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Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film6s en commenqant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole —*- signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmds i des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est filmd d partir de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. rata lelure, □ 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 STRANGE TALES FROM HUMBLE LIFE. BY JOHN ASHWORTH. "The poor ye have always with you." SECOND CAisr^rnAN edition-. TORONTO: WESLEYAN METHODIST CONFERENCE OFFICE, KINO STREET EAST. 1869. I 177137 PREFACE TO FIRST CANADIAN EDITION. That "truth is stranger than fiction," and that actual occur- rences, 'well told, are'vastly more interesting than imaginary ones — no matter how higlily coloured — is clearly shown in the following pages. John Asiiwortii, the author of these "Tales," is well known in Eochdale, aud many other parts of England, as the founder of the Chapel fok tub Destitute, and the champion for the poor and the outcast. Possessing a soul glowing with benevolence, piety, and zeal, he has been a most successful instrument in rescuing the fallen from the lowest depths of sin and misery to the service of Him who saved a Saul of Tarsus and a Mary Magdalene. The narratives are admirably given in the author's own language, and are strictly true. The names mentioned are real names, both of persons and places ; and many of the sketches are of a most thrill- ing character. These Talcs breathe the true spirit of vital religion, which cannot fail to benefit the hearts and lives of those who read them. The work should, therefore, be in every Sunday School Library, as well as in every family in the land. Forty thousand bound volumes, and about two millions of copies in tract form,j have^ been sold in England, and the demand con tinues^to increase. This first Canadian Edition is given to the public with the earnest hope that its wide circulation will be productive of great amd per- manent good PREFACE TO SECOND CANADIAN EDITION. The rapid sale of the first edition, an 1 the many assurancee from both ministers and people of the excellencies of this work, has in- duced the Book Steward to undertake the printing of a larger edition than the first, with the earnest hope and prayer that the Divine blespiug may attend its extended circulation. CONTENTS. PAQI TuE Dark Hoi-r 5 A Wonder: or, The Two Old Men 18 SaKDEKSON and LllTLE ALICE 34 WiLKINS 47 The Dark Night 61 JOFJEPH 86 My Mother 98 NiFP and his Dogs 110 My New Friends 123 Mothers 161 Twenty Pounds; or, The Little Prayer 172 All IS Well , OR, Whit-week 184 "My Uncle;" or, Johnny's Box 197 Old Adam 210 Ellen Willi^uis and the Black Man 223 Trials 236 Answered at L.ist 252 Priscilla 264 Julia; or. The First Wrong Step 277 No Cotton 290 My Young Ragged Friends 303 The Lost Curl 316 Emmott 328 The Widow 341 Sarah; or, "I Will Have Him." 353 My Sick Friends 366 George 391 J AM es B u R R o ws 403 John and Mary 416 A Sad Story 429 Lucy's Legacy 442 Edmund 454 PAOI 5 18 34 47 61 86 98 110 123 161 172 184 197 210 223 236 252 264 277 290 303 316 328 341 353 366 391 403 416 429 442 454 STRANGE TALES FROM HUMBLE LIFE. THE DARK HOUR. On returning from a morning appointment at Lowor-placo, on Sunday, the 15th of November, 1859, two strong, big- boned, but very poorly-clad men, w&ce coming in the oppo- site direction. When we met, I took hold of an arm of each, and, in as kindly speech as possible, asked them where they were going to spend God's good day. The elder one answered, — " We 8,re going to waste it as fast as we can." " Waste it ! waste it ! Did you never hear that Quoon Elizabeth offered her physician a gresat sum of money if he would prolong her life a single day 1" — I inquired. " Yes, she might ] but what we say is true. The fact is, we both came into town last evening, and are in a miserable lodging-house, and prefer rambling through the streets to sitting in such a wretched place ; though I have left two children in the house, for I did not like to fetch them out into the street this cold day," — replied tlie s me man. ** Did you not see a paper on the wall in the lodging-house you speak of 1" — I asked. 1 6 TALES OP IIUMULE LIVE. "Yes, I ilkl," rcspondciltlie younger, "Init I tliouglit it was an almunac." " No, it is a cai-d inviting the loJgors to a place of worship, called the Cliapol for the Destitute. There is a largo con- gregation, all very poor, — good singing, — no collections, — and I shall be very glad to see you both there to-night." ** Well, sir, the fact is, I do not know what to do. I pawned the handkerchief off my neck last night, for a shilling, to pay the lodgings for n)yself and childi-en. I liave never been so reduced as at present. I am no drinker, my wife is at H'o-lifax, with two of our youngest children, waiting until 1 get employnieut ; and when I return to my miserable lodgings, I do not know whether the landlord will give me credit till to-morrow." " Wdll, my dear sirs, come to the Chapel this evening, and your lodgings shall be paid." " Thank God ! you have lifted a weight from my breast," excluimcd the elder man. " And from mine, too," said the younger. That night both made their appeanmce at the Chapel. After service, Johnson, for that was the name of the elder person, /introduced his two little girls, who made a very nice curtsey ; and on their receiv^ing one penny each, the father sixpence, and the other man three-pence, all four faces brightened up with joy at the paltry gift of eleven-pence. On the following morning, the younger man went on to Oldham, but Johnson remained in Rochdale to seek employment at his own trade, — gardening, or any other spade work. For several days he tried hard, travelling over many miles of ground, but without success ; and night found him standing before my house, the very picture of anxiety, — for he could not beg, and having nothing wherewith to Tin: DARK HOUR. 4^ ]);\y li's lodgibigs, or buy Inviul for his two chikU'CjU^ ffearance was miserable in the extreme. On seeing me he i)reton(led to bo walking past, lest I might think he was again looking for mo. My h(?art melted for the })Oor man, and, in as kind words as possible, I asked him if he had succeeded in getting any- thing to do. fc ** No, sir, I have been many miles round, but I have not been able to get one penny, or a promise of employment ; and I do not know whatev(!r I must do. I do not care so much for myself, biit'the sufleriugs of iny wife and children weigh me down. 1 am afraid to go to my lodgings, for I expect we shall be turned out this night, dai'k and wet as it IS. "Well, my man, take this half-crown, pay your lodgings and buy sorae food ; still do your best to get work, and when your money is done, call on me again." Before I could prevent him, Johnson had taken off his hat ; he took the half-crown with a convulsive grasp ; the light from the gas lamp shining on his countenance revealed the tears running down his face ; he tried hard to speak his thanks, but his emotion choked his utterance, *' Never mind, Johnson, put on your hat, and thank God for what you have got ; for all the sil ver and gold is His ; I am only His steward." The following day Johnson called, quite overjoyed. Ho had got a i)romiHe of work, and told me he had wiitten to Halifax requesting his wife to come as soon as possible. I ! „ » fl :■ If I i ': h ' i t 8 TALES OF HUMBLK LIFK. The older girls was accidentally present at their meeting, clasped their little brother and sister in their arms, in trans- ports of joy. The pale-faced mother (who I perceived would Hoon bring another to share their joys and sorrows) wept in silence. Johnson stood gazing with mingled feelings on his helpless family. But a grievous disai)i)ointment awaited Johnson. The man who had promised hiui work had no authority for so doing ; and when he went, exi)ecting to begin, lie was told that he could not be engaged. When the keeper of the lodging-house heard this, he demanded payment before either Johnson or his family should retire to tiieir miserable beds. Poor man, he had not anything wherewith to pay, and begged perniission to remain till morning, ofFering part of his garments for security, which was reluctantly accepted. On the following morning they were all turned into the street. They wandered about for several hours, when seeing an empty cellar, they got permission to remain in it for a few days. Mother and children sat down on the bare, damp flags, wliLlst the father went out to buy two penny-worth of coals, and a half-penny candle. Throughout the night which followed, Johnson sat on the flagged floor, before the flickering fire, with two children on each side, making his legs their pillows, and his pale, delicate wife leaning against his back. Did they sleep ? Yes, the children slept, and sobbed in their sleep, — for bread. That night Johnson was almost driven to despair. Dark thoughts passed through his troubled soul. The last flick- ering glimmer from the expiring embers had died away, and left them in utter darkness. His sorrowing wife, knowing he had done his best, did not utter a word of com- plaint, fearing to increase his grief by repining, yet could THE DARK HOUR. not supj^rosR all indication of hor own feolinj^a. ITo would have tried to comfort her, but the auffuish of his own soul extinguished all power of words, and he felt rj>eechh'ss ; for though they were both unable to sleep, yet they sat in silence, — no sound but the fitful slumbers of their four child- ren, as they lay huddled together without the least cover- ing. Is it strange that Johnson's thoughts were dark ? Can we be surprised that gloomy emotions passed through his troubled soul l Less than the suffering of that night has driven many to absolute I'ecklessness, and made their cases a thousand times worse, by associating with a passing mis- fortune, a permanent disgrace. Honest poverty will not descend to crime. But there is a God ! This Johnson believed ; and though he had not called on Him in prosperity, — as he now felt he ought to have done, — yet many a silent petition went up to Him whose eye seetli in the darkness, and who turneth not a deaf ear to the cry of the poor. Nor did he pray alone. The sighs of his suffering partner were many of them sighs for help. But when the long-looked for morning dawned, and the cold, grey streak of light fell on the still sleeping children, the sight of their misery was even worse than their thoughts had imagined. About noon that day, the eldest girl called at my house to know if I had seen her father. She wept while she told me that they had been f<)rced to leave the loilging-house, and that they were in a cellar in Cheetham Street ; that her father had gone out to seek for work, and her mother was very unhappy and poorly. I gave the child a little for their immediate wants, and promised to call and see them in ihe evening. On the Tuesday evening, — dark and cold, — I put on my 10 TALES OF IIUMIIU: LIFE. overcoat, took my stick, put some money in my jwckefc, ami went out to visit several of my })Oor friends. For, — peo})le ma)'- see what they will, —one way to a i)Oor man's heart is through his stomach. St. Jolni asks how tlie love of God can dwell in that man's hea^t, who sees his hrother in need, and keeps his pocket bivctoned. " There is a goLlen chord of sympathy, Fixed in the harp of every human breast, Which, by the breath of kinchiess 8wej)t, Wakes angel-melodies in savage breasts ; Melts icy hearts of hate to streams of love ; Nor aught by kindness this fine chord can touch." Mrs. B., the first object of my visit, resided in Dunkirk. Afflicted with asthma, she sat by the fire, gasping for breath. On perceiving me she rose, took hold of my hand, and, in a tremulous, broken voice, said, " Bless you for coming to see me ! You will pray for me before you leave ! I know you will." " Well, Martha, what do you want me to pray for 1" I asked. " That the Lord will liave mercy on my poor soul, for I feel I want Him to pardon my sins ; but I think He hardly ought to do it yet, for I have been a dreadful sinner," was her answer. " Then you, like poor Martin Lather, are for working for salvation. You intend to mend yourself, some way or other, and not to seek immediate pardon through faith in a dear, dying Jesus ; — to be saved by works of righteousness, and not by the renewing of the Holy Ghost ; is it so Martha V* " O no, no ; I am conscious that we are s;n'ed through faith, but I am such a sinner ! such a sinner ! Do kneel down and pray for me." ^ Hi THE DARK HOUR. 11 I tlid kneel down, in that dini^v liglited, ))Oor cottage, witli its bare walls and scant fin*niture, — knelt at the throne of grace, for the afHicted Magdalene, — knelt until heart- broken cries of anguish burst from her heaving breast. Angel of the CWenant ! Thou binder up of the broken heart ! Thou promised Comforter, to Thee we prayed ! — nor prayed in vain. On my taking leave of Martha, she blessed God for His goodness, in providing a place of worship to which she could come in her rags and clogs, Johnson's cellar, in Cheelham Street, was my next place of call. After a little inquiry, I descended the steps and knocked at the door. All was dark ; a faint voice answered the knock, saying the door coidd itot be opened. A strange fear came over me ; I was afraid sonn^thing was wrong. Thinking they vt^ould know my voice, I s])oke through the key-hole, but still rcceivoxl the same ans\\er. I ascended the ste[)S, walked to and fro for at least an Jjour, then tried the door again. Johnson opened it. Poor man ; he had been to seek work, and hatl locked the door at his wife's re- quest. There he stood the picture of sorrow ! The child- ren lay huddled in the corner, covered with the mother's shawl ; she lay on the floor, her head leaning against the wall, evidently in great j>ain ; the eldest girl, about nine years old, stood looking at her mother, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Not an article of furniture was in the house ; the fire had almost died out for Avant of fuel ; a thin candle, nearly spent, was on the mantle-piece, held up by two child's shoes. Instantly sus])ccting that things were even worse than they appeared, I whispered to Johnson my fears. Poor man ! He knelt down upon one knee, took hold of his wife's 12 TALES OF HUMBLE IIFE. hand, and tenderly asked her if she really stood in need of the doctor. " I am afraid it is so," was her feeble answer. Johnson, looking me in the face, clasped his hands in silent agony. Bidding him and the eldest girl follow, we went to the shop of a vendor of old furniture, and purchased two chairs, two stools, bed-stocks, a pan, kettle, several pots, knives, a table, and a candlestick. The broker and little girl carried home the goods, while Johnsor and I went out and purchased three laps of clean straw, and to the grocer's for some provisions. The straw was opened out in a small windowless place, called the coal-house ; the children re- moved, laid on the straw, and covered up ; two neighbouring women were fetched in, and a doctor got immediately. This done, I returned home : and in two hours Johnson came to inform me that another immortal had entered the world^ before the mother could be lifted from the flags. On retiring to my bed-room, that evening, turning on the gas, and lifting my watchguard from my neck, I wound up my watch, looked around on my pictures, furniture, bed- hangings, and carpet. I seemed in a palace. I, who had often looked at, and envied my rich neighboursj and mur- mured in my heart that I was so much below them in worldly circumstances, all at once found myself among the princes of the v'^arth ! The contrast between my comfortable home, and the miserable one I had just witnessed, seemed too great. My unthankfulness and my ingratitude never seemed so black, or my murmurings so sinful, as they did that evening. I have often blessed God that He has en- tinisted n >, as steward, with a little of what enabled me to be a ble sing to others. To cause the widow's heart to re- joice ; to wipe the orphan's tear ; to lessen human woe j to ■J :i THE DAKK 1101' R. 13 mitigiitc, in any tlogi-oe, the sorrows of our fsllownion, — liuaven lias doci'oefl that these shall l)e pnxluctivo of gi'cat ])lcasiu-e to the liai)py instrument. The cold-handed, icy- notli to hearted, soul-shri\'elled money-hoarder, that ha spare," never drinks at this fountain of "Ijliss. The god of this world has blinded his eyes, and niixeil his poor dross with gall. " He heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them." There is a sting in those words that has pierced many a miser's heart. But " blessed is he that considereth tiie poor. The Lord will deliver him in time of trouble ; the Lord will preserve him and keep him alive ; and he shall be blessed in the earth ; and Tliou wilt not de- liver him to the will of his enemies. The Lord will strengthen him on the bed of languivshing ; Thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness." God spake these words, through the mouth of David ; but all must be done to His glory if we ever get the blessing. The ensuing evening I went to see how matters stood with Johnson. I found the bed set uj), and about one half of the straw spi'oad on the cords. One of the poor women who had been with Mrs. J. during the night, had brought a thin bed-cover, made of patches and print, and hung it on one side oi tlie b^d to prevent the cold air from blowing ; for the bed was close to the door, the only place where it could stand. Johnson had found as many things as possible for covering ; among them his only coat. Mrs. J. was very feeble ; she could not taste food, and had several attacks of shivering. Her life hung on a very slender thread. The doctor had been to see her, and left orders that she was to be kept very quiet. Perceiving that our work was but half done, and that, unless warmth and nourishment were inunediatcly admin- m 14 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. isterofl, slie would die, I went at once to a nelglilvnu'ing pawn-shop, and bouglit a bed-cane for two sliilHngn and six- pence, and the good lady gave nie a half-hottle of wine ; next, to a second-hand clothe* shop, to purchase some flocks ; found quite enough, price seven shillings, for which the good woman would not receive a farthing, when she heard what they were for. My wife sent up some clean linen and a pillovs^-case the night previous. Two women filled the bed and case with flocks. I carried the half-bottle of wine and some sago, and then left to attend our church- meeting, whilst the fresh bedding was substituted. On my return a great change for the better had taken place. A few tea-spoonfuls of the wine had revived our patient ; the flock bed and pillows gave ease to her poor bones, and she seemed warm and comfortable. The children had now got all the straw. Two of the youngest (not including the last comer) lay huddled in one corner, and the third — a fine girl of seven — was partly un- dressed. She knelt down on the flags beside her bed of sti'aw, clasped her hands, and closed her eyes, her cheiiise dropping from her little shoulders to her arms. And, O ! what a prayer did that child offer to God ! The moment she began I pulled off my hat and bowed down my head. The deep emotions that passed through my heart can never be expressed. I have heard thousands of prayers, and many of them from God's most gifted servants, but none ever affected me like the prayer of that little child. She repeated her " Our Father ;" asked tho Lord to bless her father, mother, sisters, brother, and the little baby, finishing with these words : — " O God, our Heavenly Father ! Thou art good to us ; we would love Thep, and serve Thee. We have sinned and done wrong many times, but Jesus Christ THE DARK HOUR. 15 has died on the cross for iif?. Forgive us our sins for Jcsu.s' sake ! May the Holy Spirit change our lioarts, and make us to love God ! and, when we die, may we go to Heaven !" To see the poor child kneeling on the (himp flags, beside her bed of straw, and hear her faint, clear voice tlianking God for his goodness, and praying for the Holy Spirit to change her heart, and this under such circumstances; melted me down to tears. I felt as if some angel of mercy, as in the case of Daniel, would come down and tell the little thin^- her prayer was heard. That moment was to me a moment of unspeakable joy, and amply rfepaid me for all I had done. I wiped the tears from my eyes, sat down beside the mother's bed, and asked her if she had heard the prayer. " Yes," was her quick answer, " and I felt it, too. The prayers of my children have often lightened my load of soi*- row ; they are always new to me, though I taught them. But, O ! sir, just before you came into the house last night, when I lay on the floor, and knew in what state I was, — nothing to lie down upon, no food for my poor sobbing chil- dren, my poor husband seeking work, and, I know, almost beside himself, in a strange place, and without friends — I thought God's mercy was clean gone. It was a bmik HOUR ! I tried to look at the promises, but there was not one for me. One promise that has cheered me many times, and that I have often repeated, I could not call to mind ; bi^t it is come back now : — ' They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion that cannot be moved.' Yes ; I have jt now ; but it was a dark hour." ** But do you not see that, at the very time God's merciep seemed clean gone, they were just coming V I replied. " Yes, but i could not see behind the cloud, and faith seemed dead to me. I have seen better days, and have not (I Ti' 111- ' r 111 ii IB TALES OF Iir.MBLE LIFE. It III i I : I ! been t]ij»n] the two sul)- joets of this nurrtitivo tliat these coiichisions were just. Every Sini(hiy morning a poor ohl man, aged eighty-throe, may be soon standing at the entrance to the Chapel for tlio Destitute, waiting that he might carry a small piece of paper, containing the number of the hymns, to the con- ductor of the choir. For nearly two y irs he had delighted to be employed in this humble o;3ice ; for old Lawrence Hoyle thinks it a great honor to do anything in the service of the sanctuaiy. Fifty-five years ago this man, with his young, handsome wife, the mother of three children, was struggling hard with bitter poverty ; the little work he then had was away from home ; and she, besides toiling As^ith her young family, tried to earn a few shillings by hand-loom weaving. She then found, what the poor have often found, that real poverty has little credit ; for, on requesting the grocer to let her have a few provisions, until she had finished and earned home her piece, he told her plainly that the score should not be increased. It was a cold Friday evening, and she had the three children with her. She returned home and made the two eldest ones a little very thin porridge. While they were trying to satisfy the cravings of hunger, she gave the breast to the little boy, and, when she had got them all to sleep, — two in the bed, and one in the cradle — she lighted the candle, and prfspared for weaving all night, that she might take her piece home a day earlier, and obtain a few shillings to buy bread. And, strange as it may seem, that night she sang ! in tears she sang, in the lonely cot and breadlcss home ; lest all hope should die within her, she sang, — and the verse that we.ut deepest down into her very soul, she sang with joy, — ; I 00 TALKS OF IIITMRLK LIFK, " Tliough waves and stitnns go o'er my lii\iu vvithor'd all and duad, Tliougli every comfort be withdrawn ; On this my stcdfast aonl relics : Father, Thy mercy never dies. " And while she was, with subdued voice, piously hymning ]icr confidence in her Heavenly Fathei', a soft foot was heard on the doorstep. It was that of a friend, bringing a cake and sixpence, and that was the grocer's wife. This was to the young Christian mother the first visible provi- dence. And when, the following Sunday morning, she dressed herself and her children in their cleanest and best clothes, — when, to use her own expression, she " crept with 'the children behind the door in the chapel bottom," — and while the minister (Mr. Crompton, of Bury) was preaching from the angel's question to John, " What are these which are an'ayed in white robes ? and whence came they V — her soul was filled with such holy rapture, that tears of joy dropped on her little boy, suckling at her breast. That Friday evening, and that Sunday morning, she spoke about fifty years after-, as the beginning of her trials and triumphs. Both saints and sinners are subject to trials, but there is an immense difference in their real positions. The sinner is without true peace ; he is like the troubled sea that cannot rest ; l)ut the saint takes his burden to him wh(> has pro- mised to give him rest. The wife of Lawrence had oft to bring her burden there : for though she enjoyed more of real religion than is ordinarily attained, yet she kjiew more of domestic sorrow than falls to the lot of one in a thousand. She became the mother of nine children, and had to toil hard to make ends meet ] for Lawrence had fallen into bad habits, and she was the wife of a drunkard. In that one THE TWO OLD MEN. 21 I word ia conroiitmtod almost every trouble. A druiikard's wife, Avitli a family of lialf-clad, half-fed tliildreu, is a \\\\\- able sight ; the wife trying to do her lu^st, and the husband trying to do his worst ! What a conflict ! what a severe demand on patience. Many a woman lias given up the struggle in despair, and lain down in an early grave ; many have lost all self-respect, and lingered through a miserable life of stupid wretchedness. A drunkard's wife is a woman of sorrow. For fifty-five yeare, Peggy, the wife of Lawrence, was a quiet, peaceable, consistent member of the Christian church, and, for most of that time, in meekness and patience, she bore with almost every description of wickedness and abuse from her ungodly husband. And during the whole pf that time she sent up her prayers to heaven, ]>eseeching the Almight}'^ not to cut him down in his sins, but tO sjiare him until he saw himself a sinner, and sought mercy by faith in Christ Jesus. The little boy that was suckling at the mother's breast in the chapel-bottom, on the memorable Sunday morning, was brought up to his father's business, a fulling miller. He married, left home, and went to reside at a place called Ridings. He could play on several instruments of music, but was especially fond of the flute. One Sunday, with the flute in his pocket, he came into the town, and called at the cottage in Gibson- Row, to see his aged parents. " William," said the old man, " where are you going with your flute?" " To the Chapel for the Destitute," William replied. " Chapel for the Destitute ! Chapel for the Destitute ! I have heard of that place. I think it is just the place for me, for I am destitute enough. I think I will go with you," said Lawrence, . •)0 TAi-rn OP iii'Mni.E urn. '! ■ ,!li i " [)i), l,a\vrciu'0, do ; go ami hear William j»liiv, V'MI l;avt! not licai'il liiiii for a long tiiiu'," uliMTvcd his wife. The old iiiiin jait oil his hat, and walked to the Chapel in coini)aiiy with his Hon, to hear him play the flute. The moment ohl Lawreiiee set out for the Kerviee, tlio good old Christian wife crept up stairs, and, kneeling down before tho Eternal, hesought him to send conviction to tho lieart of lier husband ; pleading for an answer, that night, to the thousands of prayta-s that had been olfered up by her aiul her ehildreii, on belialf of father and husband. She ■wrestlcil hard and long, imploring and intreating, that this one long-sought re(piest might, that very night, bo granted. At the Cliap(d the son, with his flute, took his place in the choir, and old Lawrence sat on a form near th«; ])reaclier. The text that evening was '* Our God, whom we serve, is able to deliver us." And while the preacher was describing the presence of the angel with the three young men in the fieiy furnace, holding back the power of thellames; and the angels' presence with Daniel shutting the lions' mouths, — and declaring that every child of God, when passing through affliction, had an angelic ]>0(ly-guard, visible or invisible, the Holy Sj)irit sent homo to the heart of the old sinner the power of gospel truth. As Lawrence returned home his thoughts troubled him, He sat for a long time witlj his hands on his knees, silently gazing into the lire ; his wife, too, sat silent, anxiously look- ing at him. At List he said, " If I have an angel for my body-guard, he will be a black one." " Whatever do you mean 1 — what are you thinking about, Lawrence*?" eagerly asked his wife. " I mean that I am a miserable man, and I fear eternally a lost man. Never till now did I see what a glorious thing THE TWO OLD mi;n. 2:i it Ik to lio ii diild of God. ( ) I liow safe tliey iiro ! flod can deliver them ! And now I iindei'stund how it is that you hiivo HojKitiently liorne with all my l»aso conduct ; how you have Bo meekly suhmitted to exvry insult ; you havo scned God, and ho has delivei'od you." Lawrence spoke with \inusual earnestness and snlemnity. Hi.s a^cd partner had risen to her feet, and stood with clasped liamls and streaming eyes. For some time lier emotion was too deep for words. When ahle to sjH'ak, slio said : — () ! Lawrence, my dear LawreTiee, yon may have a inhifc angel. You, too, may have a glorious, shining body-guitrd. For this very purj)Ose God has spared you these many years, and for this I have prayed ten tJiousand times ; and has the Lord in very deed lu^aixl my petitions ? () ! Lawrence, l^aw- rencc, do not, I bt;seeoh you, do not des})air of God's mercy. He pardons inic^uity, transgression, and sin, when the sinner seeks for pardon through our Redeemer." Lawrence still sat gazing into the fire. Deep contrition was evident in his countenance; the pcwer of conviction caused him to tremble, and from the depths of his soul ho jn'ayed that mercy might not be utterly gone. For many days he was ok the borders of despair ; his good old wife read for liim out of God's lioly book, encouraging him to cast his whole soul on the merits of Jesus. She knelt and prayed with him day after day ; and tlie old man found, in his truly Clnistian wife, his greatest li(^lp in liis struggle for pardon and salvation, lie attended all the services at the Chapel for the Destitute, and went to oilwv places vliero he thought he could receive benefit, till at last light and hope dawned on his mind. But darkness again re- turned, and the publican's cry, " God be merciful to me a 24 TALES OF IIUMBLr: LIFE. i ! I! ^1 sinner !" burst from an agonizing, guilty soul. ITo Rouglit mercy through Jesus, and God, for Chrisst's sake, heard his pniycr. And that day an event took place which seldom takes place in this world ; the old sinner found mercy and pardon, — the hoary-headed transgressor, wlnin over eighty years of age, was made a child of God, by the power of saving grace. The long looked-for day of hajujiness had come at last. " There is joy in the presence of the angt)ls of God over one sinner that repenteth." There was great joy to the children of old Lawrence, when they heard of the change in their father ; but there was the greatest joy to his aged j)artner. She wept for joy ; and while telling me how happy they were, now that they could kn(*el down and worship God to- gether, and how hnppy Ijawrence was all the day, she said, " I believe we shall now be like Zechariah and Elizabeth, serving the Lord together." Several weeks after the great change, Lawrence was anxious to have service in his house, for the sake of his wife, who could not walk to the Chapel, on account of weakness in one foot. Now this was one of the evidences of the change ; for the family had long had occasional religious services at their dwelling, but Lawrence either walked out at the time of meeting, or doggedly sat in the corner, re- fusing to take the slightest notice, unless to persecute them. But now he came to make arrangements for my going to preach, not in his own house, for it was too small, but in a neighbouring one he had borrowed for the occasion. It was a winter's evening, and on arriving at the place I found Lawrence standing at his door, looking for me. " Here he is !" he cxclamed ; then turning quickly round, said, " Come, my lass, put on your bonnet, Mr. Ashworth THE TWO OLD MEN. 25 ^0 KOllgllt I card liis li seldom ercy and ev eighty power of e at last, over one I children in their j)artner. Pl^y they > God fco- she said, Ilizabeth, nee was liis wife, weakness s of the religious Iked out )rner, re- ite them. going to but in a It was ! I found y round, .yh worth is come." I followed hira into the house, and there stood his amiable old partner, with the most radiant smiles on her countenance. She held out her hand to welcome me. I took her hand, saying, " I think the scales are turned now ; you have hundreds of times wished that your husbaiul would go with you to the place of worship, and durst not ask him ; but now he says, * Come, put on your bonnet !