The gentle heart : a second series of "Talking to the children"

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PRESENTED TO THE LIBRARY

OF

PRINCETON THEOLOGICSL SEMINSRY

BY

f/lps. Ale3<^andep Ppoudfit.

BV 4315 .M3 1881
Macleod, Alexander, 1817

1891.
The gentle heart

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THE GENTLE HEART.

" Suftereth long and is kind ; envieth not ; vaunteth
not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself un-
seemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked,
thinketh no evil ; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth
in the truth : beareth all things, believeth all things,
hopeth all things, endureth all things,"

THE GENTLE HEART

A SECOND SERIES

'' Calkins to tbe Cbi(bren."

ALEXANDER AIACLEOD, D.D,

ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,

530, BROADWAY.

.MDCCCLXXXI

/^»

BUTLER St TANNER,

THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS,

FROME. AND LONDON.

IN ME MORI AM :

ALEXANDER, AND MARY MACKENZIE MACLEOD,
OF NAIRN AND GLASGOW.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE GENTLE HEART I

II. SOME GENTLE DEEDS 21

III. A NEIGHBOUR 35

IV. ON DOING WHAT WE CAN . . • • 45

V. OF NOT DOING WHAT WE CAN . • • 59

VI. Christ's letters 7*

VII. ON PUTTING THE RIGHT THING FIRST . . 85

VIII. ON GIVING PLEASURE TO GOD . . . lOI

IX. NICOLAS HERMAN HI

X. god's THOUGHTS ABOUT LITTLE PEOPLE . I29
X:. THE PATIENCE OF MARGARET HOPE , -139

XII. THINGS WHICH GOD HATH PREPARED . . I5I

XIII. CHRIST RESHAPING THE SOUL . . . 165

XIV. ON THE EVIL OF FORGETTING GOD . . 183
XV. NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND . . -199

XVI. MAN CANNOT LIVE BY BREAD ALONE . . 209

XVII. SILLY jack's PARABLE 227

XVIII. A boy's ACT AND WHAT IT LED TO . . 239

XIX. PITCHERS AND LIGHTS 255

XX. A GENTLE MASTER AND HIS SCHOLAR . . 265

XXI. BOB : SOME CHAPTERS OF HIS EARLY LIFE . 283

THE GENTLE HEART

THE GENTLE HEART.

THE other day a friend brought me a song
which was sung in Italy six hundred years
ago. He called it " The Song of the Gentle
Heart." It is a song in praise of gentleness in the
life, and of gentle deeds and words and thoughts.
And what the song says is, that all gentleness has
its home in the heart; and that unless there be
gentleness in the heart there can be none in the
life.

At the time this song was sung, there were many
who thought that gentleness could only be found
in palaces and castles, and among the people who
dress in splendid clothes. But the song says
that it may also be found in the most humble cot-
tages, and among people whose hands are rough
with daily toil. It is the gentle heart which makes
people gentle. Whether a home be rich or poor,

TJie Gentle Heart.

if those who live in it have gentle hearts, that
home is the dwelling-place of gentlefolks.

After hearing this song I could think of nothing
else. The words of the old singer kept sounding
like music in my soul. And I also, as if I had
got back his eyes, began to see his visions.

And all the bypast week these visions have been
coming to me. When I went out into the country,
they met me in lonely roads. When I went into
the town, I saw them in the crowded streets.
Night and day, and every day, they came. And
every day they seemed brighter than the day
before. At last I said, I will bring them into my
words to the children, and they shall be visions for
them as well as for me. I will call them Visions
of the Gentle Heart.

One of the first visions of the Gentle Heart I
saw came to me hid under the rough form of an
old Roman soldier. If I had seen him only when
he was dressed for battle, I should not have thought
of him as gentle. I should have seen him carrying
a sword to kill men with, and a shield to defend
himself from being killed by others. And as he
had other soldiers under him, I might have heard

The Gentle Heart. 5

him speaking to them in a loud_, commanding way,
and telling them to do hard and cruel things.

But when I saw him his sword and shield were
hanging on the wall, and he was sitting beside a
little bed in his room in the soldiers' barracks.
After one of his dreadful battles he had got for his
share of the spoil a little boy who had been taken
captive — a poor little boy, torn away from father
and mother, and forced to be a slave. He was
the slave of this soldier ; he cooked his food, he
tidied his room, he polished his armour, he went
his errands. Just a little slave — nothing higher.
This rough-looking soldier might have beaten him
every day if he liked ; nobody would have found
foult. He was his own property — ^just as his horse
was — just as his dog was — and he might have sold
him like any other property.

But under the outside roughness of this soldier
was a gentle heart. He did not beat his slave ;
he loved him ; he looked upon him as his own
son ; he let the little man have a home in his
heart. It was a joy to him to see the child happy ;
it was a grief to him to see him sad. And it was
a great grief to him when one day the little slave
fell sick. Then the rough soldier was as tender as
a mother could be. He sat by his bed ; he watched

TJie Gentle Heart.

over him day and night. Many a time, I am sure,
as the thought came into his heart, '^ My Httle boy
will die," the hot tears came rolling down his
cheeks. And he thought the boy was really about
to die ; the little fellow's breathing became more
feeble, his face grew very pale, his eyes were
closed.

One day, as the big soldier was sitting by the
little bed, somebody came in and said, "A great
prophet has come to the town. Jesus of Nazareth
has come.''

''Jesus of Nazareth?" the soldier said; "the
healer of sickness ? Oh that He would heal my
boy!"

But then this thought came into his mind, " I
am a soldier of the nation that is ill-treating the
Jews. I am not worthy that a Jew so good as He
should do anything for me." Then other thoughts
came, and in his great love for the boy, and know-
ing that Jesus could heal him, he at last ventured
to send this humble message : '' O my Lord, my
servant is near to die, and thou art able to save
from dying. I am not worthy that Thou shouldst
visit my house. But only speak the word, and he
shall live. Thou art Lord of health and sickness,
as I am a lord of soldiers. Say to this sickness.

The Gentle Heart.

' Depart/ and it will depart. Say to health, ' Go
to this soldier's servant,' and health will come to
him, and he shall live."

Now when Jesus received that message, a great
joy came into His heart; and He said to health,
''Go to that soldier's little servant, and make him
well, for I have not found a heart so gentle as his
master's — no, not in all Israel."

And He had no sooner spoken, out on the
street, than the thing He commanded was done.
Health came back to the sick boy in the soldier's
house. The eye, in which there had been no light,
opened ; a little smile passed over the worn face as
he saw his dear master still nursing him. And the
gentle heart of the master swelled up in thankful
joy, as he stooped down and kissed the child
whom Jesus had made well again.

II.
My next vision also took me back to old times,
but not so far back as my first. It was to times
that were very evil I was taken. There was a
wide open place in an ancient city, and a great
crowed of people standing far off in a ring. Inside
of the ring were priests and soldiers in black cloaks
and red. In the centre was a stake of wood, with

8 The Gentle Heart.

faggots of wood piled round about it. And there
chained to the stake in the midst of the faggots,
was an holy man of God, whom evil priests were
about to burn, not because he was bad, but be-
cause he had preached the gospel of Christ to
men.

Then I saw the evil men putting a light to the
faggots ; and I saw that the faggots were wet, and
slow to catch fire, and the slow burning of the fire
was a great agony to the man at the stake. And
then came to me this strange but real gleam of the
Gentle Heart. Out from the crowd stepped an
old woman with a bundle of dried faggots and
some straw. She set them on the pile, on the side
the wind was, and they blazed up at once. And
I saw a look of thankfulness come over the face of
the poor sufferer as he said, half speaking to God,
and half to her, " Oh, holy simplicity !"

It was the holy simplicity of the Gentle Heart.
She could not bear to see his slow pain. Since
he was to die for Christ, for Christ's sake she
shortened his suffering.

Id.

That vision faded, and instead of the evil fire I
saw a beautiful garden in Geneva. I saw a young

The Gentle Heart.

couple, with happy faces, come out of the house,
come down the garden walk, and seat themselves
beside a beehive. It is Hliber the student and
Aimee, his beautiful wife. What we read now in
books about the queen bee and the other bees, and
the honey and the wax, was found out for the most
part by this man. He spent his life in the study of
bees. But look ! he is blind. He has been blind
for years. He will live till he is an old man, and
be blind to the end. And yet to the end he will
watch the ways and find out the secrets of the
bees. And he will be able to do this because the
gentle Aimee is by his side. Her friends said to
her, " Do not marry Francis Hiiber, he has be-
come blind." But she said, " He therefore needs
me more than ever now." And she married him,
and was his happy wife and fellow-student forty
years. She was eyes to the blind. She looked
into the hives, and he wrote down what she saw.
And she never tired of this work, and she did it
with her whole soul. And the story of the bees,
as it was seen and written in that garden by these
two, will be read in schools and colleges when
Hiiber and his beautiful Aimee are themselves
forgotten.

It is a hundred years ago since they began to

10 TJie Gentle Heart.

study the bees together, and they are both long
since dead. But still shines out for me in the long
helpful, patient, and loving service of Aimee, the
Gentle Heart. And it was of that very heart, I am
certain, her husband was thinking in his old age,
when he said, "Aimee will never be old to me. To
me she is still the fair young girl I saw when I had
eyes to see, and who afterwards, in her gentleness,
gave the blind student her life and her love."

IV.

After that I saw an island on the coast of Africa.
And in the island I saw a house for lepers, with a
great high wall round about it. And I beheld, when
a leper or any one else entered that house, that the
gates of the great walls were shut upon them, and
they never more were allowed to come out. The
house was filled with lepers — lepers living, lepers
dying — and no one to care for their sufferings or
speak to them of God. Then I beheld two Mo-
ravian missionaries bidding farewell to their friends
on the shore, crossing over to the island, coming
up to the gates, and passing in amongst the sick
and the dying, to nurse them, to preach to them,
to live with them, and never more go out from
among them, till they should be carried out dead.

The Gentle Heart.

V.

Among my Christmas cards this year was one
from a dear old friend in the north. And among
niy visions of the Gentle Heart was one in which
he was the centre. It is a long while now since
he retired from business and turned for work to his
garden and his flowers. But it is nearly as long
since, as he went along the crowded streets of the
town in which he lives, and saw homeless boys
and girls on the pavement, the thought came into
his heart to gather the orphans among them into a
home. So he gave only a part of his time to his
garden and his flowers, and the rest to provide this
home. And the home was built, and the homeless
ones gathered into it — a large family now. And
in that home, and for that home, my friend spends
many a happy hour. He is justly looked upon as
the father of the home. Yet he is so modest that
his name never appears in the reports of the home,
except among the names of the directors, and those
who give money for its support. Once, indeed,
he was taken by surprise : the other directors asked
as a great favour to have his portrait for the home.
And if you were going there, and asking the child-
ren whose portrait it was, they would answer, '' It
is the portrait of our papa."

12 The Gentle Heart.

One year, some failure in bank or railway made
him much poorer, and he could not give the twenty
pounds which he had given to the home each year.
He might have said quite honestly, " I am sorry,
but I can't afford to give my twenty pounds this
year." But the gentle heart had something more
in it than honesty. That very year a new flower
had been brought to London from Japan, and each
plant of it cost a pound. The orphans' papa sent
to London for a plant, took it into his greenhouse,
cut it into twenty bits, and struck a new plant out
of each. Then he sold his twenty plants at one
pound each. And so, that year too, there was joy
in this Gentle Heart that he was still able to pay
his twenty pounds to help to bless little orphan
children.

VI.

Then I saw a vision of a rich man's son. In
the city of Glasgow once lived a worthy merchant,
whose children I knew. As God had blessed him
in his buying and selling, he became a rich man.
And having a great love for country life, he took
his riches and bought some fields on which he had
played and gathered flowers when a child, and also
the mansion in which the old laird of the place
was wont to live. There was just one thing he

The Gentle Heart. 13

forgot to do ; he forgot to make his will, and say to
whom the mansion and fields should go when he
died. So by-and-by, when he died, no will could
be found. Now he left behind him his wife, four
daughters, and an only son. But as no will had
been made, the mansion, and the fields, and a
great part of all his riches, came to this only son.
He was in London when the news came that his
father had died, and that he was now a rich man.
Just at that moment money would have been very
useful to him, for he was a young merchant begin-
ning hfe, and no one would have blamed him if he
had said, " The money is welcome, and with it I
shall push my new business on." But God had
given him a Gentle Heart. He left London as
soon after he got the news as he could get a train.
And, although it was late in the day when he ar-
rived at his native city, the first thing he did was
to go to the house of a friend who writes out
wills. And that friend, at his request, wrote out
a will by which the mansion and the fields were
made over to his mother all her days — and all the
rest, both land and money, which his father had
left, was divided, share-and-share alike_, between
her, his sisters, and himself. And when that was
all fixed, he went to his home and buried his

14 TJie Gentle Heart.

father. Somebody said to him afterwards, ''But
why did you go that very night and have the will
made out?" He said, "I that night saw that it
was my duty to do it. If I had left it till next
day, my duty might not have seemed so clear."
That is the way of the Gentle Heart.

VII.

One vision of a Gentle Heart came to me out
of the years when I was at school. Among my
class-fellows was a Jewish boy. His real name
was John, but some of the bigger boys had given
him the name of Isaac, and by that name he was
known. He was a shy, timid-looking boy, tall and
slender, with a little stoop. He was very clever at
making musical toys. He used to bring pan-pipes
and singing reeds and wood whistles to the school.
Sometimes he brought a little flute, and in play-
hours, when the bigger scholars were at their
games, he would stand leaning against the wall,
with a crowd of little fellows around him, whom he
taught to play on his simple reeds and whistles,
or to whom he played on his little flute.

I sat beside him at school, and got to know him
well ; and I never knew him to tell a lie, or do a
base, or mean, or cruel thing. And I do not

The Gentle Heart. 15

think as much could be said of any other boy
amongst us all at that school during the years when
he was there. He helped the backward boys with
their lessons. I have seen him oftener than once
sharing his lunch with a school-fellow that had
none; and although he had no quarrels of his own,
he took up the quarrels of the little boys when the
bullies were ill-treating them. One day he saw a
big lad of fifteen beating a little fellow of eleven.
*' Now, Tom," he called out, "let that little fellow
alone." " You mind your Jews' harps and whis-
tles/' said the bully. Isaac made no reply, but
went right up to the hulking fellow, seized the
wrist of the hand which had hold of the little boy,
gave it a sudden twist and pinch, which loosened
the hand-grip in a moment, and let the little boy
free. It was done so quickly and neatly, that all
the boys standing around burst into laughter at the
bully. From that time the bully was Isaac's enemy
and every evil trick that could be done against the
Jew lad he did, and every spiteful word that could
be spoken he spoke.

But it happened one afternoon, when school was
over, that Isaac was standing at his father's door,
and he saw a great crowd turning into the street.
Boys and men were storming up, and there, in

1 6 TJie Gentle Heart.

front of them, running as if for life, and white with
terror and fatigue, was the bully. He had been in
some boy's prank or other, and was being chased
by those who wished to punish him. Isaac saw at
a glance how matters stood, and, standing back
within the door and holding it open, he said,
" Come in here, Tom ; I'll let you out another
way." And he let him out into another street.
Isaac saved his bitterest enemy, and Tom escaped.
It was Tom who told us all this. Isaac never re-
ferred to it. But we all noticed that Tom said as
much good of the Jew boy afterwards as he had
said evil before.

VIII.

But while I was thinking of these visions, as
they came one by one, I found that they began to
come two and three together, and at last in a
crowd. And it is only little bits of what I saw
after that I can now tell.

I saw a brave man plunging into a river one
dark night, and saving a woman who had stumbled
in ; and when the friends sought him in the crowd,
to thank him, he was not to be found. The brave
man wanted no thanks. His reward was that he
had saved a human life.

I saw a gracious man going into a bank one day.

The Gentle Heart. 17

and entering a large sum of money to the credit of
a widow, w^ho had lost husband and means the day
before.

I saw a wounded soldier on the field of battle
refusing the water he was thirsting for, that it
might be given to one beside him who was worse
wounded and needed it more.

I saw a tender lady passing from bed to bed in
a hospital, and speaking cheering words to the
sick people, as she did some gentle service to
each. And I saw the thankful smile that came up
over their wan faces as she passed.

I saw daughters refusing homes of their own, that
they might wait beside their sick mothers. I saw
them lovingly tending the dear sufferers as if they
were queens, and counting it joy to be able in this
way to show their love.

I saw a man stand up before an angry mob, and
say to them, "It is falsehood you are speaking
against my friend." And when they cried against
him in their anger, he defended his friend the
more.

I saw a brave captain on the great sea, bringing
his ship close to a burning vessel crowded with
human beings, and waiting beside it — risking his
own ship in the flames — till the day closed, and

c

1 8 The Gentle Heai't.

far on through the night, till at length every soul
was saved.

And in each of these visions, and in many more
that I cannot tell, what I saw was a gleam of the
Gentle Heart.

IX.

At last, however, all these visions melted away,
but I saw that it was into the light of a far greater
vision.

I thought it was night, and I was with a crowd
of people upon a great mountain. There were
mountains all round, mountains below, mountains
above, a great stretch of mountains, and the tops,
reaching far up into the sky, were covered with
snow.

We turned our face s to the mountain-tops, and
we saw coming out on the peaks of the highest
just the faintest Httle flush of light. Then it grew
stronger, then red, then one by one the great snow-
peaks kindled up, away up into the sky, as if some
fire were shining on the snow ; and indeed a fire
was shining on the snow. For as we turned our
faces the other way to come down the hill, we be-
held the morning sun rising into the sky. It was
the flame of the rising sun which we had seen
shining on the lighted peaks.

The Gentle Heart. 19

Now that is just what my visions of the Gentle
Heart have been, — fires kindled by a greater fire ;
far-off gleams of the Gentle Heart of Jesus. The
gentleness I have been telHng you about is just
light from Him. He is the sun. They were the
hill-tops, great and small, aflame with love like
His love. And it was into the light of that largest
love my visions faded.

Yes, His is the heart from which all hearts take
their gentleness. It is from His heart all the
gentleness of mothers and sisters, all the gentle-
ness you have ever known in father, or brother, or
companion, or nurse, has come. His is the gentlest
heart the world has ever known, or ever can know.
It is this heart which in the Bible the loving God
offers to each of us. This is that new heart which
will new-make you, and bless you, and bring you
at last to glory. Just the heart of Jesus, the
gentle, loving, merciful heart of Him who once
died for us, and who still lives to help and bless
us all.

SOME GENTLE DEEDS.

SOME GENTLE DEEDS.

IT is said of the things done by Jesus, that if
they should be written every one, the world
itself could not contain the books they should fill.
It is the same with deeds done by those who are
like Jesus. They can never all be told. They
are being done every day, every hour of the day,
and in every country. Only one here, another
there, is ever heard of. I am going to tell of two
or three which I have read about or known my-
self.

It was a gentle deed which Rahab did hundreds
of years ago in Jericho. She saved the lives of
two servants of God. Rahab was a poor heathen
woman. She had neither Bible nor church to tell
her what to do. No prophet had ever told her of
God. She only knew of Him by the talk of tra-
vellers, and by the rumours of the mighty works

24 The Gentle Heart.

He had done for the children of Israel, What
she knew of God, therefore, was a mere tiny spark
of light, which any puff of wind might blow out.
But she loved this light. She took it for her
guide. And in the way it pointed out she walked.

One day God sent the two servants I have
spoken of unto her house for shelter. They had
come to see the land ; and the king of Jericho
was angry, and wanted to kill them. And he sent
to Rahab, and said, '' Give these men up to me
that I may kill them, for they are come to spy out
our land." But Rahab knew, by the light which
God had kindled in her soul, that they were sent
by God. And she said to herself, " I will obey
God rather than the king of Jericho." So she hid
the men in the roof of her house among stalks of
flax which were heaped up there. Then, when
night fell, she let them down by a cord from a
window that looked over the wall of the city.
" Flee for your lives," she said, " flee to the moun-
tains, and remain there three days, and you shall
be safe." So the men fled, as she told them, up
to the mountains, and, hiding there three days,
they escaped.

It was God who gave her this chance of serving
Him by doing this good deed. And He also gave

Some Gentle Deeds. 25

her the wisdom and the heart to do it well. That
which she could do, she did. That is her praise
to this day.

II.
There is still living, in an English village, a
venerable man, who has spent his days in preach-
ing the gospel and doing other Christian works.
When he came first to this village, he found every
summer, about the same time, that many of the
people sickened, and some died. Of those who
died, the greatest number were children. It went
to his heart to see the grief which these deaths
caused, — mothers crying for the children, and
children for the mothers, who had died, At last
God put the thought into his mind, that there was
some one evil thing which brought the sickness
and the deaths. And, looking into all things to
find this out, he saw that in the hot months of
summer the people had no water to drink except
what lay foul and bad in the ditches by the road-
side. He said to himself, " The people are dying
for want of pure water." Now over against that
village there is a mountain, and in the sides of
this mountain, far up, are springs and streams of
the purest water. The minister got workmen and
went up to these streams. And across the bed of

26 The Gentle Heart.

the largest stream he caused a strong wall to be
built, and in this way made a deep lake behind.
Then from this lake he caused pipes to be laid
all the way to the streets of the village. And the
villagers had wholesome water to drink. And they
ceased to sicken and die as they had done.

That was a gentle and Christian deed. He
brought health to his people, and a happier life
into their homes.

III.

One of the best and kindest servants of God I
have ever known was my beloved friend Margaret.
Her life has been one long outflow of gentle deeds.
And she has done deeds which were brave as well
as good, which needed courage and strength as
well as kindness to do. It is one of these— one
out of many — I am about to tell.

In the city where her home was, is a district
which is called " the woods." And in the heart of
that district was an evil house, dark and dismal to
look at, in which thieves and drunkards and other
evil people lived, and which the neighbours in the
district had named '' the den."

One winter's day, a simple country girl, not yet
eighteen, in search of work, knocked at the door
of this house. Her mother and she had seen in

Some Gentle Deeds. 27

the newspaper that work was to be had in this
house. And at the door, when it was opened, she
asked for work. "Yes!" said the master of the
house ; " if you will stay here you shall have work."
But it was a very wicked man who said this, and
it was very wicked work he intended her to do.
He was like the wolf who met little Red Riding
Hood ; and this was a girl like Red Riding Hood
herself.

Now on that same day it came to the ears of my
friend Margaret that this guileless country girl had
been entrapped into the den. She knew the wicked-
ness of the evil man who was its master, and of the
thieves and vile people who lived with him in his
house. She knew also that this poor girl would
never more get back to her home unless she could
be got out of the den at once.

It was winter weather, as I have said. The air
was thick with fog, the streets deep in slush. But
Margaret, having first put herself in God's hand by
prayer, set out and knocked at the door of the den.
" Could she see the girl who had come up from the
country ?" '' There was no such person there," she
was told. ''Could she see the master?" "He
had gone from home." But these were lies which
she had been told. She went to the police office,

28 The Gentle Heart.

to magistrates, to ministers, to kind-hearted citizens.
No one seemed able to help her. Two days in the
bitter winter weather she toiled, going from street
to street, from door to door, before she found the
helper who cared to help. But this helper at last
she found. And before the third day closed, she
had rescued the innocent country girl from the
den of evil ; had got work for her which she could
do at her mother's side ; and was with her in the
late train on the way back to the village home,
which, but for Margaret, she never would have
seen again.

TV.

The other day a poor man was brought — crushed
by machinery — into a Manchester hospital. To
save his life his leg had to be taken off. But
when this was done, the blood rushed out so
quickly that there was almost no life left in him.
And the doctors said he had not strength to get
better. There was but one chance for him. If
new blood could be poured into his body he might
still live. One of the students there said, " Let
blood be taken from me." And blood was taken
from him and made to pass into the body of the
dying man. And the man recovered his strength
and he lived. It was a great gift which this student

Some Gentle Deeds. 29

made to the poor stranger. It was a gift of life.
He had nobleness and strength to do this very
thing. It was, in the best sense, a gentle deed.
That is his praise for evermore for this deed, what-
ever else his life may bring forth.

V.

A young mason, many years ago, had his hand
crushed by a stone, and went to the Glasgow
Infirmary to have it dressed. A student, unlike
the one I told you of, — an ungentle student, — tore
off the bandages hastily. That is a great cruelty
when the hand is sore with open wounds. The
pain was worse than having the hand crushed at
first. And though the young lad kept down his
crying when he was with the doctor, he no sooner
got out than he turned into a court and sat on
some steps inside where he could be out of sight, ■
and burst into sobs. But on that stair dwelt a
very gentle lady. She heard the sobbing, and
came down to see the sufferer. Then she brought
him into her house, spoke kindly to him, — like a
mother, — made some tea for him, and told him to
come to her every day before he went to have his
hand dressed. And day by day this mother-hearted
lady soaked the bandages in warm water, and made

30 The Gentle Heart.

them easy to come off. And this she did to this
perfect stranger till the hand was well. Perhaps it
does not seem a very great thing to do, but it was
a very kind thing. And it was all she was able
to do. She did what she could. And the young
mason never forgot her kindness. He became a
life-long friend to her. And when she was old and
lonely he often visited her, and his visits cheered
her till she died.

VI.

I knew another doer of gende deeds, the land-
lady of a country inn. She was very simple. Al-
though she was the mother of grown-up sons and
daughters, it was like listening to a baby to hear
her speak. Almost the only words which passed
her lips were, " Ay, ay," and " No, no." But she
had a kind and motherly heart. Out of that came
all the gentle deeds she did. One of these I will
tell.

On the other side of the street from her inn
lived a poor girl, a weaver, who had neither father
nor mother, nor friend nor relative in the wide
world. This girl was laid down by fever, and had
a long and weary illness after. At first the neigh-
bours were very kind. They lit her fire, tidied up
her room, prepared her food, and made her bed.

SoDie Gentle Deeds. 31

But weeks and months passed, and Ann was no
better. And by and by the neighbours got weary
of this well-doing. First one, then another, at last
all except one forgot to visit poor Ann, or even to
ask how she was getting on. This unforgetting
one was the kind mistress of the little inn. Every
day, as the clock struck four, this simple Christian
woman might be seen coming out of her door with
a small covered tray. Wet or dry, snow or sun-
shine, it was all the same. At the exact hour the
lonesome Ann heard the welcome footstep on the
stair, saw the latch lifted, and the gentle neighbour
coming in with a pleasant smile on her face, and a
large cup of hot tea and a buttered roll in her hand.
She would have died but for this that her neigh-
bour did. Many a day her only food was the tea
and roll. And it was not always easy for this kind
heart to do what she did. It was not easy to leave
her house, which was often crowded with country
people. But always she fulfilled her task of mercy.
She did it cheerfully. She did it till Ann was able
to come and thank her. That was her praise in
God's sight.

VII.

Yet one other gentle deed comes into my memory
out of a story of school life. It was a school of

The Gentle Heart.

black children in Jamaica. A friend of my own
was master. He had made a law that every lie
told in the school should be punished by seven
strokes on the palm with a strap. One day Lottie
Paul told a lie, and was called up to receive the
seven strokes. Lottie was a poor little thing, and
pain was terrible to her. But the master must
enforce his law. Untruth is a very evil thing in a
school, or in a child's life. So Lottie had to hold
out her hand and receive the seven strokes. But
her cry of pain when she had received the first
went to the master's heart. .He could not go on
with her punishment. He could not pass by her
sin. And this is what he did. He looked to the
forms on which the boys were seated, and asked,
" Is there any boy will bear the rest of Lottie's
punishment ?" And as soon as the words were out
of his lips, up started a bright little fellow called
Jim, and said, " Please, sir, I will ! " And he step-
ped from his seat, stepped up to the desk, and
received, without a cry, the six remaining strokes.

What moved this brave boy to bear Lottie's
punishment? It was the gentle heart. And it
was the vision of a heart gentler still, but gentle
with the same kind of gentleness wdiich filled the
master's eyes with tears that day, and made him

Some Gentle Deeds. 33

close his books, and bring his scholars round about
his desk, and tell them of the Gentle One, who
long ago bore the punishment of us all.

It is pleasant to tell of gentle deeds. It is far
more pleasant to be able to do them. But it
is delightful to know that Christ the Lord is help-
ing people every day to do them. And every day
He is sending chances of doing them to our very
doors. And the gentle deeds He gives us the
chance of doing are not high and difficult things,
which only great people and strong people can do,
but humble, homely, little things which boys and
girls, and even little children can do.

A NEIGHBOUR.

A NEIGHBOUR.

IN the days of the great King Agathos many
wonderful things took place. Young men saw
visions, and old men dreamed dreams. Many that
were poor became rich ; many that were rude be-
came gentle ; and towns and villages that were
almost deserted and in ruins were rebuilt and filled
with happy crowds.

Just on the outskirts of this great King's king-
dom, in a hollow among lofty hills, lay one of
those ruined villages. Everything in it had a
broken-down and decaying look. The houses
were old and mean and bare ; grass grew upon
the streets ; and the inhabitants were ignorant
and sad and poor.

One morning, in early spring, a stranger entered
this village. It was noticed that he walked from
one end of the main street to the other, looking
to this side and to that, at the houses : but more

38 The Gentle Heart.

eagerly still into the faces of the people who
were passing by.

The labourers began to come out from their
homes to go into the fields : the stranger examined
every face as it passed. A little while after, the
young women came out to the wells for water :
the stranger went up to these and questioned
them, one by one. By-and-by, he turned aside
to a blind old man, who sat at his door to enjoy
the heat of the morning sun, and he put many
questions to him. But neither the old man nor
the young women could give him the information
he wished. A look of distress and disappoint-
ment came into his face. The villagers saw
him turning away into a back street that had long
since been deserted. Then they noticed that he
sat down on the stones of an old wall, with his
face towards a roofless cottage, which had neither
window, nor fireplace, nor door.

This was the cottage in which the stranger was
born, and in which he had spent his early years.
As he sat gazing on its ruins, the old forms he
had known so well in his boyhood seemed to
come back again. He saw his father working
among the flower-beds in the garden ; and his
mother, now knitting and now cooking, beside the

A NcigJihoiir. 39

kitchen-fire. The very laughter of his brother
and sisters, as he had so often heard it long ago,
seemed to come back again and fill his ears like
a song. And there came back also the memory
of a day when that laughter was stilled ; and
along with that, the form of a beautiful sister, who
on that day was carried out to her grave. Tears
began to trickle down his cheeks.

And then, one of the strange things I men-
tioned at the outset happened. Behind the cottage
rose up the great sides of the hills among which
the village was nestled. Far up the huts of
shepherds could be seen like little dots scattered
here and there ; and on the green pastures, flocks
of sheep. As the stranger was gazing across the
roofless and broken walls of his early home, his
ear caught little snatches of a song which some
one was singing among the hills behind. Then he
beheld the singer — a little girl— stepping down
as if she were coming from the shepherds' huts.
Her feet were bare, but she stepped downwards
as if she had wings. Her yellow hair was blown
out behind her with the wind. She was coming
directly to the stranger, and almost before he knew,
she was at his side, and singing the song he had
heard —

40 The Gentle Heart.

" Friend and brother wouldst thou find?
Hearts of love around thee bind ?
Be thyself a heart of home ;
To gentle heart, hearts gentle come."

Then she stopped singing, and fixing her eyes
earnestly on him, said, " You are in pain, my
brother?" And although she was but a little
child, and one he did not remember to have seen
before, the stranger could not help opening his
heart to her.

" I have come from the most distant shores of
our King's country to find my brother and sisters,
and they are not here. When I left this village I
was poor. I am rich now, and would share my
riches with them, if I could find them."

