felt that he had been an unwise merchant, who had exchanged his soul for very little. Unable at length to bear his own reflections, he galloped home. There he arrived in a state of great agitation, and alarmed his wife and family by sending at once for a physician. To all inquiries he gave the answer that he was about to die, and must prepare for it. In vain they tried to persuade him that his health was as good196 as ever, that he was only the subject of a nervous fancy. The physician arrived, and laughed at his fears, but he heeded neither ridicule nor entreaties. Death was not a thing to be laughed or entreated away, and to death he was doomed. What did it signify what the world said about it? He must make ready for it. His solicitor was called in, and his worldly affairs settled. Wife and children were all provided for, houses and lands were portioned out to his beloved ones, then he had nothing to do but prepare himself for the great change; that, however, he found impossible. In great perturbation of mind he awaited the coming of his great enemy, Death. When night drew on, his fears increased; every time the great hall clock sounded the hour he shuddered, not knowing if he might ever hear it again. The physician and lawyer remained with him at his request, but they could not bring calm to his agitated mind. They could only listen to what he said, as to the ravings of a madman, for mad they judged him to be. Hour after hour went by, and the richest man in the parish, lying in his splendid bed, expecting Death every moment, found how poor he had197 become, and of how little real use all his vast possessions were to him now. Midnight passed away, early morning came, light dawned upon the hills. A faint color came into the sky, and with it color once more stole back into the cheeks of the squire, and hope returned to his heart. Death had not arrived as he had feared; he was still living. The night was passed, the morning was come, and the prophecy of the mysterious voice was not accomplished. His family gathered about him, and with smiles congratulated him, advising him to take his rest, now the danger was past. But how could he rest after such a night, such an upturning of all the cherished thoughts and aims of his life, such a revelation of the poverty of riches? He chose rather to walk abroad, and with thoughtful face and slow steps proceeded towards the village. There he heard that Death had indeed been a visitor in one house during the night, but instead of appearing in his own grand mansion, he had entered the poorest cottage in the place—the old stone-breaker had died during the night. With a still more thoughtful face he returned home, for his heart smote him. He remembered the old198 man’s simple dinner; he saw again the uplifted face, on which God’s sunshine rested in a double sense; he heard again the words of his thankful prayer, and his own laugh of derision, and he was again humiliated, but this time to better purpose. His wife met him at the threshold of his house, with a smiling face, glad to see him once more, “clothed and in his right mind,” for she, too, had feared for his reason. She accompanied him in, and then, when seated at his side, gently chided him for his last night’s fears, and what she called “superstitious fancies.” “I hope now,” she added, “you are quite satisfied that there was no truth in what that mysterious voice told you. The night is past, and you are alive, and as well as ever.” “True, my dear,” he replied, “the night is past, and I am alive and well. But nevertheless the richest man in the parish has died. If you will take the trouble to inquire in the village, you will find it is so.” “How is that?” she asked, and as she spoke she looked round somewhat proudly, as though a rival to her grandeur had appeared. “Who can be richer here than yourself?” “The man who can say to God, ‘Whom have I in Heaven but thee, and there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee.’ I cannot say that, for I have desired many things and persons besides God, and almost all things more than God. But there was a poor stone-breaker alive yesterday, who in possessing God possessed all things. I call him poor after the manner of the world, but he was really rich—an heir of the kingdom of heaven. Last night I was shown his riches and my poverty. People will tell you he is dead, and I dare say that he did not leave a shilling to pay for his burial; but he was ‘the richest man in the parish.’” The following may be read with profit by those who are inclined to move on in the old, beaten path of human custom, trying to still conscience with the popular maxim, “If you are only honest, that is all.” The mill was doing a great business that day, when Jack and David Jamieson rode up with their bag of corn to be ground. They lived on a small farm five miles off the main road, and were therefore not sorry at the prospect of waiting several hours for their grist. It gave them a chance of seeing something of the liveliness and bustle of “The Corner,” as that part of the village was called where the tavern, store, and mill, stood. They ran about here and there, and