* What do you think of that V " Think ! think ! Was there ever such a monument of God's mercy as my Lawrence ? O ! praise the Lord ! praise the Lord!" " Come, lass," said Lawrence, " come, it is near the time ; j>ut on yo\ir bonnet, and take hold of my arm, for we shall walk safer linking." She laughed outright ai the idea of linking, but took hold of his arm with much evident delight. " How long is it since you linked before V I asked, rather playfully. "I think it is forty years since, if not more," Lawrence replied. " Then it seems that when a man and his wife arc both converted, they begin linking." " Yes, it does seem so, for I never thought of such a thing before ; but I am sure I now love my old wife better than ever," he replied. Lawrence told the truth, for the more a man and his wife love God, the more they will love each other. The happy old couple walked on before, leading the way to the place ; and both seemed to enjoy greatly the service of that evening. On my taking leave of them, Lawi*ence besought both me and his wife to pray that he might be kept very humble, and hold fast his confidence to -the end. Several mouths after this, Mrs. lloylc's sun began rapidly 1,1- i I M TALES OF nUMCLE LIFE. to sot : her aHlictctl foot affected lier entire fnimo, yet \vnth comparatively little sufiering. She triumphantly reached the iiappy place where the sun never sets, for " t^ere is no night there." She had selected a hymn to he sung at her funeral, and requested I would he present, read it out, and offer up prayer. On entering the house of mourning, Law- rence again met my at the door, in silence, his face hathed in tears. He took me by the hand, and led me to the coffin containing the remains of tluj aged Christian. I had never seen so old a person so beautiful in death. Lawrence took hold of her cold hand, and with choking utterance, spoke to her as if she bad been alive, exclaimitig, " O ! my dear, dear dead Peggy ! would to God I had diel with thee. ! how it pains me to think of my past conduct to thee. Bitter, indeed, 'las been thy cup, but it has been made b'tter by me. Thy patience with thy cruel husband has been amazing. For many, many years I greatly increased thy sorrow, and thou hast patiently endured it all. One comfort is left me, for I know thou didst forgive mc, and in thy last days didst pray with me and for me, and ditlst help me in my hour of sorrow for sin. But thou are gone, my best earthly friend, thou art gone, and for a short, very short time, hast left thine agel partner to mourn his heavy bereavement." During the old man's address to his dead wife, his daugh- ters stood weeping behind him. Those daughters had often •joined their now silent mother in prayers for their erring paient. But, amidst their tears and sobs, they had the con- solation to know that their mother was now in heaven, and their father on the way to meet her there. Lawrence now resides with one of his married daughters. On the Sabbath morning ho may be seen regularly worship- ping in Baillie Street Chapel, and in the cvcnuig at the I I THE TWO OLD MEN. 27 , yet \vnth ly readied t^ere is no ling at her t out> and liiig, Law- ; bathed in the coffin had never ence took J, spoke to my dear, ihee. ! 3e. Bitter, ter by me. . amazing, •row, and is left me, iays didst y hour of ly friend, hast left t." lis daugh- had often sir errinjj d the con- Lven, and anghters. worship- g at the Chapel for the Destitute. He hius had much forgiven, and he loves much. On exin-essing a desire thao ho might, in some way, do a little good in his last days, and on asking ray advice and direction, I said to him, that when Christ cast out Satan from the man in the tombs, He bade him go home to his friends, and tell thei.i what great things God had done for him. And I thoUi|,:it he would be able to do good by going amongst old men and old women, telling them how he, a hoary-headiid sinner, had obtained mercy. " I am very unfit for such work, l)ut if I knew where to begin I would try," he I'eplicd. " Well, meet me at three this afternoon, and I will take you to an old man, aged eighty-five, and you can begin with him, for I believe he is anxious about his soul." The old man here refeired to had attended the Chapel for the Destitute about nine months. Every one that knew him laughed at the very thought of old I'inder attending a i)lace of worship. Thirty years ago, placards might be s(!en in almost every street, informing the public that Piiuler would worry rats with his hands tied to his Itack, at such a public-house, on such a day. This degrading exhilntion was as follows : — A nail was driven into the middle of a larijto tal)le, and a string tied to the nail and to the tail of the rut — the string just being long enough to prevent the lat from getting off the table. Finder, with his hands tied behind him, caught the rats and worried them with his mouth, for sixpence each ; and the spectators had to give three-pence each for the gratification of witnessing this ex- hibition, — all profitst, of coui-se, going to the publican. In addition to worrying rats, he could lea}) over five-and-twenty chairs at five-and-twenty leaps ; he would fight any man or any dog, and was the Iciuler at bull-baits or dog races. He '28 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. !l P ii\ i.i '! \, ill ! lis was a terrible character, had a strong constitutiort, and now, in his old age, he has the frame of a once powerful man. But, strong as he was, he informed me that his brother George was stronger 3 for he once carried a full gi*own donkey from Bury to Manchester (about nine miles), with- out once stopping to rest. But Joseph Taylor (for that \^as his real name) was one of my most regular and attentive hearers; he seemed to drink in every word, and was very willing to be taught the way of salvation. Meeting him one Monday morning, a few months ago, he said, " I wanted to see you, for I am very uneasy ; your text last night has made me very ill." The text to which Joseph referred was Revelation xx. 12 : — " And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God ; and the books were opened ; and another book was opened, which is the book of life ; and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according .to their works." " Are the word'i you preached from God's truth ? and is what we have do le really written down against us T Joseph earnestly inquired. " Yes, Joseph, so the word of God in- forms us," I replied. " Dear me, if it be so, T have a weary shot on, and I mun have it out some road. Did not you say that the blood of Jesus Christ could wash it out V " Yes : Christ shed his blood that sin might be forgiven, man made happy, and made ready for heaven," I answered. " I wish you would come and see me where I lodge, and tell me more about it, for it will never do as it is." From that day to the moment I am writing, I have folt great interest in Joseph ; and that was the reason I was anxious old Lawrence should go and see him. He met me THE TWO OLD MEN. according to agreement, and accompanied me to the lodgings of the notorious old sinner. The place where Joseph lived wtis a dark room down a narrow passage. I was glad to find him alone, and ]\o seemed very glad of the visit. I told him some little about Lawrence,— how he had lived a very sinful life, and how ho had been forgiven, and would, I thought, be able to teach him many things about the love of God in providing a Saviour for guilty man. Lawrence placed his hat on the floor, sat down on a rickety chair, laid his hand on old Joseph's knee, and, looking him in the face, said, — " Old friend, I feel for you. I feel for your poverty, for I, too, am very poor, and have known how keen and bitter a thing it is to be poor and dependent in old age. But, though I atu poor in pocket, I am rich in my soul ; for though I have been one of the worst men Goil ever liiade, yet, in His wonderful goodness and mercy, Ho has spared my life and parf^oned my sins. O ! my dear old brother, God is rich in mercy, and if you come just as you are, and believe with all your heart on the Lord Jesus Christ, He is able to save you. He has saved me ; and if He has saved me, I think no one need despair, for I was the chief of sinners." All the time Lawrence was speaking to old Josei)h, teare ran down the cheeks of both. Lawrence wept tears of sympathy and gratitude, and Joseph tears of sorrow and penitence. Wiping his face with his coat-sleeve, he replied, " You are very good for coming to see me, and I like your talk very well. I have been on my knees many a score of times this last week, but it seems of no use. I feel the great black shot is not wiped off yet. O ! I have been such a bad man. I have been very cruel to my family, and 11^ J TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. 1:^1 wicked every way. I have been drunk thousands of times, and have sworn millions of times. I have been guilty of everything but murder, and it is a wonder I have not dure that. I am too bad for Iiell, never name going to heaven ; yet I want to go where Jesus is, fori am always thinking of Him, how He died for sinners." This last sentence caused Lawrence to lift up both hands, and he exclaimed with great earnestness, " What ! are you always thinking about Him ! Why, man, if you are always thinking about Him, He is not far off you. I was always thinking about Him ; I thought I was at Calvary, on the spot where he was crucified ; and I laid me down, put my arms round the bottom of the cross, and thought I felt his blood dropping on to me ; and it seemed in a moment as if everything was changed. I felt so happy, that I began shouting out, — Lord ! O Lord ! O, glory be unto my Sa- viour, and my God." ^ While Lawrence was talking, Joseph was kneeling down. He buried his wrinkled face in his withered hands, — his thin, long, white hair hanging over his fingers, and in deep agony said, " O Lord I O Lord ; is there mercy 1 — Is there mercy? Do pray for me. O ! do pray for me." Lawrence and I also knelt down, and I whispered him to engage in prayer for Joseph. I have heard many strange prayers from the simple and ■unlearned, but none more simple or more strange, and I be- lieve more earnest, than that prayer offered by old Lawrence for his aged brother seeking mercy. After a moment's pause, he began, — " O Lord God Almighty ! Thou sees us three kneeled on these flags; two of us are converted a" I the other wants to be. Thou had a job when Tliou saved me, and now there is another of the same sort ; but Thou "'.I'l J i 1^ THE TWO OLD MEN. 81 of times, guilty of not dors heaven ; thinking bh hands, ! are you 'e always ls always ', on the put my I felt his ent as if I began my Sa- ig down. ids, — his in deep s there awrence gage in pple and id I be- Iwrence )ment's isees us led fc." 1 saved Thou did save me, and Thou can save old Joe. I think ho is very near saved, but somehow he does not think so ;, but he will soon thiiik so, if he holds on as he is doing, for nobody 'at loves Jesus goes to hell. O Lord, just do for him as Thou did for me." — " John, you pray, for you are more used to it than I am." But Joseph had begun, for his spirit was crushed within him. With heaving breast and choking words he confessed his sins, in bitterness of spirit. He bewailed his past life, and saw no hope that sin and wickedness such as his could ever be forgiven, finishing with these words, " O Lord, if Thou does not forgive me, there is no chance for me, and I shall as sure be lost as ever I was born ; and what a thing that will be ! But I 'liver myself up to Thee entirely. Tliou hast saved this other old man, happen Thou can save me too. Jesus Christ died for me, same as him. and I will 'liver myself up to Him entirely ; if He can save me, He shall do, for I will never give it up while I live." In consequence of the great distress occasioned by the cotton famine, the person with whom Joseph lodged was compelled to retire to a smaller house. On being informed that he must leave, the old man was greatly affected, and spent most of the following day in tears. Hearing of the ch'cumstance, I repaired to his dwelling, and found him seated by the fire, wondering what was to become of him. He Y/as receiving two shillings and sixpence weekly from the parish, and paid one shilling for his lodgings. Since he had become a praying man, they had been very kind to him ; and he feared going to the Workhouse, for then he could not come to the Chapel, and might get among wicked men, who would mock him, and do him " harm in his mind." '' What would you take for Joseph's bed, just as it 32 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. stands ?" I asked of the housekeeper. " Well, I think it is worth twelve shillings. There are one long and two short pillows, two sheets, a quilt, bed, and bed-stocks. I cannot sell them for less." " I should think not," I replied : " here is the money ; and now I must make a present of the Ijed to Joscj)h, and find him a quiet corner to set it in, with some one that will be as kind to him as you have been." When the old man saw the money paid down, and heard my promise to find him another home, he lifted up his head, and gazed in my face with a look of inexpressible thankfulness. He wept like a child, exclaiming, " God has done it ! God has done it ! He yeard me pray et neet, and sent yo to help me awt o' me trouble. He's done more nor I expected, and aw'l praise Him as long as aw live." It is now several weeks since this took place. Joseph regularly attends the Chapel for the Destitute ; for he says he gets more lighter every time he comes, and wishes he had begun at first. Lawrence goes often to see him, and the two old men may be frequently seen praying together. At my request, several experienced Christians and minis- ters lieve been to see Joseph, and their uniform opinion is, that the old man enjoys saving grace, but seems afraid of professing too much. This day, September 29, 1862, I met Joseph in the street. On enquiring, as usual, after his welfare, his answer was, " Bless God, through the love of my Saviour Jesus Christ, I now enjoy peace ! O ! how I do love God ! And I am sure He loves me, and I feel I shall go to Him before long. Lawrence has been praying with me to-day, and we have both felt very happy. What a wonder it is that two old men should be Siived so late on !" TllJi TWO OLD MEN. 83 mon IS, Yes, Jossoii died, and luusteued their end ; if he howled iiikUt my window I sljouhl expect to die in twelve hours. O, how I tronihle!" On leaving the si(!k man's chamber, and reaching the street, Fox was walking quickly up and down, still making his really fearful noise ; but a touch from my walkiug-stiok sout him speedily homo. It is no easy matter to divest ourselves of the super- stitious, tornjenting traditions imbibed in c^irly years. The howling of dogs is considered a [)relude of death by thou- sands. We know that do^s howl at the sound of music, cr when the moon is rising on a clear, calm night, — " baying the moon," as Shake.speare calls it. On hot, sultry nights they often howl to each other ; and thiit some dogs can scent decaying animal matter at a great distance, and, smelling it, will give a howl indicating the discovery, is well known. Many contend that this is the true philosophy of their shout^- ing when near the houses of the dying. But this does not ajjply in all cases, and, perhaps, in none ; it cannot apply to the healthy, though Mrs. Moorhouse bilieved it did, and it is a pity that the sick sh )idd be fi-ightened by any such foolish superstition. The shooting of cinders from the fire foretelling a coffin, — bad luck from light-haired persons " taking in" the new year, — the crackling of furniture and the howling of dogs indicating death, belong to a day when Sunday-schools were unknown, when books were few, and witches and fortune-tellers plentiful. The old lady's descr'ption of Sanderson's creed, or, rather no creed, I found to be correct. His hatred to "parsons" (as he called ministers) was intense ; the sight of one of them operated upon him like the sight of water to a mad dog, and made him howl almost as loud as his own old Fox. Sanderson was a machine card-maker by trade. Ho had Ili^J 3G TALF:S of IICMIILE LIFE. 11 irj» RPvoral af([nfuntanrp.s of liis own way of tliinkiiig. and on Sundays tlify woro often ftxiiul togc^tlicr, niinhlin^' tliroii{,'h the fields, or rcjidinj^ their fjivoiuito books and nowspapei-s, and ImnU'ninj,' eacli otlin* in their gloomy juineipleH. He was about thirty-fivo years of ago, when Ids neighl»ours began to talk of his altered lotjks ; liis stout form was giving way, severe coughing set in, and ho was, in the ojiinion of many, a marked man. In misty or cold weather he kept his room, and ultimately becameunableto walk up and down the stairs. An old shoemaker, named Philij) Puwles, a Primitive Methodist, became much concerned about the spiritual state of his dying infidel neighbour; he, howcvor> durst not go to see him Iiimself, but camostly entreated Mr. Britton, a zealous Primitive Methodist minister, to imdertake the hazardous task. Mr. Britton went to see Sanderson, at the request of the anxious shoemaker. On entering the house, he informed Mrs. Sanderson of his wish to see Iier husband, adding, that he was informed he was an infidel, but he had come to talk •wich him about his soul, for he was sure he liad one. " I am very sorry you have come on such an errand, for I am 8ui*e my husband will not see you, and it would very much vex and disturb him '^ he knew you were in the house. I am pained that it is so," c)b3erved Mrs. Sanderson. " I come purposely to disturb him ; for lie had better be disturbed here than damned hereafter. If God, in His mercy, does not disturb him, he will be lost for ever ! Just go up staii-s, if you please, and ask if I may see him." Poor woman ! she knew not what to do. She was afraid to offend her liusband or the minister ; but Mr. Britton per- sisted, and at last she went up stairs, and began quietly to aiTange the various little things about the room, fearing to SANDKRSON AND LITTLE ALIfK. 37 toll hor real errand ; Imt Saiulrr.son had licard a slmnge voice ill the house, and iiujuired who was below. "A gentleman of the nanio of Britton, whom Philip Powlea requested to call and see you ; I think ho is the niiniKter of Philip's church." '* Tell him that I shall not see him, and when 1 need him or any other parson, I will let them know." He spoke these words so sharply that Miu Sandarson quickly left the room, and closed the door after her. " Well, what does he say ?" asked Mr. B. " That he will not see you or any other minister," was her re])ly. " I have a good mind to kneel down at the bottom of the stairs and pray so loud that he will hear. The Lord have mercy upon him before it be too late ! " Mr. Britten's colleague, ht^aiing of the matter, charged him with being " soft," and determined to go himself and see the infidel, whatever consequences might follow. Sanderson had strictly ordered his wife not to allow any parson, or professor of religion, by any means to enter the room. She knew his temper, and when the second Primi- tive minister came, she told liim of her perenjptory orders. " Well, but I have come to see him, and I intend to see him," was the answer ; " and if you dare not ask j)ermission, I will go up at once, and take all consequences." Fortunately, her husband heard all the conversation, and called from the top of the stairs, that " if any paraon dared to enter his room, he would smash his brains out with the poker.''* I give his own words, tliat the reader may better understand the morose, untamed character of the man. He also ordered, his wife to fetch a policeman to turn him out immediately. This caused our good Primitive brother to 9* I 1> 6 38 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. .1 •I i Leat a retreot, and rather altered his opinion of Mr. Biit- ton's "softnesb." Now Siinderson was one of those characters whom circum- vention would most readily overcome. He was an intelli- gent reader of one class of books, and always ready for an argument : he was extreme in politics, entertaining repub- lican notions : his collection of books was numerous for a man in his position ; his knowledge of history was extensive, and he always maintained that all civil evils sprang from either king-ci-aft or priest-craft. Cobbett's " Legacy to Par- sons," and Paine's " Two-pennyworth of Common Sense," were his text books. All these things I learned respecting Sanderson, and the question was, — How shall this man be brought to see his deplorable condition ] When the deer-stalker ascends the wild mountains with the object of shooting the timid roe, he finds the greatest caution necessary to accomplish his purpose. The red In- dian, hunting the prairie buffalo, will lean on his gun, immov- able as the -stump of the tree, to allay all suspicion on the part of his intended victim. May there not also be bene- volent stratagem 1 And is not this the only possible plan in some cases 1 A child was made the means of opening the way which the two Primitive Methodists could not force. She was one of our Bail lie-street scholars, a nice reader for her age, and could repeat a few hymns with good effect. The old shoemaker came to m-y house, and, with much feeling, desired me to try and see Sanderson. He told me how he had treated the ministei'S, but earnestly besought that I would make an effort. After reflecting for a day or two on the bei^t plan to adopt, I fixed on the Sunday-school child to op(m the way. The little girl often went to see 1 1 ■ ) I. ;i ', ^ SANDERSON AND LITTLE ALICE. 39 Sandei-soii, and I learned that he was very fond of her. I promised the child a present if she would learn well a short hymn, and afterwards go up to Mr. Sanderson's room and say it to him. She attended well to the directions I gave her, and about three in the afternoon went up to the sick infidel's room. *' Well, Alice, you are come to see your sick friend," ob- sered Sanderson. " Yes, I liave learned a new piece, and am come to say it to you. Will you let me ?" Sanderson was quietly rocking himself in his arm-chair, with his foot on a small footstool, and his back towards the window. He took the child's book, saying, — "Now, tl.v'n, be very careful and say it well ; mind you do not miss oixQ word."' Alice stood before him, folded her hands, and in a full, clear voice, began : — I I I I *' When life's tempcBtuous storms are o'er, How calm he meets the friendly shore^ Who died on earth to sin ! Such peace on piety attends, That where the sinner's pleasure ends, The good man's joys begin. " See smiling patience smooths his brow, Bm thiS kind angels waiting now 7*0 waft hib soul on high ; While, eager for the blest abode, Ho joins with them to praise the God That taught him how to die. *f The horrors of the grave and hell, Those sorrows which the wicked feel, In vain their gloom display ; '' 1 Iltr il I I 1 1 40 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. For he who bids the comets bum, And makes the night descend, can turn His darkness into day. *' No sorrows drown his lifted eyes. No horror wrests his struggling sighs, As from the siimer's breast ; His God, the God of peace and love, Pours sweetest comforts from above, Then takes his soul to rest." When the child had finished the hymn, Sanderson handed her back the book, and qnietly said, — " That will do, yon may go down and take Fox with you ; I want to have no company for the present." I sought an early interview with the child. On asking what Sanderson said, her artless answer was, — " He put the book on his face, and I think he criedJ' The following day, while the sick man was pacing his room, he found a tract on one of the chairs : he took it up, read a few lines, sat down, and read it all. He knew a great part of it to be true ; with most of the circumstances narrated he was acquainted. Some events connected with the death of a man in the same street were such, that it had been thought advisable to publish them. Sanderson knew the man, had heard much about him, and was anxious to know more. He called his wife up stairs, and asked her how the tract had got into his room. She answered that "Mr. Ash worth had been giving them out amongst the neighbours, that she had read it, and thought it would in- terest him." " Did John Ashworth request you to place the tract in my room 1" he asked. •' He did ; he often asks about you, and says ho should like to come and talk politics with you." ! r . ^! SANDERSON AND LITTLE ALICE. 41 ti " Well, go and tell him tliat if lie can come this evening, and tell nie who wrote the tract, and talk polities as you say, I shall be glad of his company." Mrs. Sanderson immediately made me acquainted with her husband's request, and that evening I paid him my first visit. After satisfying him respecting the authorship of " Poor Joseph" (the title of the tract), he immediately asked what I thought of the Catholic Emancipation Bill ; " for," said he, " I have been reading on the subject." I replied, that "governments had greviously mistaken their proper and legitimate jurisdiction in meddling with such subjects, from Constantino downwards ; that Csesar and God could never be brought together by acts of par- liament; that the true province of government was to secure the civil rights of all ; neither to smile nor frown on any sect or creed, but treat them all alike ; — that if this plan had always been adhered to, neither Poj)ery, Pro- testantism, nor Dissent would have been heard of; and that contentions for supremacy would never cease until this simple remedy was adopted." Our conversation lasted until late, and I left without making any direct reference to religion. Some may think that I was trifling, — may be disposed to blame me, and ask,---" What if he had died that nij^ht ; died in his sins ; died rejecting mercy ! how could you have reconciled your conscience in neglecting a plain duty V My answer is, I did not think he was so far gone in con- sumption, but that he probably would still linger for many weeks or months ; and, also, I thought I was taking the most likely measures to accomplish my object. For several nights I went to see him, and had long and interesting con- versations on various subjects, but still left as at first. ill i I- ! i% 42 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. 1 n,i m 1 ' ii '1 ifiil On taking up my hat to leave, on the sixth evening, he was walking to and fro. He, as usual, put out his hand to bid me good night, but the grasp was firmer and much longer than before. He looked me full in the face, and said, with a trembling voice, — " Mr Ashworth, how is it that you never speak to me about my soul T' " Why, Sanderson, have you got a soul ?" I said. He let go ray hand, and began again to pace the room. I still stood with my hat in my hand, but under the mort intense excitement. Now, I thought, the next word he speaks will reveal the inward workings of his mind. "With his finger he pointed to the chair from which I had just risen, evidently wishing me to be re-seated. I obeyed in silence, fetill walking about the room, he took out his handkerchief, and putting it to his face, he groaned out at last with a choking voice, — " O, Mr. Ashworth ! Mr. Ashworth ! I am a miserable man. That child's hymn, and * Poor Joseph,' have crushed me to the dust ! I have held out as long as I can ; what- ever must I do?" O, what joy sprang up from my soul in an instant ! "Whatever must I do?" from the broken-hearted infidel, was music to mej yet I could not speak one word for several minutes. We wept together. At length I said, — "Thank God, Sanderson, that question has not come too late ! there is an answer, and there is but one. O, my dear friend, if scepticism, if infidelity could make a man happy, I should have been happy at one period of my life ; but it never did ; it never can. It is a gloomy, blighting, blast- ing, withering curse, and makes its dupe a miserable living lie, and sinks him lower than the brute. The magnificent heavens, the earth bespangled with ten thousand tints of I SANDERSON AND LITTLE ALICE. 