While the stranger was speaking the little girl
seemed to grow more and more beautiful. Her
eyes shone like bits of the blue of the sky, and
sent their glance into his very soul. As the morn-
ing sunlight fell on her hair it seemed like a crown
of gold around her head. And then, as she stood
before him there, in her exceeding beauty, it
flashed upon him that somewhere or other in
other years, he must have seen that face. And
then, in a moment more, he knew that this was
the very face of the dear sister who had died.

A Neighbour. 41

Then she said, "Come with me, brother; your
brother and sisters are found."

She took him by the hand and led him back into
the main street of the village, and said — " Do you
see that blind old man whom you questioned?
That is your father."

"But my father is dead these many years."

Without stopping to answer him, the beautiful
child went on — do you see those young women
you spoke to coming from the wells with water ?
They are your sisters."

" But my sisters must be old and grey-headed
now."

And once more, without replying to him, the
child said — " Do you see those labourers in the
fields, whose faces you looked into so eagerly ?
They are your brothers."

"But I had only one brother."

While he was saying this the children began to
go past to school.

" And there," exclaimed his young companion,
pointing to them, "are your children."

The stranger was perplexed. Everything about
him seemed to swim in the morning light. The
children, the young women, the labourers, and
the blind old man appeared as if they were drawn

42 TJie Gentle Heart.

up into the light. And into the same light the
beautiful form of his child sister also passed,
smiling towards her brother with a tender grace,
and singing her gentle song. And then everything
disappeared.

When he came to himself he was still sitting
on the stones of the broken wall. The roofless
cottage was on the other side of the way, but the
little girl was gone. And from where he sat he
could see neither children nor grown-up people of
the village.

He was never quite certain about what had
taken place. Sometimes he fancied he had fallen
asleep, and had dreamed a happy dream. Some-
times it seemed as if he had seen a vision, and as
as if the beautiful child stepping down the hillside
with her song and her words of teaching had been
real. But nobody else had seen her ; and the
shepherds in the huts did not know of such a child.
But whether what he saw and heard was real, or
only a dream, it was the turning point of life to
this rich stranger.

The song of the fair-haired child took possession
of his heart, and by means of it God changed his
heart, and made it gentle and neighbourly ; and
the light of the neighbourly heart came into his

A Neighbour. 43

eyes, and he saw in the ruined village a new world
and new duties there for himself. Long afterwards
he used to tell that he saw that day what John had
seen in the Isle of Patmos — " a new heaven and a
new earth." He knelt beside the ruined cottage
and Hfted up his heart to God, and said, " O my
Father, let the heart that was in Thy Son Jesus be
also in me ! All that I have is Thine ; from Thee
it came, to Thee it shall return. Help me to
fulfil Thy will."

He rose up a new man. He said to himself, " I
will abide in this village, and build up its ruined
walls, and make the people of it the sharers of my
wealth."

So he abode in the village ; and he became a
neighbour to old and young. The inhabitants
became his children, and his brothers and his
sisters, and his parents. And light arose in their
dwellings, and prosperity came back into their
streets, and songs to their lips. The rich man w^as
happy, and the poor were blessed ; and in his old
age, when young people were setting out in life,
and came up to him for his blessing, he used to
repeat to them the song which the fair-haired child
of his vision had sung to him, and call it " the
secret of a happy life.'^

44 The Gentle Heart.

Long years have passed since those things took
place. The ruined village is now a large and
prosperous city ; but in the centre of it stands to
this day a granite cross with the portrait of a
beautiful child cut on the stem, and underneath,
the words of the song —

" Friend and brother wouldst thou find ?
Hearts of love around thee bind ?
Be thyself a heart of home ;
To gentle heart, hearts gentle come."

That is the monument of the rich stranger who
shared his riches with the people of the ruined
village. His name is unknown. But in the his-
tories of the city you will find that the founder
of its prosperity is described as " the man with
the neighbourly heart."

ON DOIAG WHAT WE CAN.

ON DOING WHAT WE CAN.

NOBODY is Wle in the kingdom of our Lord.
Even the babes and sucklings have some-
thing to do. But so just is the King that He will
not have any of His servants do more than they
can. He expects us to do only what we can.

'' What we can." That is His measure for all
work done to Him. What we have strength for,
what we have health for, what we have cleverness
for, what we have time for, what we have means
for: that and nothing more. He will have us work
up to that, but no higher.

He must have been thinking of little peiDple and
children when He made this the measure of work.
Almost it is as if He had said, " I will not make
My service hard to any one, but least of all to the
little ones of My kingdom."

48 The Gentle Heart,

I.

It was this which pleased Him so wxll in the
service which Mary of Bethany did : she did what
she could. She greatly loved the Lord. He had
often spoken to her about His Father. He had
raised her brother Lazarus from the dead. And
she wanted to show her love.

She took this way of showing it. All the money
she could spare she spent on a box of sweet-scented
oil. And one Sabbath evening — the last Sabbath
before His death — the Lord was in Bethany and at
supper in the house of Simon, Mary came in with
her box. And going near to Jesus, she did to Him
what was only done to kings and great people —
she poured the sweet-scented oil upon His head
and over His feet. And then, in her great love,
she wiped His feet wdth her hair.

It was not much to do. To look at, it was not
so much as if she had built a church, or a school,
or a hospital. It was not even so much, Judas
said angrily, as if she had sold the ointment and
given the money to the poor. It was only pouring
some sweet perfume on the head and feet of the
Saviour she loved. But just this was the thing she
could best do ; and what she could she did. Of
all His disciples then living, only into the heart ot

On Doing what ive Can. 49

this one had come the thought to do this thing.
She had love so great for Jesus, and He had
become so truly her King, that it seemed to her a
blessed work to buy the oil and pour it upon His
head. She would have done more if she could ;
but this was in her heart to do, and it was done.
The Lord did not despise it, or think it a little
thing. When Judas and others were blaming her,
He said, "She hath wrought a good work upon
Me . . . She hath done what she could." He
praised her. And then, in His kindness, and
praising her still more. He said, " that what she
had done would be talked of wherever His Gospel
should be preached.'^ And so it has fallen out.
That evening the fragrance of her ointment filled
the house where they were sitting ; and its frag-
rance, in a still better way — the good influence
that was in it— has filled the house of the Lord
ever since.

II.
When years had gone past, and Jesus was gone
back to heaven, many other disciples showed their
love to Him by doing what they could. Some
sold their possessions, and gave the money they
got for them to the poor. Some went about the
world preaching Jesus. Some opened their houses

E

50 The Gentle Heart.

to receive the preachers. Some spent long hours in
prayer, asking God to bless the preaching. Some,
more noble than others, searched the Bible besides,
to know what God would have them to do. —
Among these was Dorcas of Joppa.

Joppa was a seaport town, and full of sailors ;
and where sailors are there will also be women and
children who are poor. Often ships went out from
the harbour that never came back. They were
caught by storms and sunk far out at sea, or
they were driven shoreward and broken on the
rocks. And day after day mothers and children
on the shore would look with straining eyes to the
sea for white sails which could never more be seen.
And sometimes, when all hope had perished of
seeing these sails again, the streets would be filled
with wailing. And sometimes, it might be, widows
would go past the door where Dorcas lived, wring-
ing their hands in agony, because news had come
to them, that the fathers of their children had been
swallowed up by the terrible sea.

And seeing these poor people by day, and lying
awake, perhaps, sometimes on stormy nights and
thinking of brave sailors perishing, even then, at
sea, this Christian lady said to herself, '' Can I do
anything to help ? " And taking herself to task,

On Doing ivJiat we Can. 5 1

she found there was one thing she could do.
She could sew. She could make coats and
garments — upper and under clothes. There was
another thing she could do, although she herself
might not think of that. She had a heart filled
with tenderness and pity. She could let forth some
of that pity and tenderness on the poor people in
their sorrow. And these two things she did. She
drew the poor widows about her by her love.
And with her own hands she made clothing for
them and theirs. To some people, it might not
seem a very great work. It was only a little
sewing and some human love j only a kind word
for sad hearts and clothing for the naked. But
that is work which is very dear to Christ. And it
was work of this kind He had given her the power
to do. And what she could, she did. And of so
much worth seemed her work in the eyes of Jesus,
that when she died early, and the poor widows she
had clothed cried to Him, through Peter, to let
their dear one — their friend — come back to them,
He granted their prayer, and by the hands of His
servant Peter raised her up again to life.
III.
Sometimes we can only sing a psalm, or offer a
prayer, or speak a kind word, or give a tender look,

52 The Gentle Heart.

or a warm grasp of the hand. It is enough in the
eyes of the just Saviour that we do things as little
as these, if these should be the only things Ave
can do.

I- am reminded, while I speak, of two workers
for Christ, I once knew, who gained their bread in
a cotton mill, and served Him in a very simple
way. One of these, her companions used to call
*' the gentle Mary." She was a Roman Catholic.
She was very tender about sick people, and spent
what she could spare of her evenings, after mill
hours, in visiting them. She had a way of speaking
to the sick that did them good. Not that she
was a great speaker. Often she would only say
to them, "Jesus loves you." Sometimes she just
pressed their hands. Sometimes she bent over
them and kissed them. She never went on these
visits of kindness without taking something she
thought the sick people would like. It would be
a little jelly one time; and a little scent-bottle
next time ; and now and again it would be a
flower, or a little wine. The door was open for
Mary into many a home where these things were
to be had for the asking. I am happy to be able
to add, that Mary was as gentle and loving at her
own fireside, as in the homes of the sick.

Oil Doing what ive Can. 53

It was another kind of service to which the
second girl had given herself. One winter evening
she was going home from the factory, and in the
light falling from a street lamp on the pavement
she found a sixpenny copy of the New Testament.
It was the first time she had a Testament of her
own. She took it home and began to read, and
as she read, she learned, as she had never done
before, the wonder of the Saviour's love, and how
He had died to prove that love. She said to her-
self, " I shall not have this joy to myself alone."
So she set apart, out of her small earnings, one
penny every day for Christ's cause. And at the
end of each week she bought and gave to some
one who had none, a copy of the book which had
been such a joy to herself.

It was not much either of these girls did. It
was not much either had the power to do. But
each did what she could : that was their praise
before God.

That was the praise also of a young lady, I was
once taken to see, whose service seemed even less
than theirs. She had been thrown from a carriage
ten years before, and all those years had been ill
and in bed. But her hands were free. And with
her free hands she knit little gloves for poor

54 ^/^^ Gentle Heart.

children. It was only helping to keep warm some
little fingers that would otherwise have been very-
cold in winter. But it was all she was able to do.
And it was done with a loving heart, and as a ser-
vice to the Lord.

IV.

No one is so humble, or poor, or weak, as not
to be able to do sometliing. Even a child can
serve the Lord.

A few years back, on a Friday morning in Sep-
tember, three tiny little children in Australia went
into a wood to fetch some broom for their mother.
It was a beautiful day. The ground was covered
with flowers, and the children set themselves to
gather them. But when they were tired with this,
and had prepared the little bundle for home, they
could no longer tell on what side home was to be
found. And Frank, the youngest of the three, was
worn out. Taking him up in her arms, the sister
and other brother looked on every side for a way
out, but could not find one. Mile after mile those
weary feet pattered, and every mile was taking
them farther from home. They cried for father
and mother. "Cooey, Cooey, Cooey," they called;
but all in vain. There was no human ear to hear
their cries. At last night began to fall. The sis-

On Doing ivJiat zoe Can. 55

ter looked for a sheltering bush. Then she knelt
down with her other brother and said her evening
prayer, —

" Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child."

Then the two laid down beside Frank and went to
sleep. And this was repeated on Saturday, on
Sunday, on ^londay, and Tuesday, the poor weary
wanderers still carrying the broom for their mother,
still looking for the home which they could not
find, and eating berries and leaves for food. By-
and-by the beautiful weather came to an end and
rain poured down, and when night came Frank
was cold as well as weary. The sister took off her
frock, and, wrapping the child in that, they once
more took shelter under a bush. It was nine days
altogether before they were found. Father, mother,
neighbours, shepherds, farmers, miners, everybody
in the neighbourhood searched for them. But
some natives, going down on their knees, and
looking for the marks of tiny feet on the wet
ground, were the first to come on their track. On
Saturday, led by these poor blacks, their father
found them lying asleep under a bush, and nearly
dead with weariness and hunger and cold. The
first words the girl said when she was roused up

5<3 The Gentle Heart.

were ^'cold, cold," and the next, after she had
been taken to a hut and warmed and fed, were
the words of her Evening Hymn.

The brave little mother that she was ! The
brave self-forgetting servant of Christ ! She had
cheered her brothers all the time. She had
searched about for food for them. She carried
Frank when he was tired. She wrapped him in
her own dress when he was cold. And at night,
when they went to sleep under the shelter of some
bush, she drew them together and said her evening
prayer.

That was her praise before God and man : she
had done what she could.

V.

It is wonderful how much can be done, and
what things great in God's sight, if people would
only do the little things they can.

On one of the early days of a January not long
ago, a Swedish steamer was ^\ recked on the North-
umberland coast. The fisher folk of Cresswell, a
village near by, looking seaward that day, saw the
strange vessel among the breakers, and knew that
human lives were in peril. It is a little place, with
only fifteen men in it, and of these two were un-

Oil Doing ivhat %ve Can. 57

able to work. But men and women and children
turned out that day and hauled down and launched
the lifeboat, and, very soon, thirteen brave fellows
were struggling with the wild sea to save the lives
on the wreck. But the storm was too fierce.
They were driven back again and again. While
they were waiting for a lull in the storm to try
again, some one said, ''Let us send for the rocket."
The rocket is used when the lifeboat cannot get
near. It is shot up into the air, with a line of
cord attached, so that the cord falls over the
vessel, and those on board catch it and pull in a
rope tied to the end of it, and make that fast, and
come sliding one by one to land by the rope. But
the machine for firing the rocket was at New-
biggin, five miles away, and the night was closing
in. Would anybody go to Newbiggin ? A young
girl stepped forward. She would go. And in a
moment she was gone. The lives of human
beings depended on her speed. She ran, rather
she flew. Like the fisher-girl she was, she kept
the shore road, and to gain time took many a short
cut through the bays on the way. The wild sea
was on the one side drenching her with its spray \
on the other, was the wild lonesome land, and
above and around her the deepening night. But

58 The Gentle Heart.

on she flew, this young angel of mercy, between
rocks and waves, through the surf, through the
moanmg of the storm, through the darkness, till
she gave her message at Newbiggin, and saw the
rocket on its way. And then, alone as before, and
once more through darkness, sea-wave, and storm,
she fled back over the same five lonesome miles to
bring the good news to Cresswell, that the rocket
was on the way. It did not lessen the worth of
Avhat she had done that meanwhile the lifeboat had
succeeded in its next attempt, and brought the
wrecked people safe to land. Her deed was well
done and heroic. She was ill next day, ill and
cramped all over in bed. No wonder. But she
had done a brave, noble. Christian deed, and
done it well. It is fine to be able to tell that she
comes of a good stock, for her father was steers-
man of the lifeboat that day. And for father and
child, and for all in Cresswell who worked so well,
it may surely be said, " They wrought a good work,
they did what they could."

OF NOT DOING WHAT WE CAN.

OF NOT DOING WHAT WE CAN.

THE last time I spoke to yon, I tried to set
before you the good which there is in doing
what we can. To do what one can is all that
our Lord asks us to do. And it is very pleasant
to know that this is all He asks us to do. It is
like having His heart opened to us, and seeing how
tender He is to little folks and children, and to
people not strong, and poor people. And I
really think it was to let us see this tenderness of
His heart for the little ones that He made this
His praise of Mary : " She hath done what she
could."

But to this lesson there are two sides. And
it is right to know that the same kind Lord Who
has made this easy measure for little workers,
expects all His workers, big and little, to work

62 The Gentle Heart.

up to it and do for Him as much as they are
able. He will not lay upon any of us more than
we can do. But what we can, He will always
have us to do. He does not love idlers, nor
people who run away from duty. He told this
story to let us know the evil of not doing what
we can : —

There was once a merchant who had to go
to a far country. And he called his servants and
said to them : " Here is money, and when I am
away you are to trade with it and make more,
and when I come back, I will reckon with you."
And he gave one ten pounds, one five, and to a
third he gave one. When he came back, after a
long while, the servant who got ten pounds said :
" I traded with your ten pounds, and I have
made other ten ; " and the servant who got five
said, "And I have made other five." The master
was well pleased with them. But the servant who
had got only one, said: "I was afraid lest I should
lose your money, and have a scolding from you,
so I hid it, and here it is safe." With that servant
the master was very angry. He said to him, " You
ought not to have buried my pound ; you should
have traded with it, and made it into two pounds."
It was for this the master was angry. The

Of not Doing what we Can. 63

servant was an idler. He did not do what he
could.

II.

And that is always and for all mankind an
evil thing. And sometimes it is as cruel as it
is evil.

I will tell you a little bit of the life of a boy
I knew. He was not a bad boy. He was far
from it. He loved good people and things that
were good. He would not have told a He, or
knowingly done a mean or cruel thing. Yet
once he did a thing that was very cruel through
forgetting to do what he could. A friend had
made him a present of a blackbird. At first,
there was no end to his joy. This was his own
bird : its cage was his ; its song was his ; and it
was to him the bird looked for its food. And
for a long while he was very good to it.
He kept green things between the wires, and
brought fresh water to its drinking glass, and
kept the cage clean and sweet ; and always when
he came in, he would go up to the cage and
speak to it and cheer it, and sometimes he
would rise from his lessons and have a little talk
with his bird.

It happened that the boy's mamma took ill,

64 The Gentle Heart.

and the song of the blackbird became a pain
to her. So the cage was taken up to an attic room.
It happened at the same time that the game of
base-ball came in, and my little friend was very
fond of that game. He got to care for this game
so much that his care for the lonely blackbird
grew less and less. He had no time now for
litde talks with the bird. He did not gather
green food for it, or bring it fresh water as he
used to do. At last, one day he forgot it
altogether. He had to hurry off to school as
soon as he rose next day. In the afternoon his
classmates took him off to the playground. He
came back so hot and tired and so late that he
could only get to bed. His poor bird went out
of his thoughts entirely. And when, two or three
days after, some one in the family said, " Harry,
how is your blackbird getting on ? " a pang shot
through Harry's heart. He jumped up, ran to
the attic where he had left it, and found it lying
at the bottom of the cage quite dead. By his
forgetfulness and neglect and not doing what he
could, he had killed his beautiful bird.

III.
And it is not birds only that are neglected in
this way.

Of not Doing zvhat ive Can. 65

A poor old lady, who lived where I once lived,
had some trouble in one of her eyes. Scales
seemed to grow over it, and she could not see.
The village doctor said to her, " It is but a little
thing, and it can be healed." They sent her to
an hospital in the neighbouring city, and the
doctors there said, *' Yes, it is a little thing, and
your eye shall get quite well." So she said a
silent prayer to God, and put herself in their
hands. They took a knife and cut the scales
away. And she felt the touch of the light on her
eye, and said joyfully, "I see with this eye again."
The doctors wrapped up the eye, and said to a
nurse, *' Nurse, this patient must remain in a
dark room for two weeks; at the end of this
time she should be well enough to go home."

It was the duty of the nurse to whom these
words were said, to attend to all whose eyes
had been cut, and put them at once into a warm
bed, and give them food. She took this old lady
to a dark room, and said, " Rest here ; I will be
back in a moment and put you to bed." But
moment after moment passed, and she did not
come back. Hour after hour, and still she did
not come. She had forgotten all about her. At
last, in the evening, she remembered her neglect,

F

66 TJie Gentle Heart.

and ran up to the room where the old lady was.
But it was too late. The day had been cold.
The poor lady w^as cold, and sick, and faint.
When she was put to bed she began to shiver. A
fever set in ; then inflammation of the eye that had
been cut ; then inflammation of the eye that was
well. And when the sickness left her, both eyes
were blind.

What had taken place ? A very evil thing.
This nurse had not done what she could; and,
failing to do that, she had made her poor sick
patient blind for life.

IV.

I try to think that this nurse only forgot. I
try to think that the evil she did — and what she
did was very evil — was because she did not think
as much as she ought to have done about her
duties. But I have known of some who brought
suffering on others just as she did, by not doing
what they could, and who have tried to hide the
evil they did by running away from the suffering
they caused.

One dark night a few years ago, an emigrant
ship, with four hundred people on board, was
lying in the Channel on the eve of sailing to

Of not Doing lohat zve Can. 67

Hobart Town far away. And in the darkness,
without stroke of warning, it was crashed into
by a steamer and sunk. A dark night, I said,
only a few stars twinkUng, and those four hundred
human beings were folded up in sleep. And in
the darknesS; and while they slept, there was
this crash. And in a moment death was rushing
in through the broken sides of the vessel, and
almost instantly the vessel began to sink. Fathers,
mothers, little babies, sailors, awoke only to be
swallowed up in the yawning sea. It was one of the
most pitiful things that could be — and very pitiful
were the cries of the poor sufferers as they were
going down into the deep. One mother came
up to one on deck and cried, "For the love of
God, save my baby ! " But the baby and mother
had both to die. A father and two sons met in
the water. The elder son said, " Father, let me kiss
you for my last ; for we shall all be drowned."
And all were drowned. The brave captain sent
his young wife into one of the boats; but he
himself remained to help and die at his task.

And while this was going on, and the crowded
ship was settling down, what was the steamer that
had given the stroke of death doing? It is
shameful to have to tell it. But the steamer that

eS The Gentle Heart.

caused those deaths steamed past, and on into
the darkness. And human hands that might
have helped, and a vessel that might have saved
hundreds of lives, went cruelly past '' on the
other side."

The officers of that ship did not what they
could. They could have taken better care ; they
could have had a better outlook ; they could
have kept further off. And when they had, what
should have been a great grief to them, the grief
of striking the ship in their path, they should have
stopped and done all that human beings could
do to save the lives in the ship. The Lord's
measure applied to them is this : " They wrought
an evil work, and did not what they could to
repair it."

And at the great judgment day that will be a
terrible sorrow for them and all who have done as
they did. The people who shall be condemned
that day will be people who could have worked
for God, and did not, and who had talents, and
did not use them.

And we should all know, and lay it to heart
now, that the things which the Lord will ask us
about on that day are all simple things, and
things easy to do. And the condemnation on

Of not Doing zvhat zue Can. 69

those who shall be condemned will be because
those easy things were not done. They could
have helped when help was needed ; they could
have had pity on the blind; they could have
saved the drowning from death ; they could have
given bread to the hungry, or water to the thirsty,
or clothes to the naked, or pity to the sick, or help
to the prisoner. And surely it will be very awful
to hear the gracious and loving Jesus saying,
'' Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least
of these, ye did it not to ]\Ie."

CHRIST'S LETTERS.

CHRISrS LETTERS.

IS there anything in the world more wonderful
than a letter ? When the English missionaries
first went to Afi.-ica, nothing surprised the black
people more than the letters they wrote. '' Does
the person you write to hear you speak?" said a
chief to one of the missionaries. " No." '^ Does
he see your lips move ?" " No." Then he ranged
a long line of his people in a field, asked the mis-
sionary to stand at one end, and stood with a
second at the other end. '' Now write what I bid
you." The missionary beside him put down the
chief's words, and the bit of paper was passed on
by a messenger to the other end. At that end the
missionary standing there read the words to the
messenger. The messenger repeated them to the
chief, and the chief cried out, " It is just magic !"
And a letter is really a kind of magic. It is

74 The Gentle Heart.

only a sheet of paper with some signs on it. But
it tells what is going on ten, twenty, a hundred, or
a thousand miles away. Through these signs, we,
sitting at our breakfast tables, can see homes over
wide seas, and the people living in them, and bap-
tisms, and marriages, and sick-beds and funerals.
By these signs commands come from far countries,
and merchants in this land rise and go to the
market, or the exchange, or the bookstore, or the
house of a neighbour, and do the biddings of those
who wrote them down. And by these signs the
secrets of one heart are carried into another ; and
two hearts know the secrets instead of one.

II.
The Lord has always been a letter writer. He
has written His letters on the blue sky and on the
green earth. Summer and winter, springtime and
harvest are sentences from one of His letters. He
wrote ten words once, thousands of years ago, on
sheets of stone at Mount Sinai, and those words
arc read still in every part of the earth. He has
written two long letters to men in the Bible : the
one is called the Old Testament, the other the
New Testament, and those letters have been copied
thousands of times and are being sent to and fro
among all the nations of mankind.

Christ's Letters. 75

But from the beginning He said : " It is not
enough for Me that I write on the sky and the field,
or on leaves of stone, or paper. I want something
better still to write My letters on. I will only be
satisfied when men allow Me to write My letters
on their hearts ; and when I can lay My heart with
all its secrets on the hearts of men and women
and boys and girls, and leave the imprint of these
secrets there."

It was this His prophets said so often in the old
times. They said that a day would come, a happy
day, when God would write His laws no more on
tables of stone, as the Ten Commandments were,
but on the heart. That day came when Jesus
came. He made His words go into the hearts of
those who listened to Him. It was all the same
as if He had written on their hearts, and these
hearts had become Letters from Christ.

So Paul gives that name to the boys and girls
and the men and women who have let Christ
write the secrets of His heart on theirs. He calls
them epistles of Christ — letters written on the
fleshly leaves of the heart. And there is nothing
better in the world for a boy or girl than to be a
letter of this kind for Christ.

76 The Gentle Heart.

III.

Some years ago the people living in Paris were
surrounded by the German army, and could neither
get out themselves, nor have anybody coming in.
They were besieged by that army, and all the while
the siege lasted neither bread, nor milk, nor coals,
nor wood, nor horse, nor cow could get in. It was
a hard time, and the people suffered for want of
food. But there was another thing they greatly
suffered for want of — and that was news of dear
ones in other parts of the world. At last those
dear ones wrote letters on the first page of the
Times newspaper in London. Then a photo-
grapher made a copy of that first page so small
that it was only the size of a penny stamp. Then
those tiny pages were tied under the wings of doves
and carried by them over the heads of the German
army into Paris. There the photographers made
the tiny papers large again. And in this way the
people in Paris got letters from the dear ones far
away.

The Lord Jesus does something like this in
writing His letters on young hearts. He has a
great deal to say : but the hearts of children are
too small to receive all His words. So the Lord
makes His letter small, so small that it can all be

Chrisfs Letters. yj

printed on a child's heart. And then as years go
on and the body grows tall, the heart grows larger
and larger, and the letters grow with the growth of
the heart, and when boys and girls come to be
young men and women they find that the loving
Jesus has written nearly all the Bible on their hearts.

IV.

But sometimes it is only a single sentence He
writes. During a very cold winter, between twenty
and thirty years ago, there were two stories in the
newspapers which went to every heart. A poor
actor left Inverness for the town of Cromarty, where
he was engaged to play. He had his little girl
with him, a child of seven or eight. Snow had al-
ready begun to fall when he set out. But by and
by a storm arose, and the snow fell so thickly that
all the sky became dark with it, and the poor tra-
vellers lost their way. In a day or two, half way to
Cromarty, at a lonely turn of the road, where there
was some shelter, the two were found buried in the
snow, and dead. But it was noticed that the child
was wrapped round with the father's overcoat,
which he had taken from himself to keep her
warm.

The cold was so great that year that many poor

78 The Gentle Heart.

people died of it in their very houses, where they
had neither fire nor food. Among those who died
was a lonely mother in one of our cities. She was
found cold dead on the floor of her home, and
nearly naked, but beside her was her living child,
living and warm, well wrapped up in the clothes
which the mother had taken from her own body.

What were those two : the poor actor who
stripped himself of his coat to keep warm his
child : the poor mother who went nearly naked to
keep her baby alive ? They were letters written
by Christ and sent out to be read of all, letters
written with one of the deepest secrets of His
heart. What He wrote on those two hearts was
sacrifice, pity, love, like God's. Just as those two
acted, Christ would have acted if He had been in
their places. It was even so He did act, when on
the cross He died for man. He took His own life
and wrapped us round with it, that we might not
die but live. And He would have every one of us
to act to others as He acted towards us. And on
our hearts, as on the hearts of those two of whom
I have told, He desires to write pity and self-sacri-
fice, and kindness and love.

v.

I shall never forget the winter in which those

Christ's L&tters. 79

two died. I had gone to reside in a little country
town among the hills, and a great snowstorm came
on the very first week I was there. Day and
night the snow continued to fall. The roads were
blocked up, the stage coaches could not leave.
At last the Httle town was cut off from the rest of
the world. It so happened that I had promised
to be at a meeting in a neighbouring town about
eight miles off. And I wanted to fulfil my
promise. So I got a friend to help me to find
the way, and with a second friend who was staying
with me we set forth. The whole country, far as
the eye could see, was one unbroken sheet of
snow. The roads were buried. The very hedge-
rows were not to be seen. Not a foot mark, nor
track of a wheel was to be seen. We were the
first since the snow began to attempt the journey.

When we had worked our way about three
miles, we saw one other traveller coming towards
us. It was the letter-carrier with the mail-bag
for the town we had left. We could not help
thinking him a wonderful sight. There was no
other being on that white waste 'of snow. But
what he represented was more Vv'onderful than
himself. He represented the government of the
country. Humble though he was, he was a public

8o The Gentle HcaH.

servant. Thousands of other servants, on other
hills, on other roads, would be doing the same
service which he was trying to do. Then we
thought of the letters in his bag. Then of the
letters in other bags. Then of all those letters as
filled with things interesting one way or other to
those who should receive them. And we thought
of the government as the power which was sending
them all on to the persons to whom they were
addressed.

And then this thought came into our minds :
There is a greater government than ours — the
government of God— and that too is sending forth
over all the land — throughout all the world —
letters written not on paper with ink, but on the
hearts of men and women and boys and girls, and
written by Christ Himself. Then we remembered
the words in second Corinthians : "The epistle of
Christ, ministered by us, written not with ink, but
with the Spirit of the living God."

VI.

It was Paul who wrote those words. It is very
helpful always when Paul says a word like this to
know why he says it. He was sending a letter to
Christian people in Corinth to whom he had often

Christ's Letters. 8i

preached. But he knew that there were some
among them who did not care for his preaching,
and also had spoken evil about himself. He did
not like to have evil spoken about him : no good
man does. But Paul did not like it because evil
words spoken about him were all the same as if
they were spoken against the gospel he preached.
And as he is writing, this comes into his mind, and
he stops for a moment and asks himself : Shall I
reply to the evil words? But he does not reply
to them. He only began his writing again, and
says : " Do I really need to defend myself before
you? Do you know me so little that I should
have to bring a letter of commendation to you?
Must I get other people to tell you that I am not
a bad man ? Surely that cannot be needful when
I am writing to my Corinthian friends. You are
written on my heart j I am written on yours. You
are my best letter of commendation. If anybody
speaks ill of me I appeal to you and to your
Christian life. It was through me Christ made
you Christian. He wrote the secrets of His heart
on your lives; and I, unworthy although some
think me, was His penman when He did so. You
are epistles of Christ, living epistles, and it was my
preaching which Christ used to make you that."

G

82 TJie Gentle Heart.

No evil speaker could answer back to that. A
Christian life is like a letter filled with the words
of Christ. If the people to whom Paul had
preached were now like Christ, it was a proof that
Christ Himself had written that likeness on their
hearts.

VII.