saw and heard a great deal. At last, a heavy shower coming on, they went back to the mill to eat their lunch, and see when their turn came. The miller’s son and the squire’s son were engaged in a brisk talk, which soon took Jack’s attention. David went to look after the corn. The miller’s201 son was urging upon the squire’s son the importance of finding what truth the Bible enjoined, which the squire’s son parried by saying, “It is no matter what a man believes, provided he’s sincere.” The rattling, off-hand tone of the young man pleased Jack, and he wished he could talk so. Wouldn’t he shut up his grandfather? Yes, that he would. “No matter what a man believes, provided he’s sincere,” said Jack to himself, bridling up, and bracing up his conscience against the godly conversation of his relations. “I’ll fix ’em now,” he said, with a slight cant of the head. It was not until late in the afternoon that the boys’ grist was ready, when the old mare was brought out of the shed, the bag hoisted on her back, and Jack and David both mounted her—bag, boys, and mare homeward bound. “You’ve got a longer ride ahead than I wish you had, boys,” said the miller, casting his eyes toward a black cloud which was rising, and darkening the western sky. “There’s plenty of water up there for my mill.” The mare set off briskly, and was soon lost to sight among the windings of the forest202 road. But the gloom gathered faster than the horse trotted, and it was quite dark when they reached a fork in the road where it might make considerable difference which road they took home. One was the traveled road. This way, there was a good bridge over Bounding Brook, a mountain stream, which was often dangerously swelled by the spring rains. It was the safest, though the longest way home. The other was a wood path through the pines, often taken by farmers living on the east side of the town, to shorten the distance to the Corner. In this road Bounding Brook was crossed by fording. “Father told us to be sure and take the traveled road, if it was late,” said David. “Going to,” said Jack; and the mare stopped at the fork, as if to let the boys be sure which road to take. In fact, Jack was a little confused. The windings of the road with nothing but woods on each side, and, of course, no distinct landmarks to govern them; the gloom of night hiding what objects might serve to direct them, together with their small acquaintance with the road, did puzzle the boys, although Jack, being the older of the two, with a dash203 of pride about him, would not own it. As the mare stopped, he came to a conclusion, and whipped up. “All right!” he cried. “Are you sure?” asked David. “This way, I know,” answered Jack. “I don’t know,” said David; “let me jump off and run down to that light yonder, and ask; there must be a cabin there, and folks.” “Oh! we can’t stop for all that,” said Jack. “I honestly believe this is the traveled road, David, and that’s enough; can’t you trust me?” “But your honestly believing it don't make it so,” muttered David. “I haven’t a doubt of it, Dave; you be still,” cried Jack, angrily. “I think we ought to ask, so as to be sure,” persisted David. But Jack whipped up, and poor David’s fears and words went to the winds, as gust after gust of the coming shower roared through the forest, and Jack urged the horse to all the speed which her heavy load would allow, on and on through the dark woods. Jack was well pleased with the correctness of his hasty decision about the way; and the204 further he went, the more and more confirmed was he that it was the right way. Presently the roaring of Bounding Brook arose above the rattlings of the woods. “A switch over the mare’s haunches, and we shall be over the bridge in a jiffy!” cried Jack; “and then, old fellow, what’ll you say?” David privately muttered, “I’d like to feel myself over,” when, a few more canters, and—Jack, David, meal, and mare went floundering in the raging waters of the swollen stream, pitch dark, the storm on them, and miles from human help. The first few moments of horrible suspense it were in vain to paint. Jack at last found himself anchored on a log of drift wood, the icy waters breaking over him, and the bridle still fast in his hand. “David!” he shouted at the top of his voice, “David!” “The Lord have mercy!” cried David, “I’m somewhere.” The meal? ah! that was making a pudding in some wild eddy of the Bounding Brook far below. “No matter what a man believes, provided he's sincere,” cried poor Jack, thoroughly205 drenched and humbled. “It’s the biggest lie the devil ever got up. It is matter. Being right is the main thing. Sincerity don't save a fellow from the tremendous consequences of being wrong—that it don't. Then what's the use of all a fellow's sincerity? It can't get him out of a scrape; he's got to take it. Lord help us! Didn't I honestly believe I was on the bridge of the traveled road, when I was like going to perdition in the ford of the wood path?” And the woeful disaster of that night completely and forever cured poor Jack of a popular error which has pitched many a poor soul into the wilder surges of unbelief and irreligion.