43 beauty, and the deep solemn ocean, speak with a voice that would almost impress the solid rock. The very dust under the infidel's feet mocks his credulity : every atom has its purpose. The wonderful harmony and adaptation of the physical univeree strikes the observer with awe. God's material world display;^ His physical government. God's revealed Word unfolds His moral government ; and there we find that reconciliation, union, and communion with God are absolutely necessary to secure the happiness of man. Man, forsaking God, lost peace ; man must return to God, or remain miserable. Our redemption through Christ opens the way, and this is the answer to your question, — * Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' " While I was speaking, the poor broken-hearted penitent covered his face with his hands ; the tears dropped through his fingers, and, with the greatest earnestness, he requested me to pray with him. There are periods when the most eloquent language is a very feeble representative of the soul's workings ; emotions too deep for words choke the utterance. Such was the moment when Sanderson and I knelt down to pray. But if prayer be the soul's sincere desire, we prayed ; if it be the simplest form of speech, we prayed ; — prayed for the stricken, sorrowing, agonizing, groaning sinner, pleading the invitations and promises, pleading the shed blood of a crucified Saviour as suflicient to save a million worlds. The arrow of conviction was deep in the penitent's soul, but his new-born faith was yet too feeble to reach the only hand that could extract it. For several days Sanderson remained under the lashings of a terrified, guilty conscience, still wrestling for pardon 44 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. fe::; and peace. But the moment of deliverance came. San- devson was on his knees: tlie earnest cry, — " O God, for Chri.'t's sake, blot out mine iniquities, and save my poor, guilty soul," burst from a heart of anguish. Those words were the sublime strain that reached the Majesty on High ; the swift-winged messenger of reconciliation, with the still small voice, whispered, — "Thy sins, which are many, are all forgiven. Thy faith hath saved thee ; go in peace." Sanderson rose from his knees a new man ; ho was now unspeakably happy. Heaven had supplanted hell ; his en- raj)tured soul burst forth in praises and thanksgiving. The change made a noise in the neighbourhood ; his old acquain- tances reported that he was wrong in his head ; and, if they were right, he was wrong, for they were wide as the poles asTinder. He sent an apology to the two ministers he had insulted, shook hands with old Philip, the shoemaker, and for several months tried to undo the injury he had done, by speaking to old and young of the power of saving grace. Reading the Bible was his delight, and many passages in the New Testament he committed to memory. He was now a happy man. Sanderson's change of heart had such an influence on his health, that great hopes were entertained he would entirely recover. He often expressed his convictions that " if any- thing could give a sick man a chance of being restored to health, peace with God through Jesus Christ would ; for a happy soul would do much towards strengthening a sickly body." His recovered strength enabled him to attend the house of God, and no man in Boclidale more enjoyed the means of grace. The songs and prayers of the sanctuary, and the glad tidings of salvation through a preached go pel, SANDEUSON AND LITTLE ALICE. 45 filleil lii.s soul witli (loop emotion. ITo souglit tlio company of religious men, ami s})ent many })leasHnt hours with the old Christian shoemaker. Tlie Bible was his constant com- panion, and he committed to meraory the hymn he first heard rejieated hy little Alice, lie often wished he had been converted when young, that he might have had tin; pleasures and labours of a godly life. All fear of death was gone, and he felt a desire to live chiefly that he might do some good in the cause of God and the Church. But it was other- wise determined ; for, being caught in a heavy shower of rain, he took a severe cold, and soon became unable to leave his bed. I was much with him during his last sickness. Early one fine Sabbath morning, just before leaving the town to fulfil my engagements at Littleborougli, I called to make what I believed would be a farewell visit. lie was raised high in bed, with several pillows behind to support his now sinking frame. He smiled feebly, reached out his thin clammy liand, and, in a whisper, quoted three lines from the child's piece, — " See smiling patience smooths my brow, See the kind angels waiting now, To waft my soul ou high. " and then asked if I was going to preach somewhere. " Yes," I answered ; " morning and afternoon, at Little- borough." " Will you let me find you a text, and, if you do not preach from it to-day, will you preach from it as soon as you can T Hear, ye ministers of the cross, wdiat sort of texts dying men wish us to preach from ! — " This is a faithful saying, ■i i n 4G TALES OF irUMr.LE LIFE. siiul vvoi'tliy of all accoptdllon, that Cliiiist Jtuius c.iuio into tlio world to save sinners ; of whom I am chief." This was dying Sandci'son's choice, and In; specially wished um not to leave out the last words, " Of whom I am chief." In a few hours, the soul of this chief of sinners, saved by grace, took its flight across the border-land, to join a Mag- dalene and a Saul of Tarsus in singing the praises of redeeming love. !:! WILKINS When Hiiiit ati if on astronomy, ho will dilate on that wonderful science from Mercury on to Uranus, with satellites, comets, ttc. ; if on botany, he will give you the names of flowers and i)lants, with their Latin names and English derivations, almost from the cedar on Lebanon to the hyssop on the wall. He has also travelled a little, and knows something of human nature ; and if you want to have your book-knowledge well rubbed up, he is just the man for yoif." While I was speaking, Wilkins smiled, and observed, that he thought I was a painter in more respects than one ; that he should like to see tho man I had so eulogised, if only through a telescope ; and, if he would leave out his re- ligious twaddle, he might call upon him when convenient, but only on that condition. " Well, then, I will undertake to see the gentleman, and frankly tell him of your wish and terms. I have no doubt the compact will be honourably kept on his part, but I ex- r f H i\ i 1 1 52 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE pect you will hroak it yoursolf ; for you have been so long under tli that lid all fools ler tlie impression tliat you couicl jjrove all parsons ioojs, par excellence, that you will be trying your hand upon liini." " Parsons ! j)arsons ! is the man you have been speaking of a parson T exclaimed Wilkins, with evident astonishment. " Yes, sir ; he has long been in the ministry, but is nov»r superannuated by reason of age ; being, liowever, exten- sively known, he is still in great request as a preacher ; and thotigh he is sixty-seven years of ag(?, I would have you be on your guard, for ho is an adept in stenograi)hy, and wilt be able to take down your words as you speak them." This last sentence was spoken in a playful manner ; nor could I help laugliing outright on seeing Wilkins' embarrass- ment, on discovering that the gentleman with whom he had promised to have the meeting was a minister ; and seeing, also, that this tact appeared to him somewhat to alter the state of the case, I oll'ered to liberate him from the contract, providing he wished it. " No, no," was his answer, " let him come, let him come ; you know the terms — no religious cant. If the bargain be kept, I shall be glad of his company; and if he breaks the contract, he wiil, not catch an old bird with chaff." Those who know Mr. Molineux, will at once acquit me of having said too much respecting his general attainments. God in His word, and God in His works, were themes on which he could dwell to the instruction and edification of his hearers. I thought him just the man for the work in liand. The following day I made him acquainted with all the circumstances of the case, and was glad to find that he entirely agreed w Ith the conditions. He promised to call Ui>on Wilkins on the following Wednesday afternoon. ■m WILKFNS. 53 upon nor I They met at the time appointed, and, by an agreement betwixt themselves, arranged for a weekly interview. Being two intelligent men, they had no lack of interesting sub- jects. For several weeks the oonversation was on botany and politics, and, just as I expected, Wilkins was the first to break the agreement. He asked Mr. Molinoux wh.^t he thought of the evidences of a First Ca\ise, This question opened up a subject, the collateral bearing of which would necessarily include internal, as well as external evidences. Their opinions respecting some of the evidences did not ma- terially differ; but wlien Wilkins declared that he could not reconcile the many absurdities and contradictions found in the Bible with the belief that it emanated from an infi- nitely wise Being, such as God must be, Mr. Molineux re])lied, — " Have you found the absurdities and contradictions in your own reading of the Bible, or in books written against it ]" " O, in books written against it. I have never read either the Old or New Testament myself, thinkmg it a puro waste of time to do so," replied Wilkins. " Well, but if you refuse to read the Bible itself, in order to judge imi)artially, you sl'.ould have read books in vindica- tion of its truth and consistency," observed Mr. Molineux. " Yes, perhaps I ought ; I have often boasted of thinking for myself ; but in regard to the Bilde and its teachings, I have allowed its acknowledged (aiomies to Ihink for me. If, however, you have any book.s that ])rofc8S to explain its absurdities and contradictions, that arc worth reading, I sliould be obliged if you would lend them to mc ; and, as the Now Testament is a small book, 1 will at onae read it roujih ; but I have never been able to make car jfully 3 i m 54 TAi.ES OP HUMBLE LIFE. ■k' : u anything of your Jesus, as you call Him, nor do I expect to do so." Mr. M. furnished Wilkins with Bishop Newton's and Simpson's Key to the Prophecies, and other works, such as he knew would answer ; and, in the meantime, Wilkins, as he had promised, began to read carefully the New Testament, making notes as he proceeded. While seeking for contra- dictions and absurdities, he found what he was not seeking, and what he was not expecting to find. He found that the word of God is quick and powerful, sharper than any two- edged sword ; he saw that, if what he was reading was true, he was a lost man ; he found the truth crowding on his soul with such telling power that he could not sleep in his bed ; and he found himself on his knees in the dead of the night, bathed in tears, groaning for mercy, agonizing for pardon, beseeching God for Christ's sake not to send him to hell, not to cut him off in his sins, not to turn a deaf ear to the broken-hearted sinner, but in mercy to spare him, in mercy to blot out his transgressions. In this state of mind he came to my house, requesting a private interview. How different was this visit from the one he paid me about two months before ! Memoiy and con- science — a guilty conscience — were working with a crushing power ; the events of his past life distressed and appalled him. His confessions, then and afterwards, were such as prudence would cover over with a veil of charity ; he was greatly troubled on account of having been the cause of others imbibing infidel principles. One case he mentioned as peculiarly distressing : — A dying acqiuiintance, whom he visited in his last houra, begged Wilkins to send for some good man to read the word of God arjd pray with him. Wilkins called him a fool ; told him to die like a man ; and i WILKIN3. 56 refused either to send himself for a praying man, or allow others. ** O Wilkins ! Wilkins !" said this wretched, miser- able being, " Christians do no not die as I am dying ; this will never do ; I do not now believe that death is an eternal sleep ; I wish I could believe it ; we have often called it a leap in the dark, but now to me it is dreadfully dark. You have often quoted Pope : reverse his dying Christian's ad- dress to his soul, and you have my wretched condition : — ** Hct'. ! the fiends infernal say, 'Come, lost spirit, come away.* What is this absorbs me qnite, Steals my senses, sbuts my sight. Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? O, 'tis death, eternal death !" These words were amongst the last the dying man uttered, and the scene now passed afresh before the mind of Wilkins. With tears stream in* down his face, he confessed that if he had read the Testament with candour thirty years sooner, he should have been a different man. On leaving, he took hold of my hand and said, "Mr. Ashworth, I do believe God could pardon my sins, but he never will." At a subsequent interview he was more calm, but spoke with great force of the want of principle and virtue amongst infidel writers ; greatly deplorir.g his past life, and wishing he had earlier read the Bible and thought for himself. In this Wilkins was right ; if infidels would remember that God's word enjoins upon all men to " prove all things, and hold fast that which is good," and would compare the teach- ings of the Bible with the lives of those who have despised thoHB teachings, manyof them would be astonished at the company in which they are found. Voltaire and Rousseau both lived in ope.i adultery ; yet these are gods amongst in- 1 66 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. il fidels. Paine was a drunkard and swearer ; Hobbes, Whar- ton, Shaftesl)ury, Woolaston, Chnbbs, Bolingbroke, and Rochester lived strange lives, and were consistent with their own teachings. Bat an immoral teacher of Christianity would be condemned by his own creed. Voltaire confesses that " though the ministers of the Gospel oppose each other in their dogmas, in morality they are all agreed.'' The iron had entered into Wilkins' soul ; the crushing consequences of infidel principles came upon him with all their force ; and he now stood before me a miserable, broken-hearted man. I advised him still to read on as he had begun ; to examine for himself ; to get as much as pos- sible into private, and pray for the Holy Spirit's guidance, not doubting but he would find mercy. " Yes," he exclaimed, " but how am I either to read or pray with any hope of pardon ? The thing seems to be im- possible. O, sir, the fearful results of my teachings are more and more terrible as I now see them ! I have already given great offence by allowing Mr. Molineux to come and see me. I have sown the dragon's teeth in my family, and now they mock all my attempts to induce them to re-con- sider their position ; they sneer at me for reading the Bible, and declare their determination not to be frightened by re- ligious bug-beiirs." And this was true ; the family did all they could to pre- vent his intercourse with religious men. Mr. Todd, one of Wilkins' neighbours, a good old Christian, hearing of this, offered Wilkins his sitting-room, promising to read and pray with him fifty times a-day, if he wished it. Wilkins gladly embraced the ofier, and spent a oonsiderable portion of his time in Mr. Todd's house ; and there the venerable old Christian, and penitent weeping publican, together read H WILKIN*. 67 y God's Llossod Moid, and together bowed the knee. at the throne of grace. One evening, Mr. Todd, at Wilkin's request, cunie to ask me to sj)end the evening with him, if I could jmssibly spare time. It was a memorable evening : he had copied from the Bible many passages that seemed to destroy all liojK) that a mati such as he was could ever exi)ect to have forgive- ness, and read them to me with a trembling voice. I met all his objections by one answer, — " He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him." I held him fast to that one point, — " able to save to the uttermost." He begged me to kneel down and pray for him ; we, all weeping, fell down before our Maker ; but how different the cause of our tears ! Mr. Todd, the hoary -headed saint, wept for joy at the prodigal's return ; Wilkins wept teai-s of sor- row and contrition, and before I could utter one word, ho exclaimed, " O Jesus, Jesus, Lamb of God, have mercy on me ! O Jesus, Jesus, how I have scorned and despised Thy veiy name, scorned and insulted Thy servants, mocked at Thy sufferings and death ! Yet thou wast wounded, bruised, and afflicted for me ; Thou didst die or he cross for me ; Thou didst shed Thy precious blood for me, for me, for me ; O Jesus, Jesus, Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world, have mercy on me I Lord ! I would believe ; help Thou my unbelief. I know I have sinned in heart and life millions of times ; but is there not mercy 1 Is there not mercy ? O Lamb of God, have mei.y on a poor guilty man !" That night was to Wilkins a night of grc at bitterness. He spent the most of it in strong cries nnd juayeis. lie wept and sought, and at last found the ijrace of God through a crucified Redeemer. And, Q, the joy that sprang up in If ill 68 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. his heart when lie found that his deeply-stained, guilty S'nd was washed in the blood of tlie Lamb ! For days he was in ecstacies. Praise, nothing but praise night and day — " Praise the Lord !" was his continual theme. On our first interview after his conversion, Wilkius took hold of my hand, and, with an earnestness that astonished me, exclaimed, — " O Low happy I am ; the blood of Christ can save a million worlds — He has saved me, the c*«ief of sinners. By faith I saw him nailed on the cross for nie ; in my heart I believed He died for me — that His blood was shed for me ; and now I am a sinn iv saved by grace ; and if Christ could save me, He can sav3 any man out of hell ! I have had more real peace since I became a child of God than I ever possessed in all my days of sin." At a subsequent interview, he told me that he had been troubled on reading the passage, " We must all stand before the judgment seat of Christ, to give an account of the deeds done in the body, whether they be good or bad." " If," said he, " this be true, what must I do ? My life has been spent in the service of Satan ; I am now getting old, and I cannot do much for God in the time that remains. If we must be judged by works, what must I do, for I shall have nothing to show?" I replied that, of all God's doings, redeeming grace was the most amazing; that a life of iniquity coidd, through faith in Christ, be pardoned ; — that a conscience laden with guilt, and wretched as hell, could be made the home of peace and joy ;- — that grey-headed sinners could be made saints, — this far transcended all human conceptions. No doubt wo are judged by works, but we are saved by faith. I know you will have little time left to shovv your faith by your works. You have been saved by the skin of your teeth ; — ^'' WILKINS. 69 I you Are a brand plucked from the buruiug ; — you have been brought into the vineyard at the eleventh hour, but you will have your jx^nny, and for such grutit mercies you must won- der and adore. Some time after, Wilkins wished to rcoeive the sacrament. He desired that it might be administered to him in Mr. Todd's house, and that those friends might be present who had been with him in his conflicts with the powers of dark- ness. The day was fixed ; the friends were invited ; they came to join with their once giulty, but now pardoned brother, to commemorate the most momentous of all events', — to comply with the last injunction given by the world's Redeeujer to His disciples on that night of nights, when the accumulated guilt of the whole human race centred on, and weighed to the ground His sinless soul ; — that night of nights, when, agonizing in sorrow and blood, " He hoaved the mountain from our sinking world," — " Do this in re- membrance of me." "Yes, Loi-d, is the sad -ut grateful answer of His Church in the wilderness, we wil i remember that night of Thy sorrow, when Thou for js wxs stricken, smitten of God and afflicted ; we will remember that Thou wast wounded for our transgressions ; that Thou wast bniised for our iniquities ; that the chastisement of our peace was laid upon Thee ; that by ^hy stripas we are healed ; — we will remember that the bitterest of bitter cujmj was for us drained to its very dregs !" It was a solemn and melting time. Mr. !Molineux, with his grave and serious voice, pronounced the promise of our Saviour, — " Wheresoever two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst," and then read the impressive service. Poor Wilkins ! every eye was fixed u])on him. He we])t much, but not as he had wept 60 TALES OF IHMBLE LIFE. ))f>forp. ThciL lie weiit tcaiH of iinj^iiiKli ; imw \\' wcji'- tears of joy. Ho ticniljkd as lie tc( k the cup ; a sense of his iinworthincss almost oveieauie him ; but his joy was deep, his peace with Gotl was now more complete, and from that hour he sought to " adorn the doctrine of God his Saviour in all things." Sometime after the preceding events, Wilkins expressed his inonviction that ho should die suddenly. He thouglit an affection of the heart had set in, and he desired that, if it ■wore possible, either I or Mr. Molineux should be present at his death. His eianest wish was, that the last w ords he might speak in this life should be, " Blessed Jesus," — and God, in His goodness, granted him his request. On enter- ing his room on the last day of his life, he smilingly took my hand, and asked me to lift him a little higher. I com- plied with his request- He then turned his face to the wall, and, in a faint whisper said, " Blessed Jesus ! Blessed Jesus ! " While tliis faint whisper was yet trembling on his lips, the spirit of the converted infidel entered the pearly gates of paradise, and might there vie with the thief saved on the cross, which of the two should loudest shout the praises of redeeming love. I THE DARK NIGHT. As you ascend from the vale of Roclulale, on the western side, skirting tlie hamlet of Spothmd, near the Moorhind.s, tl)e valley opening to the right reveals the to])8 of Long Ridge and Knowl Hill. On the rising ground, near the summit of Long liidge, stood a few white-washed cottages, and a farm called " Bank Houfe." In this house the old fashioned broad oak stairs once served as a pulpit for Mr. Wesley; and, in a large field behind, Mr. Whittield, sur- rounded by a crowd, gathered from hill and dale, poured forth his rolling eloquence with such mighty pow&r, that the echo reverberated fi'om the rocks on tlie opposite side of the valley. Many a rustic returned to his lonely home- stead, long to remember the passing visits of these mes- sengers of the Cross ; and though, in those days of moral darkness, the seed often fell on stony groxind, still, in many places it produced lasting fruit. A r\nr'it of inquiry per- vaded the minds of the people ; th' old, long-neglected family Bible was taken down from the dusty shelf. Twos and threes met together for prayer ; earnings and savings were dedicated to the building of houses where they might meet for the worship of God. Hundreds and thousands of churches sprang up amidst the rejoicings of the new-boni myriads, the results of the revival of the eighteenth century. 3* II 62 TALKS OF IIUMIU.E LIFE. 'Ai.i ! Til tli(^ vall(iy Ijotwixt Sliclf Hill iind Ijong IU«lgc, oiio of those rural tc'iujtlcs whs or(;ct(Ml. jMcu aiul wonu!!), Mhoso hearts God had toiu-hod, brought willingly their ollbriiigs ; and on the day of its dedication, amidst tears of thanks- giving, the peoi>le shouted aloud for joy. And, from that day to this, the Sal»1)ath morning Wrings groups of old and young, from their scattered liomes on the uplands, to join in the duties of the school and the worship of the sanctuaiy. The short and simple annals of these poor of the earth, but candidates for heaven, would undoubtedly be interesting ; and one of them, who for nuiny years had mixed with the liappy gatherings of this school and church, constitutes the principal subject of this narrative. There ho comes, with his trembling stop, his wrinkled but pleasing countenance, and his nicely combed grey locks ; bending under the weight of j'ears, and the effects of many sorrows, he l(;ans heavily on his staff. See with what evident delight he once more enters the house of God ; and as he slowly v/alks down the aisle to take his accustomed seat, the eyes of old and young setjm to say, " Welcome, old Richard !" But Richard had once been young ; his step had once been firm, his body erect, his countenance radiant with health and vigour, and, in the obscure hamlet where he resided, he "had stood in his lot." Hard had been his toil, numerous his bereavements, and many his tears ; yet he lived an unobtrusive, useful, and happy man — for there is a depth in real, genuine piety, which the plummet of adversity can never fathom. A labouring man, with a sickly wife and a numerous family of small children, all depending on him to supply their daily returning wants, — manfully and unilinchingly struggling to obtain the bare necessaries of life, at the same time careful to watch over THE DARK NKIIIT. 63 \ their mor.il.s, and train thom for hwivcii— such a man is ono of natiu'o'a worthies — ono of cjirth's nohh^mon. J low de- lightful when, after tlie toils of the day, *' the saint, the ■ath h 1 hushand, and the father," gathering his young cliarge aioun* the family altar, reads to them out of the Holy Book, kneels with them at the throne of grace, pouring out his soul in thanksgiving to God for past mercies, asking for wisdom, that he may " conmiand his children and his house- hold after him !" Well might the bard of Scotland say : "From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs." With delight we hail the nohle sentiment, and echo back — From scones like thc8c old England's greatness ci^mes ! If the angels that are sent forth to minister to those that shall Ije heirs of salvation, — if those swiit-winged messenger's of mercy ever halt on their glad journeys through the skies, surely it will be to look on one of these bright spots, where the sons of toil, bowing down before the Eternal, gather for themselves and little ones the rich harvest of heaven's blessings. One evening in autumn, when Richard was offering up Ids evening sacrifice, he was led to jiray earnestly for his numeious family ; — that not one of them might miss the way to heaven ; that through all the temptations which they might have to pass, — through all the troubles and dangers of the wilderness, not one of them should be found straying in forbidden paths ; and that, after the storms of life were over, they might all be gathered into the heavenly fold of the Good Shepherd, never to part again. Reader, mark that night's prayer ! Richard prayed that the whole might ultimately meet where there is no more parting. Shall they go before? or shall they follow 1 Shall '4" I 64 TALEfJ OF nrMRI.n LIFE. Hi' the shaft of (l(\itli 1)0 tliirtron tiinoH liurkHl, laying tiuMii ono by Olio (h'acl at liis iwi, and ho, in tlic bittcnicss of liis s|»ii it, exdaiining, '* 1 shall go unto thoin, but thoy shall not ro- tum unto mo?" — or shall ho be the Ih-st to go, and hail them, one by ono, as they enter the gates of Paradise 1 God often answers our praytus ; but God's n)ode of answer- ing them we must leave with Himself. During that night's devotion, Ellon, their eldest daughter, a fine young girl of eighteen, was much aifectod, and, after the younger children had retired to rest, she ^\'ej)t bitterly. On recovering herself so as to be ablo to speak, she said, — " O father ' I shall soon be gathered to that fold you have been praying we may all one day reach. I shall be the first to go. I feared to tell you and mother, knowing you have enough to bear, but I cannot longer hide the truth : I feel I am fast sinking into an early grave." The anguish of that niglit Hichard long remembered. The bitterness of death, — the death of his firstborn, — the mother's stay and the father's joy, — to be smitten down at the moment of her grenlest piuinise, how agonizing the thought ! Yet this very thing had been feared, and all available means devised to prevent it For bo's eral months the parents had held anxious counsel respecting Ellen's altered looks ; but when the child herself confirmed their painful suspicions, the stroke fell with crushing effect. This was the first stroke, but not the last, that Eichard was destined to feel. Ellen's case soon became hopeless. Consumption, that insatiable monster, which knows no mercy, — that insidious foe, that comes by stealth, and lays its fatal finger on its fatal victim, leaving, by the touch, the bright eye, the hectic flush, the hollow cough, and the moining sweat; — Tlin DARK NIfillT. 05 i conRiinipHon, tlmt gi'oody, tiUitiiliziii;^, l)\it ccrtiii'i (Icstroyt'i*, wliicli aiiimally swocjis into the grave its tens of tlumsimds, had selected Elhni for its prey. And now w«'re to he Ho hy step us she neared the tonil), the; fear of death de- parted, — so wonderfidly does (rod adapt His grace to the altered circumKcances of ITis children. Never yet was dying strength withheld from dying saints. The Christian in his walk through the valley of the shadow of death, finds that to him it is but a shadov). IVfillions of redeemed have en- tei'cd this valley .smiling, — (Jod's presence chasing away all their fears, and imparting unspeakable joys. Millions of dying Christians, since the days of St. Paul, have been able to appropriate some of his last words, — " There is laid up for nie a crown.'