A dear friend of mine when she was a little girl
went to live at Cape Breton. At that time letters
arrived but once a month from this country.
There was no post office to leave the bags at :
there was only a great open road through the
forest, and little foot-roads from the village leading
up to it. The letter-carrier as he passed each oi
these foot-roads got out the letters from his bag
which were to go that way, and dropped them into
a box that was fixed on a tree. Then somebody
came up from the village with a key and opened
the box and took the letters away. It w^as my
friend who had this duty to do. She had a
long walk of many miles before she came to the
end of the narrow foot-road, then she opened the
box, and often, she used to tell, the tears would
come into her eyes when there were no letters,
or letters with black borders ; and when she got
letters, and took them back, and sometimes found

Chrisfs Letters. 83

that one now and again was unpleasant or silly
everybody was vexed.

I sometimes think that a school is like that
letter box in the forest. There are children at
school who are like silly letters, or empty letters,
and sometimes like bad letters. And I think it
is so sad — it is just like my friend at Cape Breton
coming miles through the lonely forest for letters
and finding none, or finding only letters that were
bad — when a young boy or girl is sent to a school,
and finds no one there on whose heart Jesus has
written His tenderness, or truth, or love. But it is
a blessing which words cannot tell, when coming
to a school, the young comer finds hearts and lives
on which Christ has written His love.

You remember the story in "Tom Brown's School
Days " about the gentle boy who knelt down the
first night he came to say his prayers, and the rude
fellows who made a mock of him ? But he found
one there on whose heart Christ had written, who
stood up for him. And a great blessing came into
the school through this one gentle boy, and that
other brave lad who defended him, being epistles
written by Christ. What was written on their
hearts came to be written by-and-by on the hearts
of those who had mocked.

84 TJie Gentle Heart.

I will give you therefore a prayer to offer up
at school. Say to God : " O my Father, blot out
folly if Thou seest it written on my heart ; blot out
everything there that is a grief to Thee, and write
Thy name and law instead ; and make me a clear,
well-filled epistle, to tell of the goodness I have
found in Thee."

ON PUTTING THE RIGHT THING
TIRST

ON PUTTING THE RIGHT THING
FIRST.

IT is a great thing in a child's Hfe to know the
first thing to seek after. It is greater still,
when that is known, to seek that first thing first.

What most people do is to seek some second
thing first, and the first thing second, or not at all.

Now there are just two things in life which
people seek after. These are right things and nice
things. And of these two, the first to seek after is
the right thing ; the second is the nice or pleasant
thing.

In the sermon on the mount, our Lord, speaking
of those two things, says — Seek the right thing
first, and the pleasant things will come after.
" Seek first the kingdom of God and His right-
eousness, and all these things," all pleasant things,
things like food and clothing, " shall be added

SS TJie Gentle Heart.

unto you." It is the same as if He had said, Seek
first what ye ought to seek, and God will send you
what you would like to get. The right things, the
things of God, and of heaven, and of the soul,
first ; the pleasant things, the things of the world,
of earth, and of the body, next. God, religion,
duty, first j honour, health, happiness, next.

I.

The great King Solomon began life by seeking
the best things first. He had sought knowledge
and wisdom from the prophet Nathan when a boy.
And when he was made king, hardly out of his
boyhood, he began his reign by seeking the help
of God. One of his first acts as a king was to take
his great captains, judges, and counsellors up to
the hill Gibeon, to ask this help from God.

It must have been a great sight, the beautiful
young king in his royal robes, the soldiers in their
armour, the counsellors and judges in their robes
of honour, as they went up the sides of the hill to
the place of prayer. Priests were there with sheep
and oxen for the sacrifice. There still was the
old tent which had gone with the people in all
their wanderings. There also was the brazen altar
which Bezaleel had made for Moses long before in

On Putting the Right Tiling First. 89

the wilderness. The air was filled with the clang
of trumpets as the king and his mighty men went
up. Then rose from the brazen altar the smoke of
the sacrifices. "A thousand burnt-ofi"erings did
Solomon offer upon that altar." A beautiful
sight ! But the beautiful thing at the heart of it
all was this — that it was a young king beginning
his life as a king by seeking the best things first.

On the night which followed that day of prayer,
Solomon was asleep in Gibeon. And God came
to him in a dream and said, " Ask what I shall
give thee." And even in the dream of the night,
the heart of the young king went out towards the
best things. He remembered that the kingdom
he was called to rule over was a great kingdom,
and he was still a mere lad. So he said, — " I am
but a little child, yet, O Lord. I know not how
to go out, or come in. And Thy servant is in the
midst of Thy people which Thou hast chosen, a
great people that cannot be numbered, nor counted
for multitude. Give, therefore, Thy servant, an
understanding heart to judge Thy people, that I
may discern between good and bad; for who is
able to judge this Thy so great people ? "

Now that was the right thing to seek. It was
therefore the best thing. And Solomon sought that

90 TJie Gentle Heart.

best thing first and received it. And God " added "
the pleasant things. He gave him riches, and
honour, and long life besides. " Because thou hast
asked this thing" — this best, right thing, and hast
not asked for thyself long life, or riches, or the life
of thine enemies, behold ... I have also
given thee what thou hast not asked, both riches
and honour, so that there shall not be any among
the kings like unto thee all thy days." It hap-
pened to him just as our Lord says: "Seek first
the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and
all these things," food and clothing, and a happy
life, and honour, " shall be added unto you."

II.

Now Solomon had a brother who took the
other plan. It was his brother Absalom. He
was an elder brother, but not a wiser brother.
This brother put the pleasant thing, the thing he
would like, first. And he put the right thing
second.

The thing he thought pleasant, and put first,
was to be king on his father's throne. He kept
saying to himself, " Oh, if I were only king ! "
He was a very beautiful man. And it was part of
his beauty that he had a fine liead of long and

On Putting the Right Thing First. 91

curly hair. And he was proud of this hair, and
sometimes would dress it, and show himself to the
people. At last he thought his hair would help
him to become king. So one day he dressed it,
and put on his princely robes, and sat at one of
the gates of Jerusalem, and as the people went out
and in, he kept saying, " If I were king things
should go better with you all."

Now that was a very pleasant thing to wish for,
to be king. But just then, and for Absalom, it
was not a right thing. For his father David was
still living. And he was still king. And the right
thing for Absalom, his son, was to honour and
obey his father, so long as that father lived. But
he did not honour his father. He wished his
father dead and away. His one wish, the wish he
put first among all the wishes of his heart, was to
be king in his father's place. Often he would look
at himself in a mirror and say, " What a splendid
figure I shall make seated on the throne ! " And
he thought day and night about it. And he wished
this evil wish. And to those who would listen
to him, he talked about it. Although he never
prayed to God, he began to pray to the people.
As they came in by the gates of the city, he said^
" Dear people, make me your king."

71 le Gentle Heart.

Some of the people were foolish and wicked,
and listened to his prayer. And they joined to-
gether to drive the old King David away from the
kingdom, and put beautiful young Absalom on the
throne. And Absalom and his people got swords
and spears, and began to fight. They got to-
gether a great army to drive out David. And
David was driven from his home and from Jerusa-
lem, and had to flee beyond Jordan.

But when this had gone on for a short while,
some of the people who still loved David, and
thought that right things should go before pleasant
things, came together with swords and spears also,
to fight against the army of Absalom. And there
was a great battle in the forest of Ephraim.
Absalom was there amongst his fighting men on
the batde-field. But as he rode about on his
royal mule he was separated from his own soldiers,
and met those of his father. And he was afraid,
and turned and fled back into the wood to hide
himself until they passed. But as he rode, his
beautiful hair was caught in one of the branches
of a tree. And his affrighted mule rode on from
under him. And he was left hanging between the
branches and the ground. The hair he was so
proud of held him fast, till his father's soldiers

On Putting the Right Thing First. 93

closed round about him, and put him to death.
Then they threw him into a ditch and covered
him with stones.

That was the end of Absalom. He put the
pleasant thing first, and the right thing last. And
he lost all— everything he had liked and worship-
ped, and sought after — his beautiful hair, the face
he had so often looked at in the mirror, his place
among the princes of Israel, his honour and
character as a son, and at last life itself.

III.

This has always been God's way. In all ages
and to all sorts of men, those who have put the
right things first have been blessed by Him : those
who have put the pleasant things first have been
troubled.

The prophet Daniel was a man who put the
right things first. He loved God. He loved pray-
ing to God. Three times a day, with his windows
open towards Jerusalem, where God's temple was,
he cried to God in prayer. But the wicked men of
Babylon hated this praying to God. And they
hated Daniel because he prayed to God. So they
got the king to say, that for thirty days everybody
was to pray to him, and to him only, and every one

94 The Gentle Heart.

who prayed to God, as Daniel did, should be cas
into a den of lions. What Daniel had to choose
between, therefore, was this right thing — praying
to God — and this pleasant thing^saving himself
from being cast into the den of lions.

I am sure life was as sweet to Daniel as it is
to you and me. It could never be a pleasant
thing to be cast into a den of lions. And he
might have said, " 'Tis only for thirty days." But
then, there was nothing wrong in being cast among
the lions. And it would have been quite wrong,
even for thirty days, to have stopped praying to
God, or to have prayed to the king instead of God.
The right thing to do was to keep on praying to
God; the pleasant thing, to keep from being
thrown to the lions. But when the two came
together, and he had to put one of the two first,
he put the right thing first. He kept on praying
to God.

Now it was not Daniel only who had to make
this choice. The bad men who got the king to
pass the wicked law, they also had a choice to
make. It was a pleasant thing for them to get
Daniel thrown to the lions. It is always pleasant
for bad men to get good men out of their way.
But although it was pleasant, it was wrong. And

0)1 Putting the Right Thing First. 95

it was very wrong. The right thing was to have
left Daniel free to pray to his God. The right thing
would have been to have said, "O king, do not
pass such a cruel law as that." But they put the
pleasant thing, which was also a cruel, wicked
thing, first. And from the right thing they hid
their eyes entirely.

See now how differently God dealt with Daniel
and with them.

Daniel had put the right thing first. He had
said, " I dare not stop praying to God." And
God did not forsake him when he was cast into
the lions' den. All that night, all through the
black hours, beside those hungry lions, face to face
with their sleepless eyes, God, unseen, stood by
His servant and shut their mouths.

But when the men who had put, not the right
thing, not God's honour and law, first, but their
own wicked and cruel pleasure, when they came
next day and were thrown, because of their wicked-
ness, in Daniel's stead, among the lions, God let
the fierce beasts open their mouths to destroy
them. In a moment the " lions had the mastery
of them, and brake all their bones in pieces, or
ever they came at the bottom of the den."

96 The Gentle Heart.

IV.

This is still God's way ; His law never changes.
Although twenty-four hundred years have passed
since He saved Daniel, He still puts a blessing on
all who like Daniel put the right thing first. And
He refuses to bless those who put the pleasant
thing first.

About thirty years ago there was a famous mas-
ter at one of our universities who used to give a
gold medal every year to the student who wrote
the best essay on " Truth." And year by year the
name of the student who gained the medal was set
up in letters of gold on the walls of that master's
class-room. One year there came up from the
country a young lad who wanted greatly to have
his name on these walls in letters of gold. And he
set his heart on winning the gold medal for the
essay on " Truth." As he was pacing to and fro
in the corridors of the university one day, thinking
what fine things he could put into his essay, the
author of an essay which gained the medal some
previous year went past. And in a moment it
flashed into the young student's mind, that if he
could get this essay to read, he might find out
from it what sort of essay was likely to win the
prize. So he went to the author and borrowed

On Putting the Right Tiling First. 97

the essay which had won the prize. But when
he read the essay he saw that it was far beyond
anything he could think or write. And the evil
thought came into his soul to copy it from begin-
ning to end, and send it in as his own. It would
be so pleasant to get the prize. It would be
so pleasant to have his name printed up on the
walls in letters of gold. It would be so pleasant
when he went back to the country to have the
neighbours and his old schoolfellows saying, *' That
is the man who got the medal of gold for the essay
on ' Truth.' " And he did that very thing. He
put all thought of what was right out of his soul.
He thought only of what was pleasant. He bent
the whole force of his mind to seek his own
pleasure. He neither sought righteousness, nor
fairness to others, nor truth, nor honesty, nor God.
He sat down and copied out the whole of the
borrowed essay, word by word, and put his own
name on the back of it, and sent it in to the
master as his own.

The master read the essay, and said, " This is
the best essay of the year \ it deserves the prize."
But, although he said that, some words in the
essay kept coming back to him, as if he had some-
where or other seen them before. And by-and-

H

98 The Gentle Heart.

by, the whole essay came back to his memory, and
he found out that it was the essay which had won
the medal two years before.

The Bible says, "Shame is the promotion of
fools." Instead of glory, this foohsh lad was to
have shame. The master brought the essay to his
class next morning, and told the whole sad, shame-
ful story, and ended by expelling the foolish writer
of it from his class. He had put the pleasant
thing first, the right thing last. He wanted honour
and a gold medal, and his name printed in letters
of gold ; but what he got was disgrace, and an evil
name that followed him all his days.

V.

I have just one thing more to say to you. We
have all got to put the right thing first, even when
no good can come to us in this world. God will
still bless us for doing it ; but the blessing may not
appear till we are in His presence in heaven.

One of our English poets has a beautiful ballad,
in which he tells the story of a little nurse who
acted in this heroic way. On the 31st of May,
1868, at Newcastle, this girl, Margaret Wilson, was
playing beside the railway, not far from the station,
with three younger children who were in her care.

On Putting the Right Thing First. 99

While they were in the midst of their play an engine
and its tender came gliding up.

" The dreadful weight of iron wheels
Among them in a moment steals,
And death is rolling at their heels !"

Maggie, seeing the danger, ran at once with a little
boy to the platform. But when she looked behind
for her other two babes, she saw them in the very
pathway of the engine. In a moment, without
thought of her own safety, she ran back. She had
just time to snatch them out of the advancing
wheels. And then, as with the quick thought of a
little mother, she planted them in the one possible
spot of safety there, — close up against the sunk
breast of the platform, between the platform and
the rails. She put the children inside. And she
covered them with her own body, — standing like a
wall between them and death. They were saved.
She was killed. The pleasant thing for Margaret
Wilson would have been to have got on the plat-
form herself. The right thing was to save the
children who had been put in her care. She put
right thing first. She was killed. But it was a
Christ-like deed she did that day. Although it was
done by a little nurse girl, an angel could not have
done it better. She saved the children whom it

100 The Gentle Heart.

was her duty to save : that was her glory. In

domg that, she had to die. But she died putting

the right thing first. No wonder the poet, who

has hfted her story into song, ends his ballad with

this burst of praise :

" My little heroine ! Though I ne'er
Can look upon thy features fair,
Nor kiss the lips that mangled were ;

" Yet thy true heart, and loving faith.
And agony of martyr death
God saw — and He remembereth." *

* F. T. Palgrave.

ON GIVING PLEASURE TO GOD,

ON GIVING PLEASURE TO GOD.

AT the beginning of a new year it is good to
ask, whether there is any thought we can
receive into our hearts which will help us to lead
better lives than we lived before.

There is one thought which very few have
opened their hearts to, which yet is one of the best
thoughts we can think. It is the thought that we
have been made, and are kept in life, that we
should give pleasure to God.

It will make a great difference in our lives when,
instead of doing things to please ourselves, or our
companions, we do everything to please God.

I once read a poem, by Mary Howitt, in which
this good thought is put into the lips of a very
little child. He was called Willie. One day
Willie's mamma saw him sitting very silent in the
sunlight, with all the men and women and the

1 04 The Gentle Heart.

beasts and birds of his Noah's ark set out in a row.
" What are you thinking about, Willie ? " said his
mamma. Willie answering, said :

"You know that God loves little children,

And likes them to love Him the same ;
So I've set out my Noah's Ark creatures,

The great savage beasts and the tame, —
I've set them all out in the sunshine.

Where I think they are plainest to see,
Because I would give Him some pleasure

Who gives so much pleasure to me."

It is true that it is only a very little child who
would think of giving God pleasure in that way.
But although the way of doing the good thing is
a little child's way, the thing itself is good to do.

It is good for everybody to try to give God
pleasure.

There was a great prophet in the world once,
in the days before the ark, who tried to do this,
and who did it all the days of his life. It was the
prophet Enoch. At the end of his life, the story
of his life told by God Himself was this : " He
pleased God." Not himself, not his friends, but
God. I have tried to see what it was in his life
that gave pleasure to God, and I find it was this,
that " He walked with God." Now you know why

On Giving Pleasure to God. 105

it is you walk with some young people and not
with others. It is because you know them and
love them, and know that they love you. Enoch
knew all that about God. He knew that God
loved him and he loved to be in God's company,
and to have God near to him in everything he
did. " He walked with God : " in the very way
God walked — the way of truth and right. " He
walked with God : " he had God for his friend, and
told Him by prayer all that was in his heart. " He
walked with God : " he went about with God doing
good, helping the helpless and trying to bring
people to God. Every day he would say to him-
self, " How can I please God to-day ? " And day
by day, he kept doing the will of God, and walking
out and in with God for his friend.

But there was a greater than Enoch who pleased
God. You remember this is the very thing which
the voice from heaven said of Jesus : ''This is My
beloved Son in whom I am well pleased." And
God was well pleased with Jesus. He began to
be pleased with Him even when He was a child.
It is said that Jesus, when He was a little boy
at Nazareth, " grew in favour both with God and
man." Could anything better ever be said of a
child's life ? To be in favour with God ! To

io6 The Gentle Heart.

have God well pleased with you ! That is to be
like Jesus Himself. And you may really be like
Jesus in this very thing if you do as He did. He
set Himself so to give pleasure to God that it
became His meat and His drink to do God's will.

A little girl came one day to the late Charles
Kingsley, and said: "Dear Mr. Kingsley give me
a song." And Mr. Kingsley, who had a great love
for children, wrote this song for her : —

*'Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long ;
And so make life, death, and that vast forever.
One grand, sweet song."

It is a great pleasure to God when His children
do noble things. But I wonder if the little girl
for whom this song was written, knew — I wonder
if you know— what the noblest thing ever done on
this earth was ! It was dying on a cross. It was
Jesus laying down His life to save the world.
Nothing else gave such pleasure to God as this.
Jesus died to let God's love be known. He died
that this love might shine in upon sad hearts and
sorrow-filled homes; and that the poor, and the
heavy laden, and those who are out of the right
way, like the prodigal in the parable, might be
drawn by it to God.

On Giving Pleasure to God. 107

To help children to be like Jesus in this, some
things are mentioned in the Bible which give
pleasure to God. It is a great pleasure to Him
to see His children sharing the good things He
has given them, — food, or clothes, or knowledge,
or happiness, — with those who have none. That
was the kind of sacrifice which Jesus made. He
gave up the life which His Father had given
Him, that all the world might share it. With
such sacrifices God is well pleased. It is a great
pleasure to God, also, when children honour and
obey their parents. Jesus did that. One of His
last thoughts on the cross was to make provision
for the honour and welfare of His mother Mary
when He was gone. But the greatest thing of all
in giving pleasure to God is love. It is impossible
to please Him unless there be some knowledge of
His love in our hearts, and some love to Him in
return. The heart of Jesus was filled with both
that knowledge and this love. And all who wish
to please God as Jesus did, and know these ways
of doing it, will earnestly try to follow them.

But this leads me to tell you what is the first
way of coming into this life of giving pleasure to
God. It is a way so simple that a very little
child can understand it. It is just letting God

io8 The Gentle Heart.

please you. Yes, that was the secret of the life
which the Lord Jesus Hved. He began by letting
His Father in heaven please Him. The desire of
God is to give pleasure to His children. There is
a psalm which speaks of God's ways with His chil-
dren, where it is said : " Thou shalt make them
drink out of the river of Thy pleasures." And
God sets Himself to give us this very pleasure.
He gives us the very things to be pleased with
which please Himself: — the river of His own
pleasures. This is the river of which it is said in
another psalm " it maketh glad the city of God."
And this river which maketh glad the city of God,
and is the river of God's own pleasures, — is nothing
other than the love which is in Jesus Christ, which
brought Him to die for us, and with which God is
ever well pleased. This is the way in which God
works when He is working in us to bring us to will
and to do His good pleasure. He begins by get-
ting us to be pleased with the Son in whom He
Himself is pleased. It is the same as if He said,
"See, this is He on whom My love is ever resting,
in whom I have endless joy. Take pleasure in
Him." And whoever is brought by God's great
kindness, to be pleased with Jesus and with the
things in Him with which God is pleased — and

On Giving Pleasure to God. 109

these things are love and mercy and truth — begins
in that very pleasure to give pleasure to God.

To be pleased with Jesus is a child's first step
in the life of giving pleasure to God.

Now I give you this good thought. I ask you
to admit it into your hearts. I advise you to take
it for the rule of your lives. Say in your own
heart to God, " O my Father, from this time forth
I will try to give pleasure to Thee."

In the fairy stories, the young prince or princess
who is setting out in the world always meets a kind
fairy who gives a cap, or a ring, or a flower, or a
ball, which must never be let go or lost, and it
will be help by the way. But this which I am
offering you is a better gift than any fairy could
give. This will be better than wishing-cap, or
ring, better than gold or silver. The child who
shall say, " I will from this day live to please God,"
will live a happy, good Hfe. And at the end, God
will tell the same thing about the life of that child
as He told about Enoch's and Christ's. He will
say, *' I have been well pleased with this child.

NICOLAS HERMAN.

NICOLAS HERMAxN.

ABOUT two hundred years ago there was
living in the city of Paris an old man who
was so holy, and in his holiness so happy, that
people came to him from far and near to learn
the secret of his life.

He lived in a great house with a company
of religious men. Among those men his place
was a very lowly one. He was their cook, and
it was down in the kitchen of their great house
that he had to spend his days.

For more than forty years this man lived in
that house doing this lo\vly service. And through
all those years, the one desire and joy of his
heart was to be always with God, and to do
nothing, say nothing, and think nothing which
might be displeasing to Him.

114 The Gentle Heart.

His name in his youth was Nicolas Herman,
but in his old age, Brother Lawrence. He was
born in Lorraine near the beginning of the seven-
teenth century. His parents were too poor to
give him much schooling, and although, in some
way or other, he learned to read, and in his old
age could write a sensible letter, he remained
through life without the learning which you to
whom I am speaking receive at school.

As a boy he was very uncouth and very stupid.
He was always doing awkward things. Nobody
who saw him then could have foretold that he
would one day cease to be awkward and become
careful and wise and helpful. It is only God
who can tell from the outside of a boy what sort
of man he will become.

But although Nicolas was poor and unlearned,
and in all his movements ungainly and awkward,
he had, even as a boy, a gentle heart. And one
day this gentleness showed itself in a very wonder-
ful way. It was a day in winter. Everything was
cold and bleak and bare. On this particular
day Nicolas walking about, happened to come
upon a tree that was leafless. Something drew
him to look at the tree, and as he stood before it,
ooking, the thought came into his mind that that

Nicolas Hcrmaji. 115

very tree, bare and dead though it seemed at
the time, would soon be all covered with leaves,
with bloom, and by-and-by with fruit. And there
came to him, in the very heart of this thought,
the thought of God. He seemed to see at a
glance that before all these changes could take
place, God must be present to work them. Only
God, working on the very spot, could bring back
life to the dead tree. His soul at that moment
caught sight of the great truth that God is every-
where present. He said to himself, " He is here,
on this very spot." He learned that day, that
God was not a God far off, but near. He was
so near that He would be present to cover that
tree once more with leaves. Standing before that
tree, he saw that he was standing in the very
presence of God. This nearness and presence of
God became one of the thoughts of his soul.

In a dim way at first, no doubt, but more and
more clearly as years went on, he saw God every-
where. From that day onward he lived as one
who had been admitted, for one happy moment
at least, into the presence of God. And I like
to think, that as he turned his steps homeward
that day, the poor, untaught, and awkward boy,
whom everybody was already trying to scold ijito

Ii6 The Gentle Heart.

less stupid ways, may have carried this new
thought hke a new joy in his heart, and said to
himself, "Poor and stupid though I be, God is
near me; and lowly though my father's cot is,
God is there."

This was the beginning of religion in his life,
but not yet of happiness. Nicolas had a long way
to go and many things to learn and suffer before
the happy years of his life began. A blessed
thought had been dropped by the Holy Spirit
into his soul. But it was as yet like a tiny seed
which has neither root nor stem. The happiness
which is in a holy life does not spring up in a
day. Sometimes it takes years to grow, and often
it has to be watered by our tears. At any rate,
that was the case with Nicolas Herman. He was
like the man spoken of in one of the psalms, who
went forth weeping bearing precious seed. But
it was to be a long time before he came back
rejoicing with the fruit.

He was only eighteen years of age when he
saw the vision of God's presence in the tree.
After that, he had to become a soldier ; and
when he was set free from being a soldier, he
became a footman in a private family. He was
still unhandy in his ways. His master said of

Nicolas Herman. 117

him that he was a great clumsy fellow, who broke
everything he was set to carry.

IT.

But this was only the outside of his life. All
this awkwardness and stupidity, this want of
handiness in doing things, was a sincere grief to
Nicolas. He did earnestly wish to have his
faults corrected. He was willing to submit to any
suffering by which his awkwardness should be put
away. And now, being a man, and being very
earnest about leading a right life, he began to
look about for the best means of having his faults
corrected, and he resolved at last that he should
apply for admission to the house of the Barefooted
Carmelites. There, he thought, I shall be taken
to task, and if I fail to do well I shall be punished.
And I am content to be punished until my faults
are removed. The brethren consented to receive
him into their kitchen and give him work as cook.

Now it was a custom with those brethren, before
receiving any new member into their company,
to put him upon trial for a time ; and during that
time the person wishing to become a brother was
put under instruction for his soul. This was a
very precious time for Nicolas. He got time to

TJie Goitle Heart.

think. But this at first brought him into new
trouble. When he came to think about himself
he found that much more needed to be put right
in him besides his awkward ways. The thought
that he was in God's presence led him to ask
himself what sort of object he must appear in the
eyes of the holy God. And then his heart sank
within him. He saw that he was a poor sin-laden
man, not worthy of a single glance from God.
He recalled evil words he had spoken and evil
deeds he had done, and thought that God, as the
just Judge, could have no choice but to banish
him for ever from His presence.

III.

But by-and-by — his history does not tell either
in what manner or at what precise time — the Spirit
of God directed him to look to the Cross and the
blood of Jesus. He then saw that the holy God
is a Saviour as much as a Judge, and that He is
full of love; that He gave His son to die for
sinners, and that there is cleansing for all sin in
the blood which Jesus shed. Nicolas was slow
to believe that there could be cleansing for him.
For four long years he feared that he should be
shut out from God's presence at last. And for six

Nicolas Herman. 119

years longer doubts of his Salvation came back
upon him from time to time. But all the while
there was this fine resolution in his heart : whether
he was to be saved, or shut out from salvation, he
resolved to do the thing that was right. " What-
ever becomes of me," he said, " whether I be lost
or saved, I will continue to act purely for the love
of God. I shall have this good at least, that till
death I shall have done all that is in me to love
Him."

Bat God did not leave him in this uncertainty.
He came to his help, as He always does to those
who are in earnest about their salvation. He
brought him out of all his fears and into perfect
happiness and peace, and He worked so great a
change upon him also that all his awkwardness
came to an end.

Although Nicolas never ceased to think meanly
of himself, or to look upon himself otherwise than
as a sinner, his whole view of God was changed.
Instead of seeing Him as a judge about to punish
a criminal at his feet, he saw Him as a gracious
King who had come down from His throne to
serve him. " This King," he said, " full of mercy
and goodness, very far from chastising me, em-
braces me with love, makes me eat at His table,

I20 TJic Gentle Heart.

serves me with His own hands, and gives me the
key of His treasures."

IV.

After that, the principal thing in Herman
which helped him to live a happy life, was the
lesson he learned in his boyhood, when he stood
before the leafless tree. A thought entered his
soul that day which never left him. It was the
thought that God is everywhere present. It was,
as I said before, a very tiny thought for him at the
first, a mere little seed of thought. But when the
Holy Spirit took him in after-years and set him
before the tree on which the Lord Jesus died, the
thought grew and spread and filled his whole soul.
He saw then that if God must be joresent to cover
a dead tree with leaves and fruit. He must much
more be present when a dead soul, like his own,
was to be changed into a living one. A strong
feeling took possession of him that he was always
in the presence of God, and a feeling not less
strong that it was his duty continually to remember
that fact. And to this duty he set himself. Day
by day, and every hour of the day, he said to his
soul : " Soul, thou art in the presence of God thy
King." At the beginning of his religious life, he
spent the hours appointed for private prayer in

Nicolas Herman. 121

forming the habit of remembering this presence.
He strengthened the habit by thinking often of
God's goodness and mercy and nearness. If
business took his soul away from the thought for a
little, he sought a fresh remembrance of it from
God. At length it came to be natural to him to
feel that he was every moment in the Divine pre-
sence. He was so much under this feeling, that
his prayers were like conversations with one who
was in the same room with him ; and sometimes
like a joyful sense of that presence, as if his soul
were telling its wants by simply looking into the
face of God. At such times he was insensible to
everything but the love of God. His highest joy
was to feel himself in the presence of that love.
It was a joy so sweet, that he likened it to the joy
of an infant at its mother's breast. Indeed, he
seemed to himself sometimes to be just an infant
drinking happiness out of the bosom of God, so
inexpressible was the sweetness he tasted in the
presence of his Lord.

V.

Another thing in Nicolas which made his life a
liappy one was his putting God's will always before
his own.

He had set his heart on being like the Friend in

122 TJie Gentle Heart.

whose presence he so much loved to be. And he
had learned that the nearest and best way to this
likeness was to let this Divine Friend rule him in
everything. So he placed himself altogether under
the will of God. He gave up everything to God,
that God might be everything in his life. He gave
himself. He gave body and soul. He gave will
and wish. He kept nothing back.

It was not easy to do this at first. But he
prayed for help. And all difficulty came to an
end. And it became both easy and pleasant, un-
til at last, next to the joy of being in the presence
of his Divine Friend, was the joy of giving up every-
thing for that Friend's sake.

His life, after that, was a life of obedience to
God. At every step in life, and in all things— in
things small as well as great — in things painful as
well as pleasant, he said to God, " Thy will, and
not mine, be done." He liked to remember how
much God had given up for him. He liked to fill
his soul with the thought that Jesus gave His life
to redeem him. And he looked upon himself, in
consequence, as one that belonged to God. " I
am not my own, but God's," he said. " And I will
think no thought, I will speak no word, I will do
no act except as God allows me."

Nicolas Herman. 123

And this was his life. His soul's ear was bent
to listen for the commands of God. His greatest
joy was in fulfilling these commands. He would
do no action and suffer no thought which he knew
to be contrary to them. His whole endeavour was
to let God work His will in him. He felt himself
so entirely in the hands of God, to do, or to suffer,
as it might please Him, that he sometimes likened
himself to a block of stone which a sculptor was
carving into a statue. God who loved him was
this sculptor. And Nicolas would present himself
as such a stone before God, and say, '' O my Best
Friend, my Maker, my Lord, shape me into Thine
own image : make me entirely like Thyself."

VI.

A great secret in the happiness of Nicolas was
the close connection he kept up between his re-
ligion and his daily tasks.

He took his religion with him into the kitchen.
He could not bear the error of some, that religion
was only for the church, and for religious meetings
Religion and business with Nicolas were not two
things, but one. He did all the work of a cook as
the servant of God and out of love to God. And
in the very humblest part of his duties he tried to

124 TJie Gentle Heart.

give pleasure to God. Like the Apostle, who said,
'' Whether ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do,
do all to the glory of God," Nicolas felt that
whether he was cooking in the kitchen, or worship-
ping in a church, he had all the same to glorify
God.