-' Sunday-schools have many trophies. Sowers in tears and reapers in joy are far more numerous than falls to the lot of mortals to know ; and though Ellen first learned to lisp the name of Him who said, — "Suffer little children to come unto me," on the spot where children ought fir.st to learn — her mother's knee — yet the school had been to her a happy place, and to many of her class-mates the house of mercy. One Sunday the teacher roceived a message requesting that she would bri]ig with her all the scholars of the class in which Ellen had spent many peaceful hours, that she might see them once more. The teacher communicated Ellen'.s wish to her young friends. The books were closed in silence ; a tear stood in every eye. Two and two, headed by their kind teacher, with hearts of sadness, they wended their way to the house of death ; weeping, tliey gathered I'ound her bed. Did Ellen weep 1 No. The young, the healthy, and the strong, through their blinding tears, l>eheld ^ 66 TALKS OF HUMHLK LIFH. ^11'' l.h tlio 'ViLstocl form of oiio tlioy all love 1, lu;r palo countenance radiant with ra|itures of lioiy Joy ; and wliilo, at her r((|Uost, th(!y all kneeled down, and their sobs drowned the voice of the teacher engaged in prayer, still Ellen did not weei). She clasped hor thin, white hands, and smiled ; and when, at parting, they, one by one, took her clammy hand, to say the sad " Farewell !" still she smiled, and, in a feeble whisj)or, Kaid, — ** I die in i)eace ; meet me in heaven." liichard's day of mourning had now begun ; bitter were the tears he dropped on Ellen's grave. And how soon that grave was to be opened again nnd again ! But the grace that shone conspicuous in the pilgrim's life well sus- tained liis burdened soul. Murmuring is seldom, if ever, founrl in either the heart or life of the sincere Christian. Mourning is the lot of many ; Jacob mourned for his long- lost Joseph : ilie wild lament of David over his ungrateful son Absalom has melted many hearts. IMary and Martha agonized over their brother's death ; and the Sun of God Himself shed tears, — " Jesus wept." Murmuring is often sinful ; mourning, especially when we are bereaved of those we love, is proper and nativr.!. Richard iiever muimured, but was often made to mourn. The next that entered the dark portals of " the house ap- pointed for all living " was Richard's partner. Long had bhe been feeble ; she hud inherited the fatal malady that had cut down her lirst-born from her parents and entailed it on her own offspring. Then followed another, and another, until, out of twelve, only one daughter was left. Yet these multiplied sorrows gradually tended to enrich and mature Richard's piety ; his mind was staid on God, and that peace which the world can neither give nor take away was his in- creasing inheritance. His Christian experience was riper THE DAIIK NIOIIT. 61 and richer tliiin that wliich iriatiy of liis hnjthron posscsst'il. Every sorrow cuts si striii*^ by wliicli we are tied to this world, and leaves the soul greater power to Kour towards the world to coinc. None, amongst the many that attended the house of God, seemed to enjoy the preaching of the gos- ])('l to the same extent as he did. The words of those sweet liymns that i)oint the soul heavenward he sung in rapturous joy. We n^psat, there is a depth in genuine piety which the plummet of adversity can never fathom. But this j)lummet wa.>< yet to sound deeper. Richard was now becoming an old man ; he could not regularly follow his daily work. Small, indeed, had been his earnings ; but now the tijue was come when he must become dej)endent on his only child. He removed to a small cottage nearer the mill whca'e she worked, expecting, as he said, there quietly to end his days, and be buried with his wife and children. Alice, the last and only child, was now a fine young woman, twenty years of age ;*she was good looking, and seemed the most healthy of the family. Up to about eighteen years of age, Alice had been regular at the Sunday-school, and con- stant in her attendance at divine service. She knew the way of truth, and hud the highest respect for the truly religious. She was, like thousands of the young in our Sab- bath-schools, almost per.sua'ied to be a Christian, yet 'felt sho was not one. She was, like th« scriljes who came to Jesus, not far from the kingdom of Goarative uidiappiness for v iwit of Ijecoming It I 68 TALES Ul' IIUMP.LE LIFE, clecidod ! " Wlicn thou seehest me vnth, all thine heart, tlion will I be foimd of tlioe," is the teaching of God's word. "We cannot serve God and the world. "Wlien Alice was about seventeen years of age, several of her school-mates, in the same condition of nnnd as herself, agreed to meet together for reading the Scri[)turc8 and prayer. These meetings gi*eatly tended to strengthen their faith. Christ's conversation with Nicodemus, as recorded in the third of John, was the subject on one occasion ; and our Saviour's words, — " Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God," first took hold of Alice's heart. She saw that to be Ijorn of the llesh was one thing and to be born of the Spirit was quite another thing. The last verse of the chapter, — •' He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life," caused a ray of hope to spring up in her soul. She saw the Simour hanging on the cross for her — stricken, smitten, and afflicted for her ; she saw His crown of thorns, His pierced hands and feet, His blood shed for sinners ; and heard His cry, — •' Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." By the eye of faith she saw the whole scene on Calvary. Over and over she repeated the words, — " Was this for me ?" For a moment, but only for a moment, doubt and darkness clouded her mind : she feared God would not save her, — that she was lost ; but the words, — " He came to seek and to save that which was lost," brought renewed confidence. Again she prayed ; and now was able to say — ~ His blood was shed for me." Her sorrow was turned into joy ; and now, being justified by faith, she had peace with God. From that day Alice was a new creature in Christ Jestis. She was now born again of the Spirit ; she had now ob'aitied the pearl of great price — the one thing needful ; she was ion .id. THE DARK NKillT. 69 now (if tlie ki)in ; now, 1)V tlio ;;ince of God, sLo was a Christian ; •uid thougli, ut times, doubt ai'ose, yet she found that fiiith and prayer invariably dispelled them. Her peace, as a whole, was solid and great. She had become a decided Christian, and, as a consequence, enjoyed the real consola- tions of religion ; for it is the doubting and undecided wlio are strangers to tlie deej) things of God, to the true riches — the real joy *>f "«ving grace. Alice had always k^ved her father, but now her affection seemed to increase. And so it is ; t}ie more we love God, the more we love each other. She it was who so nicely combed old Richard's grey locks — who looked so well to his j)ersonal appearance — who kej)t their little cottage so neat and scrupulously clean. On the Sabbath morning she rose early, and by school-time father and daughter were ready. All weathers they might be seen ; the old man leaning on his statF, and often on the arm ot his dutiful daughter. They had a smile for everybody ; and many that saw them expressed their gladness that llichard was so comfortable iii his old days. Richard's place in the school w3s with a class of little boys. Long and patiently did he talk to them of good things, helping th -n to spell out their words, and en- couraging tliem by saying, — " You will some day be good readcry." Alice occasionally taught a class of young girls, but more frecjuently joined her friends in the Bible-class. To Richard and Alice the Lonl's-day was indeed a day of holy duties and holy ]»leasures. Gt)d, in His mercy, gave the day to man and beast ; to loth w jus ii given as a day of rest J but to man it was something move — a day of holiness to the Lord. TIh'v who s]). ay in indiflercnee, or in seeking what they cull recreation, are utter strang«!is to these deeper and more lasting joys, oidy experienced by those who I -py honi(>, kind friends had carried to his bed the unconscious old father. That night was a night of lamentation and weeping, and as the mournful intelligence spread, a wail of sadness rolled over the valley ; for although everyone that knew Alice be- lieved she was prepared for the change, still they felt it to be a distressing event. She was loved for ner own sake, and additionally loved for her kindness to her aged father. " Poor old Ilichard, what will he do now !" was the general exclamation. But nowhere was the sorrow so deep as at the church meeting, from which Alice w^as seldom absent, and, had all been well, she would that very night have made one of the happy company. That was indeed the house of mourning. The usual singing was dispensed with, but the minister read out old Richard's favourite hymn, — *' God moves in a mysterious way. " Then all knelt down in solemn prayer, and as they prayed they wept ; a bejoved one had fallen from their midst, but if the militant Church counted one less, the Church triumph- ant numbered one more. How suitable to this event are the words of the following hymn : — "When blooming youth is snatched away, By death's relentless hand, Our hearts the mournful tribute pay, Which pity must demand. "While pity promjtts the rising sigh, 0, may this truth (iuiprest Lord THE DARK NIGHT. 73 With awful ix>wer), ' I too must die !' Sink deep in every breast. " Let this vain world engage no more ; Behold the gaping tomb ! It bids U8 seize the present hour, To-morrow death may come. " The voice of this alarming scene May every heart obey ; Nor be the heavenly warning vain Which calls to watch and pray." During that dismal night, several neighbours kindly at- tended to the decent requirements of the dead child, and the few wants of the feeble, afflicted father. For many hours he lay with closed eyes ; few words escaped his lips. He moaned in his sleep, and once or twice repeated the words, — " Alice, you have being long in coming home to-night ;" and, before consciousness returned, his darling daughter's remains, covered with a snow-white sheet, slept the sleep of death in the little chamber she had occupied as a bedroom while living. When old Richard recovered his reason, he wept aloud for some time. When able to converse, he said, — *' Now I un- derstand my child's last prayer ; she always read the evening chapter, and, if I was not well, she sometimes engaged in de- votion. * Lord,* she said, * Thou hast taken my dear mother, and all my sisters and brothers, to dwell with Thyself in mansions above ; if it please Thee, preserve me for my aged father's sake, that I may be a comfort and support to him in his declining days. But if otherwise be Thy will, then he will see us all safely folded in the realms of bliss, and he will soon follow, and then we shall be a whole family in heaven. O, help us both to say. Thy will bo done.' But I 1 1 .I'.' 74 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. never did I feel it so liiird to be resigned ; my cup is bitter indeed. It seemed as if the stroke might liavo been spared me. It is strange, very strange ! I would not judge the Lord by feeble sense; but now this world is a wilderness — a waste, howling wilderness. She Piayed — yes, my child prayed — that we might be able to liay, * Thy will be done.* Lord help me to say it ; for no doubt Thy will is the best, though at present I cannot see it. Job lost more in one day than I have lost in a whole lifetime, yet he could say, ' The Lord gave, and llie Lord hath taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord.' my God, help me to be re- signed." The day of Alice's funeral was a memorable one. Many of the hands in the mill where she had worked, together with- the teachers and elder scholars belonging to the Sab- bath-school, besides many friends and neighbours, followed her to the tomb. The old man, leaning on his staff and the arm of a brother Christian, headed the melancholy proces- sion. Amidst tears and sobs, the body was lowered into the devouring grave, but with a sure and certain liope of a glorious resurrection. And now let us pause, lest we be led thonghtlessly to " charge God foolishly." Ought not the Almighty to have spared this dutiful and aflfectionate child to be the comfort and help of her aged father, during the short time left for him in this world? Humanly speaking. Yes ; but it is humanly speaking. The finite can never undei'stand the doings and purposes of the Infinite. There is great force in the words, " What we know not now, we shall know hereafter." There are greater calamities tlian having those we love snatched from iis by the hand of death. To see a son or daughter, day after day, THE DARK NIGHT. 75 re- leading a wicked and ungodly life, w( uld be far more dis- tressing to a good man than having that son or daughter taken away hy early death, knowing them to be prepared. Continual anguish of mind, consequent on seeing our chikl- ren walking down to eternal death, is a thousand times worse to bear, than one great agony by their being taken suddenly to eternal life. Take the following case in illus- tration : — Late one evening, a poor mother came to my door to con- sult me respecting her da\ighter, who for several weeks luul left home, but had that day been found in company with a well-known wicked woman. I have never seen sorrow for the dead so really distressing as the anguish of that j)oor woman for her disgraced child. No pen can describe the agony of that mother as she said, " O that 1 had buried her when she was a child. I would rather have seen her drowned or burned to death when she was sinless and inno- cent, than see her live a life of infamy. What must I do ! what must I do !" Such were the exclamations of this un- happy mother over her wicked daughter. Another mother, who had lost her daughter by dcatli, sat down in sorrow, refusing to be comforted, until one day, looking through the window, she saw a young girl in the hands of a policeman, being dragged to prison. From that moment her miirmuring ceased, and she fell on her knees and thanked God that her child was in heaven, beyond the reach of misfortune, policemen, and prisons. Another mother, who for more than twenty years had been almost in continual trouble in consequence of the con- duct of a wicked son, seeing her neighbour weeping for the death of a young man the same age, said, " I wish it was my son that lay in that coffin, instead of yours. To carry u < I ,r ■i: I I 70 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. dutiful cljild to tlie gravo is far loss ]>ainfiil than daily to witness the miscondiict of an imgodly one." Old Richard was boroaved of liis only remaining child, the stay and support of his old ago. To the thoughtless it woidd seem a crn the good man who looks with the eye of faith — " There is a light in yniuler si-iea — A light unseen by outwai, yes ; But clear and bright to inward sense, It shines, — tlie star of IVovidencc. The radiance of the central throne, It comes from God, and (!od alone ; The ray that never yet grew pale. The star 'that shines within the veil.* And faith, unchcck'd by earthly fears. Shall lift its eye, thougli I i lied with tears, And while around 'tis dark as night, Uutired shall mark that heaveiJy light. " " All things work together for good to them that love God," but we must not forget that it is all things. Perhaps few pixssagcs of God's "Word are to many so difficult of ex- planation as this, and principally because we do not include all things — things in heaven, and things on earth — the whole stretch of man's existence. Apparently unequal providences have perjdexed thousands ; the fat sinner, and the lean saint have caused many to think the ways of God unequal. They see the godly suffer bereavement and con- tending with poverty, und the wicked in prosperity and not Tlir DAUK NKJIIT. 77 ' plagued aH otlir!r mon, and, aHaconHoqiiciir<», fjiitliHometiincs staggers ; but it does not stagger in all, as the fallowing in- cident will show. In ri iiting the incident, I do not juf>tify my own conduct in the ulfair ; — Several years ago, one hot suiunicr d«ay, on the old road leading from Rochdale to Bury, near the Oakeji Road, a tall, thin old man had just laid down a heavy burden on a low stone wall at the road side. His burden was a large skip, full of coarse cotton " cops," which he was fetching from Sj)oddon Mill. As I neared the man, he was wiping the sweat from his bald head and face with a coarse cotton rag he had taken out of his pocket. Many times had I held deliglitful conversation with this old Christian : having had much forgiven, he loved much. Till nearly yixty he had lived without God and without hope ; when the cliange camo it was a change indeed ; God's providence, grace, and good- ness were his daily themes. JIo joined the Church at Bam- ford, and, fine weather or foul, James wan found in his pew. The moment I saw him, I determined to put his faith to the te«t. ** Well, how 3 you to-tlay, James?" I inquired. "Very v a, ohn, I am ha])py to say ; how arc yoTi ?" Just then a veiy costly carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, was passing. The only occupant of the carriage was a stout, red-faced gentlonuin : with arras folded, he was leaning back at his ease. " Do you know that gorgeous efpiipage, and the fat gen- tleman?" I inquired. *' Yes, and so do you," was James' answer. "Well, and what do you think of the rrovidonce of which you sometimes sjwak ? You s(m) yonder man ; you know he is an ungodly man, yet he sprcudeth himself like a green I 78 TALE8 OP HUMBLE LIFE. tl I 'III bay tree, his eyes stand out with fatness, ho is not plagiiod as other men ; wliilo you, believing that all the silver and the gold are the Lord's, serving Him, and trusting in His providence, are toiling and sweating in your old age for about seven sliillings a-week, getting little more than bread and water, — how can you reconcile this with a just I'rovi- dence 1" James looked at me with amazement, and with the great- est earnestness, replied, " Are you tiying me, John ? — are you trying me? Couple Heaven with it! — couj)le hea- ven with it, and then." Never shall I forget the old man's answer. Amidst the many sorrows through which I have had to ptuss from that moment to this, " Couple heaven with it," has sweetened many a bitter cup. Passing his house about three months after seeing hira resting on the Bury Road, I, as usual, called to see him. Strangers were there ; and on inquiring what had become of old James, the answer was, " He is dead sir, and buried in Bamford Chapel-yard." In that burying-ground lay my own parents. I went to visit this, to me, interesting locality. On the grave of James the stone was laid, and, in letters newly engraved, I read, " Here resteth the body of James Lord, aged seventy-three." As I stood over the grave, the hot summer day, the heavy burden, the sweating old Chris- tian, the rolling carriage, and fat squire (since dead), all came fresh to ray memory ; and from that grave the voice again sounded, " Couple heaven with it !" " The sufferings of thiB present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory tliat shall he revealed in m*." But to resume our narrative : — The good brother before mentioned took old Richard to TIIK DARK NFGIIT. ^0 to be ar d to rosMo in liis own ho\iHo. IFis ronmining funiitniv was sold to j>iiy a few small tlt'bts. On the following Siil)l>:ith moni- iiig, the olil |>ilgriin, now alone, was again wonding his way to tlio honst; of (jod. Kind, but niiHtaken fricntlK, tried to (.lissuade liim from going, thinking it would increaHO his dis- tress of mind. " No, no," said the old man, " I have often had, like the Psalmist, hard things ma r ii 80 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. comtbit it is. And, bcsiclcH, if I go to tlic workhouse, when my short j)ilgrin)ago is entlod, I shall be buried in a stranger's grave ; and I should like — O yes, I should like to be buried with my dear wife and children." Another brother in the church, feeling commiseration for the now houseless old man, offered him a home. This poor man had nothing to spare, for he was a weaver, with a family of small children. Here Richard soon found he was a bur- den, and he would not consent to eat the children's breatl^j and now there seemed no place left but the workhouase. For a whole week he was in much trouble. To leave the chapel to be buried in a stranger's gmve, to remove from amongst those who had, according to their ability, sliared with him and lightened his sorrows, was a sore and painful trial. Late one Saturday evening he remained long in prayer, beseeching the Almighty to open out some way of deliver- ance. " Have mercy u})on me, O Lord, for I am in trouble. Hear, O Lord, and have mercy upon me. Lord, be Thou my helper." His struggle that night was severe and bitter ; but at last, from the depths of his afflicted soul, ho was able to say, " Lord, not my will, but Thine be done. I leave my l)ody, soiil, and spirit entirely in Thy hands." On the Sunday following, the day after Richard's prayer of resignation, T vvas unaccountaljly impressed Vith a desire to attend Bagsuite Chapel, Richard's place of worship. I knew it was the school anniversary that day, but that was not, in itself, any at+r'pcdcn to me. The place was tv;o miles from my house, and on tha* day — wliich was very unusual — I had no special engagement. I felt I must go, and after dinner I sot out in good time, wishing to distribute a few tracts oil the way. On arriving at the chapel, after shaking hands with many well known friends, 1 found several of them TliF. DARK MOHT. 81 ried in trouLle. On iiujuiring tljo reason, one of tlioiu informed mo that old Richanl was going to tlie work liou.se, and waH come to bid thorn farewell. " Whore is old Richard ]" I asked. " In tlie school-room, taking leave of the children," was the answer. On entering the school-room, I fomid Richard alone, walking up and down ; the scholars and teachers were all gone into the chapel. The oM man seemed to be labouring under great mental anxiety. On seeing me ajiproach, ho held out his hand, saying, " This is my last day amongst you ; I feel it hard woi-k to part with my old friends, the means of grace, and the liouse of my God. O how ])recious to me has been the Sabbath-school and this bles.sed sanctuary ! but the bitterness is past. Yes, yes, the bitttrnesss is past ; I now feel much more resigned to my lot ;" and taking hold of my hand lie prayed that the Lord might bless me, and make me a blessing. " Well, Richard, bat supposing you had tln'eo shillings a week, in addition to the two-and-sixpence allowed by the township — that would make five shillings and sixpence — how would that do V "Do! do ! why I should be a king ; yes, and far happier than any king. Do ! I sh.ould think it would do, indeed." " Well, ther you shall have it," I replied, " weekly, and every week as long as you live, ^nd now yon can remain with your friends and the school, and still attend the house o" your God ; and, when your days are endcil, you can be laid down in the grave with your wife and children, as you have always wisiicxl." Richard looked at me with tears siroaining down liis fixce, i i I I - I ■ TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. Il aiul, willi tlio niostcliildis!) sinijilicity, .said, " Mr. Asliworth, are you really in earnest, or are you trifling with an old man's sorrow s?" " In earnest, llicliard, and never more in earnest ; you surely do not think 1 could sport with your troubles." For a niomtnt the old man seemed miable to sjieak ; then clasping his hands, exclaimed, " Now I see ! now I see ! If I had sooner loft myself in the hands of God — sooner from my heart said, ' Not my will, but thine be done,' — deliver- ance would hiive couie sooner. Not till last night could I say it ; and my God sends deliverance the very day after. * Blessed is the man that maketh the Lord his trust.' *0 magnify the Lord with me, and let ns exalt his name to- gether,' " " Well, Richard, but I think you had better not tell about this provitlential help ; there may be prudence in not making it known." " Tell ! tell ! but must tell ; I cannot help it. Was there ever anything like it 1 Just in time ; a day or so later, and I should have gone !" And tell he did ; for, after the service was over, Richai'd was again shaking hands with his friends, exclaiming, "Bless the Lord, I am not going, I am not leaving you ; no, no, the Lord has sent me help; I can come to His house still, and meet with yo!^ as long as I live, and then be buried with my own family. Praise God, for He has done it all !" The following week was to Ivichard a week of great joy. He spent much of it in going amongst his Christian friends, talking with them about his deliverance, as he called it. To one brother in the church ho said, '' I wond(;r I was so unwilling to leave myself in the hands )f God. I have long THE DARK HOUR. 83 vou believed that a sparrdgiiigs; for, not luiving the best of healtli, I have not been able to make myself a home. Twelve years I have worked in the cotton-mills, — here, in Bunilcy, and in Todniorden ; but for several weeks I have not been able to follow my employment, and now I am in a common lodging-house, with two shillings from the parish as my only support. I do not say this to induce you to give me anything, for I cannot beg. I have sold my better clothing at various times, and this has helped mo a little ; but now I have nothing left that I can dispose of." "In which of the lodging-houses do you reside? for I should like to call and see you." " Jack Smith's, in I'ackcr Meadow, or King-street ; but you will tind it a queer place." Promising to call and sue him, with a mutual " good evening," we parted. On the following evening I called, and learned from the landlady much about J()sci)h's circumstances. She informed me that Ik; was a veiy cojiscientious young man ; that his means were exhausted, and she feared he did not get what was necessary for his poor state of health, — that he was quite friendless, and she often found him weej)ing, and in great sorrow. She was glad Thad called to see him. After settling the (piestion of lodgings, and making j)rovision for a few nourishiiit Ills for .losciph, J followed him into the res/>ec^ able room, and louiid hltii nerv((iln1y waiting me. That night iloseph was greatly distressed. He mourned over his lonely and destitute condition. All his pros[)oct3 wero gloomy ; \iothiiig but an early death in the workhouse was before him, and he wished he l\ad never been born. THE SILENT CORNER. 89 ITis condition was indiM'd a vory ]>;unfnl one, and T frit much for the young nmn ; iind having I rought for hini a fow books, anionj^st which was James's " ivnxious Intjuiicr," I left him, with a jnomiso soon to call aga'n. At our next interview Joseph entered into many ])articu- lars of his life, honestly confessing that much of his present misery was the result of his own folly. Speaking of his earlier days, he said : — " The happiest period of my lifo was that spent in the Sunday-school. My mother was then alive, and she seemed anxious that I should early imbibe religious impressions. She legularly attended the church, and had a great regard for the Sabbath-day. She would read to me stories from good books, and many times prayed with mo when father was not at home. I well rcmem))er how she began to look very pale when she heard the doctor tell her that she could not get better. That night was to me the beginning of sorrow. My father had died of brain fever, about six months before ; but somehow I had not cared much about him. One reason for this was n)y being so very young ; also my father's business took him often from home, and I had not much of his company. But the doctor's words to my mother, ' You cannot live long,' sound in my ears to this day. Tluiy were true words, for in less than three montlis 1 was an orphan. The day before mother died, she called me to her bedside to bid me farewell. I feel her clammy hand, and see her flushed face this moment. O, how well do I remember that night ! She spoke to me of heaven — told me what a glorious place it was, and that she was going there. She told me that, if God would let her, she would be my guardian angel, and take euro of me. She presented me with her jmcket Bible and her wedding-ring. She then rcHjuested me to kneel down, ft I ' :| l!: i on TALKS OF lII'MIU.r I.lFl'. wliilf, crying, ' Mother, niotlier ; dear, dear mother, wliat shall I do? I pron)i.«ed you never to l(>avo the Sunday-school, hut they have dri\ a me away. I feel I have done wron^j, and th teacher has done wrong, — what nnist I do?' O, I wish some kind .'riend had taken me by the hand that moment, and led me back to the school. I would have done anything to liave been once again in my ]>lace, for the sake of the promise I had made my mother. Ihit 1 hnd no ono to sympathize m ith me. I sat among the dead until it was dark, and then, sor- rowfully, witii aching head and heart, plodded my way home. " From that day J have felt myself an outcast ; for my grandmother was very feeble, and did not much care about me. T wisli( d to go to some other school, biit feared they would have heard of my disgrace, and object to take me, so I durst not ai>fily ; and n'v Sundays, which had formerly been my greatest comfort, v. re now the days of my greatest misery. I soon became changed in my feeliiigs, and felt that my heart was getting hard. I forgot to read my Bible, and soon after that went to bed without saying my prayers. About this time I met the yoiing teacher that had struck me the blow. He i)ut out his hand, wishing to be friendly, and invited me back to the schcol. Had he done this six months sooner, I should have been saved ; but now the arrow had entered into my soul, and all desire was gone. 1 excused myself by saying, that as my grandmother was now dead, I was removing to Burnley, where I expected to be able to get better wages. He exjjressed his regret at having struck me, and he said he feared ho had been the i ; I flu M % •i "» ■pi IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ^= ..6 IM ^o I.I lU 2.2 ii: lis iiiiiM 18 |)-25 IIIIIJ^ IIIIIJ4 <^ //. y: <^ ^> '^ V« '/ HiotDgraphic Sdences Corporation ^ « ^v \\ ''b .V V 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4503 "^ \ 92 TALES OF nUMP.LK LIFE. catiso of my leaving the acliool. Tlii.s softened me a little ;' l)ut the Aveek after I went to Burnley, and for six years have led a wild and dissipated life." " How long is it since you came to Rochdale, Joseph ]" " About two years since. I worked eighteen months, but for the last six months I have been in very poor health, and have kept sinking, both in body, mind, and circumstances. I wish I had no soul, and then to die would be a blessing." " What have you done with your mother's Bible and wedding-ring, Joseph?" *' I couhl not keep the Bible (ifter I commenced a life of sin. I knew it condemned all my actions ; and that I be- lieve is the real reason why wicked men are ever trying to prove it a false book. But no part of that book is more true than that which points out the consequences of sin ; it is terribly true, and they all know it. I purjjosely left mo- ther's Bible in a lodging-house, and have sold the ring for bread." " I feared your Bible would be gone, and have brought you another." On handing it to him, he carelessly opened it, and seeing the corners of four leaves all turned down to the same verse — Isaiah Iv. 8, — he read the passage, and again closed the book, saying, " It is of no use, * the harvest is past.' " " You made your dying mother three promises, Joseph ; first, that you would never leave the Sunday-school ; second, that you would read her Bible daily. These two you have broken ; but the third need not be broken, — you may meet her in heaven." Joseph quickly rose from his seat, and turning his face to the window, burst into a convulsive weeping. I gently laid my hand on his shoulder, and whispered in his car, " Christ THE SILENT CORNER. 93 Josns ranio into the -svorld to save siiinors," and quietly loft the room. The landlady, Mrs. Smith, informed me on my next visit, that for several weeks Joseph had coughed most of tho night, and that the lodgers com[)lairied they could not sleep. Several of them left in consecpience. She also informed me that she had cleaned out the room in the backyard, called the hen-cote, and made him up a small bed, for which she would only charge me half-price. She expressed her regret at having to remove him, but promised to do all she could to make him comfortable. "And is Joseph in the hen-cote now ?" I asked. " Yes, sir ; if you will come this way I will take you to the place, but you will think it a strange bed-room." I followed her out of the back door into the yard, and in a very small one-story building found Joseph lying on his narrow straw bed. He told me he had been poorly during the day, and was forced to lie down. I sat down on a three-legged stool — the only piece of furniture in Joseph's room — and, taking hold of his moist hand, asked him if he heard the words I softly whispered the night I left him weeping. " Yes, I heard them ; and they have been ringing in my ears ever since. I am greatly distressed. A few hours since, a littJe girl, belonging to a kind neighlx)ur, brought me a basin of gruel, and said her mother told her to ask my permission to let her come and read for me. I could not refiise the little thing. She ran home to tell her mother, and was soon back with the Bible wide oi)en at the 103rd Psalm, the plac^ she was to read for me. While the child was reading, I thought my heart wovdd have broken. It was my mother's favourite psalm, and the last I ever hoard her ). I li m m 94 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. read. I burst out weej>ing, which seemed to frigliten the chikl. She asked me wheie my mother was ; and when T told her slie was dead, and gone to heaven, slie asked me if 1 should go to heaven if I died ; but I could not answer. O, I wish I could." " Well, Joseph, you surely see the goodness of God in all this. He has certainly sent that little girl to read the Bible to you, as He sent you a Bible to read. I am here, because, being His servant, I must do His work. Everything is con- spiring to lead you to the Lamb of God. Joseph, my dear friend, do let His goodness lead you to repentance." *' I have very little faith," he replied, "in sick-bed repent- ance. It has long seemed strange to me that sinners should, with their eyes wide open, in the full blaze of gospel light, go on, step by step, down to destruction, knowing that every step they take brings them nearer and nearer, and when the^ get within a few steps of hell, scream out for mercy. It is a miserable trifling with God's goodness, and often a mockery ; for many that have been restored to health have proved worse than before. These being my views, how can I consistently hope for pardon in the eleventh hour ? It is against reason." *' Almost all you say is true, Joseph, and your reasoning is, to a great extent, just ; but it leaves you hopeless. If your soul be lost, you will not be the first, by thousands, that reason has damned. Man's salvation depends not on reason- ing, but believing. ' He that believeth on the Son hajbh everlasting life ; ' ' Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved ; ' these are God's words, and this is God's plan ; and in this plan the amazing love of God is seen. By your reasoning you have shut heaven's d9or against your- self ; but believing will throw it wide open, and, through the shed blood of Jesus Christ, poor Joseph Sutcliffe may enter." THK SILENT CORNKR. m Jusepli now became gvoatly agitateitter .sorrow. I looked into my njother'n face ; bnt when 1 Hiiw the t«^ars in her eyes, I instantly m.u] — *' Never mind, mother ; never mind. It will «lo very well. It covers my [►atches ; and when I get to school I will sit on the letterH, and then no one will .see them. Don't cry, mother ; we .shall he hotter off y(!t," Away I went to the Sunday -.school, with hnre f(!ot, and » pack-.sheet i)inafore, with half the letters WOOL down one side, to take my place in the thinl Bil>le-clas.s, among hoys who were much better drcssjcd, and who did not like to sib beside me on that account. I well remember the place where I sat that day, and how 1 put my bare feet under the form to prev^cnt my proud cla.ss-mates front treading on my toes. The feeling that I , was poor distressed me. But I knew that if I did not con- tinue to go to school my mother would be grieved ; and I could not bear the thought of grieving her. To think I had left her in tears made me sad ; but when I saw her come to the sei'vicc, and saw^her look down at me from the galleiy and smile, all was right again. I could smile in return, join in singing God's praises, and hope for better days. If ever mother understood the full meaning of those beautiful words, — " I was glad when they said, Let us go up to the hotise of the Lord," I believe mj/ mother did. Nothing astonished me more in her character than to bee her steady, quiet. Christian conduct. Yet a hundreth part of the trials she had constantly to endure would have caused thousands to sit down in hopeless sorrow. I now believe she never went to the sanctuary without a petition, for she never went without a trouble. And I also bglieve MY MOTHKi:. 103 y]u\ h'h m.iny of her troiihlos Ix^hind ; hpcaiisn fjod fuWilhul His promise in dcliviriii^ lior. And that day, when kIio Km i led on lior poor ragged boy out of tlio gallery, I thought sIk! smiled tliroujcli hor tears. It was th(! custom in our Sunday-school, when the bell rang for closing in the afternoon, to give tlu; boy who was lirst in the class a round tin ticket of merit, bearing a figure •* 1." These tickets were collected once each year, and the boy having the largest number had the most valuable jirizc l)resented to him. Teachers, scholars, parents, fnends, and members of the congregation, assembled in the lar^e scliool- rooin on Whit Friday to have t(*a, and to witness the distri- bution of the prizes. One year I had just one more ticket than any other boy in the school ; and, couse(piently, I wjis entitled to receive the highest honour. The evening before that memorable day on which I was to receive my prize, I was very unhappy on account of still being without shoes 01" clogs, and I said to my mother, as gently as I could, — " Mother, do you think you could get me a second-hand pair of clogs for to-morrow ? I am going to have the highest prize, and I shall have to go up the steps on to the platform, and I shall be ashamed to go with my bare feet." She was darning my father's stockings when 1 made the request. She made no answer at the moment, but put her hand to her breast, and appeai-ed to be suffering great pain. O, how I repented having spoken ! I would have travelled a long way with my bare feet could I have recalled the sentence which seemed to have caused my mother such intense suffering on that night. Long was she silent ; and long did I wait for the words that would express the state of her mind. At length she said, — "I know you arc going to have the lirst prize at the •I 104 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. i Bchool, my child, and I have done all that I could to send yo\i there decent. I have tried to borrow a shilling from the publican's wife, where your father takes so much of his earnings, but she scorned me. I have been to several of our neighbors to ask them to lend me the money, but our well-known poverty seems to have separated us from all help. There are few greater calamities in this world than to be a drunkard's wife, or a drunkard's child. I often pray that God will keep me from murmuring ; and that we may have His guardian care. I do not wish to say one word against your father, and I hope none of my children ever will ; for after all he is your father. I^et us trust in the Lord ; be good, and do good, and the light of heaven will yet shine on ouivpath. To the godly ' sorrow may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.' " " But we have a very near relation, mother, who dresses like a gentleman. They say he has as many Sunday waist- coats as there are months'in the year. You know he called a few days since to let us look at the fine cloth he had bought for a new overcoat ; and he told us he had given three guineas for it. Shall I go and ask him to lend us two shillings 1" " You may go, but I don't think you will get it j and it is two miles to his house." Away I went. I was soon there, for I could run swiftly. But when I got to the house, my courage failed me. I stood for a long time near the door, first on one foot, and then on the other, warming them by turn with my hands ; for the night was wet and cold. At length the proud man saw me, came to the door, and inquired my errand. " Will you be so kind as to lend mother two shillings to buy me a second-hand pair of clogs ? I have nothing to put MY MOTHER. 105 on my feet, and I am going to receive my reward to-morrow at the scliool. I Impe you will lend it her." " Tell your mother that when she has paid me back the eighteen pence she borrowed some time since I will then talk about the two shillings, and not till then. Never mind your feet ; toes were made before clogs." On returning home my mother saw by my countenance that I had not got the money. Our looks of 8ori"Ow met. Little was said ; and I went quietly to bed. The following day I washed n)y feet for a long time. I was determined that if I could not get anything to cover my ten toes, I would make them look clean. 1 was at the school before the time, and sat in a corner alone. Soon the people began to gather. On the platform there stood a large table, covered with a white cloth. On the cloth the prizes were arranged with as much display as possible. Books, penknives, pocketknives, inkstands, a small writing desk, and other valuables arrested the attention of all who entered the school. The ceremony was opened by singing a hymn. Then one of the Superintendents (the present Sir James Kay Shuttleworth) mounted ths platform and made a speech, — eulogizing the scholars for their good conduct during the year, and holding up to view the various rewards while speaking. When he came to the first prize he called out my name, and invited me on to the platform amidst a loud clapping of hands. 0, how iny heart did beat ! I felt at that moment as though I would liavo given twenty pounds, if I had possessed them, for something with which to cover my feet. I arose from my conifU", and, threading my way through the people as softlv as though I were a cat, I walked blushingly on to the ])latfoini, and received »f merit amidst the 1^ I I my rewan spei lappmg m w twr TtBiJl^r'gi lOG TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. aiiflieiice. But when I got back to my place I sat ronounced, and the people all retired from the place. Many persons may not a})prove of the above conversation being l.eld during a jmiyer-meeting. As a rule it might be objectionable ; in this case I think it was pardonable. The meeting was not disturbed, the poor penitent asked what he must do, and it was my duty to point him to Jesus. On my way home I called at his house; he hatl got his coat off, and was still wiping his face and neck. His wife and children were l(jokit)g at him in speechless wonder, and the three gambling-dogs lay growling ou the floor. Ad- dressing myself first to his wife, 1 said, — " Mrs. Kershaw, I see you are astonished, and no wonder. Your husband has attended tliree religious services to-day ; I think a great change is coining over him. You know what a wicked life he has led, and how you and your chil- NIFF AND HIS DOOS. Ill) tliHMi liavo siiirorcd in consequence. IFis tonj,Mio, that haa inillit)n.s of times bla-plieiued the name of God, has this day ciiod for mercy ; and the man wlio, above all otliers, seeme(l to he beyond tlie reach of mercy, will, through faith in Christ, obtain salvation." Then turning to Nift', 1 again repeated that the dogs must be given up before he could be saved. " O, what must I do? Cannot I keep those dogs and get pardon too? the dogs are innocent enough, are they not?" " Yes," I replied, " the dogs are not to blame ; but I am informed that you have yet three races to come off, and there is much betting on them ; but do^s and wicked com- panions must all go, or you are a lost man ! " After kneeling with him and his family in prayer, I left him still weeping. Mr. J. Guttridge having to preach at the same place, — Bagslate, — the following week, he, at my request, called on Nitf, and took him to the service, lie greatly helped the poor penitent to grope his way to the Cross. The following Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were days of strong cries and many tears. On the Thursday he got rid of his dogs ; and abont two o'clock on the Friday morning he rose from a sleepless, bed, fell on his knees, and cried out for mercy and pardon so loud that he alarmed the whole house : — " O, my Lord Jesus Christ ! I have now given up all that I cared about for Thee ; if there be anything else left, show me, and I will give it up too. Jesus, save me ! pardon my mountain of guilt, and speak my sins forgiven!" That prayer was heard, and Nifl' sprang from his knees, a sinner saved by grace ; and so loud did lie praise Gotl that his wife and children thought him mad. But he went do\vn 120 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. on his knees again, and began -to pray for tlieir salvation, — a snre sign that he had obtained it himself. He called on nie a few Jays after, and related the above account of his conversion ; he seemed nnspeakably bapj)y. With the most child-like simplicity, he asked me what he must do to keep from falling back into sin, and how to get rid of his cock-fighting, dog-racing, drinking. Sabbath- breaking companions; for they would be coming to his house as usual. " "Well, Niff, they must be utterly foreaken. My advice is, have a chapter of the Bible read, and kneel down with your family once a-day. Begin right at home ; and when your old wicked companions come to see you, ask them to sit down, and tell them all about your conversion ; and if they come on Sunday, request them to go with you to the chapel. You will by these means soon rid yourself of them, and perhaps do some good." Niff resolutely followed the advice given, and fearlessly informed his old companions of the change wrought in his soul by Divine grace. He earnestly warned them, also, of the consequences attending their wicked ways. As might be expected, they were greatly astonished ; in fact the whole country wa§ amazed, for there were few blackguards within the sound of Rochdale church bells but were personally acquainted with him. If the church steeple had fallen it would not have been more talked about. On passing through the village of Cutgate, where he resided, a woman, shod in old slippers, ran after me, exclaiming, " Now, John Ash- worth, I suppose you have called to see NifF. We were never so astonished on Bagslate ; the worst man in the world mended. He gets shaved on the Saturday, and puts on his clean shirt on the Sunday morning, and goes to the chapel ; NIFF AND UIS DOGS. 121 his we could as soon have thought of old Nick going m chapel as Niff." *' Yes," I replied, •' and Bagslate sinners may all become saints ; the same God that has saved him can save you," But she cut short my intended sermon by turning back, and running slip-shod into her house. After Niff's conversion he had great sorrow of heart, in consequence of the wicked .less of his eldest son, a young man about twenty-six, who had too well copied his father's example. After long persuasion, he one Sunday morning induced him to go with him to chapel, mentally praying all the way that God would have mercy on his child. Speaking to me about his son, he said, " If God will save my Jimmy, I will shout praises for ever." And, wonderful to relate, Jimmy began to attend the Sunday-school, became a new creature in Christ Jesus, joined the church, and about twelve months after died triumphantly. Niff, while he was wiping the sweat from the brow of his dying son, a few hours before he expii'ed, said, " Jimmy, my lad, who sweat great drops of blood for thee 1" Jimmy replied, " Mi/ dear^ dear Saviour.^^ I saw Niff standing beside the bed of his dead child. He stretched both his hands toward heaven, exclaiming, " Glory to my God, I have now one son in the mansions above, — my Jimmy is now in heaven. Lord, convert my whole family, and then we shall meet him in paradise." It is now upwards of nine years since Niff gave up his drunken, swearing, Sabbath-breakirg, gambling life, and by the grace of God became a Christian. When he heard of the conversion of old Lawrence and Pinder (see pages 24 to 31), two of his companions in sin, he was quite overjoyed. He called to see Lawrence, and they both came to request I 122 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. me to go with them to see Finder. What a meeting ! They all wept over their past sins : and wei)t for joy over Cod's goodness; and all bowed together in prayer and thanks- giving at the throne of grace. Last Sunday morning, March 22, 1863, I metNiff besido the sick-bed, and, as it proved that day, the deatli bed of a well-known character in the n"''ghbourhood of Bagslate — the celebrated " Dolly." He was urging the dying creature to look to Jesus for mercy. On leaving the cellar, where lay the poor expiring " Dolly," Niff began to thank God that he had kept him in the way to heaven so long ; and hoped that, when his last moments came, he might still be found in Christ Jesus. On shaking hands at parting, he said, " It is now near ten years since I gave up my dogs, and found mercy." MY NEW FRIENDS. I London ! the best and worst place in the workl, the vn&t emporium of human energy for good or for evil ; how many- thoughts are suggested by its mighty operations ! Its wealth and benevolence seem boundless ; its poverty and misery hopeless. Yet light and truth, contending with error and darkness, gain daily triumphs ; the black cloud of moral de- l)ravity is giving way before the bright beams flowing from Christian sympathy, anu hope sits smiling whilst contem- plating the cheering result. I have travelled the streets ot the great city by night and by day, beholding both its mag- nificence and its misery. I have walked through its palaces, parks, and picture galleries— its asylums, hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries, — but no place produced so deep an im- pression on my mind as the " Home for the Destitute." Ilore hardened villainy and hopeless wretchedness were written on every countenance ; all the woes of the Apoca- lypse seemed to have overtaken the truly miserable inmates. I felt they were all my brothers and sisters ; and I felt, too, that bin, in some of its forms, had been productive of all this degradation. I also felt a degree of veneration for the men whose Christian i)hilanthr()phy had provided such a home. I was sure infidelity had not done it ; for infidelity never yet lifted a finger to lesson human sorrow, or mitigate human woo, in any age, or in any country. Love to God 124 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. and love to man are inseparably connected. That the gospel of Christ, applied by the Spirit, could reclaim every one of the miserable beings before me, I had not tlie slightest doubt. In all towns, hundreds of such are to be found, who never hear the gospel, and who never attend cither our churches or our chapels. Ta it not the duty of every man whose heart God has touched, to do all he can for the redemption of such? If they will not come to us, then we must go to them, — meet th(}m on their own terms, and provide them with places of worship adapted to theii' own condition ; try- ing, in the spirit of love, to gather in the outcast, and to tell them the tale of the cross. These reflections induced me to make a vow, that, on my return to Rochdale, I would at once open a " Chapel for the Destitute." I consulted my friends, and endeavoured to enlist them in the undertakinoor that our churches are not open to them ? We have plenty of room ; why do they not come 1" " What !'* says another, " are you going to widen the distance betwixt the rich and the poor, by opening for them separate places of worship 1 You will do more harm than good." '« What !" said a third, " do you expect to get a congregation from amongst the degraded 1 If you tap a barrel of ale every Sunday you may, but not otherwise. I «>m now ashamed to say that, meeting with the above objections, and finding none to help me, I gave up the under- taking. But, several years after, while labouring under affliction, I remembered my broken vow, and again resolved that, if the Lord vrould deliver me, I would do all I could to bring sinners from the highways and hedges. I prayed earnestly that He would give me grace and firmness of pur- pose to endure any amount of ridicule, abuse, misrepresen- My new friends. 125 tation, opposition, or imposition ; that He would take money matters entirely into His own hands, and send pecuniary l.olp as it might be required. Believing that God would bless the undertaking, I determined not to consult any human being, but go at once to work, depending upon God's help and blessing. I took a small room, and got two thousand hand-bills printed, worded as follows : — CHAPEL FOB TUB r>ESTITTJTB, NBAK TIIR BANK STEPS, BAILLIE STREET, ROCHDALE. Ye houseless, homeless, friendless, penniless outcasts ... Come ! In rags and tatters Come! Ye poor, and maimed, and halt, and blind Come ! Of whatever colour or nation, creed or no creed Come 1 Jesus loves you, and died to save you. ** Come, then, to Him all ye wr tcued, Lost and ruined by the fall ; If you tatty till you're better. You will never come at all." No CoiiLECTIONS. All we seek is your welfare, both body and soul. Service every Simday evening at a quarter-past sIjc. Come, poor sinner ; come, and welcome ! Fifty of those bills were fixed on blue pasteboard, with a small loop of red tape at the top. With nails in one pocket and a hammer in the other, I went to all the barber's shops and lodging-houses in the town, requesting permission to h.ing up the cards. In no place was I refused, and I returned home in the evening rejoicing over my success. One Sunday morning — to me a memorable Sunday morning — with about live hundred bills in my pocket, I 6 126 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. m f began to walk through the back streets and low places ; and where I saw either man or woman in dirt or rags, I offered them a bill, and respectfully requested them to come to the service. If they could not read the bill, I read it for them. Some made merry with it, others stared at me, but very few promised to come. Soon after dinner I entered one lodging-house, and asked permission to see the inmates. I was shown into a large room, containing sixteen persons. I pulled off my hat, bowed to the company, and began to distribute my bills. Ono young man, \?ith a short pipe In his mouth, twisted my paper into a spill to light his tobacco, then burst out laugh- ing and began to dance a jig in the midst of the floor. Without seeming to take notice of his having biirned my bill, I said, — " You can dance well ; can you do anything else so cleverly 1" " Yes, I am a first-rater at everything," was the answer. " Well, let me hear if you can read this papei^ as well as you can dance." He took the bill, pulled the pipe out of his mouth, stood on an old wooden-bottomed chair, and began, with a thea- trical bearing and a loud voice, to read ; but when he came to the words, " Jesus loves you, and died to save you," his Irdice faltered ; he quietly stepped down, and laid the paper on the chair, observing, " I wish I had not read that, it reminds me of better days." Seeing the dancer break down, there was a general call for " Jenny Lind." The person ho^ noured by that name was partaking of a tea-dinner in the comer. She earned her bread by singing in the streets and public-houses. Jenny took the bill and read it through, And, amidst the clapping of hands, resumed her tea-dinner. MY NEW PITIENDS. 127 ho- the and agh, ■ner. A surly-looking man, with a flat nose and blood-shot eyes, growled out, " I thought there was nought in heaven, earth, or hell that cared for us, but it seems there is somebody does." " Yes," I replied, " that paper is true ; Jesus loves you and died to save you, and I, His servant, am come to tell you of His love. Now which of you will be the first to promise to be at the * Chapel for the Destitute' to-night V This was met with a loud laugh from all the company, one of them observing, " That's a capital joke !" Here let me further describe the characters I was trying to induce to attend a place of worship. I have mentioned the dancing man, the flat-nosed man, and the singing- woman, called Jenny Lind. In addition to these there was one they called " Peg-leg." This man was polishing his wooden-leg with the black-lead brush. On asking him why he did not use blacking, he replied that black-lead made his trousers slip up and down better. There was a thin man, with thick black hair, well greased with oil. He had a piece of a broken looking glass in his hand, and was trying to divide his hair in the middle, seeming very particular about it. One man, collier-like, sat on his heels be&ide the fire. He had a long black beard, and a dirty, ragged, red slop for a shirt. There were two old men, both poorly dressed, but one of them much cleaner than the other. The cleaner one had a large pair of spectacles on his forehead, and a grey-headed old woman for his wife. All the rest of the lodgers were fit companions for the above ; but those more particularly speoi- fied we shall have to refer to again. Wishing to get some one to volunteer, I laid my hand on the shoulder of the thin man, who was trying; to divide his hair, and requested him to give a challenge to the whole 128 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. house. There was a general shout from all, that if I got hitn I should have the worst in the lot ; they should like to see Bill Guest in a chapel. " Yes," said the wooden-legged man, " if Bill goes, I go." " And me," said the flat-nosed man ; " And me," said the red-slop ; " And me," said Jenny Lind ; " And me," said the old man with the large spectacles. Bill very coolly observed that they had better mind what they were doing, or he would surprise some of them. But the whole fifteen declared they would go if he went. " Then I go, " said Guest ; " and now let me see which of you dare show the white feather." We bargained that I was to call for them at six o'clock, to show them the way. The next place of call was in a miserable looking house, in which sat three men, on a short plank, supported by a few bricks. There was no other seat in the place. A square table with only two legs (and which I unwittingly upset,) was reared against the wall. A few broken pots, and an old rusty knife, were all the furniture in the house. They offered to go with me to the chapel if I would pay for a gallon of ale. One of them said he never went to chapel except when he was in prison, and he rather boasted of having been there six times. He was literally clothed in rags, and was without a shirt. He offered to give up his share in the gallon of beer, and go with me to the chapel, if I would send him a shirt. " Now I have you," said he laughing ; " send me a shirt, and I go." " And will you bring your friends with you if I do V I asked. " Yes," said they all; " we will come if you find him a shirt." They seemed greatly amused with the fix in which they had placed me ; but, a few minutes after, I rather astonished UT NEW FRIENDS. 