To this old man the kitchen was as holy a place
as a church. He was with God there ! Daily he
had sweet talk with Him as he went about his
humble duties. And the fireside, with its pots and
pans, and with its heats and smells, became like a
gate of heaven unto his soul.

And this was the more beautiful in him because
naturally he did not like the work of the kitchen.
But he put his dislike of the work aside and did it
joyfully out of love to God. He began every part
of his duties with silent prayer. As the work went
forward, he would lift up his heart again in prayer.
And when it was finished, he would give thanks to
God for helping him. Or, if he had failed, he
would ask God to pardon him. In this way his
distasteful work became a joy to him, and easy.
And it was so mixed up with prayer that his soul
was more united to God amid the tasks of the
kitchen than when he was in his private room.

Nicolas believed that a holy life did not depend

Nicolas Herman. 125

upon finding some high and heavenly kind of work
to do ; but in doing common work, the work of
every day, for the love of God. It is a holy life,
he held, to do for God's sake the things we com-
monly do for our own. He put great stress on the
doing of little things to God. He used often to
say, that Christians ought never to weary in doing
little services for His sake. " It is not the great-
ness of the work which God regards," he would say,
''it is the love with which it is performed."

A friend who saw him at his work in the kitchen
has borne witness how truly it was v/ork for God.
" His very countenance was edifying. There was
such a sweet and calm devotion appearing in it
as could not fail to affect the beholders. In the
greatest hurry he still preserved his heavenly-mind-
edness. He was never hasty nor loitering, but
did each thing in its season, with an even uninter-
rupted composure and tranquillity of spirit."

Nicolas himself said, " The time of business does
not with me differ from the time of prayer ; and in
the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several
persons are at the same time cahing for different
things, I possess God in as great tranquillity as if
I were upon my knees at the blessed sacrament."

126 The Gentle Heart.

VII.

There were many other tilings in this life which
helped to make it a happy one, which I should be
glad to tell about, but I must content myself with
one more.

Nicolas had such perfect faith in God that when
he brought any difficulty before Him in prayer,
when he came with some burden, or sorrow, or
care, he really left it with God. After laying it on
God, he did not suffer it to trouble him more.
And it was the same with his sins. When he had
once asked God to forgive him for some particular
sin, he left the sin with God, and believed that he
was forgiven, and went on to do the next duty on
his path. In this way, he had an almost unbroken
peace and joy of mind.

To people who came to ask him about the way
of happiness, he was accustomed to say: "Keep
the thought of the Presence of God ever in your
hearts ; and give yourselves entirely to the study
of His love, and you will come to perfect happiness.
The more you know of His love, the more you will
wish to know ; and the greater your knowledge
is, so much deeper will be your love, and so much
greater your desire to be continually in His com-
pany. Cast everything out of your hearts, that

Nicolas Herman.

God may have the whole room to Himself. And
when God has taken up His abode there, trust
Him in everything to the end of your lives."

Writing some advices of this sort when he was
about eighty years of age, he added, " I hope
from God's mercy the favour to see Him in a few
days." And within a few days he went home to
be with God for ever.

.^,^:5

GOD'S THOUGHTS ABOUT LIT7LE
PEOPLE.

GOD'S THOUGHTS ABOUT LITTLE
PEOPLE.

THE story of Naaman the Syrian is one of
many stories in the Bible which show us
the thoughts of God about little people.

Perhaps everybody in Syria, certainly everybody
in Naaman's house, thought Naaman's wife, or
Naaman himself, the greatest person of the house.
But in the sight of God, the greatest person v\^as
the little captive out of the land of Israel, the little
maid who waited on Naaman's wife.

God needed some one to remember Him in
Syria, and to speak for Him in Naaman's house.
Naaman could not do it. He did not know
God. He knew the King of Syria and the king's
captains, and the king's fighting men ; and he
knew all about swords and shields, and bows and
arrows, and battles. But he knew nothing a.bout

132 The Gentle Heart.

God. No more did the great lady who was his
wife. He and she were mighty people in the
land, but they were poor heathens all the same,
and did not know God. But the little maid who
served in their house knew Him. She knew more
than the mighty man her master did, more than
the lady she waited on did. She knew God.
She was only a little girl, a mere servant, and a
slave besides — one of the poorest saddest kinds oi
servants — but it was she and not any of the great
people^she and no one else in all that Syrian
land — whom God chose to remember Him. Of
this poor, humble slave girl He said : " This child
shall be My greatest here. She shall speak for Me
in this heathen land, and tell of My power and
My love."

II.
The next thing this story shows is, that it was
not because this poor girl was little, or because
she waited on Naaman's wife, or because she had
been brought away captive out of the land of
Israel, that God chose her to be His greatest
servant in Syria and to speak for Him in Naaman's
house. It was because she only in all that land
knew God and was able to tell of His power and
His love.

God's Thoughts about Little People. 133

God does not choose people for His great
places because of outside things, but only and
always because there is knowledge of Him and
love to Him in the heart. Big bulk or little bulk,
riches or poverty, palace or hovel, — God passes
these things and things like these by. He searches
for knowledge of Himself, for love to Himself, and
where He finds these, in high or low, in bond or
free. He makes His choice. If He finds these
in a hovel, and in the poorest form on earth, or in
a child, even if that child should be a slave, and
one who is counted nobody in the house she
serves. He will not pass by. His choice will rest
there. He will lift up that little child, that slave
who is nobody in the house, and give her a place
beside Himself, and say to her : " Thou shalt
speak here for Me."

It was because this little captive out of the land
of Israel knew God, and alone in all Syria knew
Him, and because she loved Him and was good, for
this reason, and for no other, God chose her to be a
speaker for Him.

III.

The third thing this story helps us to understand
is, that if the little captive out of the land of Israel
knew God better and loved Him better than any-

134 The Gentle Heart.

body in Syria, it was because she had been taught
to do that before.

Knowledge of God does not grow up in the
heart, any more than knowledge of stars or trees
or books. Just like other lessons, it has to be
learned and got by heart. And once on a time,
on her mother's knee, or at school, in happier
days, this little captive had had to learn this lesson.
And not once but many times she had to learn
it, and to set her whole heart on learning it. And
not once but many times she had to answer when
her mother or her teacher tried her to see if she
had learned aright. And being in those days a
mere child, I dare say, sometimes, when she heard
her companions shouting outside at their play, her
eyes would fill with tears, and she would say to
herself : " It is so tiresome to be learning lessons."
But now her life is all changed. She looks back
to those days as the happy days of her life. Now
also she sees the good, which then she did not
see. And now, with tears of a different kind in
her eyes, she thinks thankfully of the dear father
and mother who kept her at her lessons and
taught her concerning God.

And, although this thought never came into her
mind, although she never dreamed when she was

God's Thoughts about Little People. 135

telling her mistress of Samaria and the prophet
there that she was doing anything great or good,
it was because, in the happy years of her life, she
had been taught to know God and love Him, that
God, in her sad years, put this crown on her life
and made her a speaker for Him.

IV.

By this story we may learn next some of the
reasons which God has for sending trouble to
children.

Unless this little maid had suffered, she could
not have been just where God wanted her to be,
when she was needed to speak for Him. She
suffered things the very hardest to bear which a
child can suffer. Only a few years back — perhaps
only a few months back — she was a happy little
girl in one of the homes in Israel. The land of
Syria, where she now was, joins on to the land
where she was born. As she went out with her
mistress along the Syrian roads she could see the
hills of her native land. Yes ! on those very
hills, bkie in the distance, lie the ruins of her once
happy home. As she casts her eyes that way the
vision of the cottage on the hill-side comes back
into her heart, and the faces and forms of the dear

136 The Gentle Heart.

ones who loved her there. Father, mother, sisters,
brothers, she sees them all again, she hears their
voices, she joins with them in the morning and
evening psalm. And then that vision passes, and
another comes into its place, and it is night, and
there is a sudden tumult on the hill. A storm of
wild shouting rouses them all out of sleep. The
door is burst open. Fierce soldiers burst in. She
sees the blood on her father's face from his death
wound. She sees her mother tied with ropes and
led away to be sold ; and all the children led out,
and all separated ; and she is an orphan and a
slave ; and hfe has changed for her and for them
for evermore.

If, when all that horror fell into her young life,
she thought of God and of the Divine love her
father and mother trusted in, it must have seemed
a great darkness to her. Could God love them
and suffer such misery to fall upon them ? And
what could God's thoughts concerning herself be
when He suffered her to be carried away captive
out of the land of Israel ?

If such thoughts came into her mind at the time
of her suffering, the explanation of them comes
now. Now she learned why she had to pass
through so much. By the steps of sorrow and

God's TJioiigJUs about Little People. 137

bereavement she was led to Naaman's house, and
to the daily spectacle of his leprosy, and into the
confidence of the lady she served, and to a
moment when she pitied her master with the pity
of God that was in her heart, and to another
moment when she told of the prophet who could
heal her master, and last of all, to the happy
day when she saw him returning from that prophet,
after his flesh had come to him again " like unto
the flesh of a little child."

And more than all that, although she herself
could never know this, through the tribulations she
sufl"ered she passed up to a place among God's
throned ones — ^among the saintly women and holy
men who spake and acted for Him in the days
of old. And although we do not know her name,
God knows it, and the holy angels know it, and
one day we too shall know it.

V.

Now, although I have tried to mix up the
lessons with the story itself, there are three which
I should like to put a special mark on, because
they are lessons which it is good for children
to get by heart.

The first is, that you should not despise ser-
vants. Perhaps God has sent one of His angels,

13S The Gentle Heart.

or helpers, in the form of a servant into your
home, as He sent the little maid from Israel into
Naaman's.

The next is, that you should not weary over
the lessons you have to learn at school. You
never can know till long after — and this little maid
from Israel did not know till long after — the good
which lessons — especially lessons about God — ■
will bring to those who have learned them well.

And the last is, that you should not look
upon sickness and bereavement as altogether evil.
There is good in the heart of the evil. Often
they are messengers sent from God to draw you
nearer to His heart. It is a trial very hard to
bear when God takes father or mother away.
And the home is very dark when He takes both.
But for children to whom this trial is sent, as for
the child who had been carried away captive out
of the land of Israel, God's purpose is love. By
the very things they suffer they may be prepared,
as this little captive was, to be helpers of others
who suffer, and in the end to bring them, as she
brought Naaman, to God.

THE PATIENCE OF MARGARET HOPE.

THE PATIENCE OF MARGARET HOPE.

WHEN cholera came the second time to
this country, a poor young lass in a
Scottish village was beginning to learn the great-
ness of God's love for His people. But there was
one thing she saw caused her to fall into great
trouble of soul. She saw that the terrible sickness
made no difference between the good and the
bad. It even sometimes passed the doors of
people notorious for their evil lives and entered
those of the best-living servants of God.

She would not have been surprised if any night
the sickness had come to herself. She had not
yet learned to think of herself as one whom Jesus
loved. What troubled her was, that the sickness
fell on homes which she had all her days looked
upon as protected by His love,

Her trouble took its rise in the niqety-first

142 The Gentle Heart.

psalm, the psalm which the Tempter quoted when
he wanted the Saviour to cast Himself down from
a pinnacle of the Temple. In that psalm, when
a little girl at school, she had learnt by heart these
words : —

' ' No plague shall near thy dwelling come,
No ill shall thee befall ;
For thee to keep in all thy ways
His angels charge He shall."

And through all the years which had gone over
her since, she had believed that these words were
a promise which the faithful Saviour would be
sure to fulfil. Yet now a time had come to her
native village in which fulfilment of this promise
might be looked for ; and there was no fulfilment
of it.

She said to her soul : " Soul, has God forgotten
His promise ? Or, are those on whom the plague
has fallen not His people ? Or, are the words
mere words and no promise? Or, is it I who
am ignorant and have not yet learned what they
mean ? " And her soul repHed : " Margaret,
Margaret Hope, art thou not as yet a mere child
in the Scriptures ; and dost thou dare to ask
of its words, if they are mere words and no pro-
mise ? "

The Patience of Margaret Hope. 143

At that, a great silence fell upon Margaret's
soul. And she took up her Bible and the psalm
which had plunged her into trouble, and began
to read, and think, and pray, and to sit like a
child at the feet of God, until He should be
pleased to give her the right understanding of the
words.

For fourteen days, almost day and night, taking
little sleep, eating little food, her soul sat in this
silence, in this search for God's meaning, at the
feet of God. Do not smile at her, you who have
had parents or teachers to tell you the m.eaning
as you read : you who see the meaning all clear.
She had no parent, no teacher, no help from
man. She was in darkness and had to work
her own way through the darkness to the truth.
But she bent herself with all her young strength
and heart to find the truth. Verse by verse, word
by word, poring over each, praying over each,
she read. It seemed so plain, so clear : " There
shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any
plague come nigh thy dwelling," that she was
sometimes in despair of ever seeing anything else
in the words. Then she would read the psalm
from beginning to end : then she would compare
it with other psalms and other passages of Scrip-

144 The Gentle Heart.

tLire. And still no light came to her. There
was the promise — clear as a sunbeam : " Neither
shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling;" and
there, outside, at that very moment, was a real
plague wrapping the dwellings of God's people
round and round with the fog of death.

At length, however, light began to dawn upon
her, but in a strange, unlooked-for way. An as-
surance fell upon her soul and spread gently over
it, that although she might never come to see the
real meaning, the words were God's ; and, in His
good time, if not here in this world, then in the
next. He would make their meaning plain to her.
And she was thanking God for this, and was
about to close the Bible for the night and rest in
what she had come to, when her eye caught the
first words of the previous psalm — the ninetieth—
and in a moment the whole rich meaning of the
ninety-first flashed into her soul and through and
through her like a sudden burst of morning light.
" Lord, Thou hast been a dwelling-place in all
generations." Thou ! God Himself. This, — not
the house in the city, or the village, but God
Himself, — was the dwelling which no plague
could enter, which no evil could touch. The
great dark wall of her ignorance fell down. The

The Patience of Margaret Hope. 145

psalm which troubled her was a psalm which set
forth God as the dwelling-place and habitation
of His people. And the promise was to those
who made Him their habitation. A great joy-
took hold of her, and a new deep trust in God.
She was like one whom an angel has lifted nearer
heaven. She felt that God was, indeed, a dwell-
ing-place for His people ; and even, although at
first in a timid way, that He would be a dwelling-
place for her. Then, like a child to its mother,
she went closer to God, taking refuge in His love
and goodness, until at last she rose into all the
joy of knowing and having God as the dwelling-
place of her soul.

But when God sends a joy like this into any
soul, it is always because it has some work to do.
It is Hke the food He gave to Elijah under the
juniper- tree, in the strength of which the prophet
had to go forty days and forty nights. And so it
turned out with Margaret Hope. The pestilence
did not touch her. But when that was beginning
to be forgotten, at the end of five years from the
time of her soul's trouble, a great trial fell on her.
A disease almost worse than the pestilence laid
hold of her face. And, first, one little bit of her
face and then another was eaten away, until at last

L

146 TJie Gentle Heart.

the whole centre of her face was gone. Margaret
could no longer go out of doors — except at night.
The doctors hung a patch of green silk over her
face, but it was so painful to look upon, that she
had no choice but to shut herself up in her room.
And she became a prisoner. Except far away-
over the roofs of the houses she never saw the
green fields again, nor a flower, except when pity-
ing friends brought her a posy from their gardens.
Morning after morning she rose to her weary task
of winding pirns for the weavers in the village.
A little girl came daily to do her few messages,
and that was her outer life. But it was not her
real life. Her real life was hid with Christ in God.
Her real home also was in God. She never went
back from the joy which she had learned from the
two psalms. Day by day she said to her soul :
'' Soul, thou art not in an attic as I am, nor do
thine eyes look forth from over a face all wasted
with disease. Thou dwellest in mansions on high,
in God Himself, and thine eyes behold the King
in His beauty." It was while Margaret was in
the first stages of this trial that I first visited her.
I found her studying her Bible. And very soon
I found myself listening with all my soul to what
she had found in her Bible. She had a wonderful

The Patience of Margaret Hope. 147

insight into the meaning of the Bible. And she
had a still more wonderful belief in the reality
of it. But her strongest, surest belief was this,
that God was the habitation of His people, and
that there no evil, nor plague, nor wasting of flesh,
nor disfigurement of face could come.

Circumstances led me to remove from that
village to a distant city. And ten years went past
before I saw Margaret again. And by that time
a still heavier affliction had come to her. She
was blind. As I went up the wooden stairs that
led to her attic, I saw her door open, and her own
form standing in the light. " I knew it was you,"
she said, " I have not forgotten your step." I
spoke of her blindness as a great calamity. But
she said : " There's no blindness in the house my
soul lives in. No,— no night there, you know."
''But tell me, Margaret/' I said, "tell me the very
truth : is that word still a joy for you ? Do you
not feel your blindness to be an evil ? "

She was knitting a worsted stocking as I spoke,
and she stopped, laid her knitting things asidej
and said : " If I were always right myself, that
word would never fail me. I did think my blind-
ness a great trial when it came. And in my grief
there was, as it were, a veil over my soul. And

148 The Gentle Hem't.

I did not see, and I did not feel that it was true
in the way I used to feel, that no evil can come
nigh the dwelling. But that was only for a little
time. I came back to my faith in God. And He
brought me back to my vision of love and good-
ness in Him."

As she was speaking a mavis began to sing on a
tree outside. "Do you hear that?" she said
eagerly. " That is a joy I never fully knew till I
became blind. The mavis, and the blackbird, and
the lark, and the red-breast, ay, and the very
sparrows, have been sent into my darkness by
God to cheer me. And in their different seasons
they sing to me morning and evening, and all the
day long. Oh, I have many joys. I think I see
God better since I became blind. It is a dark
world, no doubt, I live in ; and to me who cannot
go out at all now, it seems sometimes very dark.
But dark though it be, I aye see a throne in the
midst of it, and my Saviour sitting on it for me.
And I hear the song of the four-and-twenty elders,
and the four living ones and the angels saying :
' Worthy is the Lamb that was slain.' "

I rose to leave, and as I did so I said : " Well,
Margaret, one thing I see, that the good Lord is
perfecting patience in you. And you are, no

The Patience of Margaret Hope. 149

doubt, learning obedience as the Lord did by the
things you suffer."

" Do not say that, sir," was her reply. " My
patience at its best is but impatience beside
Christ's. And sometimes I am very impatient.
My face and my eyes pain me, and I am often
sick. And in these times I am a cross to every-
body who comes near me. And at these times
the light goes out of my soul, and the vision of my
home in God becomes dim. And I say to myself,
* Oh, Margaret, Margaret, thou art fallen now from
thy dwelling on high, and thy place of refuge is
no longer the heart of God, and thou art back to
thy miserable attic, and to thy blindness, and to
thy face that cannot be seen.' But God is very
kind to me. He^ ever comes near to me, and
gives me grace to repent. And He hides me in
His tabernacle as before, and says to me : ' Thine
eyes shall see the King in His beauty again.' And
I am just waiting His time, when He shall lift me
out of the attic to Him.self, into His own presence,
from which by temper, or sickness, or sin, I shall
no more go out."

I was drawing my hand away to leave ; but she
grasped it tightly, and said : "Do not leave me.
You have only been an hour. What is an hour

ISO The Gentle Heart.

in ten years ? And to one that nearly all these
years has been blind ? ''

She held me for some time longer. And still
she talked about the ways of God. Meantime a
shower of rain began to fall, and we could hear
its gentle pattering on the slates. Then she let
me go. Then her voice grew very tender as if
she were praying, and she said : " May the eternal
God be thy refuge for ever. No evil shall befall
thee there, neither shall any plague come nigh thy
dwelling."

I never saw her again. But to this day when I
hear the rain pattering on the slates I seem to be
back in her lonesome attic, and to feel the clasp
of her feeble hand. And a voice rises within me
like the voice of a soul in prayer, and I hear once
more the words : '* May the eternal God be thy
refuge for ever. No evil shall befall thee there,
neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling."

THINGS WHICH GOD HATH
PREPAREDP

THINGS WHICH GOD HATH PRE-
PARED."

ONE day a mother and her son were travelling
in an Eastern land. It is different there
from what it is in England. In this country we
have dew and rain and wells and rivers, and our
rivers never run dry. But in the East the sun is
sometimes so hot that it dries up the dew and the
rain and w^ells and rivers. And the grass is burned
up, and the leaves fall from the trees, and there is
no water to drink, and people die of thirst.

It was Hagar and Ishmael her son, who were
travelling in that hot land. They had been sent
away from Abraham's tent. The water they
brought with them in their skin bottle was all
spent. The hot sun beat upon their heads. And
poor Ishmael grew sick for want of water, and was

154 The Gentle Heart.

near to die. It was a wilderness into which they
had come. There were neither roads, nor houses,
nor inns in it. And they could find no wells with
water in them, no cool rushing streams, no green
pastures, no shady trees. There was only the hot
earth, with the blistering rocks and the burned up
grass beneath their feet, and, above their heads,
the blazing sun.

When people are very sad they are often not
sure about their way ; tears blind the eyes. Hagar
was very sad. She loved Abraham. He was the
father of her boy. His tent had been her home
for many years. It was the only home the boy
ever knew. And now she was homeless. And
her boy had no father to care for him. And he
was about to die in the wilderness. What was
she to do ? She could not carry him, he was a
big grown up lad. And she could not bear to
be beside him when she was not able to give him
help. Poor Hagar ! She did the best she could.
There was a little clump of brushwood near, and
she laid him down there, in the shadow. She
herself drew back a little, and burst into tears;
she could not bear to lose her boy, or to see
him die.

But just "then, when things were at the worst,

" Tilings wJiicJi God hath P repaired!' 155

she heard a voice. It was the voice of an angel.
" What aileth thee, Hagar ? " the voice said ; " God
hath heard the cry of thy child." And suddenly,
it was as if scales fell from the poor mother's eyes,
and she saw there, in that very place, the thing she
most wished to see, a well with water in it. In a
moment her heart was filled with gladness. Her
tears dried up. And she made haste and brought
of the water to her boy, and he drank and did not
die. Now God did not make that well that day ;
the well was there, although Hagar did not see it
at first. The well had been there perhaps from
the beginning of the world. It was prepared by
God, and prepared for Hagar and her boy. Just
there, where it was wanted by these two, God had
prepared it, preserved it from being filled up, kept
water in it, all ready, for years and years, till the
day when Ishmael should need to drink of it and
live.

Two young students were sitting one winter
evening beside a fire. They had had a long talk
together, and mostly about God. One of the two
had lost sight of God and could not find Him
again. He had been telling his friend this very
fact, and saying that he could find no sign of Him
in the \vorld, or in his own heart.

156 The Gentle Heart.

It was no joy to this young soul that he had lost
sight of God. He was not one of the evil class
who sit in the chair of the scorner. He was filled
with the same kind of sorrow that one has who has
lost a friend. He had willingly listened to all that
his companion had to say to him. And then the
talk between the two ceased, and they were sitting
silent, looking into the fire.

" Oh, my friend," said the one who had lost
sight of God, "sitting as we are doing now, I
sometimes see faces of people I have known, in the
fire. From my heart I wish I could see the face
of God there."

The friend said : " And does not something
like God's face really shine out from this fire?
Would there have been any fire for us two this
night if some loving One had not been think-
ing of us before we were born ? Who made the
coals which are burning there? Who stored
them up in the earth for the children of men ?
Who gave the eyes to find it, and the hands to dig
it out ? "

His companion did not answer, and he went on.
" I do not wonder that people used to believe that
fire was stolen from heaven. It is just like a thing
that came from heaven. It turns winter into

" Things which God hath Prepared^ i^'j

summer and night into day; it cheers us, warms
us, brightens our home for us. It renders us a
thousand services which it must have been intended
to render, and which seem to compel one to think
that it was prepared by God for our use."

I cannot tell what effect these words had on
the young man who had lost sight of God. But
the well which Hagar found prepared for her, and
what this young student said to his sorrowful friend,
have set me a-thinking of the things which God
has prepared.

We are living in a world which is full of things
prepared. A fire far bigger than the one those
young men sat beside has been prepared and kept
burning by God for a longer time than you or I
could tell. The sun is a fire around which all
living things are gathered. It is life, and heat,
and health, and light, and joy, and movement to
man and beast, to birds and trees. It sends its
heat and power into all things, and makes all
things fruitful, and active, and glad.

And not the sun only, but moon, and stars,
and hills, and streams, and fruitful fields. An old
English poet has said this in words which every
child should have by heart :—

158 TJie Gentle Heart.

For us the winds do blow ;
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow.

Nothing we see but means our good,

As our delight, or as our treasure.
The whole is, either our cupboard of food

Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed ;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws ;
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind.

And all things have been prepared for us by God.
He has brought us into a heritage that is very fair,
and He has filled it with things good for our use.

When the children of Israel came up out of the
wilderness into the Land of Promise they found
houses, and gardens, and walled cities, and vine-
yards, and olive yards, and ploughed fields, and
rich pasture lands all prepared for them. It is
God's way in dealing with His children. He
prepares good things for them first, and then
brings them in to love Him and serve Him in
the enjoyment of these. ''See," He said to the
children of Israel afterwards, speaking by the
mouth of Joshua : " I have given you a land for
which ye did not labour, and cities which ye built
not, and ye dwell in them \ of the vineyards and
olive yards which ye planted not do ye eat. Now,

''Things which God hath Prepared!' 159

therefore, fear the Lord and serve Him in sincerity
and truth."

And it is just this way God has dealt with you
to whom I am this day speaking. You came from
God as babies into this Christian land. When you
opened your eyes and began to look about you
you found yourselves in homes prepared for you,
with loving mothers and fathers waiting to take
care of you. You found yourselves in a land of
churches, and days of worship, and Bibles, and
schools, and teachers. Around the fire on winter
evenings you have listened to stories of patriots
who fought and of martyrs who died, for their
country and for truth ; these very stories are part
of what God has prepared for you in this happy
land. Beside you, perhaps in the same street
or village in which you live, are men and women
who have given themselves to God, and who every
day of their lives, quietly and unseen, are going
about doing good : these also, to be a help and
example to you, have been prepared for you by
God. But, more wonderful and better than all, in
this very land you can find God Himself There
is no spot in it from which the cry of a child's
heart will not reach Him. And here, as in Judaea
long ago, His Son is taking up children in His

i6o Tlie Gentle Heart.

arms to bless them, and is healing the sick and
opening the eyes of the blind, and saying to the
poor and the heavy laden : " Come unto Me and
I will give you rest." And all this is part of the
things which God has prepared for those who love
Him.

There is a hymn we sometimes sing, which
begins with the words, '' I'm but a stranger here."
In that hymn it is said, " Earth is a desert drear."
But the meaning is not that the beautiful earth
itself which God has prepared for our dwelling-
place is a desert. The meaning is that it looks
like a desert to eyes that have lost sight of God.
It is like a desert also to people like Hagar, who
are in sorrow, whose eyes are blind with tears
because those they love have died or, are about
to die.

But for people in these circumstances, and for
all to whom for any cause the beautiful earth looks
like a desert, God has prepared a well more
wonderful than that which Hagar saw. Jesus was
speaking of this well when He said to the woman
of Samaria, "whosoever drinketh of the water that
I shall give shall never thirst." Jesus Himself
— as the Word of God — is this well. He is the
well in which the water of life springs up, the

'* Things ivJiich God JiatJi Prepared!' i6i

well which the saints in heaven drink of, of
which God Himself drinks. And it has been
prepared for us by God, prepared in Jesus,
into whom for us the living water has been
poured. And Jesus, thinking of Himself as this
well of heaven, calls upon all to come unto Him
and drink.

I read once of a young German student who
found out this well. He was like one in a wilder-
ness where he could not find God. Like Ishmael,
he was dying for thirst, but it was the sight of
God for which he was thirsting. Day and night
his cry was, " Oh that I knew where I might find
Him ! " He saw himself to be a poor sin-laden
creature, who was shut out by his sins from the
presence of God. Day and night he sought after
God. He sought in the church and could not
find Him there. He shut himself up in his room,
and cried out in the darkness, and could not find
Him there. He saw the faces of saints and holy
prophets in the fire, but never the face of God.
His soul was faint within him for want of God.
But one day he went into the library of the college
where he was studying, and there, on the shelves,
all covered with dust, he found the very well for
whose water his soul was thirsting ; he found the

M

1 62 The Gentle Heart.

Bible. There it was, all ready for him, waiting for
him, prepared by God hundreds of years before,
put there, in that very spot, for him by God.
And the young man opened it and read and found
the story of Christ in it, and the way by which a
soul must go to find God, and how in Jesus a well
has been opened for all sin, and that whosoever
drank of that well should be cleansed of sin, made
holy, and live for ever. It was Martin Luther
who found the Bible in this wonderful way, and
also found, as we also shall do if we try, that it
is a well in the desert, a well into which God has
poured water of truth and life for the soul to drink
of and to live.

One of the wonderful things which Luther read
in the Bible was the story of an old prisoner in
Rome. The old man was chained to a soldier,
and thinking sad thoughts. It was the great Paul.
For telling men that Jesus was a well of salvation
he had been sent by wicked men to prison. And
now his trial was coming on, and his judge was a
very evil man, and Paul was thinking in his own
heart that the judgment might go against him. It
was something like this which was passing through
his mind: "My enemies are cruel, my judge is
bad, and I may be condemned to die." Then he

" Things which God hath Prepared!' 163

thought of the work which remained to be done.
Then he wondered who should do his work if he
were put to death. Then he looked into the
lonesome grave and across into the world beyond ^
and there he saw, all prepared for him, the very
sight his sad soul wished to see ; he saw Jesus on
the throne of God. It was like seeing a Avell in a
desert ; it was like drinking of living water when
the soul is faint with thirst. " Jesus reigns," he
said to himself. " The work will go on, though I
should die; and if I die, I shall go to Him."

When you and I come to the end of our lives
may we see the vision which Paul saw, and be
able to say with him, " To live is Christ, to die is
gain." And may we know that we are going home
to our Father's house, and to places there prepared
for us by Christ.

We shall never know the beauty of these places
till then. "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,
neither have entered into the heart of man, the
things which God hath prepared for them that
love Him."

CHRIST RESHAPING THE SOUL.

CHRIST RESHAPING THE SOUL.

IN the city of Florence, more than four hundred
years ago, there happened to be a great block
of marble. At that time the people of Florence
loved to have marble figures of saints and angels
in the streets and squares of their city. The rulers
of the city, wishing in this to please the people,
sent for a carver of marble and said to him, "Take
this block of marble and carve it into a statue
for our city." But the man to whom this was
said was careless or unskilful. He spoiled the
block. He cut into it here and there, but brought
out no statue. And it was cast aside, and lay in
one of the building-yards of the city, covered with
sand and rubbish, until it was looked upon as a
worthless thing.

When the marble had lain in that place nearly

1 68 The Gentle Heart.

forty years, a young man, who is now known as the
great Michael Angelo, had occasion to be in the
yard where it lay. And seeing the block buried in
the rubbish, he said, " I wish the rulers of the city
would give this to me to carve." " But it is spoiled
for carving," said a friend. " Not so spoiled," an-
swered Angelo, " that there is not an angel inside
still." The rulers hearing of this, and looking upon
the block as worthless in its present state, said,
" The young carver might go to work upon it and
let the angel out." So he cleared it from the
rubbish, took his hammer and chisel, and began to
carve. And bit by bit the misshapen block came
into shape. And at last, when his carving was
ended, there stood before the eyes of the citizens
a splendid figure of David with his sling. And
this the citizens set up with joy in their city,
and it is one of the great sights of Florence to
this day.