129 a them by producing a clean shirt. I do not say how I got it, but I did not buy it. My next adventure was among a number of idlers on the stone bridge. While giving them my bills, a blustering young man, dirty, but expensively dressed, came up, and wanted to know what my papers were about. I handed him one ; he read it and then said, " Mr. Ashworth, look at me. You see a man that deserves damnation, if ever man did. I am the unworthy son of the best of fathers and mothers. They set me a good example, but I got amongst wicked com- panions, have spent in cursed drink hundreds of pounds, wandered from home, and now I am a wretched outcast. " But if you are a wanderer from home and not a Roch- dale man, how do you know me 1 " I asked. " I heard you give an address in Bury last April, and heard you point out the curse that ti*acks the steps of those that dishonour their parents ; and, believing you intended it for me, I felt at the time that I could have shot you. But all you said is true ; there is a dark look-out for every young man and woman who wilfully cause sorrow to their parents, especially if they are like mine." " Will you come to the Chapel to-night ? there is mercy for the worst, if they earnestly seek it." " Yes, I will come, but I shall never have mercy until I repent of my conduct to my parents." It was now five o'clock. In an hour and a quarter I should have to meet my first congregation at the " Chapel for the Destitute." I went home to tea, but could not eat. I went up stairs, and, falling on my knees, poured out my soul to God for help, " Lord, help me ! Lord, help me ! " was all I could say, though I remained long in prayer. Exactly at six, I called on my sixteen friends at the 130 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. lodging-house. My entrance was the signal for a general move. Bill Guest had finished dividing his hair, and had done his best to look smart. Boz, or Bos well, had fitted on his leg, and all were instantly ready. Not one had shown '•the white feather." They laughed at each other, and were all greatly excited. " Who will load upl" was bawled out by the red-slop man, and it was agreed we should go two abreast, I and Boz (the wooden-legged nian)being the first. In this order we marched down King-street, over the iron bridge, through the Butts, to the preaching-room. All the way we attracted much attention, some remarking that we were the awkward squad, others that we were going to the rag-shop, whilst others exclaimed, *' That bangs all ! " But what was to them a cause of merriment was to me a source of great anxiety. As I walked quietly on with the wooden- legged man, I could not keep back my tears. " Lord, help me !" was still my earnest i^rayer. On my arrival at the room, I found my friend with the new shiit, and his two companions, had already taken their seats ; also three well-known characters, — Lis Dick, Leach, and Sprowle, — two shillings would have been a good price for the wardrobe of all three. They were soon followed by the prodigal son and four others, in all about twenty-seven persons. T had provided the Beligious Tract Society's penny hymn- book, and handed one to each ; then, taking my place behind a table, I gave out the page. Few could find the hymn, but all pretended to do so ; and when I set the tune, the Old Hundred, I found that not one of the men, and only one of the women, could join in singing, and that one was the Bo-called Jenny Lind. I could have well dispensed with her help for she began singing before she knew what the time MT NEW FRIKNDB. 131 was, and she had a screeching voice, the effect of which on jny nerves was something like that produced by the sharpen- ing of a saw with a file ; this caused a general titter through the congregation. I had intended to sing five verses, but was glad to give up with three. What Jenny's success was in singing in the streets and public-houses I know not, but I know 1 was afraid to join her a second time, though my friends gave me credit for being a tolerably good singer. Bo ludicrous had beon the whole performance, that many of the congregation were almost convulsed with suppressed laughter, and I did not think it prudent to engage in prayer until they were in a more serious state of mind, so I request- ed them to sit down. I then began to tell them all about my reasons for beginning a place of worship for the destitute ; of my visit to London ; what I there saw, and the vow I made ; told them how I had broken the vow, been afflicted, and again vowed and prayed for help ; told them of my own conversion to God ; how long I had served Him, and how happy I was in his love ; but above all, told them of the love of Jesus Christ in dying to save their souls from hell, and bring them to heaven ; pointed out the dreadful con- sequences of rejecting God's mercy, and the misery of a life of sin, and besought them all, at once, to seek salvation through the shed blood of the Kedeemer. I have spoken to many congregations, bnt to none more attentive than these twenty-seven. O, how my soul did yearn in love to those miserable beings I The young prodi- gal — the wanderer from home — the wretched son of praying parents, writhed in agony ; some wept, and all were serious. I then proposed prayer, and told them that they might stand, sit, or kneel, just as they liked ; but they all knelt down, and ere we rose the Spirit of God worked witl^ 132 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I power. Lis Dick, and the old man with the large spectacles, remained on their knees after the others had risen ; thej both afterwards confessed that they had not prayed for years before. During the following week, in all my walks on business, I had my pockets stuffed with my handbills; whenever J saw a certain class of females, tramps, hawkers, rag and bone dealers, scavengers, donkey-drivers, or any of the mis- erable-looking beings that are too numerous in all towns, I contrived to get into conversation with them, and then gave them one of my papers. Several nights I went to visit the various lodging-houses to make new friends. Many writers have attempted to describe the character of the wandering tribes of England, who, in their strange, wild, exciting life, travel under a thousand pretences from town to town, spending their evenings in lodging-houses, and mostly found in the ancient parts of all towns, where buildings are low-rented, and the inhabitants the most squalid and miserable. Common lodging-houses are always the most numerous, and best supplied with customers. Crowds of strange faces drop in for one or two nights, and pass away to make room for others. Amongst these wan- derers we find almost every conceivable character ; and here the student in physiognomy or moral philosophy will find an ample field for investigation. One house which I visited contained about twenty inmates, when full. There were three large lower rooms. One of them was called " The House ;" another contained a little furniture, and was for the more respectable lodgers. The larger one was dignified with the title of " Traveller's Room." This contained nothing but forms, wooden chairs, and, under the window, a large, almost worn-out table. Here I have spent many MY NEW FRIENDS. 133 ow. any honrf; amongst both old and new comers, and on this occa- sion there wns a fair sj^ecimen of the nomadic tribes. Sim- pering sellers of religious tracts ; knitters of night caps ; makei's of wira-wams and pincushions ; a band of German musicians, and an organ-man with a monkey ; a blind man with a leading-dog (not so blind but he could see to fry beefsteaks and onions) ; an old woman travelling to see her only daughterj whom she had been seeking for two years, and had made it pay well ; another woman begging for money to repair a broken mangle, for which she had been three times in prison ; a tall, broken-down school-master, with a red nose and battered hat ; an old man and his wife travelling to their own parish, with a bottle of '-um to help them on their way ; a young dandy with a rufflea shirt, and dressed in seedy black ; a quack doctor, and three women in search of their husbands, whom they had searched for so long that they had very brown faces (one of them had re- ceived a black eye from her husband tl" ; previous evening). Almost every ofte of these were imposters, and a fair speci- men of the frequenters of low lodging-houses- The red-nosed school-master, suspecting my errand, wished to *' argue a few points in religion," pompously proclaiming himself a clever man on all conti'overted points, having never yet found his match in any encounter. I replied that I always endeavoured to avoid clever men, and wished to be excused ; but this did not satisfy the seedy-looking champion, for he was determined to have a tilt. However, he condescendingly offer»;d to let me off with answering the following questions : — " How could there be a just Providence, when men, possessing scarcely any learning, and almost as ignorant as Hottentots, should greativ prosper in this world, while a G* ^p 134 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. \f' man of his intelligence and abilities should be in poverty and rags 1' When I replied that his red nose would furnish him with the true elucidation of his problem, there was a loud burst of laughter from all the travellers, in which the school- master heartily joined. On the following Sunday morning I went quietly through all the back streets and low parts of the town, where I found many groups of the unwashed ; and in all places my custom was to ask for the best reader, and request him, or her, to read aloud the invitation. I took care to keep good- tempered, and in all cases treated them with resp(? . this had a good effect, and made my work more agreeable. One wretched looking man, that I fell in with, informed me he had been a Sunday-scholar until he was fourteen ; that one Sabbath-day he and another boy agreed to run away from the school, and neither had ever been there since. He deeply regretted the sin of his youth, and said, — " If some one had shot me, or cut my throat, the day I ran away from the Sunday-school, it would have been a great mercy, for I got amongst bad companions that very day. I have been five times in prison, lost my character and friends, and am now living a vagabond's life." " It seems you do not know one of your old school- fellows," I observed. He looked me full in the face, and for a moment seemed confused ; at last he said, — ^' Is it John r " Yes, my dear friend, it is John, one of your old class- mates, who has never left the Sunday-school, and who, as a consequence, has received thousands of blessings ; but if I bad run away as you did, I might have suffered as you MY NEW PRIENDS. 135 have." Poor man ; he seemed greatly moved by the dif- ference of our circumstances, and promised to be at the " Destitute" in the evening. Evening came, and it was again a time of much nervous- ness and great anxiety. O, how weak I felt ! As the time drew near I was restless and excited. J went to the room before the time, and I do not need co tell any minister of the gospel what I was doing while the people came. At length I heard the wooden-leg, and a tramping of many feet coining down the passage. The company con- sisted of Boz, Bill Guest, and the other inmates of Smith's lodging-house. My friend of the new shirt came in with his waiscoat pinned up to the chin, and the moment I saw him I susjiected that this, the most valuable part of his wardrobe, was gone. After service, I laid my hand on his shoulder, and smilingly said — " Brierly, where is your shirt V He blushed greatly, and replied, " I thought you could not see I was without, as I had pinned myself up." "Yes, I could see; now tell me what have you done with it !" " I popt it for sixpence, to buy a pennyworth of sugar, three half-pence wo; ^h of tea, and two pounds of bi-ead for my poor old mother, for hoo was starving. I have drunk, and drunk, till I had like to clemmed her to death ; and if it had not been for the parish pay hoo would have been clemmed to death afore now." " Well, you did right to see to your mother, but we must have the shirt back ; so you will call in the morning and you shall have it again." He called, and I gave him a note to the pawn-broker, for I could not trust him with the money. He soon returned with the bundle. I advised him 136 TALES OF HUMBLE LiPE. I I never to take anything to paiv^n again. The answer I got was, — " Did yere ever know one body 'at once begun poppin' ever gie o'er 1 It is suramut like drinkin', if they wunce begin ; dram-shops and pop-shops are brothers." Two of the new-comers, the second Sunday evening, con- sisted of a thin, grey-haired old man, and a little, thickset man ; both were in rags. The short man drove a donkey cart, had been a great fighter and drinker. He could not read, though he was sixty years of age. Taking them all together, I had again a strange congregation ; and, now that Jenny Lind was gone, I was the only one that tried to sing ; i'or though I set the most common tunes, none of them could help me. This night I ventured to take for my text Mark v. 19 : — " Go home to thy friends, and tell them how great things the Lord hath done for thee." I divided my subject as follows : — 1. The man here mentioned had a devil in him. 2. He came to Christ to have it taken out. 3. Christ cast out the devil, and sent the man to tell his friends about it. 4. Christ still casts out devils, if we will come to Him. I told them that there were swearing devils, drinking devils, lying devils, thieving devils, filthy devils. Sabbath- breaking devils, and idle devils ; — that when Christ cast them out. He did not cast them out one at time, but aU at once; and I tried to show them how happy the man rcust be that gets rid of all these devils by coming to Christ. On asking them to examine themselves, in order to find out which of these devils possessed them, Lis Dick, with much feeling, called out, "All of them !" MY NEW FRIENDS. 137 Boz, the wooden-legged man, and Clongh, the donkey-cart driver, both date their conversion from that night. Week after week, and month after month, I continned to visit the lodging-houses, places of questionable morality, cellars, garrets, and all other places where outlaws could l)e found. I also went amongst the market loungers ; — any- where and everywhere likely to provide me with outcasts of society. The result was that ray room (or chapel, as it was called) was filled with the poor and miserable, and my house with beggars, rogues, and vagabonds : and now began the real trial of my faith, and the dreadful strain on my patience. I had prayed, at the beginning of my undertak- ing, that God would enable me to brave any amount of ridicule, scorn, misrepresentation, abuse, or imposition, and now all this came upon me like a hurricane. I had begun Thursday evening services for the destitute, in addition to those held on the Sunday. At both times 1 had numbers of tramps from other towns ; for the news had spread to all the miserable places of resort, and one traveller told another that I <' was good for a night's lodging and a penny," which for some time was really true. The Overseers, Guardians, and Magistrates said that I was filling the town with " riflf- raff." The Governors of the workhouses were ready to mob me, declaring that I was filling their places with dying paupers. Some of my good friends said, " As I could not be kind amongst lions, I was determined to reign amongst donkeys." Lodging-house keepers came to make friends with me, wishing me to recommend their establishments, which they assured me were very respectable and clean. The idle, the dirty, and the miserable came in shoals for advice and to get money. Neighbouring shopkeepers often brought me eighty three-penny pieces for a sovereign, or IS. 'Ik 138 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. H paper parcels of copper for five shillings. Some weeks I had several hundred ragged customers ; in fact I was doing a roaring trade. But that which was most painful to bear came from some of my brethren in the church, with whom I had been la- bouring as a lay-preacher and Sunday-school teacher for more than twenty years. They spoke of me in derision, as the '* Parson of the Destitute ;" calling me crcchety, telling people to " wait a little, and they would soon see what they would see." I never replied to any of these cutting observa- tions, for I thought they really believed what they said. But T am thankful to say, that for near five years I have not swerved one hair's breadth from my purpose of trying to do good to the dregs of society, and that strength has been given me according to my duty. But I had one sympathizer — Mr. Mason, a machine- maker, — a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who employed a great number of hands. I succeeded in inducing him to take many c'' the wandering medicants as labourers, in order that the experiment might be tried if it was possible to reclaim them. Now I am coming to a dark chapter in the history of " My New Friends." I wish I could con- scientiously have left it out, but honesty says, " Give both sides of the question — black and white." Well, then, hlcuik first From amongst one week's callere, I selected seven men, whom I considered the most likel} to turn out well, and agreed with them to become common la- bourers, at fifteen shilling per week. Three of them I had to provide with second-hand jackets, and two with trousers, before they were fit to be seen, for they all seven looked like bundles of rags. Six of them turned up the following morning at six o'clock. They called at my shop, and I went I'l MY NEW FRIENDS. 139 ■with them to work. The foreman of tlie works, being a Christian man, entei-ed heartily into the undertaking, spoke kindly to them, and set them all to work at what they could easily do ; but the master insisted that I should call daily to see them, pay their wages, and he would refund the money. I bargained to give them a shilling every night, and the balance on Saturday ; and I told them, as they had been so long idling, they had better only make four dayS the first week, five the second, and six the third, lest they should break down. After seeing them at work, I went to the lodgings of the seventh man, to see what had become of him, for he was one of the three for whom I had bought a jacket, and was the strongest-looking of the party. I found him eating toast and beef steaks. On asking him how it was he had not gone to work, he snapped his fingers, saying, " If I begin working I shall have to keep at it, and I know a trick worth two of that." This man has since been transported for house-breaking. The six men worked four and a- half days the first week* and five days the second. On the Saturday of the second week, they had earned twelve-and-sixpence each. I com- mended them for their g^iod conduct, but, fearing the con- sequences of paying them in full, I requested they would draw only what they absolutely needed, and make me their banker, but they all refused. One of them returned in a few hours to tell me he had bought a second-hand pair of shoes and a waistcoat, observing, " I now feel a difierent man, and intend to lead a difierent life." Before twelve o'clock that same night, he was in prison for being drunk and breaking windows. On the Monday morning I was passing through Heywood, a small town about three miles from Rochdale, when, to my astonishment, I saw three of m v>'m ^^ j^ uo TALES or HUMBLE LIFE. my men walking very slowly in the middle of the street, with doleful faces, singing a mournful song about being out of work and starA'ing for bread. I stejiped off the footpath, and meeting them full in the face, said, — " Good morning ! — how is it you are not at work 1" Without waiting to reply, they all took to their heels, and I have never seen them since. A tranjp, that knew them all, recently informed me that one of them had died in a workhouse, and the other two have been frequently sent to various prisons as roguss and vagabonds. Four of my men were now gone. About the middle of the third week, a fifth enlisted in the militia, and at the end of the same week, the sixth left his work to resiime a roving, wandering life. Mr. Mason laughed heartily at my failure, but on my telling him that I had one very hopeful case, he agreed I should continue my experiment. The hopeful ciise was a tall, strong-looking young man, well known amongst the block printers of Accrington by the name of " Jam." After the eveniug service at the " Destitute," a man came to re- quest me to go and see a dying man in Turner's lodging- house. Church Lane. I found the poor man in a deplorable state ; got warm bricks to his feet, sent for the doctor, and paid a person for attending him. In two days he was pro- nounced out of danger. I bought him a shirt, a flannel, a coat, and a pair of stockings, nursed him for three weeks, and believed I was the means of saving a poor brother, both body and soul. When the last man of the six had fled. Jam was ready for work, and I got him to the machine-shop, at fifteen shillings per week. For an entire month he kept to business, and I was exulting in my success, when Jam ran off" with a tram[) woman, and both of them got lodgings in Preston gaol. '-^ MY NEW FRIENDS. 141 Another case waa a young woman T found weeping on my door-step. On asking the cause of her sorrow, qhi put a letter into my hand from the Chaplain of the Manchester City Jail. Tlie Chaplain wrote me to say that Jane Cheet- ham, the bearer, had served three months in prison, was very penitent, and he thought might probably become a re- formed character. She was a truly friendless creature. I spent several shillings in buying clothes to make her look decent, and got her work in the woollen mill of John Ash- worth and Sons. She attended all the meetings of the " Destitute," and promised fair. Jane had prayed while in prison, and she prayed for several weeks after she came out. According to her confession, she was getting the mastery of her besetting sin — drink. But she gave up praying, forged the name of one of my friends for a new shawl, sold it the same day for five shillings, spent it all in whiskey, then robbed a neighbour of a few shillings, and now Jane is serving four years in prison. Another case was that of a young woman, named Mary, who came to implore my help to save her from a life of sin. With the kind co-opemtion of Miss EUenor Ormerod, a lady who had labourein sed is s minute, n Sarah's ?A to her. he steps, tute" ho Sarah was in great trouble for several weeks. Night and day she sought pardon ; the Bible was her constant com- panion ; she attended all the religious services she could find, and at last found mercy. She now lives a godly life, and is much respected. "While on this subject, I will mention two other cases. On the Monday following, the day after I had been speaking against adultery, another tally wife came in tears to ask me what she must do. She said, — " I heard your sermon last night. I want to be saved, but you have shown me I cannot be, in my present state. I have been living tally twenty-seven years ; I have six children ; the eldest is twenty- four years old, and a member of the church. All the chil- dren are good children, and are fond of their father." "Why, my good woman, you must get married," I re- replied. " How can J, for the man I am living with has a real wife in this neighbourhood, and she is living tally tool What- ever must I dol I have not slept a wink the last night ; I fear we shall both be lost. My eldest daughter was at the * Destitute,' and heard what you said, and she wept all the way home. We are both -illing to be wed if we can be. What must we do 1" "Did the wife of tne man with whom you are living leave him, or did he leave her 1" I asked. " She left him, and went to another man," she replied. " Then get married, for the sake of yourselves and your children, and take all the consequences." " We are poor, very poor, and always have been so, or we should have got a divorce long since. He fears going to prison ; whatever must we do !" p^i ! ::if i , 152 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. Tlie woman wept all the time she was speaking, and, on leaving, expressed her fears of ever getting to 'leaven. The same day a tall man came on a similar errand. He said, " I heard your sermon last night, and am come to inform you that I am living tally, and my real wife is also living tally. The woman I am living with was with me at the chapel, and we are botli in gretifc trouble, for we have a little child of which we are very fond." " You muEt separate at once if you h^ne for salvation, and one of you take the child ; I know you have lived a very wicked life, and it was you that first offended." He replied, "We talkel the matter over last night, and we have agreed to part, for we shall both be damned if we live as we are j she says she will put the child out to nurse, and go into service or to the mill, if I would pay two shillings weekly ; but I am out of work and cannot pay anything." " You must part at once, and I will pay the money for one month." They separated, and the man regularly attends the services at the " Destitute." During the week, four other cases turned up, all showing the depraved condition of many of those amongst whom I was called to labour. But to resume a more pleasing subject. I mentioned a man who was blackleading his wooden leg, one of my first congregation, whose name was Boswell. He got his bread by tramping through the country, selling tape, laces, &c., and had led a very wild life ; but he became so attached to the services at the ** Destitute," that he would come from Bury, Bacup, or Todmorden to be present ; he was seldom absent, and became a truly changed character ; the house of God was to him the house of joy and peace. I had missed X[ 1- MY NEW FRIENDS. 153 him several Sundays, when I received the following letter from his wife, which I give literally : — "Sir, "Bolton, Oct. 26, 1862. " I take the earlest opertunity of aqquanting you with my loos, but it is my dear Husband's Gain. Ho departed this life yesterday morning at 9 o'clock. He h".d painful illness, and gone under a sevei-e opperation. Il-a had a very liappy end ; he blessed his Jesus and was ijon- stantly in prayer blessing his God. You will know him, he lived at Smith's, in King-st.; he had a wooden legg and went with Wm. Guest, at the opening of your chapll. Guest read words of consolation to him from the Bible, which made him very happy ; he Blest you ; he said you taught him what he never forgot, to seek his Saviour and temperance. Will you please to forgive this liberty, and I shall feel a great consolation in a letter from you. " Yours truly, * Mart Boswell. " In care of William Fish, 149, Kay, lit ie Bolton." I felt a degree of sorrow on hearing of Boswell's death, and the letter from his wife forcibly reminded me of walk- ing by his side through the streets, amidst the jeers of the spectators, He was the first man that entered with me into the chapel, one of the sixteen called the awkward squad ; and Bill Guest, tho man that was dividing his hair, looking into a piece of broken looking-glass,— Guest, the man that all declared was the worst in the lot, he is the person mentioned in the letter as praying with, and reading words of consolation from the Bible to the dying Christian, who found a Saviour at the " Destitute." Farewell, my dear friend ; thou art gone to where there are neither rags nor liiil i 1 154 TALES OF UUMBLE LIFE. sins, to that happy place where misaing lirr.bs are never known, for there are no wooden legs in heavrn. I have mentioned a short, stout man, that was well known as a terrible drunkard and swearer ; he would fight any man his weight, — he was truly ignorant, — could not read, — and earned his living by driving a donkey. How this man got amongst us I do not know, but, after coming several times, he brought a tall man, one of his companions in sin. In all weathers, and at all the services, the long and short man regularly attended, to the astonishment of all that knew them. The first intimation of a change in the short man, was his tellir^ me he was learning to read, and he wanted me to get him a Bible with large print. ** Why, Clough, are you thinking of learning to read the Bible at sixty years of age 1" I observed. " A', I am, and by God's help I will, for it will never do for me to live as I have done." " Do you ever pray, Clough V I asked. " Do I ? a' mony a time a-day ; I never go into dunkey cote to yoke it up or give it ought to eat, but I go deawn o* me knees, un mony a time in a-day besides. I hope God will ha' mercy on me, un I think He will. That tall man ut comes wi* me is in a wary way too ; he's cried mony a hewer obeawt his wicked life, un he may weel, for he's bin a swetter j were nother on us reet, nubbot wen we com* to chapel." Clough got a Bible with large print, and soon learned to read it. For three years he has lived a life of faith in the Son of God ; he says his donkey feels the benefit of his becoming religious, for he does not beat it now, and it goes better without " thumping," as he calls it. I called to see him on Friday last, and found hia wife very poorly. He MY NEW FRIEKDB. 155 Beemecl uiueli diHtreesod about her spiritual condition ; he spoke teuderly to her, entreating that she would not despair of mercy, declaring that if all the world was his own, he would give it to hear her say that her sins were pardoned. The tall man, that Clough mentioned as crying about his sinful life, resided at a place called Spotland Bridge. In addition to drinking, swearing, and Sabbath-breakipg, ho had been a scoffer and mocker of the Bible ; sneering at, and scorning every one professing religion. On speaking to him after the service, one Thursday evening, ho seemed greatly distressed, and informed me that thinking on the wickedness of his past life often made him break out in sweating and weeping. I I<^nt him several books, and frequently spoke words of encouragement to him > he sought forgiveness in sighs and groans, obtained mercy, and beco^ne one of the happiest men I ever met with. Wolfenden — for that was his name — was an astonishing testimony of the power of saving grace. For near four years he walked humbly with his God in newness of life, and then Qod took him. I said a few words by way of a funerp.1 sermon, for he was a man well known ; his widow and a large family of grown up children were present. After the sermon they all gathered round me, weeping ; the oldest daughter, taking hold of my hand, said, <' Jesus Christ nevar eavad a worse man than my father was ; no one knew him as his family did, and you little know what we have had to su^Gsr through him ; but, for the last three yen ''s, he has been one of iiae best of men, and with his last breath he blessed Crod for this place of worship." After Wolfelden's conversion, he became an:siou8 about his old companions in sin. By his persuasion a tall, eldeiiy man, named Grinrod, who had not been in a place of I 15G TALES Ot* HUMBLE LIFE. worahip for twenty years, began to attend the " Destitute." On his return from the service the first night, he jistonished hia wife by asking if there was not a Bible somewhere in tlie house. The power of the Gospel on tliis man was amazing ; ho became humble as a child, and greedily drank of the Word, which soon became to him a word of peace and joy. The old man with the spectacles, named Solomon, one of the sixteen that attended the first service, obtained the like precious faith. He travelled through the country selling his tapes, pins, and needles, telling everywhere what the Lord Lad done for him, for three years ; then he died, blessing God for His mercies to hiin in his old age, and his grey- headed old widow is still with us in all our services. At the conclusion of one of our week-night services, a poor man, in the simplicity of hin heart, offered up tho following prayer, which well describes the effect the Gospel had on many that were present : — " O Lord ! I thank Thee on my bended knees for what Thou hast done for a lot of the worst men and women in Rochdale. Who could have thought of seeirg us on our knees praying ; we cannot laugh one at another, for we have all been bad enough, and we are all poor as Lazarus ; but if we are poor in pocket, we are getting rich in faith, and that's bettor than o' th' brass i' th' world. I saw some rich folks in the market, buying fat geese and legs of mutton, but I had to be content with a penny red herring ; I thought, there's a difference, but I do not envy them, for I dare say they have their troubles of some sort. Brass does not give us as much comfort as religion. Jesus Christ sent the disciples to tell John that the poor had the Gospel preached to them, and the Gospel gives more comfort than brass, fat MY NEW FRIENDS. 157 goeso, and logs of mutton. I know one thing, it has made a vast dillV'rence in our ho\jso ; my wife hml always a sad tongue, wliich I know to my sorrow, Ijiit there is a mighty cliango for the better ; everybody is astonislied how she is mended ; we now kneel down together every day ; but six months since we should as soon thought of flying as praying. If this chapel does no more good nor mending my wife, it will have done a great deal ; she knows what I am saying is true — for she is knelt here beside me— and the religion of Jesus Christ can mciid anybody, except the devil, for I guess he cannot be mended ; if he could, it would mend him, for it has mended lots here almost as bad as him. The Lord help us to stand fast, for if he does not we shall tumble. Amen." While Matthew was pi-aying I felt my cheeks burning, and was anxious he would conclude much sooner than he did, for I f*Mired his wife would again make use of her ** sad tongue " on their way home ; yet, singular as it may seem, no one appeared surprised ; for if the poor, simple, ignorant people will pray, they must use their own language. I strongly object to studied vulgarity in piuyer, but where it is sincere it is most excusable. Matthew is still with us, and may bo seen every Sabbath, patiently assisting a feeble old man to and from our place of worship. My visits to the homes of the wretched and miserably poor, week after week, talking with them, and giving away my hand-bills, soon brought around me a large congregation ; we removed out of the first meeting-room into the Lecture Hall, in Baillie Street. The work increased so rapidly that I engaged a male and a female scripture reader, giving them strict orders to pay special attention to the poor outcasts of the town and neighbourhood. The results are, that tht> I! 158 TALKS OF IIUMBLK LIFE. I Lecture Hall is donsoly crowdexl every Sunday with a soriouH, steady coiJgre^atiout three hundred ; at tlie Tuesday evening meeting (for inquirers only,) about forty, besides two cottage meetings. Almost over^ individuivi attending these various religious services and meetings are the really poor, not before attending any place of worehip ; yet during the whole of the four years, I have but once been disturbed by the misconduct of persons attending. The following circumstance may give some idea of the appearance and character of my " New Fiiends " when we first commenced. A poor woman, who had received much good at the services, with great difficulty persuaded her drunken, idle, ragged, dirty husband to attend one night. After it was over, and before he had properly got out of the room, he began swearing at his wife for bringing him to such a place, declaring that " all the scamps in the country were collected together, and it was a disgrace for any one to be seen amongst them !" He forgot that he was one of the worst and most miserabJi; looking of the lot, but he came again and again, and has given up swearing. There is now a great change for the better in the general appearance of my "New Fiiends;" they are cleaner and better dressed ; a seriousness has come over the whole people, and manv, £ believe, are truly converted to God. I believe that there is nothing calculated so surely and rapidly to reform the worst characters as the plain, simple Gospel of Christ ; one " Thus saith the Lord," is worth all the thus saith the schools and the Doctors of Divinity in the world. God will bless His own word. " I, if I be lifted up will draw all men unto mo," will for ever be found the truth. MY NEW FRIENDS. ViO I prayed at the beginning of my work, that tlio Lord would send mo funds aa they might be required. lie has answered tliat prayer ; for, without asking any person for one farthing, I have received aa follows, from various jiarts of the country : — First year (185 9,— see Report) £ 1 5 Second year " 26 ^;hird year " 109 Fourth year " 106 The present year, alreivly, near 200 6 9 7 9 8 lOi All the offices I held in the Church before commencing my labours amongst the poor, I still hold ; for I have found by experience that the more work a man does in the oayse of God, the more he wishes to do, and the less he does the less he feels disposed to do. And I am thankful to say that I have not suffered in my business connections ; by dividing my time I am able to attend to my business in business houiu To God, and God only, be all the praise for His wonder- ful mercy and goodness, both to mo and my New Fbiendb. ft a ' ' Jll I i MOTHERS Tjie front rooms of tlie farm-house called " Cleggswood," standing on the top of the meadow oTcvlooking Holling- worth lake, near Rochdale, are sometimes let to visitors during the summer season. A few years ago, two mothers, one of them with three children, and the other with five, occupied these rooms. The mother with three children said to the mother with five, — " How is it that all your children do cheerfully what you bid them, at one word 1 I have to tell mine over and over a.gain, and sometimes flog them, before they will heed me," The answer to the qu^'£;tion was, — *' It is just as we begin with them at first ; just as we begin." This was a true answer, and the happiness and comfort of both parents and children depend greatly on how they begin, as will be seen in the following narratives. Being for a short time the guest of the widow of the late Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, I, at Jjer i*equest, accom- panied her to the Stoke Reformatory, established by her husband. While walking across the fields leading to Rye Fields farm, we beheld many of the young convicts pre- paring the ground for the reception of the seed. On enter- ing the premises, we saw others engaged in learning various trades, and all were actively employed at some description of work. It being now the dinner hour, at a given signal, MOTHERS. 101 tliey were all soon seated round fi large table in the dining- room, and were unanimous in vigorously discussing the question before them. But to me the most interesting part of my visit was when, one by one, the boys came into a small parlour, to show us their writing books, and read a short lesson. Sixtetn, out of twenty of them, knew little or nothing about books when they entered the Reformatory. My question, privately put to tv enty boys, was, — " Does your mother, or did your mother attend any place of wor- ship 1" One boy, and only one, jmswered, — " Yes." Talking afterwards to the governor, he pointed to one poor young lad — the last arrival — saying, " If you knew that boy's mother you would not be surprised that he is here. That little fellow has had no chance." The following day, a procession of girls, from the School of the Incorrigibles, headed by their governess, or mistress> whom they were bringing in a bath chair, in consequence of her low state of health, paid us a promised visit at the house of Mrs. Sturge, and assembled in the laige room called the play-room, to hear an address. These were not convicts, but had been sent to this good lady by parents, or friends, because they were unmanageable, and hence the name, " In- corrigibles." I know something of poor, fallen human na- ture, and how firmnesH, kindness, and love will do much to rectify the naturally depraved heart ; and I also know that the young are frequently ruined, body and soul, for the want of this firmness, kindnejsK, an<^ 'ove, l)y those ])arents who themselves have been improp^rly trained, and, conse- quently, are unable to train their children aright. "While speaking to these girls, the saijK> emotions came over mo that I had ^elt the day before at Stoko. while speaking to m M li 162 TALES OF nUMBIJ. LIFE. I ! the boys. I belie \'ed them both more sinned against than sinning, and my heart melted witli tenderness and affection. Speaking to the lady, — M. Weale, who, in the fear of God, and purely for the good of souls, had voluntarily un- dertaken the charge of these girls, and hitherto with great success, — I asked her opinion respecting the cause of these being thought incorrigible. Her answer was, — " Bad treatment, and the bad conduct of parents ; and especially ignorant and over indulgent mothei-s." Shortly after ray visit to Birmingham, ten line boys pulled up a boat at the steps of the Rock Ferry, Liverpool, to take mo aboard an old two-decker man-of-war, formerly named the " Wellington," now used as a reformatory ship, and called the " Aibar." The little fellows plied their oars well, and we were soon at the ship, where I was courteously re- ceived by the captain. Everything was clean and in admira- ble order, and all the boys were busily engaged in some sort of work, intended to train them for usefulness in after-life. I could not refrain from tears when, at the captain's re- quest, they all assembled on the lower deck, standing four deep, and sang the 2^e Beum, and several sweet hymns, with softness and harmony — all parts admirably executed, — and especially when they sang, to the tune of Dijon, that beau- tiful hymn, — Just as I am — without one plea, But that Thy blood was ahed for me — And that Thou bidst me ome to Thee — O, Lamb of God, I come ! Here were two hundred and four boys on a convict ship, every one sent there for at least three ye.'vrs, standing side by side, singing, " O, Lamb of God, I come !" Had these poor boys been taught to sing those soul-searching hymns in MOTHERS. 1G3 and and their own homes, by those who had tlie first charge of their young minds, few of them wouhl have been found in tlie " Akbar." On putting the question to the captain — " What do you think the principal reason why these boys are here ]" he answered, — " Bad example at home, and especially from ignorant mothers, who have neglected their training, and allowed them to run wild- Eighty-five out of the hundred are quite difiercnt hoys before they leave the ship ; industrious habits, the singiiig of these hymns, and the religious training by the chaplain, have a wonderful efiect on their young minds." Another illustration was furnished by my visit to Preston, in February last, to attend a Mothers* Meeting at the Com Exchange. In the company of the Mayor, and Miss Ord, of Bank P.irade, on'^ of the Friends, I went to visit the three hundred and fifty-seven silent criminals immured within the gloomy walls of Preston gaol. On passing through the lodge, a young man, with brush and bucket in hand, was preparing to clean the windows, but the moment he saw us he became fixed as a statue ; with his head hung down, and his hands and feet perfectly still, he stood like a block of stone, with the most humiliating and abject look. The sight greatly paii 1 me, and I was turning away, when in- stantly two others, ^o were crossing a small court, became similarly fixed, not daring to lift up the head, or move one inch while we were present. O, how tliankful I felt at that moment for saving, sustaining, and restraining grace ; for I believed that grace had made all the lifiierence betwixt mo and my poor, silent, sufi'ering. imprisoned brothers. In one of the rooms sat i pule-fa^'d girl, mending stock- ings. By permission erf tiif juvemess I was allowed to speak to her. and laid my hand on her hoiul, saying, — \ h 1: ill i M> lllj JG4 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. " How old are you, my child 1" " Fourteen years of age," was tlio reply. "And how is it you are here?" " A man stole a garment, and gave mo twopence to tako it to the pawn-shop ; and they say I stole it, but I did not." " Did you go to the Sunday-school 1" " Yes, sir. Do you think they will have me back at the Sunday-school, after having been in the New Bailey, sir ?" " Yes, I do hope they will," I replied. " Have you any mother 1" She burst out weeping and said, — " O, yes, sir ; and i?he is poorly, and nearly blind, and I think my coming here will make her worse." " Where does your mother live ?" 1 asked. " In Byron-street ; and O, I wish you would go to see her, and tell her I am very well, and that I did not steal the coat. Do teil her I will be as happy as I can. If you will, O, I will thank you, for it will do my mother good." Miss Ord and myself, in sadness, turned away from the sorrowing, imprisoned girl, promising to call on her mother. After a little trouble we found the street and the number. On entering the miaerable-looking house, I asked the woman if she was better. " My eyes are a little better, but I am still very poorly," was her answer. " Where are vour children f ' I asked. *' I have only two; one of them is out nursing, and the other — O, tbe other — I wish you had not asked me." ** We have just seen ber, and she wished us to tell you that she will be as happy as she can, for your sake." "Seen her! Seen my poor imprisoned child! O! let me bless you. O ! n\y dear, dear child. And how is she 1 MOTHERS. 1G5 Have you scon her in prison ? O ! bless you for coming to tell me." The girl is now liberated from gaol, restored to the Sun- day-school, and to her mother. But that mother, I have been recently informed, never attends a i)lace of worship, and, I am pained to write it, is a drunken woman Hearing this, I did not much wonder her child was in prison ; the good influences of the Sunday-school had not ovorcume tho ba TWENTY POUxNDS; OR, THE LITTLE PRAYER. To walk across the street, to turn the comer quickly, or pretend to see something in a shoj) window, because ho beholds his creditor coming ; to go a long way round for fear of passing his creditor's house, or hold down his head if forced to pass it, lest he may see one he does not want to see ; to !2;o to the grocer's, and stand, sid and silent, waiting until all the customers are gone, before he tremblingly asks for a little more credit ; to make a desperate effort to ask a friend for the loan of five shillings, to pay the milk-man, the coal-man, or the rent, and be refused ; to hear the long-feared knock of the creditor, coming at the promised time, making the heart beat and knock almost as loud, because he has nothing to pay with but promises, of which they have already had enough ; to see them frowningl)' turn away, or threaten him with the County Court, except he i)ays what he cannot pay ; to be thought dishonest, or a rogue, when ho feels in the deepest depths of his soul, that he would rather die than defraud any living being of one farthing, — all this, and much more, has been the lot of many a man as honest as ever breathed. When a man, in spite of all his labour, skill, and caution, is overtaken with losses ; when trade is depressed, and em- ployment gone ; when, hoping against hope, he travels many a weary mile, seeking the means to obtain an honest penny, but again and again returning to tell the oft-told THE LITTLE PKAYER. 173 til(! of no HuccosB ; Razing, with anxiouH IooIch on the Hiksnt HiifTuroi's (loi>ent.lont upon him ; sinking in hib circumstances day by day, lower ami lower, without the power to prevent it, until ho comes aluiost to tho honlor of desiiair, — this ha8 been the exjHirience of many a God-feanng man, and has wrung from his sorrowing soul that short, hut oft-used prayer, — " Lord help mo ! " One of tho many keen trials to which a good man is sometimes sulyoct, when doing his best to pay what he owes, and fighting hand to hand with hig difficulties, is, when ho is 8uspecteot of oil," was her answer. " Go, borrow thee vessels, of all thy neighbour, , . not a few. Shut the door upon thee . . . and pour out into all these vessels." She did so ; and filled, and filled, and fillod, until her sons told her there was not an empty vessel left. She, in her joy, ran to tell Elisha of her great delivemnce. " Go, sell the oil, pay thy debt, and live, thou and tJiy childi'cn, on what is left," ''.'^s hts a! vicft. THE LITTLE PRAYEB. 179 Yes ; first, " pay thy debt," was the prophet's counsel. She could pay it now, because she had something to pay it with. She was the widow o" 'i good man, and the widows of the pious dead are not forgotten before the Lord ; and, pi'obabiy, she was a good woman, and tlie Lord celivered her. And He will deliver all them that put their trust in liim. Many of the inhabitants of Manchester, and the surround- ing towns, will remember a singular old minister, with a red, round, pleasant-looking countenance, and a bald head, who often preached in a velvet scull-cap. Ho was a man of vr V peculiar views, but almost unequallod in his descrip- tion of Christian experience. This man once preached in "Rochdale, from the text, " Lord help me." Having read his text, he took off his spectacles, und, in his usual deli- berate way, looked round on the congregation, saying : — " Fi'iends, by way of introduction, I will tell you how I got this text ; and if you will allow me to speak in the first person, I can tell you easier by saying * I ' than * he.' " Well, then, before I was fidly devoted to the ministry I was in business, and, as mobt business men do, I worked a little on credit. When I gave up business and settled as a preachei' and pastor of a congregation, I was owing several sums of money ; but much more was owing to me, so that I had nc ,ar of being able to pay my creditors. One of these creditoi's, to whom I owed twenty pounds, called upon nie for payment. I said to hitn, ' I will «^. c what I can do for you next Monday.* He called on the Monday, but I had not got the money. He was rather cross with me, saying, I had no business to promise, unless 1 intended to perform. This observation roused ray pride, and I told him I would pay him on the coniing Monday, lie went away in a rage, saying he hoped I would. n r.?1 1. 1 w^-fty m ^'i^M T 'w r^'' ii 180 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. " I set out on tho following day to sec some of my dobtora, not fearing but T could raise the t\v(,'nty pounds ; but I did not get one fartbing. I tried others, but with tho same success. I then put down on a sheet of pai)er the names of several of my friends, certain that 1 could borrow twenty jKninds from any one of them. But, to my utier amaze- ment, I wasm'staken. AW of them could sympathize with me a deal better than lend me anything ; and I began to find out, that if a man wan^s to know how many friends ho has, Jio had better try to borrow some money. " The next day I made out another list of names of those not so well able to help me as the former, for 1 thought, if I can get five pounds here, and five i>ounds there, I shall bo able to raise it all. I travelled many miles on my errand, si)oading a whole day, but returned in the evening without one penny. I began to ask myself, ' How is this, I, a respectable man, and, as some people say, a popular preacher, cannot, among the whole of my acquaintance, borrow twenty pounds ? I thought I had as many friends as most men, but now I caunot find one that will trust me twenty pounds.' My pride got a terrible shake, and I felt very little indeed. " Friday came, and my spirits were sinking. I could not tell which way to turn. I had promised to pay, and was very anxious to fulfil my promise for good reasons : — my honour and veracity as a minister of the gospel were at stake. I feared that if I did not pay the man, he would send me in the bailifis ; and for a parson to h.ave the bailiffs would be a terrible disgrace. I i*ead the seventy-third Psalm that morning at family worship, for I thought it was nearest my case ; the mournful portions of God's word best agree with tho feelings of God's mourning people. I began to THK LITTLE PUAYKR. 181 look out texts for tlio Sunday, but I could find none, for 1 could think of nothing l)ut twenty [)Oiinds. I tried to read, but it was no use ; the twenty pounds covered all the letters. Twenty pounds seemed written on everything, — on the ceiling, on the walls, in the fire, on my dinner- plates, on tlie faces of my wife and children, — and the whole of that day was a day of morbid depression of spirits. I was really miserable. " Saturday morning came, and I arose from a sleepless bed. I ate very little breakfast ; and, when at prayer, I was so overcome with my feelings, that my wife asked me if I was poorly, or in trouble. ' Yes,* I replied, * I am in trouble enough ;' and I then told her .all about the cause of my sorrow. She was silent for a few minutes, and then said, — ' You have often talked and preached about the power of faith, I think you will now need some yourself.* Having said this, she rose from her chair, ard went rat- tling amongst her pots and kettles. She was evidently mortified because I had been refused the money by those she had consitler(;d our friends. " My wife is a good Christian woman, but she thinks works are the best evidence of faith both in preacher and people. " Saturday was sj)ent much as Friday had been. I was in a state of torj)or until evening. 1 then, with a heavy heart, went up stairs into a little room I called my study ; for I had three times to preiich on the Sunday and no text, twenty pounds to pay on. tlui Monday and no money. What was T to do ! For a long time I sat with my face buried in my hands, and then I fell on my knees, and I believe I said * Lord help me ! I^ord help me !' a hundred times, for I could say nothing but ' Lord help mc !' While praying 7* F: 11 It. n SB^ 182 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I felt an impression that those words miglit serve me for one text, and, as Sunday came before Monday, I began to pro- pare, as well as I could, for the Sunday work ; but no other text could I think of but ' Lord help me !' " While preaching on the Sunday morning, I had so many thoughts and illustrations, arising out of the subject, that I felt great liberty in preaching. Ono of my illustrations was about a man I well knew, who \V9S a deacon of a church, and had been an executor for two orphan children. He was tempted to make use of the orphans' money, and much of it was lost. This so preyed on his mind that he began to drink. He lost his character, lost his peace of mind, and died with the reputation of a rogue. ' Now,' I said, ' had this man, the executor, when he first thought of taking the children's money, resisted the temptation by calling on God to help him, — help him to be honest, help him to do nothing but what a professing Christian ought to do, — instead of losing the money, his good name, his peace of mind, and, perhaps, his life, God would have heard his prayer and saved him.' "Noon came; but my sermon was not half done. I preached from it again in the afternoon, and again in the evening ; and I felt that I could have preached a week from it. So you see the Lord helped me through my work on ihf Sunday; and I believed he would, in some way, help me through the Monday. "After IIiiIhIiIiik the night's service, when I got to the bottom of the piilpK/ sLalrtt, it young man stood there with his hat ill liis liand, wishing to see me in pi'ivate. I took him into the vestry, and rct^uested his errand, expectinig it would bo Honiething about his soul i?V>r several minutcia wo were both silent, but at length ho said : — THE LITTLE PRA /ER. 183 " * You know my mother, Mr, G ulaby.* " I looked him in tlie face, sayinj;, * Surely I did ; but I did not know you at first sight.' " * Well, sir, when she died, she left me some money — in fact, all she had, except two small suins she wished me to give ; one sum, of five pounds, to a poor old woman of hsr acquaintance ; and, speaking of you, she said, Our minister needs help, and I wish you to give him twenty pounds. I paid the five pounds to the old woman ; but, thinking no one knew, I resolved never to give the twenty. But, while you were talking about the roguish executor this morning, I felt thunderstruck, and I have now brought you the twenty pounds. Here it is, do take it, and do forgive me.* " It was now my turn to be thunderstruck. I was amazed ; and while the young man was putting the twenty sovereigns into my hand, I trembled all over. God had heard my prayer ; He had helped me through the Sunday, and sent me the twenty pounds for the Monday. It was mine, and I took it. I shook the young man by the hand, and, without putting the money into my pocket, I went quickly home^ spread it out on the table before my wife, saying, here it is, here it is ! I now see how it was that I could not borrow the money. God knew vrhere it was, and Ho ha^ sent me the twenty pounds, and dolivored me out of my trouble. He has heard my prayer, and helped me, and I ■will trust Him, and praise Him, as long as I live.' O ! my dear friends, when that little prayer ' Lord help me,* comes from the heart of one of God's children in distress, neither men, devils, nor angels can tell its power. It has brought me thousands of blessinfjs besides the Twenty Pounds." r,'i IJ ALL IS WELL: OR, WHIT-WEEK. i A GIRL, about fourteen years of ago, i>oorly dressed, but rfean, called at my house selling rhubarb. She was one of the many thousands in Lancashire at that time deprived of work by the cotton-famine. " How much profit will you have when you have sold your stock, my girl 1" I asked. " Fourpence ; but I do not get on so fast, for I have been all the afternoon in getting twoi)ence," she replied. " What will you do with the money?" "Why, sir, you know it is Whit-Friday next week, and mother and me are trying to get a frock, so that I can walk with the scholars ; but I think we shall not manage," she replied, laughing through her tears. The Tuesday following I met the girl, and the moment she saw me she said, smiling, — " I am going to walk on Friday ; mother has lyian^ged." Yes, thought I, thousands of mothera have to manage for Whit-week, especially those who wish to see their children walk with the scholars. Whitsuntide ! What a thrill of joy does the very name send through the hearts of millions ! What dreaming and talking of Bonnets, frocks, and shawls, ribbons, caps, and parasols ! ALL IS WELL. I8r) And, as tlio timo comos iionror nnd noaror, ^vllat Imay work ainongHt tlio tjiiloi'H, drapers, drcss-inukors, and lam-l takers ; wliat looking out for signs of tlio weather, to see if the sun goes down in a rod or gray sky ; what knocking of weathei*- ghissoa, and anxioiis looking at the castle of tho old man and old woman, — and if tho old man bo coming out, how vexed they feel, and they just touch him with the end of tlie poker, to see if he will not go (juietly back, and send out his old wife to assure them of coming sunshine! And it the sun goes down in a gray sky, and tho weather-glass drops down on the wrong side of change, and tho old man — in spite of the warning — v ill come out, then there are many sad lioarts. But if the reverse be the case, those Siime hearts will in- stantly hi' lip at " set fair." And why all this? If you be an Englislunan you will know why ] but if you be a stranu,er and a foreigner, stay with us luring Whit-week, and, if the weather bo fine, we will give you the grandest sights, and sublimest sounds, you will ever see or hear this side of heaven ! O England ! England ! with all tli v faults thou standest pre-eminent amongst the nations of the earth. And what has given thee thy high position ? Whigism, Toryism, Radicalism ? No. Komanism, Protestantism, or Dissent, as such ? No. It is thy open Bible, thy genuine Christianity, thy earnest l>iety, the first-fruits of which are put foi-th in our Sabbath-schools, springing from the blessed, life-giving influence of that open Bible, giving libei-ty — social, civil, religious, and commercial. It is righteousness that exalteth a nation, and, doubtless, more or less, that righteousness may be found in all Christian denominations. Whitsuntide is the special period of the year when the Sunday-schools — those nurseries for the Church and Paradise 1 \[ m li-r ^> IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. // /. S^ ^ 1.0 I.I 1.25 I ^ Ilia u 2.0 III 1.8 U IIIIII.6 V] <^ /a % v: ^ %. ^ W^ O / A Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4S03 186 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I — come out into open dtiylight, filling our streets, lanes, squares, and parks with their various demonstrations of joy ; — banners flying, trumpets sounding, voices singing, headed and marshalled by their beloved ministers and teachers, all partaking of the most happy and joyous emotions, and cheered by sights and sounds, which nerve them afresh to give heart and soul to the tremendous work in which they are engaged. I well remember the first time I joined one of these Whit- suntide processions. It is an epoch in my history, for I had on a new suit of fustian clothes, with three rows of new, shining bell-buttons, that cost altogether — clothes and but- tons — eight-and-sixpence. I am sure the tailor would be glad when he had finished them, I had been so often to in- quire about them ; and though I had gone to bed before they were brought home, I quickly got up again to try them on. Whether I slept that night I cannot tell, but I know I rose very early in the morning, washed my hands and face twice over, dressed in my new fustian, bell-button clothes, bright brushed clogs, and a new cap that cost ninepence, with a green ribbon round my neck ; and when we marched out of the school I felt taller that day than I ever did before. Hundreds of spectators lined both sides of the street, and I thought they were all looking at me. One smiling face I am certain was, and that was the face of my mother. Many years hav^e passed away since I first joined in these