When I read this story the other day, in the
Life of Michael Angelo, I said to myself, "It is
like the history of man upon the earth. First there
is the fair unspoiled marble of human life, the first
life in the garden, as made by God ; then there is
the marred life, the life misshapen by sin ; then the
beautiful new form of life, the new shapely Chris-

Christ Reshaping the Soul. 169

tian life, wrought in us by Jesus Christ. It is also
like the story of the Prodigal. First there is the
fair boy, the innocent life, with the promise of all
good in it, in the early home; then there is the spoiled
boy, the boy who would be a lord to himself, who
took his life into a far land, and marred and wasted
it all by sin ; and then there is the boy new made,
forgiven, clothed, and in his right mind, received
back into the home once more."

This led me to think of other lives I had known
or read about, — lives that had been marred by sin
and cast out as worthless, just as the block of mar-
ble had been. And then I went on to think of the
merciful Saviour finding these lives in their lost-
ness, and lifting them up out of the dust, and re-
shaping them, and making them beautiful with the
beauty of His own life.

The first I thought of was John Bunyan, who
wrote "Pilgrim's Progress." There was never a
young life more like a marred block than hiis when
he was a boy. You have all read the " Pilgrim's
Progress." You remember the story of Christian
and his burden, the evil city from which he fled,
and the wicket gate through which he escaped, and

I/O The Gentle Heart.

the cross where his burden fell off, and the open
grave into which it fell. You remember the strange
things which happened to him after that, the strange
places he saw, and the people he met by the way.
And you cannot have forgotten the river he passed
over at last, or the songs which were sung as he
and Hopeful were led up to the gate of the Celestial
City on the other side.

Could you imagine that the man who wrote that
wonderful story had once been a rude, godless, and
wicked boy ? Yet that is his own account of his
early life. Bad companions, and ignorance, and
his own foolish heart led him into evil of every
kind. "It was my delight," he says, "to be taken
captive by the devil at his will ; being filled with
all unrighteousness, so that from a child I had few
equals, both for cursing, lying, and blaspheming
the name of God."

John was a tinker, and the son of a tinker, in the
town of Elstow. He had been taught to read, but
forgot it. He was idle and given to play. When
he grew up to be a lad, for a short time he had
to become a soldier, and go into battle. But all
through these years the Lord Jesus was watching
over him, and preparing him to be one of His
soldiers, and to write the "Pilgrim's Progress."

Christ Reshaping the Son/. 171

He sent strange thoughts and voices into the lad's
heart. One Sunday afternoon as he was playing
on Elstow Green at Tip Cat with other lads, he
heard a voice saying to him, " Wilt thou leave thy
sins and go to heaven, or have thy sins and go to
hell ? " Although the voice was only in his own
soul, it sounded so real that he looked up to heaven
for the speaker. Like Nebuchadnezzar of old also
the thoughts on his bed troubled him. He had
dreams in which he saw wicked men shut up in
globes of fire. His thoughts, when those dreams
came, were Hke masterless hounds rushing up and
down in his soul. Once, for a whole year, and
after he had taken Christ for his Lord, he was
tempted by a voice which told him to sell Christ
as Esau had sold his birthright. The voice said,
''Sell Him, sell Him, sell Him." Sometimes it
would say it hundreds of times together, till he had
to set his soul against it.

" One morning," he tells us, in the story of his
life, " as I did lie in my bed, I was, as at other
times, fiercely assaulted with this temptation, — the
wicked suggestion running in my mind, ' Sell Him,
sell Him, sell Him, sell Him,' as fast as a man
could speak. I answered, ' No, no, not for thou-
sands, thousands, thousands,' at least twenty times

1/2 The Gentle Heart.

together. But at last, after much striving, I felt
this thought pass througli my heart, Let Him go if
He will ; and I thought also that I felt my heart
freely consent thereto."

John thought he was now fairly lost. " Down
fell I, as a bird that is shot from the top of a tree,
into great guilt and fearful despair."

But John was not lost. Christ was bringing his
misshapen life into His own form. In His kind-
ness He gave him a godly wife, who taught him
once more to read, and used to tell him how good
it is to be good. Her father was good. John tried
hard to be like her father. He went to church.
He read the Bible. He followed the ten command-
ments. He prayed. Still he was not happy. But
one day, he says, " The good providence of God
called me to Bedford to work at my calling, and in
one of the streets of that town I came where there
were three or four poor women sitting at a door in
the sun, talking about the things of God." He
drew near. He listened to their talk. It was
about the new birth. He learned for the first
time, like Nicodemus, that a man must be born
again. He now saw that it was not the ten com-
mandments, or going to church, that was to save
him, but a new heart. And in good time, but not

Christ Reshaping the Soul. 173

without many temptations, such as the one to sell
the Saviour, he received from that Saviour the new-
heart, and never more turned aside. And so it
came to pass, that out of this poor, ignorant, idle
gipsy lad, Christ formed a new, manly, beautiful
life. Evil dreams of wicked men in globes of fire
passed into the back region of his soul, and dreams
of Christian pilgrims came into their place. He
became a great preacher in this land. And although
evil men put him into prison for preaching, he,
even in the prison, dreamed his dream of heaven.
He heard the bells of the celestial city ringing,
and saw the forms of angels and just men made
perfect going up and down on the golden streets.
And in the solitude of his prison, with only his
blind daughter to visit him, he wrote that story
which old and young shall read as long as books
are read in this world, — the story of Christian's
pilgrimage from earth to heaven.

It was a great blessing to John Bunyan that God
gave him a wife who could pray. She prayed for
him. It is the same blessing to you, when you have
fathers and mothers who pray. They are always
asking Jesus to give you His own beautiful form of

1/4 J^^i-e Gentle Heart.

life. And if, at any time, in any of their children
they see evil coming into the life, or the first fair
form of baby life becoming spoiled by sin, it is to
Jesus they go in their distress. They say to Him,
" Lord Jesus, save our child \ for Thy mercy sake,
reshape the soul." But many a praying parent has
to die before the prayers are answered, and the
beauty of God can be seen on the children.

In a seaport town in Scotland, about twenty
years ago, a Christian mother was dying, and some
very earnest prayers which she had offered were
unanswered still. Her husband, her sister, and all
her children except one, were in the room beside
her. " Are you willing to go, darling ? " the sister
said, bending over and kissing her. "If it seems
good to my Father, I am," she whispered. Then,
after a little pause, she added, "And I have no
fear and no care." But when she said " no care,"
the sister, with all who were in the room, thought
of the absent one. And she said, "About Dan,
dearest, have you no care for Dan ? " The dying
mother said, whispering her words out one by one,
" My prayers for Dan are with God ; He will an-
swer them in His good time. Dan will yet become
a child of God. Day and night for seven years
I have prayed that this might come to pass."

CJirist ResJiaping tJie Soul. 175

These were her last words. In a little while she
died.

Dan had been a great care to her. He had been
idle and wilful, and many things besides that are
bad. His boyhood was wasted with idleness. He
passed through school without learning anything
except to read and write. There was no fear of
God in his heart. He hated goodness and work.
Many a time his mother had taken him into her
room, and pleaded with him to leave his idleness
and folly; but she pleaded in vain. At last he
went to sea, and at the time she died was sailing
on the coast of China.

But his mother had not left her prayers with
God in vain. About six months after he had heard
of her death, he was one night keeping watch with
another sailor on the look-out. The night was
dark, a strong wind was blowing, and the ship in
full sail running before the wind. As he was pacing
backwards and forwards on the poop, the one sailor
on the one side, he on the other, the ship gave a
sudden lurch, and he was thrown overboard. In a
moment he felt himself falling through the darkness
into the deeper darkness of the sea. He heard, or
fancied he heard, the words, " Man overboard,''
sounded out by his companion. But next moment

1/6 The Gentle Heart.

he felt himself in the black waters, and sinking,
sinking, sinking into their depths. He knew he
had almost no chance of being saved. The ship
was rushing forward at great speed, and must al-
ready be far from where he sank; and the night
was very dark. But soon he ceased to think about
safety or ship. His whole by-past life seemed to
open up before him. He saw the school in which
he was so idle, and the church which was such a
weariness to him, and the house he had loved so ill,
and the room in that home in which his mother had
so often prayed and pleaded with him to change
his hfe. The years of his boyhood came back to
him one by one 3 and days in which he had played
truant, and the faces of companions with whom
he had wrought mischief. Then he recalled the
time when he first went to sea, and his mother's
tears as she parted with him. And then a vision of
his mother on her death-bed, as she had been de-
scribed to him in letters from home^ came vividly
into his soul. He seemed to be in the very room,
and to hear the words which she had spoken, and her
last words about himself. Then there was a great
light, and in the centre of it he saw his mother's
face ; then, as he looked at her, expecting her to
smile on him, the face changed and disappeared,

Christ Reshaping the Soul. lyy

and there was a sound of bells ; then a murmur as
of bees ; then the light faded, and a great silence
fell upon his soul.

When he came to himself again, he was lying in
his berth. Dark though the night was, and far
behind though the shij^ had left him, his brave
shipmates searched back for him with the long-
boat until they found him, — and found him as he
rose, perhaps for the last time, to the surface. It
was a long week before he was able to leave the
berth. But he left it a new man. In that week
God gave him a new heart, and changed him in
some measure into His own likeness. His mother's
prayers were answered, as she foretold. Her idle,
wilful boy became an earnest Christian man, and
for many years did noble Christian service as cap-
tain of a vessel.

III.

I may be speaking to some boy or girl who is
passing an unchristian childhood, and whose heart
is beginning to see the evil of it, and to wish that
Christ would put that evil away. For that child's
sake I will tell a little history of a childhood which
a Christian lady once told to me. The lady and I
were speaking of children, and she said, " God
does not despair of any child. God can turn boys

N

178 The Gentle Heart.

and girls who are rude, and selfish, and untruthful,
into right-hearted children of His own. I am far
from being what I ought to be. I am still a very
imperfect, very frail servant of the Lord. But my
childhood, when I look back to it, was as far from
right as any child's could well be. I had no
thought but for myself. I have never since met a
child so selfish as I then was. My brothers and
sisters, my father and mother — I cared for none of
them in comparison with myself. I coveted and
seized the best things. I took the best places for
myself. When the younger children came in cold
and weary, I would not leave the warm corner at
the fire to help them, or give them the corner to sit
in. When anybody in the house was sick, it was a
worry to me to be asked to wait in the sick-room,
even for half an hour. And when I was found out
in any of my selfish and unkind ways, if I could
defend myself by a lie, I told that lie. One day,
there had been some worse outburst of my selfish-
ness and untruthfulness than usual, and my father
was present. 'Child, child,' he said to me in
bitterness, ' I have never had one hour's pleasure
in you.' It was a terrible word to come from a
father's lips. I was fourteen at the time, and old
enough to know the meaning and feel the pain of

Christ Reshapmg the Soul. 179

the word. It went into my soul like a knife. I
crept out of sight, went up to my little room, threw
myself on the floor, and tried to cry. But no tears
came to my eyes. I only felt the sharp words cut-
ting me through and through, ' Child, child, I have
never had one hour's pleasure in you.'

'' I tried to think my father wrong, tried to think
him mistaken, or unjust, or hard. But the more I
thought of his. words, the more clearly I saw them
to be true. Then my thoughts went up to the
Father in heaven. Had he also never had an
hour's pleasure in me ? I became afraid. I
thought I was in His presence. And a face that
at a distance was in some things like my father's,
in some other things like pictures of angels I had
seen, seemed to look at me, and look down into
my very soul, with severe eyes, while from the lips
came the words, 'Never one hour's pleasure in
you.'

" I do not know how I got into bed that night
and I have no remembrance of what took place
for the next day or two. I could never afterwards
feel that my father loved me. And he died with-
out taking back his words or showing me any love.
But I tha,nk him for his words. They were God's
sharp tools to new-shape me. My life began to

i8o The Gefitie Heart.

change from the hour they were spoken. With my
whole strength I cried to God to help me to cast
my selfishness away. And God has been very
kind. As I said, I am still far from being what I
ought to be ; but He sends hours to me at times
in which I am free to think, that even He is well
pleased with me now, for Jesus' sake."

IV.

I will only say one thing more. God is very
good, and both able and willing to reshape lives
which have been spoiled by sin j but do not think
it is all the same in the end for the lives He re-
shapes, as if they had never been spoiled by sin.

I knew a man once whom God had new-made —
a most worthy, kind-hearted. God-fearing man.
What God had changed him from was hard-hearted-
ness. He had hard thoughts about God and man.
He was hard in all his ways. He believed that
everybody was dishonest, and had to be watched.
He used to say, " God is no more to be trusted
than other people." Although he came to the
church on Sunday, he listened with hard thoughts
to everything that was said. He was always find-
ing fault, always saying to some one or other some
bitter unkind wor i.

CJirist Reshaping the Soul. i8i

By the merciful providence of God this hard-
hearted man fell ill, and for a time it seemed as if
his illness might end in death. The servants whose
honesty he never believed in were very kind to
him in this illness. Neighbours whom he had
sjDoken unkind words of came in and helped. The
pastor whom he had often sneered at, and his
fellow-members in the church he attended, came
about him in loving and tender ways. And this
love touched his hard heart. Through this love
came upon him, for the first time, a belief in the
love of God. On his sick-bed he learned that
God may be trusted. He learned how great and
true the love must have been which sent Jesus to
die for us. God's love shining from the cross of
Jesus was like coals of fire upon his heart. Its
hardness was melted away, and a gentle, loving,
trustful spirit was given to him, and he rose from
his bed a new man, humble, meek, merciful, and
full of charitable thoughts and deeds. But when
this took place he was nearly an ©Id man. The
years which went before were lost years to him.
So long as they lasted, the evil thoughts of his
heart shut him out from being a friend either to
God or man.

And therefore it is unwise and wrong for any one

1 82 The Gentle Heart.

to say, " I will go on in evil a while longer, and
God will make me all right in the end." It is cer-
tain, that the longer one remains in such a way,
the hurt of it will go deeper and deeper into the
soul. Sin is always evil, and it always leaves evil
marks behind.

The statue of David which Michael Angelo
carved is not so beautiful as it would have been
if the block from which he carved it had not been
spoiled before.

ON THE EVIL OF FORGETTING GOD,

ON THE EVIL OF FORGETTING GOD.

IN the Bible the most beautiful things are taken
to describe the good that comes into a life
that remembers God. But to describe the evil
that comes upon a life that forgets God, things the
most terrible are used. Among these terrible
things is a tempest. Our Lord, speaking of one
who hears His sayings but forgets to do them,
says : He is like a house on which "the rain de-
scended, and the floods came, and the winds blew,
and beat, and it fell, and great was the fall of it."
The old prophets also, telling of cities that had
forgotten God, and of evil days coming on them
in consequence of that, describe these days as days
of wind and tempest which shall smite and over-
throw the cities, and at last leave them mere heaps
of ruin. And in the chapter of Ecclesiastes,

1 86 The Gentle Heart.

where young people are exhorted to remember
their Creator in the days of their youth, the
Preacher speaks of evil days sure to come if they
fail to remember Him, days in which they shall
say " we have no pleasure in them." These days
so evil that the soul can find no pleasure in them
are likened to days in which the heavens are filled
with tempest, in which the tempest breaks upon
the house, and the house is wrapped round with
terror and desolation and death.

As often as I read this chapter I seem to see
the scene it describes. I see a fair mansion,
among stately trees, standing in beautiful grounds,
and filled and surrounded with life and joy. The
sun is shining. The doors are open to its light.
The men are working in the fields. The maid-
servants are grinding the corn. The ladies are
looking out at the open windows. Through these
windows I see for the evening hours golden lamps
hung on silver cords. In the court I see a deep
well with wheel and bucket to supply the house
with water. Everything is touched with life and
joy. The swallows are shooting down from the
eaves. The singing birds are filling the woods
with song. It is a happy time for that house, a
day in which God is pouring out His mercies, a

On the Evil of Forgettmg God. i Sj

day to remember Him. But this is a house where
God is not remembered. Those who Hve there
receive His kindness and are unthankful. They
take His gifts, but spend them on themselves.
And days and years go past in which He is patient,
waiting to see if they will even yet turn to Him.
And then come days in which things begin to
change. The early joys do not return. And day
comes after day, and no pleasure with them. At
last comes a day of terror. The heavens are black
with clouds. The clouds dissolve in rain. More
clouds overspread the sky, heavier, blacker than
before. Lightnings flash ; thunders roll ; wind
and rain beat upon the once beautiful house. The
masters, bending beneath the blast, hurry in from
the field. The door is shut. The ladies shrink
back in terror from the windows. The maids flee
from their grinding at the mill. Even the men-
servants begin to tremble. Outside, the birds that
made the air happy with song are either leaping
and shrieking with fear or silent. On all inside
fear descends ; they cannot eat ; death is coming
upon them. The tempest snaps the cords on which
the lamps are hanging; breaks the very bucket
that brings up water from the well. It will soon
be all over with that house. House, inhabitants.

1 88 The Gentle Heart.

life, joy, industry: — all are \vrapped round about by
the darkness, and about to be overwhelmed by the
terrible tempest which has come crashing out of
the sky from God.

And all that tempest, with all the ruin it works,
is the picture of the destruction that descends from
heaven on every life that forgets God.

TI.

One of the first stories I recall from my child-
hood was a story of the evil of forgetting God. I
remember the very spot on which it was told to
me. I feel the warm grasp of the hand which had
hold of mine at the time. I see once more the
little seaport town stretching up from the river
mouth, with its straggling " fisher town " at one
extremity, and at the other its rows of well-built
streets, and its town hall and academy. On this
occasion we were standing on a high bank, looking
down on the beautiful shore at our feet. Across
the tiny harbour, and along the shore on the other
side of the river, is a very different scene. What
one sees there is a dreary waste of sand. No grass
grows there, no trees shadow it, no house stands
upon it. It is a place forsaken and desolate. It
has been a desolation longer than the oldest in-

Oil the Evil of Foj'getting God. 1 89

habitant can remember. But it was not always
desolate. It was once a fair estate, rich in corn-
fields and orchards. A stately mansion stood in
the midst of it, and children played in the orchards,
and reapers reaped the corn. But the lords of
that fair estate were an evil race. They oppressed
the poor, they despised religion, they did not
remember God. They loved pleasure more than
God, and the pleasures they loved were evil. To
make an open show of their evil ways, they turned
the day of the Lord into a day of rioting and
drunkenness. And this evil went on a long while.
It went on till the long-suffering of God came to
an end. And then, upon a Sunday evening, and
in the harvest-time, when the corn was whitening
for the reaper, the riot and wickedness had come
to a height. The evil lord and his evil guests
were feasting in the hall of the splendid house.
And on that very evening there came a sudden
darkness and stillness into the heavens, and out of
the darkness a wind, and out of the wind a tem-
pest ; and, as if that tempest had been a living
creature, it lifted the sand from the shore in great
whirls and clouds, and filled the air with it, and
dropped it down in blinding, suffocating showers
on all those fields of corn, and on that mansion,

iQO The Gentle Heart.

and on the evil-doers within. And the fair estate,
with all its beautiful gardens and fields, became a
wide-spreading heap of sand and a desolation, as
it is to this day.

That is the story, just as I heard it long years
ago. Whether things happened in the very way
the story tells, whether the story is real history, or
parable drawn from history, I have never got to
know. Either way it tells the lesson, and gives
forth the counsel which the old preacher does in
the last chapter of Ecclesiastes. It tells of the
evil of forgetting God. It makes plain to us that,
sooner or later, to every life that will not remember
God, days come which bring no pleasure, days
dark with the terror of God, when the heavens
above grow black, and the judgment of God
breaks forth like a tempest, and everything beau-
tiful and strong and happy in the life is over-
thrown, and desolation comes to house and health,
and at last to life itself.

III.

I knew a lad once, who in five short years
passed from days in which every day was a plea-
sure to days in which he had no pleasure. He
passed, in that short space, out of a life on which

On the Evil of Forgetting God. 191

the smile of God rested to one on which His
tempest fell.

Never a boy had a happier home or a better
upbringing. He had godly and loving parents.
His mother taught him about Christ. His father
gave him a good example. And from God he had
splendid health and an excellent mind. He had
won many a prize at school.

By-and-by it was time for him to go into busi-
ness, and a fine place was found for him in
Glasgow. Allan was blithe to leave his school-
tasks and his country home, and go down into the
life of the city, of which he had heard so much.
He did not think of the wicked tempters among
whom his lot was to be cast, nor of the weakness
of his own poor heart. But his father did. " Re-
member your Creator, Allan," the old man said
to him as he wrung his hands in parting. '' Oh,
Allan, my son, keep the heart for Him." The
words did make an impression on the boy. Allan
himself told me, years after, that they rung in his
ears for a time, and everything on the road seemed
to repeat them. It was a beautiful morning in
spring when he left. The buds were glimmering
on the hedges like little sparks of green light.
The clouds were lying in great bars across the

Iy2 The Gentle Heart.

lower part of the heavens, and all flecked and
fringed with purple. The boy thought the clouds
above and the hedges below took up his father's
words, and said to him, " Remember God." The
great-faced clock on the church steeple of the
village where the coach stopped to change horses
was pointing to nine as the driver pulled up, and
at that moment the bell struck out the hours.
The very strokes of the bell seemed to ring out
the words, " Keep the heart, Allan, for God."
But by this time, Allan's heart was reaching away
towards the great city. The thought of the new
life he was to lead, and the new pleasures he was
to taste, drove out every other thought, and, by-
and-by, even the impression and memory of his
father's words. He could think of nothing but
Glasgow and its life. And there, at last, it came
into view. From the shoulder of the great hill
over which the coach had to pass, he beheld it
lying in the morning light. Its great chimneys,
like trees of a forest for number, stood up, belching
out smoke. On went the coach. The last halting-
place was passed, then the bridge over the Clyde,
then the long suburb between the bridge and the
city, and then Allan was in Glasgow. Horses,
carts, crowds, shops, noises of all kinds, mixed and

On the Evil of Forgetting God. 193

roared together. In a moment more the coach
was empty, and the poor boy was standing alone
on the busy pavement.

Ah ! if from that moment he had cared to recall
the words of his father, and to remember God, all
might have gone well with him. But he let go
the words. He did not care to have God in his
thoughts. He did not care to have God ruling
over him. " I am a man now," he said ; " I can
rule myself."

Not all at once — bad ways never come all at
once — but bit by bit he let go all he had been
taught at home — religion, prayer, purity, honesty
itself. Wicked, ungodly thoughts came into his
heart, and he made them welcome. He made
friendships with bad companions. He turned
aside into evil ways. He began to frequent taverns
and drink-saloons. He spent his nights in sin,
and his days in neglect of duty. At the end of the
fourth year he had lost his early fondness for the
church and Bible, and he even began to think
lightly of his parents and his home. Then began
that darkening of the heavens which precedes a
storm. Then came day after day in which he had
no pleasure. Clouds appeared on the face of his
employer, serious looks on the faces of his father's

o

194 The Gentle Heart.

friends. Then came warnings which he dis-
regarded, advices which made him angry. Then
came up — more terrible than all — from the depths
of his own soul, mutterings of the anger of God.
At last came the storm itself He lost the esteem
of his employer. Then he lost his place. His
health followed, and by-and-by his life.

Before the buds put out their green lights on
the hedgerows to make the fifth spring since he
left his home, he was lying very still under the
sod, in the muirland churchyard near where his
father's cottage stood.

People tell me that on quiet mornings, about
the hour poor Allan left his home, they still hear
the clouds whispering, " Remember God," and
even the little buds on the hedges have been heard
to repeat the words. But Allan will hear them
nevermore.

IV.

While my mind was still filled with these recol-
lections and visions of tempest, I happened to be
in London, and went to see the Royal Academy.
I saw there some pictures in which one of the
ruins which that tempest works is described. And
I do not think I could better describe the evil
which comes into a fair young life by forgetting

071 the Evil of Forgetting God. 195

God than by telling the story which those pictures
tell.

A gentle youth has come up to the University.
You can see by his open face and by his ruddy
cheeks that he has come from a home that cares
for him. There is a mother there who has watched
over him and prayed for him all his days. But
now he is away from her care, and among young
men of his own age. For them and him it is the
time to remember God. I dare say, if the letters
his companions and he got in the morning could
be read, we should find in more than one of them
the words : '^ O my beloved, remember now thy
Creator in the days of thy youth." But neither
this young man nor the companions he has taken
up with are thinking of God. They are playing
cards. It is midnight : one of their number, un-
used as yet to this life, has fallen asleep. The
others are gambling. The young man whose sad
story the painter has undertaken to paint is caught
by this evil. He has forgotten father and mother,
home and innocent days, class-duty and lessons.
What includes all, he has forgotten God.

In the second picture he is older, and there is
not on his face the same glow of health and home
life which we saw first. He is not at college now,

196 The Gentle Heart.

nor where his college classes should have led him.
He is at a place, the most evil for old or young,
for rich or poor, for prince or peasant, to be. He
is at a race-course. Coarse, brutish-looking, eager
men are thrusting in their betting-books to him
from the outside crowd. He does not yet know
all the evil of their evil ways. He does not see
yet that they are cheats and rogues, who want
him to gamble his riches into their pockets. Alas
for him ! And alas for the dear mother who is
praying for him ! He has exchanged the inno-
cent joys of home, and pure delights of college,
for the society of chaffy idlers, and the coarse
pleasures of these red-faced, shabby, vulgar men.
And he is falling into their evil traps. He is
writing down their tempting bets. And in his
blindness he does not see that the bets he is ac-
cepting shall one day make the heavens black
above him, and bring down a storm upon his
head.

And too soon that storm begins to fall. In the
third picture, when we next see him, several years
have passed. He is married and in a house of
his own. Beside him is a beautiful wife with two
young children. He is in a room filled with beau-
tiful things. If we could fix our eyes on the room

On the Evil of Forgetting God. 197

only, or go out and wander about the beautiful
grounds, we should say, " Everything here has a
look of peace and happiness." But there is neither
peace nor happiness in the soul of its master.
Days have come to him now in which he has no
pleasure. He will nevermore have pleasure in
all the days of his life that are to come. A terrible
knowledge is in his soul. He has gambled away
the last shilling he had. He has gambled away
his beautiful home and the bread of his wife and
children. He has gambled himself into debts
which he will never be able to pay. And here,
within the door of this beautiful room, darkening
it by their shadow, between the poor young mother
who cannot understand what has taken place, and
the miserable father who understands too well, are
two officers to take him away to prison. The
tempest he has brought upon himself has burst
out upon him. He gave his young life, his strong
manhood, his love, his time, his money, to evil,
and to evil ways. He sowed the wind : he is
reaping the whirlwind. It has swept joy and
peace out of his life. It is about to sweep away
his liberty : he must go to jail. When he is lying
in jail, and in misery there, the same tempest will
drive wife and children out of their beautiful home.

198 The Gentle Heart.

Nothing will be left to them but shame and sor-
row. Their life, like his, will be a ruin.

In the closing picture, the last burst of the
tempest has come upon him. He has got out of
jail, but everything beautiful in his life has been
destroyed. His whole life is a ruin. He is
locking the door of the poor bedroom in which
he sleeps. He bends eagerly to listen, turns
the key gently lest his wife should hear. His
baby's cradle is near, but it appeals to him in
vain. A pistol is lying on the table. In
another moment he will have destroyed his life
with it ; and his very body shall be a ruin.

NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.

NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.

THAT was a very sad story which the painter
painted. But the painter has not told it all.
The saddest part of the story is this, that there
was a way of escape even for that poor, lost soul.
And he did not remember there was such a way.
Having forgotten God, he had forgotten also every
good thing which had ever been said to him con-
cerning God.

But there was really a way of escape. He
might have risen out of his poverty, and his
shame, and his sin, if he had remembered this
way. It is the way Jesus came to open up. It
is the way by which He led back the poor lost
women, the poor lost publicans of Judea to God.
It is the way on which He is still going forth to
seek and to save the lost — a way all paved with

202 The Gentle Heart.

His love — the blessed way of repentance and
prayer.

I will tell you a story, which is not a painter's
story, but one of real life. And it begins just
where the other ends.

In the city of London, about sixty years ago,
lived a man who, like the youth in the painter's
story, had been forgetting God. But he was like
him in little else. He had to work for his bread.
He had not spent his wages in gambling, nor in
attending horse-races, nor in any evil way. The
evil in his life was only this : he had ceased to
remember God.

God was not in all his thoughts. He went out ;
he came in ; he lay down ; he rose up, and never
asked God to be with him, or to watch over him,
or to bless him. He tried to live and be a
husband, father, and workman without God.

But although he had forgotten God, God had
not forgotten him. In mercy He sent forth His
storm to smite him, and he was smitten ; and days
came to him in which he had no pleasure ; and
work failed him ; and poverty descended on him ;
and his home was broken up. Everything had to
be sold for bread ; and still there came no work.
They went to a poorer house ; then to a house

Never too Late to Mend. 203

poorer still. At last, one evening, they found
themselves in a miserable cellar, without fire or
food, with nothing even to sit upon except a block
of wood. The children were crying for bread.
'' Bread, father !" they cried in their hunger — and
there was no bread. The cry went into the soul
of the man, and filled him with despair. And an
evil thought came to him on the wings of the
despair ; and, yielding to that evil thought, he
said to himself, as the young man in the painter's
story had said : " It is more than I can bear ; in
the morning I shall hide myself from these cries
and from this poverty which does not end, in the
friendly depths of the river." And in the morning
he left his home with that evil thought in his soul.
He turned from his wife and children, and set his
face towards the river.

It was Sunday. The streets were full of people
going to morning service. He turned into a side
street to escape them, but there were church-goers
there also ; and, in a back court in that street, a
church. Perhaps it was the memory of days
when he also went to church ; perhaps it was the
thought, " I am going into the presence of God,
I will worship with His people once more before
I go." He never could tell how it came about;

204 The Gentle Heart.

but, ill-dressed and unwashed though he was, and
with this evil thought in his heart, he turned with
the stream of worshippers into that back court,
and into the church there, and sat down in a
corner, in the shadow, where he could hear with-
out being seen.

Mr. Parsons, of Leeds, was to preach that day ;
and this happened to be his text : — " When the
poor and the needy seek water, and there is none,
and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will
hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake
them. I will open rivers in high places, and
fountains in the midst of the valleys. I will make
the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land
springs of water." And from that text he preached
a sermon on deserts^ and on putting the God of
Israel to the test for the springs in the desert.
And among other things he said — and the poor
man in the corner thought he looked straight at
him as he spoke — " Oh, my poor brother, thou
also art in a desert, in the bleak, bitter desert of
poverty. Thou findest it hard to be without
money, or work, or bread. Thou thinkest, per-
haps, in thy heart, God has set me here for ever ;
there is no way of escape. Hast thou ever put
the God of Israel to the test ? What if thou art

Never too Late to Mend. 205

also in a worse desert — in the desert where the
soul has forgotten God ? And what if thy poverty
be sent to thee to bring God back to thy remem-
brance, and thyself back to God ? Put the God
of Israel to the test. Prove Him and see whether
He will not turn thy wilderness into a pool, and
thy dry land into springs of water."

It was as if God had spoken. The words of the
preacher came into the down-crushed heart of the
man, and a good thought began to battle with the
evil thought in that heart j and when he came out
he turned his back to the river, and set his face
once more to his home.

At home there was still the hunger ; the cries
for bread were there just as before. But the evil
thought was gone from the heart of the father,
and his soul was groping along the way to God.
Taking courage from what he had heard, he said
to his wife, " Liza, suppose we read a bit to-
gether?" That brought the tears to her eyes.
The Bible he had given her on their wedding day
had long since been sold for bread ; but there
happened to be, on some shelf in that cellar, some
leaves of the Old Testament left by those who
lived there before ; and in these they read. Then,
in a Httle while, when he had found more courage,

2o6 The Gentle Heart.

he said, "Suppose we try to pray?" and the
mother and children knelt down beside him, and
he prayed. Out of the depths he cried unto God,
" O God, my father's God, God of my childhood,
hear my cry. I have forgotten Thee \ and Thou
hast brought my children, and my wife, and myself
into tliis wilderness, where there is neither work
nor bread. O God, for Jesus' sake, have mercy
upon us ; and for Thy mercy's sake cause springs
to arise in this desert." Then they all rose from
their knees. They were still hungry, but they
began to feel that a little gleam of heaven had
shone in upon them. And by-and-by night came,
and blessed sleep, and the cries for bread were
stilled.

On the very morning after this poor man had
put the God of Israel to the test, and when his
soul had turned from all evil thoughts, and from
forgetting God, he received a letter from a friend.
'^ There is a great order," the letter said, "come
to such a shop. If you go there before ten o'clock
you are sure of work." And in a corner of the
letter a half-sovereign was folded up.

And from that moment the heavens grew clear
for him and his. Just as Jesus stilled the black,
howling tempest on Galilee, and made a calm for

Never too Late to Mend. 207

the fishermen of old, so He stilled the tempest
and made peace and joy for this poor man and
his house. The money brought bread to the
children ; and before the hour named in the letter
he was engaged, in the shop it told, him of, for a
long spell of work. And happiness came back to
the home. And by-and-by it was with that home
as in days long past, and God was remembered in
it, and God blessed His servant at its head ; and
work came to him without stint, and favour of
masters along with the work. More wonderful
still, the workman became manager ; the manager
became master ; and — better than all — he and his
wife and his children became true servants of God.

" It is never too late to mend." In whatever
wilderness men lose themselves, the way out of
it is to remember God. Remember God if days
should ever come to thee in which thou hast no
pleasure, and He will come to thy help. Re-
member God if evil thoughts have already come
into thy heart, and He will send thoughts of
heaven in their stead. Pray to Jesus and He will
come into your life and still the tempest and turn
trouble into joy.

Better still, dear children, to whom evil days of
the kind I have been describing have never yet

2o8 The Gentle Heart.

come, while it is still morning in your life, remem-
ber God. Remembering God will keep evil days
away from you for ever. It will keep you young
and innocent to the end of your years. And by
the mercy of God, it will open the door of heaven
for you when your years here have come to an
end.

man cannot live by bread
alone:'

"MAN CANNOT LIVE BY BREAD ALONE."

I.

IN an old volume in my library there is a wood-
cut which I sometimes study. It is the picture
of a little boy at a pastrycook's window. He is on
his way to school. The morning is dark and stormy.
The pavement is glistening with rain. But neither
wind nor rain can force him to pass this window.
Inside are piles of fancy bread, and cakes, and
candies, and all sweet things. And there he stands,
in the raw morning air, his right arm resting on the
brass fence, his eyes fixed, his little heart going out
in earnest longing for the delicious things inside
that window. Not that he is a poor, ill-fed, hungry
boy. His plump, round cheeks, his cosey cloak,
and the end of a roll of bread sticking out of his
pocket, tell that he is well fed and well cared for at
home. But he is thinking to himself, as he stands

212 The Gentle Heart.

looking in through that window: ''What are rolls of
home bread, or home itself, or the school to which
I am going, to the sweets and sugar cakes heaped
inside there ? "

That is the way with boys. For a long while of
their lives they think that things to eat, especially
sweet things, are the best things of Hfe. Nuts
shaken from the trees, berries gathered from the
bush, apples dropped in the orchard, fish caught in
the river by their own rod : boys think that life has
nothing better than things like these. To go away
to the woods or the rivers, to kindle a fire of leaves
and dried branches of trees, to roast the nuts and
the apples and the fish, and eat them without knife
or fork, without table napkin or table, as hunters
and wild Indians do : that seems to boys the very
best joy that earth can give. If they were kings,
and had as much money as they could tell, they
would have dinners of that sort every day.

II.

And boys who think in this way are not altogether
wrong. Things to eat are really good things.
And the good Lord who made us has made food
sweet to our taste. Sometimes it will seem, even to
grown-up people, that bread must be one of the

''Man Cannot Live by Bread AloneP 213

best things in the world. When I see hungry
children on the streets, I cannot help thinking
what a blessing a good dinner every day would be
to them. And when I pass old men and women
whose white, pinched faces show that they have
tasted little food that day, I cannot help thinking
what a blessed thing good food would be to them.
And I think the same thing as often as I read
some of the sea stories which the newspapers tell.

Shipwrecked crews on lone rafts far out at sea,
with never a sail in sight, with not even a bag of
hard biscuit on board— driven to eat their very
shoes for food — with hunger tugging at every heart,
and at last with wild looks at each other, as the
hunger is making them mad, and they are silently
beginning to think that the lot must be cast, and
the death of one become the life of all — in cases
like that I do not wonder that people come to
believe that land with birds on it, or a ship with
food in it, or a bagful of bread, would be the best
thing the life of man could see or taste.

But I intend to show you that we cannot, even
in such cases as these, be satisfied, or made happy,
or wise, or strong, by bread alone. If we had all
the bread the world contains, or all the money of
the world to buy it with— if we were always able

214 The Gentle Heart.

to go into woods and rivers and find food for
ourselves, with companions whom we loved, we still
could not have all that our hearts and lives need
to have. By eating and drinking, by feasting with
great people, or with wild people, whether on sea
or land, in hunting-fields or palaces, neither boys
nor men could be perfectly happy or contented or
well.

III.

I read a story once of some sailors on just such
a raft as I have referred to. Their very dreams
were of food, of which they had none. As they
sat there on the raft — straining their eyes often to
look for passing ships — visions of food of all kinds,
of ripe fruits, and rich meats, and pastry, and
bread home-baked, floated before their souls.
And each man said to himself, " Oh for one loaf
such as my mother baked for us in the early
days ! " But the days went past and no ship ap-
peared, and one by one, for want of bread, they
began to die. After dreadful sufferings, the two
who survived drifted to an island on which there
were friendly natives and plenty of food. One
died, but the other lived and spent some years on
that island. He had food as much as he could
eat, but he was not happy. He hunted, he fished,

"Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone.'' 215

he learned to catch all kinds of birds. He Hved
in tents ; he was treated as a chiefs son. But he
was not happy. And one day, when an English
ship happened to pass the island, he threw himself
into the sea, and swam to the side, and said, "Take
me on board, and take me home to England ; I
will endure hunger and poverty and hard living
rather than live longer here." The man had as
much food as he could eat — and on the lone raft
no doubt he thought food the best thing ; but you
see he had found out that a man cannot live —
cannot be happy— by bread alone.

IV.

I always remember the way a young girl who
lived where I once lived came to learn this truth.
Her home was a lonely farmhouse away up among
hills, and miles away from village or town. Living
where she did, she knew nothing about the plea-
sures which town children have. No panorama,
nor concert of sacred music, is ever seen or heard
near such places. But she was not without plea-
sures ; and there was one so sweet, so always new,
that she thought it must be the very best pleasure
in the world. About a mile from the farm was a
hill on which gorse and heather and wild violets

2i6 The Gentle Heart.

grew all the summer. Here and there were nut-
trees, but the ground was mostly covered with
bramble and bilberry bushes. The hours she
spent there were the happiest in her life ; and she
thought a girl who had a bramble and bilberry hill
had nothing more to wish for.

One day, in harvest time, she was at home with
her mother and grandmother, and grandmother
suddenly turned ill. It was a long way to the
doctor's, and there was nobody to send but this
child. The farmer and the servants were away
helping a neighbour ; the mother could not leave
the sick grandmother ; and this girl of ten years
old must hurry away for the doctor. She lost no
time in preparation ; she dearly loved her grand-
mother, and her little feet seemed to fly along the
road. It was the road on which the bilberry hill
was, but she was not thinking of that. She was
thinking only of the errand on which she was sent,
and of poor sick grandmamma at home ; and she
was hurrying along as fast as her feet could carry
her. But just as she came within sight of the hill,
at the very bend of the road where the gap in the
hedge was that led up to it, she saw, not a hundred
yards off, a mad bull tearing along, and coming
right up to meet her.

"Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone!' 217

She could not go back. That never entered
into her mind. To go forward was death. But
here was her bilberry hill. She darted to the gap
in the hedge through which she had so often passed.
She fled up through the trees, thinking there might
be some outlet, higher up, to another part of the
road. There was no such outlet. A river on one
side, a high close fence on the other, shut her in.
She could only leave by the way she came ; and
there, to her horror, stood the furious bull. A
whole hour went past, afternoon was melting
into evening, and still she was a prisoner. The
bull had planted himself right at the entrance,
glaring up at her with a savage look. In that
hour what whirls of thought drove through
her soul ! She thought of her poor old grand-
mother, of the pain she was suffering, of the
possibility of her dying before the doctor could
be brought. She thought of her mother's anxiety,
At first she was sick with fear. Then that passed
away, and she grew hungry. The hedges were
covered with her favourite brambles; late bil-
berries also were hanging ripe at her feet and all
around her. But she could not touch them.
What were bilberries or brambles, or any other
kind of fruit, or food to her now? It was

2i8 The Gentle Heart.

liberty she wanted — liberty to go her message —
liberty to bring help to the dear sick one at home.
She never before thought there could be anything
better in life than a bramble and bilberry hill ; but
she learned it that day.

Her whole young heart cried up to God for
hberty to reach the doctor. Although she was in
mortal terror of the bull, she saw and remembered
afterwards things as if she had no fear. She saw
a hare running through a little space in the high
fence, and wished she were a hare. She saw the birds
flying about overhead perfectly free, and wished
she were a bird. She cried with vexation; and
what she cried for, although she could not put
it in words at the time, was liberty to do her duty.
" Oh, to be out of this trap ! " — that was the shape
her prayer took. " O Lord Jesus, send some one
to drive away the bull ! " And by-and-by, when
the shadows of night began to fall, and while it was
still not too late to bring the doctor, the Lord
heard her cry, and sent some neighbours to let her
free. But that day she learned — and so learned as
never to forget — that hills of brambles and bil-
berries cannot make people happy, and that
times may come, even in a child's life, when she
may be where the ground is covered with her

"Man Can J lot Live by Bread Alone!' 219

favourite berries, and she not able to touch a single
one.

V.

One day, a hunter was returning to his home, tired
with the chase and faint with hunger. As he came
near the tents in which his family lived, the air came
about him filled with the fragrance of the richest
soup. He quickened his steps. New light came
into his eyes. The taste of the rich soup was
already in his mouth. And just as he pushed
back the curtain and stepped inside the tent, his
brother was preparing to serve it out. The brother
had gathered it and prepared it, and cooked it, and
it was all his own. And it was the only food in
the tent that day. The famishing hunter said to
his brother, "Jacob, let me have some." But
Jacob was not a kind brother, and he said, " If you
buy it, you shall have some." Esau at that time
was fonder of food than anything else, and he was
almost dying with hunger. So he said, *'I will
give you anything you like, Jacob ; but let me
have the soup." Then Jacob said, "Give me your
birthright." It seemed at the time like asking
nothing at all. The brothers were twins, and Esau
had been born first. And Jacob could never get
sorrow for that out of his mind. He was always

220 The Gentle Heart.

wishing he had been born first. And now when
this chance came, and his elder brother famishing
and begging for food, he could not let the chance
go. " Let me be elder brother, Esau, and you
shall have the soup." Esau thought a very little
over it — too little, as he came to see afterwards.
He said to himself, '' What's the birthright to me
just now?" He should not have said that. It
was God who had made him elder brother. It was
despising the gift of God. "What's the birthright
to me just now?" he said, still speaking to himself.
" It is food I want. I am dying for want of food,
and here is food, and the best sort of food, that
will be life, and strength, and joy to me. I must
have it ; I cannot live without it." Then he turned
to Jacob and said, "I give you the birthright —
give me the food." He was a grown-up lad at that
time. And there was no more said about it then.
But when years had gone past, and the two lads
were men, a day came when their old father had
to acknowledge the birthright, and say with his
dying lips which son was to be chief When that
day came, the old father was blind and seemed
near to die. Jacob said to his mother, '' I bought
the birthright from Esau." And his mother took
him one forenoon, when Esau was out hunting, and

''Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone ^ 221

dressed him like Esau, and made the bhnd old
father think it was the eldest son. And Jacob the
younger got the blessing. And the blessing made
the birthright his. Then Esau saw the folly he
had done. He had sold for a red mess what God
had given him. He cried like a child. " Give me
a second birthright/' he said to his poor vexed
father, when he came and found what had been
done. But there was only one blessing to give,
and Jacob had got it. In that hour Esau saw that
man does not live by bread alone.

VI.

In the great kingdom of Babylon there once
reigned a king who thought man could live by bread
alone. And one day he invited a thousand of his
lords and ladies, princes and princesses, to a great
feast in his palace. Every one was dressed in gold
and silver, purple, scarlet, and fine linen. There
was music floating all round. Slaves came out
and in carrying meat and wine and flowers and
fruit. And the tables were filled with guests. But
when kings have had many banquets they begin to
be tiresome, and this king thought he would do a
thing at this feast which might keep the tiresome-
ness away. He remembered that Nebuchadnezzar

222 The Gentle Heart.

his father had once been to Jerusalem, and had
fought against the city and taken away all the gold
and silver vessels of the temple there. So Bel-
shazzar the son commanded those gold and silver
vessels to be sent for and brought to his great feast.
And everybody praised the Hebrew vessels, and
they were filled with wine, and went round all the
guests, and every lord and lady drank wine out
of these vessels. And the king said, " Was never
a feast like this; this is life, this is blessedness."
But the great God at that very moment thrust
out His hand from the darkness, and with His
finger wrote these words on the wall in a lan-
guage neither the king nor his lords could under-
stand : — " O foolish feaster, you need righteousness
more than bread to make you happy. The God
whose temple your father robbed of these vessels has
numbered the hours of your kingdom. You have
been tried as a king and found wanting. And your
kingdom is about to be given to others." Although
for a long while nobody could read the words, it
was something terrible to have them written on the
wall in that way. Where now was the happiness
the king had in his gold vessels and his wine?
It was gone. He was filled with terror. All the
glory of his banquet disappeared. What did that

''Man Camiot Live by Bread Aloner 223

awful hand coming out of the darkness mean?
What were those terrible letters on the wall ? His
face became white, his knees shook, the chill of
death came over him. Before that feast was ended
he and his lords and ladies learned that man
cannot live by banquets alone, nor by drinking
wine in vessels of gold and silver, nor by any other
kind of feasting which is feasting on what the Bible
calls " bread alone."

VII.

Going back to the woodcut I described at the
outset, I will make one more remark suggested by
it. Sometimes when I look at it, it seems to say
to me : " It is not little schoolboys only who stop
to look in at windows. We are all, big people as
well as little people, like the boy at the window,
only, as we grow older, the window changes, and
the things inside change as well. Instead of the
pastrycook's window, it is that of some neighbour
richer than ourselves, or it is the avenue leading
up to some noble mansion, or it is the door open-
ing into some public banquet, or it is a marriage
party, or a general's staff, or an association of
artists, or a fellowship of learned men, or the
partnership of a merchant company, or a circle of
high ladies of fashion."

224 1^^^^ Gentle Heart.

Yes, these are the windows through which, as
we grow older, we look. And as the windows
through which we look are different, the things
inside are different too. It is a place inside
those circles of rich, learned, and fashionable
people. It is possession of the things which make
this life seem so beautiful. It is the wedding
coaches, the gay dresses, the high companions, the
honourable titles, the splendid banquets, the mag-
nificent homes. Ah, there are boys and girls who
are now as young as the boy in my woodcut, and
as fond of looking into pastrycooks' windows, who
will come to think, as they grow older, and look
through other kinds of windows at other sweet
things in life, how much better it would be to be
inside, among the rich, gay people, than out, and
how poor and homely their lives are when compared
with the lives at which they look. But it will be a
vain thought whenever it comes. To have all the
fine things we see in the possession of others, to
dwell in stately houses, to have troops of servants
waiting on us, to have carriages at our call, and
great people for our friends, and great honours to
our name, that is not our life. There are thou-
sands and tens of thousands who have attained to
all that and are not so happy as they were before.

''Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone'' 225

In one of the iron districts of our country, about
forty years ago, lived two young married people.
The husband was a blacksmith, and very indus-
trious and temperate. The wife was thrifty and
otherwise good. They were happy, but not per-
fectly happy. He, especially, kept looking into the
lives of the people who gave him work, and wish-
ing he had comforts like theirs. Many a time, as
he sat in a corner of his forge taking the dinner
which his wife brought to him, he would say to
her : "' I would have a carriage like this one, and
a grand house like that one, and great banquets
like theirs, and servants and rich dresses for you."

And it really came out so that before twenty
years were over he had all these things which he
had so eagerly hungered after. He had a fine
mansion to live in, a fine carriage to ride in, fine
dresses for his wife, great feasts for his friends, and
hundreds of people to serve him. A friend of
mine was once invited to one of his parties
and asked to stay over night. There was a grand
banquet, and lords and ladies and other great
people sat down to it. When the guests were all
gone, and the three drew round the fire, the hus-
band said to his wife, '' What did you think of our
party?" And she said, "Indeed, John, I was

226 The Gentle Heart.

thinking all the time of it, that you and I have
never been so happy, or good, as long ago when I
used to take your dinner to the forge and wait till
you had eaten it." " That same is my thought too
at times," said the husband.

They got the grandeur and the banquets they
hungered for, you see, but their happy life they had
left behind.

SILLY JACK'S PARABLE.

SILLY JACK'S PARABLE.

" IV /r AN cannot live by bread alone."

-LVx In order to live as God would like
us to live, we need all the words which have come
to us from God. Bread is only one of these
words. Bread tells us of God's care for our bodies.
But God is speaking to us by other things besides
bread. The love with which our parents love
us, and liberty, and truth, and justice, are all
words which God has spoken and which we need
as well as bread. To make us good, and wise, and
happy, we need every good thing which has come
to us from God.

One dark November night, a few years ago, two
gentlemen in a gig were driving along the banks of
the river Leven, and in a very lonesome part of
the road they heard the cries of a child. Although

230 The Gentle Heart.

they could see nothing, they knew by the cries that
not far from the road a child was in great distress.
They pulled up, and found that they were beside
a graveyard, and, following the sound of the cries,
they came up to a little boy, six or seven years
old, lying all his length on a grave, and crying on
the mother who lay below to come back to him.
The mother had died a few days before, and home
had lost its sweetness for the child. He would
not leave the grave. " I want to be beside mam-
ma," he said, when the gentlemen wished him to
come with them. At last they got him to tell
where he lived — it was four miles off — and, lifting
him up in their arms, they drove to the door. It
was a bright enough home, with no scarceness of
bread or comfort in it. It only wanted a mother's
love. The poor child had food, and clothes, and
comforts, as much as he could enjoy ; but even a
child cannot be happy with food, and clothes, and
comforts alone, but with every word that comes
from the mouth of God. And the best word
which had come from the mouth of God for this
child had been his mother's love — and that was
gone !

II.

Yet even a mother's love is not enough. Moses

Silly Jack's Parable. 231

had love from two mothers, and he had bread, and
a bright home, and ease, and splendour, but he
was not happy. Ever since the kind princess lifted
him out of the ark of rushes, he had lived in
a king's palace and been loved by the king's
daughter. He was her adopted son. He might
even become king himself some day. Servants
waited on him to give him whatever he asked for.
Tutors waited on him to teach him all that was
then known. He had horses and carriages, and
yachts, and splendid clothes, and plenty of money,
and everything this earth could supply to make a
man happy. But he was not happy.

What he wanted more than -all he had was
justice and deliverance for his Hebrew kinsfolk.
While he was feasting on king's meat in the palace,
they were living on hard fare in the brick-kiln.
While he was a free man, they were slaves. While
he could say to guards and servants " Go," and
they would go, "Come," and they would come,
brutal men were standing over his Hebrew kins-
men, with whips in their hands, cutting into their
flesh if they fainted with their toil. He had no
peace day nor night. And everything reminded
him of the sufferings of his people. If he went
to town, he saw the bricks they had made being

232 The Gentle Heart.

carried along the streets. If he went to the coun-
try, he came on the kilns where they were suffer-
ing. If he visited the brick-kilns, he heard the
crack of the lash on every side of him, and the
sharp cry of the lashed one's pain. Now and
again, too, riding in a royal carriage, and dressed
like a prince, a Hebrew would pass him on the
road carrying straw for the bricks. And the poor
bent form of the slave would straighten up, and
his eyes would cast one look into the carriage, as
much as to say, " You there — I here ! " And all
these things cut into the soul of the young man.
And he was very sad.

One day it happened to him to be near a brick-
field. The air was filled with the sickening vapour
of the clay. He saw crowds of his kinsfolk
moving about at their dreary task. His heart was
sore for their misery. Just at that moment a poor
slave rushed out into the road, pursued by one of
the taskmasters, his back all cut and bleeding with
the lash, and fell dead at the feet of Moses. The
hidden fountains of anger, which had been gather
ing and growing hotter within him for years, burst
forth at the sight, and, rushing at the cruel task-
master, he killed him in his wrath.

He knew well enough that his own life would

Silly Jack's Parable. 233

be taken if it were known. But he had made up
his mind. It was better to die than to live as
he had been Uving. He could no longer live on
splendid clothes and royal banquets. His soul
wanted God's justice for his poor oppressed and
trampled kinsfolk. His soul yearned for their
deliverance. He knew how God meant them to
become His people ; and he wanted them to be
free that they might go and be His people.

Dear to him, no doubt, was the love of his
adopted mother, dear also the books he had
learned to read ; but a great voice from God was
speaking in his heart, and bidding him leave
Egypt and kings' houses, and prepare to work out
the will of God in delivering His people. And he
left all and went.

III.
Hundreds of years ago, in one of the old Etrus-
can cities of Italy, there lived a young and wealthy
lawyer whose name was Jacob Bendetti. He had
a beautiful young wife, and he and she were once
invited to a splendid ball.

Now something came in his way, so that the
husband could not get to the ball at the beginning,
and his wife had to go with some friends. But in
a little while he arrived. When he came into the

234 The Gentle Heart.

room everything was in confusion. His beautiful
young wife had been seized with a sudden iUness
and there, or on the way home, she died.

Jacob was almost in despair. He gave up his
business, sold all his possessions, gave his money
to the poor, and became a minister of the gospel.
People laughed at him for doing this. Always
there are people who laugh at things noble or
good. They said it was so silly for a rich young
fellow to cry as he cried for his wife, and to sell all
he had and give all his money away. And there
was another thing these people thought silly. He
not only began to preach to poor people about
Jesus, but he wrote poems, and prayers, and
parables for them in their own mother tongue.
" Oh, so silly !" cried the people who used to go to
balls with him. So they called him " Silly Jack,"
and he is known as Silly Jack to this day.

But it wasn't he who was silly ; it was the ig-
norant and stupid butterfly people who had not
sense to see that he was wise.

I was reading some notes about the life and
writings of this man lately, and among these notes
I came upon a parable which I thought would
make a good sermon for the boys and girls I
speak to.

Silly Jack's Parable. 235

The parable is this : " Once upon a time there
was a fair young maiden who had five brothers.
One was a musician, the second was a painter, the
third was a merchant, the fourth was a cook, and
the fifth was a builder.

Now this fair young maiden had a beautiful
diamond which her father had given her, and each
of the brothers wanted it for himself.

The first who sought it was the musician. He
came to her and said, * Sell it to me ; I will play
you some beautiful music for it.' But she said,
' And when the music is ended I should have
nothing ;' and she refused to sell her diamond for
music.

Then came the painter. ' I will paint you a
splendid picture for your diamond,' he said. But
she replied, ' Your splendid picture might be
stolen, or its colour might fade. I will not sell
my diamond to you.'

Next came the merchant. 'O sister,' he said,
' I will bring you such spices and perfumes from
the East in my ships as you never smelled the like
of; and I will give you sweet smelhng roses and
lilies — a garden full' But she said, 'The per-
fumes will cease to please me, and the roses and
lilies will fade.'

236 The Gentle Heart.

Then the cook came u]^ and said, ' Dear sister,
I will prepare for you a splendid banquet of the
finest, richest things you could eat : give your
diamond to me.' But she said, 'After the banquet
I should be hungry again and my diamond gone :
no, I will not sell it to you/

Then the builder came. He offered to build
her a beautiful palace to live in — a palace that
might do for a queen. ' But a palace is filled with
cares, even to its queen,' she said, ' and I cannot
sell my diamond for a house full of cares.'

At last, when all the brothers had been refused,
came the prince of a great kingdom and said he
wished to buy the diamond. ' And what will you
give for my diamond ? ' she asked. ' I will give
myself,' he said ; ' myself, and all I possess.'
Hearing that, the young maiden answered, 'I
accept that gift. I will be yours and you shall be
mine for ever.' Whereupon she gave him the
diamond."

Now that is the parable, and here is the inter-
pretation. The fair young maiden is you, or your
sister, or any young person you know. The father
is God. And the diamond given by the father is
the soul. The five brothers are the five senses,
each of which wishes to get the soul all to itself.

Silly Jack's Parable. 237

The ear comes first, and wants the soul to give
itself altogether to the pleasures of music. " That
is the great life," it says, "just to be going to
concerts and listening to fine airs and fine songs."
The eye comes next and wishes the soul to give
itself away to fine sights, beautiful paintings, beau-
tiful statues, beautiful sights on the hills and the
fields. And the other senses, one after another,
come and want to get the soul all to themselves —
to fine gardens, to fine parties, or to fine houses.

But the soul sees that all these things perish as
they are used. The soul knows that ear, and eye,
and smell, and touch, and taste, are only little bits
of one's being ; and that it would never do to give
itself away to a mere little bit of its being. The
soul has learned that nothing can fill the whole
being except God Himself who made it. And it
says, " What would it profit me though I should
gain all that the five senses could bring to me if I
were to lose my very self and be cast away?"

There are plenty of people who sell their souls
for music, painting, fine dinners, and beautiful
gardens, and fine houses. But no wise child will
do it. No one who knows Christ will do it.
Christ alone is worthy to have the soul. He gave
Himself for the soul ; Himself and all that He has.

238 The Gentle Heart.

And the wise maiden in the parable knew that.
The pleasures of earth were nothing to her in
comparison with Christ. " What are fine parties,
beautiful pictures, or splendid mansions, if at the
end I should lose my soul ?" So she gave her soul
to Christ. And she got what was better than
pictures, or palaces, or fine gardens. She got
Christ Himself.

True happiness is to have Christ's love in our
hearts. Does Christ love me ? Do I love Christ?
That child has begun to live the true life who can
say ''yes " to those two questions. And that is the
life which Jesus brought from heaven to us. He
is offering it to us when He is telling about His
Father's love. He is inviting us to it when He
says, " Come unto Me." Himself is the true life.
Himself is bread, and life, and love. To have
Jesus for our friend, and His life in our heart, is
better than gold and silver, or fine mansions, or
banquets with the great. It is the grand secret of
a good life. It is the true way to happiness. It
is a life that will never die. And it is the life
which prophets and apostles and saints are living
before God's throne in heaven.

A BOY'S ACT, AND WHAT IT LED
TO.

A BOY'S ACT, AND WHAT IT LED TO.

IN a. certain Austrian stable, between seventy
and eighty years ago, a young Englishman of
the name of Baldwin was opening a box which had
just come from London. It was the time when
English racing and hunting, and English ways of
managing and training horses, began to be copied
by the young noblemen of the Continent. Baldwin
had been brought from England to manage the stud
of an Austrian nobleman. He had a good salary,
and besides his salary a certain profit on all the
saddlery that might be required. The box which
he was opening was filled with saddles and other
horse-gear. Now the man who supplied these
saddles was a very worthy and pious man, and he
was a director of the London Tract Society. And
when he was putting in the saddles, he slipped in
beside them a bundle of tracts. " Who knows the

242 The Gentle Heart.

good they may do ? " he said to himself, as he put
them in. When Baldwin came to the bundle of
tracts he said to a young English boy he had
brought with him as his assistant, " What can this
square parcel be ? "

" Tracts," replied the boy.

" Tracts are they ? " said Baldwin, a little angry,
" then that is the place for them." And suiting the
action to the word, he shied the tracts to the
farthest corner of the room. Baldwin was a frank,
generous fellow, but he was not religious. He was
quite ignorant of Christ and the Bible. But he
was not the least angry when his boy assistant said
to him in the evening, " If you are not going to
read these tracts yourself, Mr. Baldwin, you might
let me have them home." And Baldwin gave the
tracts to the boy. And at that moment, although
neither of them knew it, the battle of life began
for them both.

The boy read the tracts. And God blessed
the reading of the tracts to him, and he learned
many things he did not know before. Among
other things, he learned that the Lord's-day is not
a common day, but a day of rest and worship ; and
that it is wrong to do on the Lord's-day certain
things which it is not wrong to do on other days.

A Boys Act, and zvJiat it Led To. 243

And although he was only a boy, his conscience
went along with the tract that told him this. And
he saw that the nobleman and Baldwin and him-
self were all acting contrary to God's purpose for
that day. For in Austria, as in France and other
places on the Continent, they are so unhappy as
not to have learned the true purpose of the Lord's-
day. And they have their great hunts and races
chiefly on that day.

The boy, so soon as he saw all this, came to
his master and said —

'' Mr. Baldwin, I wish to give up my place. I
have been reading these tracts, and I have learned
that it is wrong to hunt and race on the Lord's-day."

At first Mr. Baldwin was angry, then he was
vexed ; but when he could not move the boy from
his purpose, he said, " Well, I am sorry to lose
you, but if you cannot work on Sunday, you are
of no use here." And the boy left.

The boy had fought his first battle against
wrong-doing well. And although his master did
not see it at the time, he had summoned Baldwin
too into the battle-field.

II.

Some months went past, and Mr. Baldwin had to
come to England to buy horses for his master. He

244 TJie Gentle Heart.

was one day riding on the top of the stage-coach
from York to London, and he began to have some
pleasant talk with a gentleman sitting by his side.
The gentleman had some information to give about
Yorkshire, and Baldwin repaid him with stories
about Vienna. "But do you know," he said,
" the strangest thing I have seen since I went to
Austria was a little boy I had, giving up his place
in my stable, because he thought it stupid to run
liorses on Sunday ! Did you ever hear the like of
it ? " The gentleman said nothing at the time ;
but at the end of the journey he took a book from
his bag and said, —

'^ This has been a very pleasant talk we have
had together. I should like to leave you this
memorial of it, if you will promise to read it."

*' And that I will," said Baldwin, " and I assure
you I shall read it." And the two travellers
parted.

When Baldwin went back to Vienna two gifts
from the good Lord were waiting for him. The
first was a beautiful wife, well educated, well prin-
cipled, and with good friends. The second was
the opportunity of leisure to read the book he
had received in England. It was the Bible;
but although he had come from England, he

A Boys Act, and what it Led To. 245

had never read it before. But now he drew to
it. And Hke a thorough man as he was, he
began at the beginning and read right on to the
end. The Book moved him as no other book had
done. He was surprised — then deHghted — then
melted. When he came to the story of Christ and
of His death, he was fairly broken down. He
cried as if he had been a child in pain. And then
he became as happy as an angel before God.
God had opened his eyes to read the Book aright,
and He inclined his heart to beheve the Book.
And the end was that he learned that God had
given His Son to him and poor sinners like him.
And he gave his heart to God. And a new light
came from the Book on everything. He saw
things he had never seen before, and things he saw
before looked different And what was strange,
the Book itself seemed different. Every word of
it now seemed to come to him direct from the lips
of God. And he began once more at the be-
ginning and read parts of it again and again.

One day he came on these words : " Remember
the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt
thou labour and do all thy work, but the seventh
day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God. In it thou
shalt not do any work." Again and again he came

246 The Gentle Heart.

on similar words. He found the Sabbath shining
like a great light in Paradise, and in the time of
the patriarchs, and in the wilderness, and in the
Holy Land, and in the life of our Lord; and in
like manner the Lord's-day, in the practice of the
Apostles. And as he read, he remembered the
boy who, to be true to God's purpose in this
day, had given up his place. It all came back
to him just as it happened. And he saw at a
glance that he, too, had that same battle to fight,
which his boy had fought and won.

III.

His first difficulty was his marriage. *' Ah," he
said, *' if I were as the young boy was, alone, it
would be easy to decide. But I am married,
and have a house to keep up." And then there
was his wife herself. She had been accustomed
to theatres and balls, and she was an Austrian, and
might not sympathise with him at all. His duty
was plain, but he had to fight his way to it. *"' Shall
I first go home and tell my wife ? Shall I wait
until I convert her to my way of thinking ? " The
difficulty was very great. But he thought of
Christ, and of Christ giving up all things for him,
and of Christ's words : " Whosoever doth not bear

A Boy's Act and ivJiat it Led To. 247

his cross and come after Me, cannot be My dis-
ciple." And he became strong to do God's will,
and there and then resolved to imitate the boy and
give lip his place. So he went to his master and
told him, almost in the very words his stable-boy
had used, the position in which he stood. The
master thought at first he wanted more salary,
and said a little angrily, " Now, Baldwin, no more
of this. You want a rise, and you shall have it,
as I can't do without you."

*' No, my lord," said Baldwin, " think better of
me than that. I mean what I say — unless you
can, and I should be most thankful if you could,
relieve me of Lord's-day work."

" Well, Baldwin, that is not once to be thought
of. If we don't take out our horses on Sunday, we
need not have them at all." And that was true
for Austria. And Baldwin had no other word to
utter. He gave up his place, and then with a heavy
and anxious heart turned his face to his home.

To tell his wife ; to reason with her ; to try to
bring her round to his way of thinking ; to get
her to see that he had not acted foolishly or un-
kindly— this was the next battle he had to fight.

But it is God's way, when a soul has fought one
part of a fight of faith well, to come to his help

248 The Gentle Heart.

and fight, or send His angels to fight, by his side.
And Baldwin found this — to his unspeakable joy —
when he went home. He told the whole history
of his soul, told about the boy and the Book,
and his own discoveries in the Book, and the
struggle and the victory. And then he said,
'*My dearest love, do not judge me harshly. It
was the Lord's will ; I could do no other."

His wife put her arm about his neck and said,
"There is nothing to regret. Let us give God
thanks rather. God has been preparing me —
although I did not know it — for this very event."

And then she told him how her old life had
become distasteful to her, and how she, too,
had been led to the Saviour, and had secretly
been longing for the opportunity to tell her hus-
band of the great things which the good God
had done for her soul. That was a happy hour
for Baldwin and his wife.

IV.

Five years went past. Baldwin and his wife
were poor. When he left the Austrian noble-
man's he went to Brussels, and then to London,
trying to make a business by bringing Dutch
horses to England. But he did not succeed.

A Boy's Act and what it Led To. 249

And all through those years he was fighting a
grim fight with unbelief and despair. Thoughts
would come into his soul at times that God had
forsaken him ; that He did not care for him, and
did not love him. But ever he fought down those
thoughts, and sometimes he would say to his
patient and noble wife, " Though God slay us, we
will trust in Him." And she would answer, smil-
ing, " Baldwin, Amen."

Still it was a hard time for him and her. When
he brought over the last lot of horses, he called
on a friend of his, the head cooper in Stanbury's
immense establishment, where between two and
three hundred horses were kept, and told him every-
thing, and said, " If I do not sell these horses
well I shall be at the end of my means."

The good man went to the counting-house and
spoke to Mr. Stanbury himself; and Mr. Stanbury
came over to the cooperage and saw Baldwin, and
had a long talk with him, but could not buy his
horses. That was the last chance of a good bar-
gain gone j and Mr. Baldwin, with as heavy a heart
as ever he had, knew that he was now penniless
in the world.

His shifty, cheery wife took a little shop near
one of the wharves of a canal that came into

250 The Gentle Heart.

London, and Baldwin went about every day, and
every hour of the day, looking for employment.
He found many friends. The gentleman who gave
him the Bible got to hear of him, and met with
him again, and he and some friends from Brussels,
and all who knew him, were anxious to help the
worthy man into work. But it seemed as if
every day made the prospect more gloomy than
the day before. God had planned out for him
another battle before He would bring him to rest.

V.

One day, after another fruitless application for
work, he was returning to his poor home beside
the canal, when his way happened to pass the en-
trance into the famous stables of Hattersal. Mr.
Hattersal at that moment was at the door. " Why,
Baldwin, is that you ? Have you given up that
fine place in Austria ? And what are you doing
now?" Mr. Hattersal knew Baldwin since his
boyhood, and knew that there was not in all Eng-
land a better judge of horses. Mr. Baldwin told
him so much of his story, how he had tried to
make a trade with Dutch horses, and what he was
in search of now. "Well, Baldwin, I am sur-
prised, with your knowledge of horses, you should

A Boys Act and what it Led To. 251

have any difficulty. I will tell you what. To-
morrow is the great day at Epsom, and I am going
down. I will give you a seat in my drag ; and
I will introduce you to the leading stewards of
the race-course. I will recommend you, as a
good judge of horses, to begin with ; and you will
tell gentlemen on what horses to bet ; and if you
are what you used to be, your fortune is as good
as made."

It was a great offer, and it was kindly meant.
And it was all true — that it was employment, posi-
tion, and wealth for him. Mr. Baldwin took all
that in at a glance, and with his whole heart he
thanked Mr. Hattersal ; but he said, "Give me half
an hour to consider your kindness.^'

Not far from the stables some new houses were
being built. Baldwin almost ran till he came to
them. And then he turned aside, went over the
rubbish, and through to a quiet dark place where
no eye could see him, and threw himself upon the
ground. His first words when he was able to
speak were, *' My God, come to my help." For
he had seen the splendour of the offer, the cer-
tainty of the prospect, the deliverance of his wife
from the mean house and toil, and the wealth.
But he had also seen that the life to which he was

252 The Gentle Heart.

invited was next door to a life of vanity and crime.
The gamblings the cursing, the madness, the
cruelty, the meanness, the fraudulence, the low-
life and degradation of the race-course of England
flashed into his mind. Could a Christian touch
it ; or be what one who even touches it is required
to be ? His soul shrank from the pollution. His
love for his wife, his honest desire for employment,
came up strong before his soul. But he was faith-
ful in the fight. "Though He slay me, I will
trust Him. My God, my God, come to my help."
And God did come to his help. And he rose
strong to do God's will. And then he returned to
Mr. Hattersal, and with thanks — ay, and choked-
down tears^he declined the tempting offer.

VI.

Then a second time he was to experience how
God helps His faithful ones in the after-shocks of a
battle when they have been true at the beginning.
That same week, in Stanbury's establishment, the
superintendent of horses was ordered to reside in
Spain for his health, and Mr. Stanbury came to the
master cooper and said, " How would Baldwin do
for our horses ? I liked the look of the man."
And that day Baldwin was suddenly lifted out of

A Boy's Act and what it Led To. 253

poverty into affluence. He was appointed to the
vacant place. It was the crown which the Lord
put on his head for fighting the good fight of faith.

There is just one other of his hfe-battles I must
tell you about. But this time it was for others,
and not for himself he fought. His masters soon
came to see the worth of the servant they had got.
He saved more than his salary to them the very
first year. But in his new situation there was one
thing which gave him great anxiety. There were
two or three hundred horses in the establishment,
and nearly as many carters. And these men spent
the whole of every Lord's-day in the stable, groom-
ing the horses and cleaning the stalls. He remem-
bered his stable-boy in Austria. He thought of
his own early hardships. Was it necessary, was it
fair, that these poor fellows should be deprived of
their Sundays ? He sought an interview with the
head partner, and asked permission to make an
experiment or two. The partners were excellent
men. They said his predecessor had always told
them it was a work of necessity and mercy. But
if it could be altered no one would rejoice more
than themselves.

He began by giving the half of the men a half-
holiday on Sunday, And that worked very well.

254 '^^he Gentle Heart.

Then he gave the half of them the whole day, so
that every carter had his alternate Sunday. Then
he went a step further and gave the forenoon to
half those that remained, and the afternoon to the
second half. Then he found that every man might
have a whole Sunday and a half Sunday turn
about all the year through. And a blessing came
upon his work. And surely these men called him
blessed.

Now that is the end of the story.

I have no doubt he had other battles to fight ;
but that is all I ever heard of his interesting life.

I hope my telling you these bits of it will help
you to understand both that you and I have battles
of faith to fight, and the kind of battles we have
to fight.

I wish I could tell you what became of the
stable-boy. But his after-life is wholly unknown
to me. I only know that he did not live in vain,
and that he was, though young, the means of
saving a soul. But if you happen to have heard
of a brave old man of the last generation, whose
life had been one long battle for righteousness and
truth — who knows ? — that may have been the boy
who was faithful to God's law in an Austrian stable
more than seventy years ago.

PITCHERS AND LIGH2S.

PITCHERS AND LIGHTS.

IN the wonderful chapter in Judges which tells
the story of Gideon's victory there are so many
lessons that we might read it every Sunday for a
month, and find new lessons each day. It is only
one of these lessons I am going to bring out for
you at present. And I will call it the lesson of
the pitchers and the lights.

It is an old story now. The thing it tells of
happened more than three thousand years ago —
long before Elijah's time, before King David's
time, a hundred years even before Samson's time.
And that was a very sad time for the children of
Israel. Moses and Joshua had been dead more
than two hundred years. And they had no pro-
phet, or king, or great captain to help them. They
were like sheep without a shepherd.

It was just then, when they had no king, that

257 g

258 The Gentle Heart.

the wicked nations of Midian and Amalek said to
each other, " Come, they have no king in Israel,
nor king's soldiers, let us go in and seize their
land." And they came, — a great army, like locusts
in number and cruelty, — and filled the whole rich
plain of the river Jordan, and spoiled the people
of their tents, and their cattle, and their food. The
shepherds and farmers fled to the hills. And
there, away in hidden places, which the robbers
could not reach, they sowed their wheat and their
barley, and fed the flocks they had saved.

But the good Lord took pity on His poor
Israelites. And He sent an angel to say that He
would raise up a captain to fight for them. And
then one of the strangest things happened. The
man God chose to be their captain was not a
soldier at all, but simply a good, pious farmer, who,
since his boyhood, had worked among the wheat-
fields of the hills for his father, and had kept love
for God in his heart. The Lord chose this man,
Gideon, the son of Joash, and said to him, " Be
thou Captain under Me in this war."

Thirty thousand people flocked to Gideon, to
be soldiers under him, when they heard the news.
And then another strange thing took place. The
Lord said to Gideon, ''Thirty thousand soldiers

Pitchers and Lights. 259

are too many for the battle which thou must fight."
So twenty thousand were sent home. But the
Lord said again : " Ten thousand also are too
many. Bring them down to this brook, and bid
every man of them drink." And when they were
there, the most part of them, nine thousand seven
hundred of them, went down on their knees, put
their lips to the water, and that way drank. But
three hundred made a cup of their hands and
raised the water to their lips, and in that way
drank. Then the Lord said : " By the three hun-
dred that lapped the water from their hands I will
have this battle fought." So all the rest went back
to their hiding-places among the hills.

And now took place the strangest thing of all.
The Lord commanded Gideon to divide the three
hundred into three companies, and give each man
a ram's-horn, an earthen pitcher, and a light hidden
in the pitcher. He was to go into the battle at mid-
night with these. And when every man had got his
horn and his pitcher and light, on a certain night
Gideon gave the word. And the three companies
moved down in silence from the hills to where the
tents of Midian and Amalek covered the plain.
Silent, unseen, moved the three hundred, nearer
and nearer to the sleeping hosts. Then Gideon

26o The Gentle Heart.

planted his men all round the camp. Then he
blew a great blast on his own horn, and cried,
" The sword of the Lord and of Gideon ! " Then
every man did as his captain had done, blew a
loud blast on his horn and raised the same shout.
And then they all broke their pitchers and let the
lights flash forth. And at the sound of the shout-
ing and of the horns the robber-army started from
its sleep. The soldiers heard the sudden sounds,
and, looking out, saw the flashing lights. All round
and round the camp they saw lights moving through
the darkness ; they heard horns blowing. The air
was filled with noises, with the shouts of mighty
voices, saying, " The sword of the Lord and of
Gideon ! " Sudden fear took hold of them. They
rushed out of their tents. From tent to tent,
over the whole camp, rushed forth the terror-
stricken soldiers into the darkness, until at last the
whole army was in flight. And then Gideon and
his men pursued. And then came down from
their hiding-places on every side other fighters of
Israel to help. And there was a great pursuing of
the robbers, and some were killed, and the rest
were utterly chased out of the land ; and the land
was cleared of its foes.

That is the story of the wonderful victory which

Pitchers and Lights. 261

this great hero gained. He went down into the
battle with only three hundred men, with only
trumpets, pitchers, and lights for weapons, and the
mighty hosts of Midian and Amalek, thousands
upon thousands, fled before him and were driven
from the land.

More than a thousand years after, when the
story of this victory had come to be a common
lesson in the houses and schools of the Jews, it
was read in the hearing of a little boy named Saul
who lived in the once famous city of Tarsus. And
it made a great impression on him, and went deep
into his heart. And long years after, when he was
an old man, and the Apostle Paul^ he remembered
it. And once, when he was in the city of Philippi,
and writing a letter to the Corinthians, he put
what he had learned from that story into a letter
in these words — " God, who commanded the light
to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts
to give the light of the knowledge of the glory
of God, in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have
this treasure (this treasure of light) in earthen
vessels, that the excellency of the power may be
of God, and not of us."

You see the old apostle has remembered all
the story — the pitchers, the out-flashing of the

262 The Gentle Heart.

lights at night, and the excellent power that gained
the victory. Especially he remembered this — it
was this that had gone most deeply into his spirit
— that the power in all battles for God must be the
power of God. Paul is writing of the sufferings
which he and his fellow-workers had to endure.
He and they seem no better in the eyes of Paul
than earthen pitchers — poor, weak, fragile crea-
tures, that any blow might break, who one day
should certainly be broken. But poor and fragile
though they be, they are vessels carrying a divine
light, a life kindled by God, and a power which
cannot be destroyed, which, even if those who
carry it were broken to pieces and lying in the
dust, should still shine forth and win battles for
God.

And just that is the lesson I wish to draw from
this old story of Gideon's pitchers. As Paul re-
members it, and translates it into Christian truth
for us, it becomes part of the good news of Christ.
It brings the happy assurance to every heart who
hears it, that even a child may be a vessel to carry
the power of God. Weak people, little people,
fragile people— God uses them all. God can fill the
weakest and the most fragile with strength for His
work. He asks only that the heart shall receive

PitcJiers and Lights. 263

His life. The outside may be no better than
earthenware, but inside there will be an excellent
light and power of God.

And that is the New Testament picture of all
Christians, whether young and feeble, or old and
strong. They are all, in themselves, but vessels —
and vessels neither of gold or silver, but of clay —
poor fragile things, just hke earthen pitchers. We
should be worthless, only God puts His life into
our hearts. We should be uncomely, only God
puts His beauty into our life. And we should be
utterly feeble, and unable to fight one battle for
truth or righteousness, only God puts His Spirit
into ours. And when the power of that comes
upon us, we become strong like Gideon.

More wonderful still : that is a picture of our
dear Lord. He also, as a man, was but an earthen
vessel. He was made in the likeness of men, and
became a partaker of our flesh and blood for this
very end, that through death He might show forth
the power and the glory of the divine life within.

You know how cruelly His enemies put Him to
death. " This is the Heir ; come, let us kill Him,"
they said. They nailed Him to the cross. They
did all that evil hearts could devise to destroy
Him. They broke the vessel which contained

264 The Gentle Heart.

His life. But by this very cruelty they brought
defeat and shame upon themselves and glory to
Him. From that hour He began to be a con-
queror and a deliverer. Power went forth from
His broken body, just as strength and victory
shone forth from Gideon's broken pitchers. And
ever since, His enemies have been driven from be-
fore His face. And over all the earth this day,
from the east and the west, from the north and the
south, multitudes are flocking into His kingdom,
and rejoicing to call Him King.

A GENTLE MASTER AND HIS
SCHOLAR.

A GENTLE MASTER AND HIS SCHOLAR.

I.

I INTEND to tell you to-day of a Master who
was denied by a scholar He loved, and yet
was so gentle that He continued to him His love.

The scholar was Peter ; the Master was Christ.

It was the last evening of our Lord's earthly
life. It was the evening on which He girt a towel
about Him, and washed the feet of His disciples, —
the very evening also on which one of these
disciples was to sell Him for thirty pieces of silver.

The Lord and the disciples were sitting in an
upper room in Jerusalem. They had come to this
room to eat the Feast of the Passover. And that
itself was a solemn thing to do ; for there was
prayer, and there was chanting of psalms, and
there was the going back of their thoughts to the

s67

268 The Gentle Heart.

awful night long before in which the firstborn of
Egypt were slain, when the angel of death passed
over the houses of the children of Israel.

But on this particular evening there were
thoughts in the minds of all who were in that
upper room which filled them with concern and
sorrow. It was the last passover they were to eat
together. Jesus began to tell them of His going
away, and of the death He had to die. Very
soon, the disciples He had watched over and
prayed for would be as sheep without a shepherd.
Very soon, the Master they had learned so much
from would be taken from them by enemies, and
by wicked hands put to death. The heart of the
Saviour was very sad. One of His own disciples,
one who had eaten the Passover with Him, was
gone forth to betray Him. He had seen the
traitor rising from the table and stealing out in the
darkness to do his evil deed. The rest of the
disciples would forsake Him too.

" Yes," He said, putting His sad thoughts into
words, ''ye shall all be offended because of Me,
this night."

But as soon as these sorrowful words were
spoken, Peter cried out that such a thing could
never happen. One at least of his dear Lord's

A Gentle Master and His Scholar. 269

disciples would never do a thing so base.
" Though all the others should be offended be-
cause of Thee," he said, " yet will I never be
offended."

I think I see the Lord turning to the disciple
who spoke in this brave way. I am sure it was
with a heart filled with pity He said to him,
"O Peter, this very night, before the cock crow
twice, thyself shalt deny Me thrice."

Peter could not bear to think that he should do
a thing so bad. He hated the very thought of it.
And he cried out, and I fancy with tears in his
eyes, ^' Though I should die with Thee, yet will
I not deny Thee. I am ready to go with Thee
both unto prison and death."

And he really thought he was ready to do all he
had said. For he loved his Master with his whole
heart, and meant to be brave and true, and stand
by Him to the end.

In a little while the meeting in the upper room
came to an end. And they left the upper room
and went to a place called the Garden of Olives.
And into that garden Jesus went to pray to His
Father for strength. He often went there to pray.
And there Judas knew he should find Him. And
to this place he brought a band of rude men with

2/0 The Gentle Heart.

swords and staves to seize Him and take Him to
the priests.

It was a very quiet and lonesome place. And
it looked more lonesome because it was night, and
was filled with trees that looked all black at night.
But there was no quietness in it after Judas came.
The people he brought with him were rude and
noisy, and came round about the Lord to lay hold
of Him. And as they brought lights with them,
and the lights went moving to and fro among the
trees, any one standing near could see what they
had come to do. Peter understood in a moment
what they had come to do. He saw the traitor
also, and saw him giving a false kiss to the Lord.
And he heard the rude cries and he saw the fierce
looks of the traitor's band. And perhaps he saw
some one laying hands on Jesus to seize Him.
Whatever took place, Peter was filled with anger.
His brave soul flamed out in anger. Were rude
hands like these to be laid on the Lord he loved
so well ? It must not be. He would defend his
Master. He would show them that one at least
was not that night to forsake Him. And thinking
these thoughts and stirred by that anger, he
suddenly drew forth a sword and began to strike
with it, and struck one of the servants of the
high priest on the ear.

A Gentle Master and His Scholar. 271

If it had been by swords the Lord was to be
served that night, Peter might not have failed.
But the Lord blamed him for using a sword. And
then came into Peter's heart the beginning of fear,
and with that an evil thought about himself. He
said to himself, " This Judas band have lights, and
they must have seen me as I struck with the
sword." When the band left the garden, and
hurried into the city, the lights flashing on every-
thing as they went, Peter felt that they were
flashing back on him. ''If I follow I shall be
found out," he thought. But how could he refuse
to follow, when he had said, " I will go with
Thee both into prison and death " ? He followed,
but it was with halting steps. Up through the
silent streets raged the noisy band, as peaceful
citizens in their homes were lying down to rest.
Up through the very streets in which, but the
other day, Jesus was welcomed as a king. He
was now dragged as a prisoner. On, from one
place to another, they dragged Him, till they came
where His worst enemies were waiting, all athirst
for His blood. It was the palace of Caiaphas
the high priest, to which they brought the Lord.
Peter still followed, but at a distance, and hiding
in the shadows behind.

2/2 TJie Gentle Heart.

The palace v/as built like a square of houses, —
an open court in the centre, the rooms all round,
and an entrance-hall at one side of the square.
A maid was waiting at the hall door to let
them in. She held her lamp against every face as
it passed. Now was Peter's first trial. Now was
Peter to learn how much easier it is to strike with
a sword in a dark place than to speak a brave
word in the light. He shrank back. That lamp
would discover him. The others would see the
man who had struck with the sword. But then
he looked wistfully as his dear Master was led in,
and across the open court and into the judgment-
hall out of his sight. Then, still looking through
the gateway, he saw the men who had taken Jesus
into the judgment-hall come out again into the
court and kindle a fire. The night was cold, the
fire was tempting. He would be nearer his Lord if
he were inside. At last he ventured in. And it was
then, as the maid held her light to his face, and
saw his troubled look, he uttered his first denial.
'^ Thou ? " she said. " Thou art a follower of that
man ? " Alas for Peter ! His fear for himself
came ov.r him like a great wave of the sea, and
he said, " Woman, I know Him not." After a
while, as he stood near the fire, another said, " Art

A Gentle Master and His Scholar. 273

not thou one of this man's people ? " And a second
tmie, with angry voice, Peter denied that he was.

All this time he could see the judgment-hall and
the crowd of evil men who were bearing false wit-
ness against his Lord. And he could see, stand-
ing bound before them, the form of the Lord
Himself. But at last, the long night was coming
to an end. The night clouds were beginning to
break. And the grey streaks of morning were
coming faintly into the sky. It was then that some
word which Peter spoke told the people standing
about that he was from Galilee. They said to him,
^' Your very speech tells what you are. You are a
follower of the Galilean there." A third time
Peter denied that he knew Him whom they called
the Galilean, and this time he denied with oaths
and curses. But even as he was speaking, he saw
a movement in the judgment-hall. And his Lord
turned round and looked at him. Then sank
Peter's heart within him. His Lord had warned
him that he should deny Him three times before
the cock crew, and at that very moment the cock
began to crow. The Lord's look pierced him like
a sword. He saw his cowardice, his ingratitude,
his sin. And rushing out, to be alone, he sobbed
and cried as if his heart would break.

274 ^^^^ Gentle Heart.

It was a great sin which he had sinned. He
had been ashamed of Christ. It was a great fall
from a good and blessed state. He had been a
lover of Jesus. He was the first to see and say,
that Jesus was the Saviour of the world. And now,
by his three denials, the fair form of his love and
life was marred to the very heart.

II.

That is the first half of the story of the scholar
who denied his Master. Listen now to the other
half, to the story of the gentleness of the Master
who still kept him in His love.

I will begin this half by saying, that there are
two beautiful things in every gentle heart. Those
two things are honour and mercy.

To be brave for goodness^ to be true to friends
who are good, not to be ashamed to say, "I am on
their side," to be a hater of meanness and untruth,
and to be all this, even if, in being it, one should
have to suffer scorn or beating, — that is honour.

To pity friends who through fear have not been
brave or true, to forgive them for their want of
braveness and take them back into your love, even
when it is the goodness in your own life they have
not been true to, — that is mercy.

A Gentle Master and His Scholar. 275

The story of Peter's denial of his Master is the
story of one who failed in honour : the story of the
Master's love to him is the story of One who did
not fail in mercy.

This Master is very gentle. What is said in the
old psalm may be said of Jesus. ** Such pity as a
father hath to his children " the Lord had to Peter.
He knew how weak he was. He remembered that
although Peter was a man in years, he was only a
child in the power to be honourable and true. And
therefore He was not angry with him. He did not
say, " I will have nothing more to do with this
scholar." He said, " I will have compassion upon
him, and remember his evil deed no more."

And that is the first thing to understand both
about Peter and about the gentleness of Christ.

Peter was as yet very weak. And he did not
know how weak he was. If he had known his
weakness, he would not have said, "Though all
others forsake Thee, yet will not I." That is a
lesson we have all to learn. And many who come
to be very strong for goodness and truth in their
old age are as weak as Peter in their youth. About
two hundred years ago there lived in France a
very holy lady, who for her holiness and goodness
was by bad people put in prison. Her name was

276 The Gentle Heart.

Madam Guyon. When this lady was a young girl
at school, she was very religious, and had, even
then, a great love for God. But one day she said
to the other girls of the school that she loved God
so well that she could die for Him. And the other
girls saw, or thought they saw, that this was only
a boast, and that it sprang from pride. So they
agreed to put her to a very cruel test. They went
to her and said that a message had come from
God commanding her to give up her life for Him.
And then they led her into a room, on which they
had spread a great white sheet to receive her
blood. And they ordered her to kneel in the
centre of it, that she might be put to death. Then
her heart failed her, just as Peter's did. Then she
found out how weak and proudhearted she had
been. And she cried out that she could not die
until her father gave his consent. But it was the
beginning of strength to his pious girl to have
found out her weakness and her pride of heart.
And it was the beginning of strength to Peter to
find out how weak and full of the fear of death he
was. And the gentleness of the Master was shown
in this, that He put the blame of the denial and
the untruth on his weakness, and did not say, '' He
has a bad and wicked heart."

A Gentle Master and His Scholar, 277

Another beautiful thing in the gentleness of the
Master was, that although Peter failed to be true
to Him, He did not fail to be true to Peter. When
the Lord takes any one into His love, He does not
easily let him go. He had taken Peter into His
love. And having begun to love him, He loved
him unto the end. He showed that, by the look
which He gave Him when the cock crew. The
Lord had been thinking of Peter and praying for
him even when evil men were speaking and work-
ing evil against Himself at the judgment-seat. And
when the poor, weak disciple had lost all his brave-
ness through the fear which had come upon him,
and denied his Master the third time, and this
time with oaths and curses, the Master turned and
gave him this look. It was a look of sorrow, not
of anger. If the look could have been changed
into words, it would have said, " O Peter ! O my
poor, weak disciple ! did I not forewarn thee of
this ? " A very tender look it would be, like the
look of a mother who finds her child in a serious
fault : a look with vexation in it, but also with
healing and help in it. That look recalled Peter
to himself. It made him see two things at the
same moment — both how truly Jesus loved him,
and how little he deserved His love. That look

2/8 The Gentle Heart,

made him ashamed of his want of honour and
truth. It opened the fountain of tears. It led
him to repent of the base words he had spoken.
And the gentle Master intended that it should help
His disciple in this very way.

And in yet another way the Master showed that
He was true to His disciple. Peter was one of
the first He thought about after He rose from the
grave. So loving, so gentle was He, so truly did
He wish this disciple to know that he was forgiven,
that when He was sending a message to the dis-
ciples about His resurrection, He mentioned Peter,
and only Peter, by name. '' Go your way," He
said to the women who came to the grave with
sweet spices and found Him risen — *' go your way,
tell the disciples and Feter, that Jesus goeth before
you into Galilee."

But, more gentle still, the Master not only for-
gave His disciple, but healed him of the evil in
his heart. He did not make light of the evil
which His disciple had done. He laid bare that
evil, so that Peter could not but see it. He laid
bare the very thoughts and feelings of Peter's own
heart, that he might learn how he had been led
into his evil deed. He showed him the pride, the
self-esteem, the over-confidence in himself, which

A Gentle Master and His Scholar. 279

had led Peter to say, " Though all be offended
with Thee, yet will not I."

But He did not stop there. Jesus knew what
Peter was yet ignorant of, that beneath the pride
of heart lay wells of love and faith and honour
which the pride of his heart kept from flowing
out.

And on a bright morning by the Sea of Galilee
the hour came when the gentle Saviour was to
bring these to light.

For Peter, it was the hour of sorrow for his sin.
The thoughts of his warm and loving heart were
dark and heavy with the remembrance of his sin.
Often, often, by night and by day, he had said to
himself, '' Am I the same disciple who made the
proud boast, and yet so basely fell? Am I the
man who denied my Lord with oaths and curses,
and am yet suffered the company of the disciples ?"
A great cloud of shame rested on his soul. He
must have shrunk from the very thought of ever
meeting his Lord again. But even while this
thought was troubling him, the Master he had
offended appeared, as in the earlier years, on the
shores of the lake.

Three times the gentle Saviour put the question
to His disciple, '' Lovest thou Me ^ " Three

28o The Gentle Heart.

times He gave the disciple who had denied Him
thrice an opportunity of saying that he loved Him.
At last Peter, in an anguish of humility and love,
cried out, " Lord, Thou knowest all things : Thou
knowest that I love Thee."

It is not boasting now. The day of boasting of
his own faithfulness is over. He has found out
how weak, how passionate, how rash he has been.
He knows that so long as he is on the earth
there will be outbreaks, and fallings away, and
turnings from the right path. But his gentle
Master has taught him also to know that beneath
all his weakness and sinfulness there is a living
stream of love to Christ, which if he follow will
lead him right.

The gentle Saviour in the presence of all
the other disciples lifted the fallen Peter into
his old place of honour. He put a new heart
in him and a right spirit to make him strong
and bold to speak for God and for righteous-
ness. And He put him in charge, as a minister
of the Gospel, of His flock. ** Feed My lambs
and My sheep," He said to him. And Peter
became brave and true, and one of the most
faithful among the apostles. It was Peter who
preached the first sermon on Christ in Jerusalem,

A Gentle Master and His Scholar. 281

and told its rulers that by wicked hands they had
slain their Lord. It was he who told the same
rulers, when they commanded him not to preach in
Christ's name, that it was right to obey God rather
than men. And it was he who first saw that the
Gospel was not to Jews only, but to the whole
world, and who himself went among the Gentiles
and told them of Christ's love. A brave, true,
kind-hearted man ; a brave, true servant of God,
who was made both brave and true by the gentle-
ness of Christ.

''BOB ;''
SOME CHAPTERS OE HIS EARLY LI EE.

I. AN EARLY ABSTINENCE MOVEMENT

II. "mere bits o' brass"

III. FINGERS AND TOES .

IV. "TRYING HIS LUCK "
V. SUCCESS AND TRIAL

VI. CONCLUSION .

PAGE

285
290
296
302
310
318

''BOB;" SOME CHAPTERS OF HIS
EARLY LIFE.*

AN EARLY ABSTINENCE MOVEMENT.

IN the year 1842 the abstinence movement was
new and much looked down upon. And it
was therefore not without opposition that some
friends and myself were permitted to start a
society in the mission district of the church to
which we belonged. We had Sunday-schools,
Sunday evening services for grown-up people, and
at last, in addition, this abstinence society.

In order to stir up an interest in our new move-
ment, and also to silence the sneers of those who

* The use of this little tale by the author has been kindly
granted for this volume by the Directors of the Scottish
Temperance League, who possess the copyright.

286 The Gentle Heart.

said that no good would come of it, we resolved to
have a house-to-house visitation of the district, and
invite the people personally to our first meeting.
It was while carrying out this part of our plan that
we first met with " Bob," the story of whose early
life I am about to tell.

The mission district was a street, from which
long and crowded courts, or closes, opened on
either side, and went so far back that they were
narrow streets themselves. And, mdeed, each of
these closes was a world in itself. In one of the
most open of them was a great stretch of brick
wall, enclosing a slater's yard. And this wall we
found all chalked over with sketches of dogs' and
horses' heads. Struck by the power and beauty of
these, we inquired who the artist was. But the
only reply we could get was — *' Oh, it'll be Bob ; "
or, " Oh, nae doubt it's some o' Bob's nonsense ; '^
or something to that effect. One thing only was
clear, that the artist's name in the district was
'' Bob."

We might never have known more than that, if
we had not carried out our house-to-house visita-
tion. But in the course of our visiting we came
across Bob himself. We found him to be a young
lad about seventeen — tall, fair, blue-eyed, with

"Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 287

hair tossed back in a mass over his brow, and
with a soft and pleasant voice. He was living
with his mother in a small "room and kitchen"
house, and was sitting at a table when we entered,
drawing some figures on a slate. Entering into
conversation with his mother and him, we found
them ready to join our society; and, in fact,
before we left the house the young lad had con-
sented to be a sort of district secretary of the
movement.

Before two days were over, we had a very
effective proof that our new secretary was in
earnest. The sketches of dogs' and horses' heads
were all rubbed out, and a real temperance picture
chalked over the slateyard wall. At one end
was a great whisky-barrel, with open doors like a
shop, and a stream of people issuing out into the
street. Beggars, thieves, fallen Avomen, drunken
workmen, drunken masters, drunkards of every
age and class made up this procession. At the
other end of the wall was a gallows, and at its
foot a lot of dead people huddled in a heap.
The picture was very rude — as rude and bald as
a picture could well be — but the meaning was
pretty clear on the whole, and it was made plain
to everybody by the words below — " What comes

288 The Gentle Heart.

out of the whisky-barrel." Along the top of the
wall there ran an announcement of our meeting.

The meeting was a great success. But we were
much indebted for that to Bob's chalk drawing.
His mother and he were among the first to arrive,
and by-and-by our little hall was full.

The speaking was not very bright. We were all
beginners in the work, and we had none of the
facts at our finger ends which make it easy to fill
a temperance speech now. But we did our best,
and we got some of the people themselves to say a
word or two j and what was better than all, and
quite unlooked for, we got a speech from Bob.

It came about in this way. We were proposing
some votes of thanks at the close, and one of us
rose and said the greatest thanks were due to the
artist who helped us by his temperance picture.
The meeting caught up the idea at once, and over
the whole meeting rose loud cries for Bob, and
clapping of hands. Bob's face went very red ; but
the people were resolved he should rise. And at
last, after we also had pressed him strongly, he got
up and spoke something to this effect : —

" Am nae great drawer : but I can draw better
than I can speak. But I can say this much, that
it's a gude wark we've begun this nicht. It's the

'^Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 289

wark o' pittin' down drinking and saving drinkers.
An' we can a' help in this wark if we only bide awa
frae drink oursels.

" I believe the wark will succeed, I houp
every lad and lass here will pit doun their names.
Am gaim to pit domi mine. No that the pittin'
doun o' our names will make us sober, — but it'll
show what side we're on. An' it'll help to keep
us awa' frae drink. We can aye say, if we're asked
to drink : ' I've pitten doun my name.' That's a'
I have to say."

290 The Gentle Heart.

II.

''mere bits o' brass."

Bob was little more than seventeen when these
events took place. But the story I am gomg
to tell begins seven years before. He was at
that time a small piecer in a cotton factory, and
his mother was an out-door worker for the same.
The mother's occupation was " reeling." She had
a long wooden reel in her house, on which she
wound hanks of yarn. At this work she made
about five shillings a week. Bob got two. This
was all their living.

At that time they lived, not in the house where
I first saw them, but in a miserable single apart-
ment in the very roof of a four-storey land. It was
a poor, cold, wretched little place. There was a
tiny window in the gable of the roof, and a fireplace
as tiny beside it. The reel filled one side of the
room, the bed in which Bob and his mother slept,
the other; and there was hardly room to move
between. I never heard who Bob's father was, or

^^Bohf' Some Chapters of J as Early Life. 291

whether he was Hving, or dead, or anything at all
about him. And those who knew Bob and his
mother most intimately knew as little as I.

In the humble attic which I have described, this
poor place, hot in summer and cold in winter,
lived Bob and his mother,— Bell was her Christian
name, — in the year 1835, when my story begins.
In the winter evenings, when the rain was lashing
on the slates overliead and sometimes dropping
through, Bell and her piecer-boy Avould draw near
the mite of a fireplace, poke the handful of coals
in the grate into a glow to save a candle, draw the
three-legged stool between them, and take their
morsel of supper all alone. And poor though they
were, those were happy times for these two— and
times they often looked back to with tears in their
eyes in the dark days near at hand.

At that time children as young as Bob were
allowed to work in factories. And the two shillings
a-week which he earned was a great addition
to his mother's means. His work was to walk
backward and forward with the spinning-jenny
and piece up threads which broke, and now and
again to creep below the machine and sweep the
cotton dust from the floor. It was not hard work,
nor very dangerous ; and if the spinner happened

292 The Gentle Heart.

to be a kindly man, children could be very happy
at the work. But ten years of age was very young
even in those days. And it was an age when an
innocent and unsuspecting child might very easily
be tempted into crime.

At the machine next to the one where Bob
" pieced " was a boy two years older, called Ned.
Now Ned had not even a mother to care for him,
or tell him what was good or bad. And being but
a boy, and not having been taught to love anything
better, Ned set his heart on sweets. "Candy,"
"white rock," "black man," and "shortbread"
were the things in the world which Ned thought
best worth having. But he had only two and
sixpence a-week, and it took all that, and what
the parish allowed besides, to pay for Ned's
lodging and keep. Ned had once or twice in
his life had a penny, and he always spent it on
sweets. And now he set his heart on having
sweets. Ned fell into a snare that is very
common in this world. He fell into the snare
of " hasting to be rich." He said to himself — " It
will be a long while before I earn as much as will
let me buy sweets for myself. But if I had some
of these brass things lying about, I could get as
much as ever I wanted." But he could not get

''Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 293

brass things which were not his own without help.
So he walked home with Bob every night for a
week, and, bit by bit, told him of the joys of
eating sweets, and of the easy way by which they
could get as much of these as they liked — " We've
only to tak an aul' socket or twa. An' Bob, they're
useless things — mere bits o' brass — they'll niver be
missed."

I am telling the story just as it happened. I do
not wish to make Ned out a villain and Bob an
innocent victim. It is true, Ned was older, and
he was the tempter ; but Bob knew things that
Ned never heard of, and yet he let himself be
tempted. He knew well enough it was stealing to
which Ned was coaxing him. And it was the
work of a thief they two agreed to do.

The articles they stole were things which boys
might well fancy were only worth as old brass, —
" Mere bits o' brass," — as Ned said. They were
spare fittings kept lying about to be ready for use.
And the boys easily found a wicked store-keeper
outside to give them pennies for each article they
brought. It was some time before the fittings were
missed. But after the thefts had gone on for
several weeks the number of things missed became
so great, that the whole factory got into a stir to

294 The Gentle Heart.

find out the thieves. In this the men were as
earnest as the masters, and suggested a plan by
which the thief might be found out.

It was noticed that the thefts were mostly on
the Saturdays, when the factory closed at four.
Accordingly one Saturday, as the workpeople
came down into the court, they found two
policemen stationed at the door, who searched
each individual as he stepped out. Then each
stood aside to see their neighbours searched. By-
and-by Ned and Bob, suspecting nothing, came
out with the usual bit of brass in a sleeve of their
jackets, and were discovered at once. Their first
taste of the evil of crime was the sharp clutch the
policemen took of their arms, and the howl of
anger which rose up from the crowd, who had
waited to the end.

I do not know what happened in Ned's lodging
that Saturday evening. But in the lone attic
where Bell waited to give her boy his tea, what
took place was worse than death. Two police-
men and one of the factory foremen came up and
searched every corner of the room, and although
nothing was found, she was told in a cruel way of
her boy's guilt, and informed that she could have
no more work from the mill.

^^Bob;" Some Chapters of his Early Life. 295

Poor, lonely, innocent Bell ! Her sorrow was
too great for tears. It seemed as if her heart
would burst. At first she was stunned. Then
she became excited. Then she started from her
seat, and paced up and down the little attic till far
into the night. Then she lay down, but could not
sleep. The two thoughts which chased each other
through her soul were — " My boy a thief! My boy
in jail ! " On Sunday morning she tried to think it
was all a dream, and that Bob had only been out
all night. And then she listened to noises below
as if these might be his foot on the stair. She
never seemed to have thought of going to see him
in the police-cells. She was not herself. As the
hours of the Sunday went on she still listened for
his step on the stair. She neither lit her fire nor
took food all that day; and it was the end of
December, and bitterly cold. What was heat or
cold, or food or hunger to the mother whose only
child was in a police-cell ?

296 The Gentle Heart.

III.

FINGERS AND TOES.

Drearily dawned that next Monday morning
in the poor attic where Bell had passed another
miserable night. She knew that her boy would
be brought before the magistrates that morning,
and wrapping her thin blue mantle around her, and
drawing its hood over her head, she tottered rather
than walked — shrinking from the gaze of every
passer-by — to the Court where he was to appear.

She had not long to wait ; Ned and he were
brought up among the first. It was no bad dream
she had dreamed. That was her own boy, her
one delight on earth, whom she beheld in the
dock. But could it all be true ? Had the harsh
policemen not made matters worse than they were?
Could so young a child have done all the evil they
said ? Could he have gone on doing it, and she
not know? Perhaps, after all, her boy was inno-
cent j perhaps somebody would step out of the
crowd and say he was innocent. Alas ! Ned and

''Bob;'' Some CJiapters of his Early Life. 297

he had been taken in the very act, and they did
not once try to deny their crime.

They had really stolen the bits of brass ; they
had been stealing them for many weeks. The
poor children cried the whole time of the trial.
At the close, each got sixty days in Bridewell.

As the two boys were marched out of the Court,
Bell fairly broke down, and had to be helped into
the street.

It was December when this took place. Winter
had set in early that season, and was very severe.
A long-continued and hard frost lay upon the land,
and great suffering fell even upon those who were
free among the people. The suffering was still
greater in the prisons. No tenderness had come
into humane hearts then on behalf of prisoners.
No one thought their health worth caring for.
The Bridewells were not heated ; the bed-cover-
ings were scant ; the food was poor. And the
frost struck through with all its might at the two
pitiful children who were shut up in a dismal cell.
Bob suffered the most ; he was of a fragile make.
He had never been very strong, and long before
the sixty days had come to a close his naked feet
were bitten with the frost, and two of his toes
ready to drop off.

298 The Gentle Heart.

At last, however, came the long-wearied-for six-
tieth day when the poor children were to be let
free. Poor Bob ! The day of his freedom was a
day of sorrow. It was a cold raw February day,
a bitter east wind blowing along the street, and
the pavement wet with the slush of snow that had
fallen the night before. About a dozen prisoners
were to be let out that morning, and a crowd of
poor people who expected them were gathered
about the gate. One here, and another there,
gave a joyful cry as they got back some member
of their circle. Bob had thought that his mother
would be surely there. He had often wondered
why she had not come to see him, but the thought
that he should meet her now had kept him awake
the only part of the night when the pain in his
foot was quiet enough to let him sleep. He
looked eagerly round, but she was nowhere in
that crowd, and tears came into his eyes as he
edged side-wise from the throng and began to
" hirple " towards his old home. It was slow
work. He could only put the heel of his disabled
foot to the ground, and to do even that much was
pain. Often he rested by the way. Then pains
of another kind shot through his heart. As he
came near the court where he was so well known,

"Bob;^^ Some Chapters of his Early Life. 299

and in which he had gained so early an evil repu-
tation, shame took hold upon him. He was afraid
to be seen ; afraid that people would reproach
him ; afraid that his mother would never love him
again; but afraid most of all, perhaps, lest he
should meet the policemen who had taken him
first to prison.

At length he was at the foot of the long " turn-
pike " stair that led up to his mother's attic. The
pain in going up the steps was terrible. Several
times he had to sit down and rest. At the last
flight of steps he had to crawl on hands and
knees. He began to be terribly shaken and
afraid. There was no neighbour, no "but-and-
ben " on the landing. As he crawled upwards he
heard no sound ; the stillness was like the grave.
When he came to the door his strength was ut-
terly gone. He could not reach up to the latch.
'' Mother," he cried ; but no mother appeared.
He knocked, but there was no answer. Strug-
gling up in a last effort of strength to the latch, he
tried to open the door \ it was locked. He sunk
down on the threshold and sobbed aloud. He must
have lain huddled up in that state for some hours,
and fallen asleep. What he next remembered was
the confusion of voices at the foot of the stair.

300 The Gentle Heart.

" Somebody's moanin' at Bell's door."
'•' Div ye say sae ? Wha can it be ? "
" Has she maybe died in the Infirmary, think

ye

?"

" Weel, they do say that people that dee there
aften come back to their auld hoose afore leavin'
the yirth."

" Havers, woman ! That's nae ghost ! It's some
leevin' body in pain."

And then Bob saw the heads of four or five
neighbouring women peering up at him from the
stair. " Losh, me," said one of them, "it's Bob."
'•' I declare it's Bell's laddie hame again ! " And the
same voice added, " O laddie, laddie, ye hae dune
muckle mischief Yir mither's in the Infirmary
wi' the fivver."

When Bob heard this last sentence, the whole
truth flashed upon his mind. At a glance he
seemed to see the connection between his crime
and his mother's illness. He understood now
why she had never come to see him. His sobs
burst out anew, and became a low despairing cry.
" O ma mither, ma mither ! " he cried. And in
his grief and pain and weakness, the poor child
fainted away.

When he came to himself he was on a shake-

"Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 301

down in the warm kitchen of one of the houses on
the landing below. I will give the name of the
Samaritan who took him in. It was Mrs. Green-
wood, the Lady Bountiful of that little world, the
kind-hearted wife of a kind-hearted man. When
the two heard that the boy was home and ill, they
opened their door and " took him in."

Bob never forgot the kindness received from
these two that night. It was the nearest approach
to Heaven he had ever known. It was a kindness
that did not work by halves ; they kept the boy
till his mother was better, and back in her home.

302 The Gentle Heart.

IV.

"trying his luck."

It was a long while before Bob was able to walk,
and when he got out again it was with eight toes
instead of ten. That was a terrible infliction for
his mother and him. It was loss of bread. The
mill district of the city at that time was little
better than a village. Everybody knew everybody
else. And Bell and her boy were only too well
known. The toes were a sort of Cain's mark on
the boy — a certificate of conduct telling the wrong
way. He was too poor to have shoes. The toes
told of Bridewell; and Bridewell brought back
the story of the bits of brass. And factory after
factory refused to receive him within their gates.

By the help of some neighbours, Bell got work
for her reel \ but she was no longer able for the
amount of work she could do before her illness :
and the want of Bob's wages made a great differ-
ence in her means.

But God was kind. Gifts from unknown givers

'^Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 303

came to them in the form of coals and potatoes
and meal. Bob was able now and again to gain a
penny by holding horses on market days, and run-
ning messages. And the Greenwoods remained
fast friends to him till his troubles were over.

Although Mr. Greenwood lived " up a close,"
he was a man of some wealth. He lived in the
back land because it was his own ; and in the land
fronting the street he had a clothier's shop. This
was a main resort for Bob j and he was always
made welcome there. Mr. Greenwood saw that
the boy had learned by what he had suffered ; and
that he was turned away from dishonest ways for
ever. He believed in the boy and trusted him,
and contrived many a message just to give Bob
the pleasure of earning an honest penny. But he
did more than that. He encouraged the boy to
spend his leisure time in learning. And sitting at
the friendly fire in the cutting-room. Bob learned
to be a thoroughly good reader, and found out that
he had a gift for drawing. There was a slate in
the shop on which many a rude drawing was made
with the fine chalk used by clothiers. And the
kindly man would stop his work to admire a face,
or a tree, or a bridge, when the boy tried to draw
these objects on the slate.

304 The Gentle Heart.

One morning the clothier was sitting on his
bench reading the weekly paper as Bob came in.
" Bob," he said, " I see something in the paper
this morning that will do for you." It was an
advertisement by a great pattern-designing and art
publishing firm for an apprentice. '' Look here,
Bob," the eager friend said, " the only condition
is, that the boy must have a taste for drawing."

But Bob replied : '' They will look at my taes."
" No ; " said Mr. Greenwood, " and don't you say
anything about your toes. And nobody now has
any business to ask you about the past. You have
suffered plenty already by these toes. At any rate,
you go and try ; and go this very forenoon.

Bob returned home and told his mother. He
was made as tidy and clean as possible. And
looking in as he passed at his friend's shop, the
boy set off, as Mr. Greenwood said, '' to try his
luck."

He knew the building well at whose door he had
to knock. Often he had passed it when going
messages. Often had he looked in the winter
evenings at its three tiers of windows all lighted
up. Often on such evenings had he marked the
flitting shadows of the printers as they moved
among the presses. Often he had been struck

^^Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 305

in the daytime with the great rope dangling from
the topmost storey at one end and swinging up and
down great bales of paper. Oftener still, he had
stopped for a moment at the beautiful porch at the
other end, and looked through the glass door at
the fine pictures and statues which were ranged
around the walls of the entrance hall. At this very
door he stood this morning, but with fear filling
his heart. What chance had he, so poor, so rag-
ged, to be received in a place so fine ?

And, indeed, he seemed very poor. No wonder
the junior partner, Mr. Bathgate, looked at him as
he was shown into his room. He was still a tiny-
looking boy — he had not begun yet to shoot up
into the tall youth he had become when we first
met with him. And he was bare-footed. And his
trowsers, through honest wear, were more like
knickerbockers than trowsers. His jacket also was
too small for him. The cap he held in his hand
was not without a hole or two. But over against
all this, there was an intelligent face, two honest
eyes, hair combed beautifully to one side, and hands
and legs and face as clean as water could make them.
This was the conversation which followed : —
'^ You want to become our apprentice, my little
man ? "

3o6 The Gentle Heart.

" Can you draw ? "

" A wee."

" What can you draw ? "

" Dougs and horses and trees."

'' Who taught you ? "

"Masell."

'' Well, take this home with you, and let me see
what sort of copy you can make of it."

Mr. Bathgate took a wood- engraved landscape
from a desk, a sheet of cardboard, and a pencil,
wrapped them up for the boy, and told him to
come back when he had made a copy.

Whoever saw Bob that forenoon as he turned
his steps towards his home, saw a boy who ran as
if he had wings. He seemed to himself to have
become suddenly the heir of a great possession.
The sheet of cardboard, the new pencil, the fine
engraving; he had never had such things in his
hand before. He did not stop till he reached his
patron's shop, and unrolled his treasure on his cut-
ting board. But Mr. Greenwood's heart gave way
a little when he saw the landscape. " Can you
manage this, do you think. Bob ? " " I'll try," said
Bob. And away he ran up the long stairs to his
mother.

*^Bob;" Some Chapters of his Early Life. 307

He heard the reel as he came up the stair.
There she was, when the boy pushed open the
door — winding, winding, winding. The only events
of her Hfe were going to the mill for copes, and
returning with hanks — and, besides that, seeing her
boy come in at the door. To-day he was unlike
what she had ever seen him. He seemed to have
grown taller. His face was filled with eager hope.
He was panting to tell her what had taken place.
But he had also a great favour to ask. " Mither,
could you give me a penny ? " Do not smile —
you to whom a penny is nothing — to whom a sove-
reign is less than a penny to these two. "A penny,
Bob ? " " Ay, mither — to get a penny cawnle. I'll
hae to sit up a while after ye've geen to bed." Bob
got the penny, changed that for a candle, and at
once settled down to his task.

He had a good many hours yet of daylight, and
he used them well. He had never worked with so
soft a pencil, or on paper so fit for drawing. And
he worked with great care. Then, when evening
came on, he lit his candle and still continued to
work. His mother went to bed ; but Bob worked
on. He heard the cuckoo-clock in the house be-
low striking the hours till far into the morning.
About four o'clock he laid down his pencil. The

308 The Gentle Heart.

task was done. Then he set the fire for his
mother's brealcfast, put the kettle near, and sHpped
into bed.

At ten o'clock he was at Mr. Bathgate's office
door.

" What ! " said that gendeman, " are you back
again .? The work has been too hard for you, I
fear."

'' No."

" But you can't have done it already."

"Ay; it's here."

"This! Did jw/ do this ? You? Yourself?
When did you do it ?"

" I sat up a' nicht till I finished it."

" Did you though? Sat up till you did it?"

Just then Mr. Currie, the other partner, came in ;
and the two went into an inner room and had a
long examination of the copy. It had been beau-
tifully done. At last coming back into the room
where Bob was, they said, —

" We are very much pleased with the copy you
have made. You would make a capital designen
But we are afraid our place will hardly suit you."

Bob's heart sank.

" We give no wages to our apprentices ; and our
apprentices have to pay us for teaching them."

'^Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 309

There was a little quiver on the boy's lips as he
answered, ''But I maun hae wages; I maun try to
help my mither now."

The two partners looked at each other for a
moment, and went into the inner room again. In
a short time one of them came out and said, —
" Come back here on Monday, and we'll think
over your application till then."

When Bob returned on Monday, he was told
they were so much pleased with the copy he had
drawn, that they had resolved to make an exception
in his favour. They would take him without a
premium, and they would give him three and six-
pence a week the first year of his apprenticeship.
He might begin next day.

That was a day of joy in the little world where
the principal people were the Greenwoods, and
Bell, and her boy. Mr. Greenwood rigged up the
boy in a new suit of clothes, which he could pay
for when he was rich. He got his neighbour the
shoemaker to give a pair of shoes on the same
terms. And Bob's luck began.

310 The Gentle Heart.

V.

SUCCESS AND TRIAL.

Bob succeeded beyond all expectation. He be-
came one of the best designers and draughtsmen
in the establishment. At the end of two years he
was receiving ten shillings a-week, and able to take
a better house for his mother. And long before
the seven years of his apprenticeship were finished,
he was the most trusted man in the place, and the
one to whom a difficult piece of work was certain
to be sent. When his time was out, the partners
marked their satisfaction with him by making him
a gift of money and a beautiful watch, and at the
same time appointing him manager over a special
department of their work.

But Bob was not to enter on his new kingdom
without both trial and sorrow. It was at that time
a universal custom in workshops and warehouses
for workmen to give *^ treats " of drink on all the
great occasions of their career. There was the
" 'prentice pint," the "journeyman pint," and the

''Boh;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 3 1 1

"foreman pint" Bob's poverty had excused him
from the first. But when he became journeyman
and manager at one step, his fellow workmen de-
manded a special treat.

But Bob had, long before this, been drawn into
our abstinence work. He was the secretary of our
district society, and about to be made president.
He was the leading spirit of our movement, and in
thorough earnest. And he flatly refused to give
the treat demanded. Mortal offence was taken.
I can look back to those times and vividly recall
them. Not designers and printers only, but minis-
ters of the gospel as well, were expected to give
these "" treats." A young minister coming into a
Presbytery had to give a bottle of wine ; and whe-
ther he drank or not, he had to pay his share of
what others drank at the Presbytery dinners. It
is difficult to believe now that anger so deep and
bitter could be cherished towards the men who had
the courage to refuse such demands. This anger
came out in full strength, and over all the works,
against Bob. " What ! was he to set up to be
better than his neighbours ? Were the back-books
of his life so clean that he set up to be the sober
man of the works ? It was mean. It was miserly.
Only a sneak and a churl would act in that way."

312 The Gentle Heart.

And Bob saw in the averted looks and short snap-
pish answers he got, and in the sneery laughter of
the workmen when he had occasion to pass, how
greatly he had offended them.

One morning when he came to his desk he found
a drawing of a right foot with only three toes on
it. That was the morning of the day he came to
my lodgings and told me of his sorrows, with tears
in his eyes.

But there was worse to follow.

The evil customs which prevailed among work-
people had companion customs among the masters.
Bargains were made and accounts settled in the
dram-shop — and when it was not there, it was in the
private parlour of the office, over wine and spirits.
This latter was looked upon as the genteeler way.
And this was the way the great art-printing and
publishing house of Currie & Bathgate did.

Now Bob's new position gave him a room in the
premises which led into the private parlour. The
ingenious malice of his enemies resolved to strike
him in his most tender part. One forenoon, when
Mr. Bathgate entered the private parlour with a
customer, he found the cupboard in which the
wines were kept had been tampered with, and a
bottle of the rarest taken away. Nothing was said

'^Bob;'' Some CJiapters of his Early Life. 313

that day ; but the same thing was noticed a few
days later by Mr. Currie.

Before long several bottles were taken. Now
nobody could enter this parlour by day unobserved
by Bob. And nobody could so easily get access
to the wine as he. But to do his masters justice,
they never once suspected him. There the malice
of his enemies was completely at fault. They had
planned their wickedness so that suspicion should
fall on their victim. But their victim's character
was now a divine shield around him.

Still the thefts went on, and began to be talked
about among the men. The heads of the firm
resolved to sift the matter to the bottom. Mr.
Bathgate sent for Bob one afternoon into the pri-
vate parlour, and laid a slip of paper before him
on which these words were written : " Search the
young foreman's room, you will find the bottles
there." And the bottles were actually all found
there that afternoon. " Now, Robert," said the
friendly master, " this is a plot to hurt you. But it
is also a wickedness which must not be permitted in
our works. AVhoever is the doer of it must work
by night, for if it were done by day you must have
found it out. Give me the key of your room for a
night or two, and I will set a watch myself"

3T4 The Gentle Heart.

Robert was in the act of thanking his master for
his good opinion of him, and was handing over his
key, when the night porter knocked at the door.
A great hamper had been deUvered in the yard,
and there was some living creature in it. Along
with the hamper came a letter. It was from Mr.
Bathgate's brother, the captain of a vessel trading
to North America. He had been asked to bring
a bear over to some zoological garden. He had
no convenience to keep it in the ship after the men
had left. Could his brother get it chained up in
his yard for a night or two, till it could be sent off
to its destination.

With great ado the bear was taken to the yard at
the other end of the warehouse, and fastened up
by its chain. More than an hour was spent over
this business, and Bob and his master parted for
the night.

It was a very eventful night for him. His
enemies had resolved to complete his shame that
night. The wine press was to be opened once
more and a bottle broken, and its contents spilled
over the floor of Bob's room. The young fore-
man's office-coat was to be dipped in the spilt wine,
and to crown all, the skeleton key by which the
press was opened was to be slipped into its pocket.

'^Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 315

All this was done, and all this was discovered
by Mr. Bathgate in the morning when he entered
the room. He came early, before the bell had
rung. A single glance sufficed to show him how
matters stood. What he saw had been carefully
planned ; but those who planned it had never cal-
culated that the masters would take the foreman's
side. Was it conspiracy? Was it the work of
only one ? But how could any one have done
what he saw ? He was himself the last to leave
the building. He had seen even the porter leave
before him, and he was the first to arrive in the
morning. A little while after came the porter, and
began to light up the corridors and printing-rooms.
By-and-by the various workpeople arrived. Mr.
Bathgate, completely puzzled, was waiting in his
office, wondering what next step should be taken
to find out the culprit, when the porter rushed in,
under great excitement, and told him that the bear
had nearly killed a man. And sure enough, when
they went to the yard in which the bear was
chained, they saw a form huddled up in a corner
and moaning between fear and pain. And they
found the bear in a great rage, stretched to the full
length of his chain, and pawing at the crouching
form to get it into its grasp.

3i6 The Gentle Hea7't.

In this strange way the mystery was laid bare.
The workman who had been detailed by those in
the plot to bring Bob into trouble had secreted
himself in the top storey of the building, and after
the mischief already described was wrought, had
gone, as he had done night after night before, to
the rope used for swinging up and down the bales
of paper, to slide himself down into the yard, from
whence, by climbing the wall, he could get away
unperceived.

But the bear was an unexpected actor on the
scene, and not until the miserable wretch was near
the lower end of the rope did he become aware of
its presence. Then he heard its breathing, then a
harsh grunt or two, and before he could escape he
was in the arms of this terrible creature. It would
have been a relief to him to have known that it
was a bear ; he thought it was something infinitely
worse. In his mortal terror he got loose from its
first embrace, but the yard was too little for him to
escape entirely. He could not get near the wall
over which he expected to climb. It was to that
wall the bear was chained. He could only dodge
about in the opposite corners to escape the
clutches of his dark-looking enemy. This unequal
battle had lasted the whole night long. At last,

''Bob;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life. 317

completely cowed and prostrate, he gave in, and
was found more dead than alive crouched up in a
corner of the yard.

I need not dwell on what followed. The half-
dozen who had plotted the mischief were dismissed.
And Bob found himself higher in the esteem of
his masters, and at last of his fellow workmen as
well, than before. The affair led to another result
that was good : the firm closed the wine parlour,
and were among the first in the city to give up the
practice of treating their customers to drink.

3i8 The Gentle Heart.

VI.
CONCLUSION.

Bob's next advance was Paris. The firm sent him
there to study the designs of the Continent, and
adapt them for English goods. The ragged boy
who began at three and sixpence a week was now
a well-dressed, thoroughly educated artist, with a
salary of three hundred pounds ; and so well did
he acquit himself in his new sphere that at the end
of a few years he was asked to join the firm, and
open a branch of their house in London.

Although he changed in many things, there was
no change in his love for his mother. He was her
stay and comfort as long as she lived. His respect
for her was very beautiful. He bought a cottage
for her in the outskirts of the city, and supplied her
with every comfort she could desire. He spent
his holidays in her society. On these occasions
he took her little jaunts, and attended to her dress
and winter stores. When absent from her he wrote
a long letter every Sunday evening, in which he

^'Boh;'' Some Chapters of his Early Life, 319

gave, just as he had given when he was a lad, an
account of the sermons he had heard. He would
willingly have taken her to London to keep house
for him, but this she steadily refused. She was too
old to learn London ways ; she would have been an
object of derision to some, a subject of gossip to
others. Her ways were old-fashioned, her speech
was broadly Scotch. She could never have managed
servants. Only once did he prevail on her to come
and see him. It was to visit the second Exhibi-
tion ; but the confusion and noise were too much
for her, and he did not press her to come again.

The last time I saw Bob was at his mother's
funeral. He had become by that time a famous
man in his art, and no one could have supposed,
when they looked at the tall, fair-haired gentleman,
who stood, with moist eyes, and uncovered, at the
grave, or heard him speak his thanks to the com-
pany in the sweet English speech to which he had
attained, that this was the same being who thirty
years before had been a poor outcast boy seeking
work in vain in the neighbouring mills.

Butlor i Tauncr. TLe Selwood Priutiug Works, Fromc, and Loudon.

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