processions, and I have many times mingled with their happy gatherings since then. Some of these stand out as memorable events in my life, and one of them is the ground- work of this narrative. Of the forty counties in England, perhaps Lancashire and Yorkshire bear the palm for numerous and well-conducted ALL IS WELL. 187 Sunday-schools, England'n Queon, in Peel Park, once wit- nessed what Manchester and neighbourhood could show ; and Halifax recently poured foi-th its young thousands to welcome the Prince of Wales ; and perhaps nowhere else can such a sight be settn as that in the Piece Hall at Halifax, on the Sunday-school Jubilee. The sight I witnessed on Monday, in Manchester, was grand and imposing ; but the spectacle of Tuesday, in the Piece Hall at Halifax, baffled all description. The moment the train stopped at the station T stepped out of the carriage, and hastened to the place of gathering. Presenting my platform ticket, I sought out the best place for beholding everything that could be seen ; but thousands, similarly disposed, were already crowding the galleries and platform. Nevertheless, I got a good position in the front- centre, and took my place betwixt a stout, farmer-looking gentleman, and two females, evidently sisters, one of whom seemed far advanced in consumption. School after school, headed by waving flags and bands of music, were pouring into the grand open square, through the three arches, every one to the place allotted, a plan of which was in the hands of the various conductors ; the bands passed onward to a wide stage, built expressly for the musicians. On the/ came, school after school, thousands after thousands, march- ing up under the various banners, before the eyes of twenty thousand spectators who were ranged round on the higher and lower galleries, all silently looking on. Suddenly the whole multitude burst out into a loud shout, and, amidst the shouting, and shedding of tears, and clapping of hands, the pauper children, from the Union Workhouse, made their appearance. O ! how my soul was moved to its very depths 188 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. by this miinifostation of fooling from tlio multitiule, and the wok'onie given those Jiomokiss chilchen. And now comes tlie grund moment : five hundred brass instruments and forty drums are ready ; twenty-five thou- sand teachers and schohirs are ready ; twenty thousand spectators, witli hymns open, are ready : and a great multi- tude on Beacon Hill — a high mount, half-a-mile from the j>lace, but where the glorious sounds can be heard — are ready. All their eyes are fixed on one man, who, pale with excitement, was to give the signal. The signal was given, and there burst forth the grandest, loudest, sublimest chorus that ever fell on mortal ear, since the Apostle John heard the song of the countless number round the throne. The brilliant sun, from a cloudless sky, poured down his resplend- ent beams on the worshipping multitude, whose song, ascend- ing to Heaven, mixed with those of the blood- washed throng, to Him who is worthy to receive honour, and glory, and blessing. The effect on the spectators was amazing. Hundreds wept, and all seemed overwhelmed with astonishment. The farmer-looking gentleman on my right trembled from head to foot. The pale-faced young lady quietly observed to her weeping sister, " What must heaven be ? And what must it be to be there 1 I never felt less fear of death than I do at this moment." The effect on my mind was indescribable, and the pleasing and beneficial influence has been that I have lived it many times over again, — days of joy are pleasures for ever. But Kochdale, on the Friday, was not the least interest- ing; for few towns in proportion to its inhabitants, can boast of more well-attended Sabbath-schools. Our school numbered one thousand scholars ; and, as the time drew ALL IS WELL. 189 near, they began to assemble from east, west, north and soutli, bringing witli them cheerful looks and smiling faces. And, when they stood four deep, they filled a long street from end to end, headed by their ministers and teachers, and a white silk flag, bearing the motto, " Feed my I^andjs," — while all along, on both sides of the street, were the fathers and mothers, the gi'andfathers and grandmothers of many of the children, and old scholars, now married, all looking on with pardona^de pride. When the procession began slowly to move, all joining, heart and soul, in the well-known and appropriate hymn, — ** Children of Jerusalem Sang the praise of Jesus' name ; Children, too, of modern days, Join to sing the Saviour's praise. Hark ! while infant voices sing Loud Hosannas to our King." Many aprons, handkerchiefs, and coat-sleeves were soon in use amongst the witnessing crowds to dry the falling tear. The route of our school that day, as it often has been, was arranged to meet the desires of some who had fallen from the ranks, never to join a Whit-Friday procession again. I and my fellow-superintendent, Mr. Schofield, thought it advisable to hasten to the humble cottage of one of our sick scholars to apprise her of our approach. We found her very near her end ; but, at her earnest request, friends had lifted her from her sick-bed, wrapped her care- fully up in blankets, and placed her on an elevated chair before the window, in order that she might, as she observed, " see her beloved teachers and scholars once again before she died." On entering the cottage to toll her they were coming, and i 190 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. SO far lessen tlio effects of the exciting scene, she said, " Yes, 1 hear them. O ! how I have besought the Lord to let mo live over this day, that I might have a last look before I go to Heaven. He has answered my prayer, and now they are coming. Yes ; tliey are all coming, singing the hymn I have often joined in. Yes ; they are coming." As the procession drew nearer, all eyes were turned towards the cottage where Elizabeth Clegg was dying ; for she had long been in the school, and was well known, and highly respected. As they drew up in front of the house, and saw her altered looks, and pale, wasted countenance, many turned aside their heads to weep ; and when, at her request, they sang that beautiful hymn, — " There is a better world they say," Elizabeth's countenance brightened up with raptures of joy. As they moved away, singing — ••0 ! that will be joyful ! When we meet to part no more." Elizabeth, in a whisper, bade them farewell, with a prayer that they might all have the joyful meeting. After passing through several other streets, we drew near the home of another dying scholar. As in the former case, she had been lifted from her bed that she might once again behold her beloved friends and class-mates. When the echo of their singing announced their approach, she, too, said, — " They are coming ; they are coming! Lord, let me live this one hour, and then take me when Thou wilt." She did live, and at her request they sang — '"Tis religion that can give Sweetest pleasure while we live ; 'Tis religion must supply Solid comfort when we die." ■ ALL IS WELL. 191 house. joy- Again, in sadness on the part of the living, and with a smile of peace on the countenance of the dying, they looked a last farewell. When Addison, in his last moments, sent for his friend, and informed him that tlie reason he had sent ior him was, to let him see how a Christian could die, the friend went to see what, with all its drawbacks, is perhaps the most comforting and sovil-satisfying sight that mortals are allowed to behold. The bliss of dying can only apply to the Christian. There are no really happy deaths without His presence who conquered death ; none but the dead that die in the Lord are blessed. No death is precious in the sight of the Lord, but the death of His saints; but these are precious, and to witness their last moments has strengthened the faith, and confirmed the hope of thousands, both rich and poor. Addison's words are memorable, but not more memorable than many others. Lord Harrington said, " I fear not death, in whatever shape it come ; saving grace has drawn the sting." Lady Hastings could say, when dying, " I would not change my present state for all the world ; one step more and I am in glory." Lord Littleton said, " I was prepared for death before I was afflicted ; and thank God I was, for I have nbw enough to do to struggle with pain." Dr. Beattie, dying, said, " How pleasant a medicine is Christianity ! " Dr. Watts also said, " I fall asleep, not caring in which world I may awake ; to live is Christ, to die is gain." Paul said, "There is laid up for me a crown." And Pope wrote no fiction when he described the dying Christian as saying, — "The world recedes, it disappears, Heaven opens to mine eyes, mine ears With sour ''.3 seraphic ring." I I [^ 't 192 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. " Lot mo (lio the death of the riglitcoiis," was a wise prayer, for terrible is the end of the wicked. What a con- trast Vjetwixt the one and the other ! Cardinal Beaufort mournfully said, in his last moments, "And must I die ? Cannot my riches ])rihe death 1 O my poor soul, what wilt thou do !" The Duke Vulentenos said, " I have i)repared for everything but death, and now I die unprepared." Cardinal Mazarin called out, in his last moments, " O my poor soul, whither art thou going V* The Duke of Buckingham said, in a letter to a friend, " Pray for the soul of poor unhappy Buckingham." Alta- mont said, " I have lost heaven, and that will be my worst part of hell." Lord Byron, in his last moments, said, "The worm, the canker, and the grief, aie mine alone." In the above we have a few last scenes in the dying moments of the prepared and unprepared. Millions more are recorded in the memories of the living and the dead, which will be read in the light of eternity ; and we believe many a bright record will come up from those who have left our Sunday-schools. Two dying scholars we have this day seen, who, in theiv humble homes, looked with cheerful hope to the better land ; and now we visit our third, to wit- ness a scene that will not soon be forgotten. The house we are now approaching was the home of Miss Anne Marsden, one of the teachers, dying of consump- tion. We all know that we must die, and it is perhaps well for us that we have not the ordering of the manner of our death. Every disease claims a large share of victims, but consumption demands an amazing number. Terrible as this messenger of death i3 to us all, yet it almost universally comes in the most merciful form, giving the longest warn ALL IS WELL. 193 dying ing, and loading its victims the most gently to the tomb. It is probable that millions now in hoavcn woidd not have been there had they died of any other malady. I have wit- nessed many happy deaths, but far more anion ^' the linger- ing, slowly-wasting, gradually-declining, than all otliera combined. When this messenger of tlie last enemy comes to seek out his victims, he finds thousands of them dancing the giddy dance of life, engrossed by the vanities and frivol- ities of the world, with no thought of the world to come ; without God and without hope. He then quietly draws them aside, and gives them time for reflection ; and those reflections have often led to more substantial joys than this world can give, and the feeble, sinking penitent, has been caught up in the arms of mercy. These are amongst the most hopeful of sick-bed penitents ; yet sick-bed repentance is not so satisfactory as repentance in health. But the two dying young women we have just seen, and she whose home we now approach, had not religion to seek on a sick-bed ; all three were members of the church, — the last-named, especially, had received a Ch istian education. Her mother died when she was young, and she became the adopted child of her grand-parents. With them she found a happy home, where God was feared, and daily worshipped at the family altar ; and now was seen the fruits of their pious efibrts to train her for the skies. For several days previous to this Friday, she was very anxious that she might have strength to be removed from her bed, and, if possible, earned down stairs, to see all the scholars and teachers pass the window. Friday came, and, as she wished, she was earned down and placed in an easy chair before the drawing-room window, in order that she might have a good look at us all. I\ 194 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. As we noared the house, — Harelands, — she heard us singing, and, like her two sick sistei's, slio smilingly said, " They are coming ; yes, they are coming. It will be my last look at them in this world, and they will see me for the last time." As the procession drew up in front of the house the singing subsided, and we formed a half-circle, so that each one could see the dying teacher as she sat, sur- rounded by her grandmother and many dear relations, near the window. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the pale and wasted, but still beautiful face of her who had so often smiled upon them in the Sabbath-school. Scarcely a whis- per was heard, for they all felt they were looking for the last time upon that much-loved, but death-stricken teacher. During the day it had often been my duty to announce the hymn to be sung by the scholars, and when the sick young lady's uncle (who was also one of our teachers) went to ask her what hymn she wished us to sing, she, with a quiet smile, replied, " The seventeenth hymn." I stood on the step waiting for a reply ; but when I opened the book and saw the hymn she had chosen, my emotions were so great v^hat it was some time before I could make it known. And what was the hymn 1 What were the words this de- parting spirit, so near the invisible world, found to be the most expressive of her own experience in her last moments 1 They were such as sent a thrill to every soul, and were sung amidst sobs and tears : — •* What's this that steals upon my frame, Is it death ? Which soon shall quench this vital flame, Is it death ? If this be death, I soon shall be From every sin and sorrow free, I shall the King of Glory see — All i5 well. ALL 18 WELL. 19') "Cease, coaso to weep, my friends, for me, All ia well. My sins are pardoned, I am free, — All is well. There's not a cloud that doth arise, To hide my Saviour from mine eyes, I soon shall mount the upper skies — All is well." Here was a scene for angels, and one on which angels would delight to look. And here Wixs a scene for those who doubt the power of saving grace to fortify the soul against the fear of death. And here was a scene that would bo a most glorious lesson to the hundreds now looking on : they would see how the religion of the Bible, the saving power of the blood of Christ, could take away all fear of death or the grave, for she for whom we all were sorrowing, was the only one one who felt no sorrow. The dying saint was calmly smiling. While all her friends were round her weeping. And why? Yes; why? Because all ivas ivcll ; because her sins were pardoned ; because the mists and clouds of the wilderness were all cleared away, and hor faith had pierced the clear blue sky of Heaven. Having her glittering crown in view, she could say, " Do not weep for rae, all is well." Here, then, we have this amiable young lady, surrounded with everything that can make life desirable ; — youth, with youth's buoyant hopes ; wealth, with all that wealth can give j affectionate relations and friends; her drawings, music, church and Sunday-school, — and, though knowing that in a few hours she would be laid in the cold grave, and her eyes closed on all those objects ol' love, yet she was bidding them adieu with a smile beaming on her countenance, that told of her unspeakable joy and unutterable peace. 106 TALES OF IIUMU'"^ LIFE. When the farowcll hymn was concluded, wo Bilcntly, and with sad hearts, looked our hist look at the dying saint. She was carried back to the bed of death, and in a few days sho was laid in her last resting place. But the dead yet 8])caketh, for many are still living who joined in the sorrowful parting hymn, and remember how their faith was strengthened, and their own prospects brightened, by seeing the inell'able joy of her who that day showed them how a Christian could die, because her sins were pardoned, and All was Well. MY UNCLE; OR, JOHNNY'S BOX. One day during liiat year, I received the following note : "Dear Sir, " It is with a trembling heart that I ask to see you. I want to see you alone. I am in difficulties and trouble. Would you be my friend 1 Please to send an answer by bearer, who is my son. I do hope you will have pity on me. (( " Tell your mother that I am in my office, and she may see me, if she comes now," I answered. In a few minutes the woman made her appearance, but seemed so greatly excited, that, to give her time to recover herself, 1 turned to the desk, and resumed my work. After shedding a flood of tears, she became more calm, and then said, — " I do not know that I have any right to bring you my troubles ; but I am so miserable, that I am afraid I shall lose my reason, if I do not tell sonte one who can advise mo what to do. Some twelve months since, I happened to say to a neighbour that I wished somebody would lend me half- a-crown, when she replied, — " ' Take your Sunday gown to my uncle's, and you will soon get your half-crown.' " I asked her who her uncle was ; when she began to laugli at my ignoruuoc, telling mc that ' her uuclc ' meant the 9 198 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. pawn-shop, and offering to take tlie gown there for me. I foolishly consented, and from that day to this 1 have been in fear and trouble, for I have had nothing but ladeing and teeming, ladeing and teeming." " What do J on mean by ladeing and teeming ?" I asked. " Why, borrowing to pay back what I had borrowed, and borrowing again to pay those J had boiTOwed from." " What have you in the pawn-shop now," I inquired. " Well, sir, I have thirty shillings' worth of my own and other folks'." " But you surely do not borrow your neighbours* goods to take to the pawnshop, do you ?" " Yes ; I have a neighbour's shawl, and her husband's coat. They want them for Sunday, and I have them along with my own things to loose every Saturday, and pawn them again on the Monday morning, to pay back the money I borrowed on the Saturday to loose them with. I receive thirty shillings when I take them, and pay thirty shillings and tenpence-halfpenny when I fetch them back." "Then you are paying two pounds five and sixpence interest, yearly, for the loan of thirty shillings — nearly two hundred per cent. How do you raise the money ? Does some one lend you the whole sum V " No. I get three shillings here, five shillings there, two shillings here, and two shillings somewhere else ', and I am many times glad of a shilling to make up with. I cannot sleep on Friday night for scheming how I must raise the money for the Saturday." " Does your husband know about this ?" " No ; but I am afraid he will find it out, though part of it has been done to keep him quiet. He is this sort of a man ; — hosvever little wages he brings home, if I have not A JOHNNYS BOX. 199 good meals for liim I get nought but abuse, or black looks. When the husband drinks the wife has poor i)uttiiig on. But if I onco get out of the pop-shop, he sliall live on pota- toes and salt before I will go in again. For it is a low, dis- graceful practice, and brings nought but trouble with it. I have borrowed, and borrowed, till I am ashamed to go out of doors. I sometimes pray that God will help me, but I cannot see He can help people that go to pop-shops." Believing that the woman had been thoughtlessly led into \?hat she truly called a " disgraceful practice," and seeing that she was not yet hardened in the habit, but heartily sick of it, and had not lost all her self-res] )ect ; knowing, too, that she was trying to do right, and to ai)pear respectable, she was put in the way of getting out of her troubles. A few weeks previous to the visit of this woman, a friend came to ask if I oould lend a poor neighbour nine shillings, to help her out of a difficulty. " What is the difficulty ]" I asked. "I will go and tell her that you are in, and she can in- form you hei'self," replied my friend. In the evening, a stout, hcalthy-lookiug woman, with a bold-looking face, and a handkerchief on her head, entered my room, saying she was the ])erson that wanted to borrow nine shillings. " What do you want it for, mistress ?" I asked. " Well, I can hardly for shame tell you ; but I have a big fine lad yon', that does nought but cry every Sunday, because he cannot go to the school. I have h;ul him crying three Sundays together, and I am frightened he will run away, as his sister Betty did." " What does he cry every Sunday about T "Why, lie is very foud of the Sunday-school, and is really 200 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. a fine lad, and a good lad j but I have had his Sunday clothes in the pawn for a month, and I want you to help me to get them out, for I know you are fond of Sunday- schools." " Why did his sister, Betty, that you mentioned, run away from home V " Well, the truth is, she was as fond of the Sunday-school as he is, and took very good care of her things, and always liked to be decent like the other scholars ; but one day I fastened her best frock, thinking I could get it out aj^ain be- fore Sunday, but I could not ; and when I saw her washing herself, and getting ready for the school, I had no heart to tell her, but when she went to the box and could find noth- ing but her bonnet, she looked straight at me, and then burst out crying. I cried too ; but both of us crying could not get the frock out of pop without brass. That Sunday was a weary day." " Did she leave home for that?" I inquired. " Not exactly. We got it out the week after, but I had to pawn it again ; and when she found it out a second time she cried, but did not say much. But when she fingered it, she bundled it up, and went to live with her grandmother, for she said she could not do without her Sunday-school. And yon lad is just like her; I am expecting he'll be off too." "Well, mistress, I am glad you have two such children, but I am deeply grieved at your conduct towards them. Thousands of children have been driven to desperation and ruin by such home treatment. But, for the boy's sake, if you will raise part of the money I will find the remainder, so that he can have his clothes by Saturday." When Johnny heard that his clothes were going to be J JOHNNY S BOX. 201 liberated he was very glad. On the Saturday noon he came to his dinner, but found none, lie looked at his motlier, saying,— " How is this, mother ? Where is my dinner V " Nay, Johnny ; I cannot both find thee a dinner and get thy clothes home, for it will take every farthing I have," she replied. " Well, never mind ; I had rather be without dinner and have my clothes to go to the Sunday -scho.^l," he answered. And away he went, whistling, to his work again, without dinner. That night Johnny got some short, strong boards, and made a box. He then got a padlock, and, after putting his clothes into the box, he made it fast, saying, — " Novr, mother, if you do pawn them again, you shall pawn the box tx)o.'' In the same month in which these two mothers paid me these visits, I had a third application, much moie painful than either of them. A girl, about twelve years of age, with blushing countenance, came to say that her mother had sent her to ask me if I would get her clogs new buttoned, at the same time lifting up one of her feet to shew me her bare toes. I gave her a note to the dogger, and I then asked her if she attended the Sunday-school. In a moment tears stood in her eyes, and, holding the slip of paper I had given her in her hand, she looked up, with a face of innocent, deep distress, and replied, — " I wanted you to ask me that, and I thought you would. But what do you think, Mr. Ashworth 1 My mother has pawned my little hat, my frock, and my shoes, and now all I have for Sunday is this ragged frock and these broken clogs. O, how I have cried every Sunday since. I used to 202 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. bo SO glad wlion Sunday came, but now I do not want it to come ; for when I see other girls so nice, going to school, it makes me cry more, and I feel I would give anything if I were like them. And what do you think I — but you must not tell her that I told you — my mother has actually pawned little brother Johnny's only breeches for sixpence, and ho had to lie in bed two days, crying most of the time ; and then she had to give sevenjwnce for them back, and Johnny was not for taking them off when he went to bed, for fear she would pawn them again when he was asleep." I said nothing to the child about her mother, but sent my Visitor to inquire, and everything was just as the child had described. It is astonishing what a degraded influence tlie habit of pawning has on the minds of those who once begin. Self- respect, and the finer feelings of the soul are soon destroyed. Instead of practising economy, and trying to do without many foolish, and often hurtful indulgencies, they run to the pawnbroker at every turn, sinking themselves deeper and deeper in poverty and sorrow. It is a well-known fact that about the time of cheap trips, the three-balls have the most custom. Foolish finery, only fit for a few bright days in summer, often finds its way to the pawn-shop. At one of these places there were over fifty white silk bonnets on its shelves at one time, besides a great number of white muslin dresses. There are a number of travelling drapers, called " Scotch- men," who have had more to do in encouraging this objec- tionable custom than they will be willing to admit. I have peen these " Scotchmen" enter the homes of poor people, spread out the tempting finery, and, wi^'i all their eloquence, try to induce families to purchase, pron»isiug long credit, or I JOHNNYS BOX. 203 to take payments in Rmall amounts. Hundreds f nd thousands liavo been induced to buy beyond their means ; and many such, when walking out, dressed in full feathei', have called forth such observations as, — " There she goes ! ' Scotchmen * again ! But pop-sb«p will come next." One of these " Scotchmen " visited a village adled Brock- side, near Spotland, where he was trying to push his salo of ribbons, shawls, gowns, ers* shop windowB, have sent thousands of weak-minded women to the pawn- shop. Most of these women who pulled in the sneck had pawned their gown-pieces ; for it is a fact that hundreds of new gown-pieces are pawned to raise part of the money to pay for them, and scores of them are never redeemed, but pass into other hands. One Sunday morning, two of my neighbors were leaning against a flag fence, smoking their short pipes, and in their dirty shirts. They were talking of home matters. One of them remarked to the other, — " Our new neighbour luis got a nice smart wife, Philip ; have you seen her ?" 204 TALES OF IlUMllLE LIFF. " Yes, Georgo, and she makes some of our wives look weary .sluts, tlioiigli lioi- huslniiid gets no more wages than we do." " And have you seen tlicir children, how neat and clean they look V " Yes ; and I confess I am ashamed when I see them near mine, there is such a difference." " Do you think that woman ever goes to ' my uncle's V " *' Nay, there is nought of the pop-shop about yon family. You will see them all going to church directly ; and church and chapel-going people have little to do with * my uncle.* But I think that question is rather too bad, George." Georgo burst out laughing, for he knew that Phillip's wife was in the habit of going to her " uncle's." This conversation took place near a row of dirty cottages, respecting a neigh- bour who had just come to reside amongst them. This new tenant had produced quite a sensation, and had become the subject of conversation among the women and children, as well as among the men. "When the new tenants here alluded to went to reside in Long Row (as the block of buildings was called), every house was a miserable, wretched- looking dwelling; — few window-blinds, no curtains, no flower- pots, or anything that indicated taste or comfort ; but there was plenty of broken windows, broken pots, dirty door-steps, dirty women, dirty childrt-n, and swill tubs. What business poor people have with swill-tubs, I cannot tell. Mr. Fenton, of Bamford Hall, a man supposed to be worth two hundred thousand pounds, was once passing a row of cottages belonging to him : seeing a swill-tub, he lifted the top off, and, with his walking-stick, began stirring up the contents, consisting of pieces of currant-pudding, pie- crust, tea-cakes, mutton-chops, and slices of bread. Calling JOHNNYS BOX. 205 i'"> oy\t tlio woman to whom tlic tub boloiigc*!, ho asked her if sill that hud eomo out of" her hous(\ *' Yes, sir," was the reply ; " 1 sell them to a neighl)Our for her pigs." " Well," said Mr. Fenton, " there is more waste in that tub than there has been in my house these forty years. You are as sure to come to })overty as you are born." Tlie middle house in the Long Kow, occupied by the new tenant, soon began to shame all the rest. The white window- blind, tlie neat muslin curtain, the couple of flower-pots, containing a geranium and fuschia, and the clean door-step, presented a wide contrast to their vlingy looking neighbours, and caused no small amount of gossip. If the door was left open, an excuse was made for passing by, to get a peep in- side ; for some contended it was all outside show ; but they soon found that the inside corresponded with the outside. " There is a vast difference between some women and others in this row. [ have five shillings a-week more than the man who has come to live in the middle house ; yet his cottage is like a little palace, and mine is like a pig-cote. I I wish I had such a wife." The woman to >vhom this was spoken made no reply, for she had often been scolded by her husband for not being more tidy. But the example set by the middle house had done more to impress her than all the scolding she had re- ceived, and she was secretly making a new muslin curtain and window-blind, for she was determined that her house and children should soon be as smart as those of the new tenants. She gave up gc ^sining, and minded her own busi- ness ; and soon a second respectable-looking cottage appeared in the Long Row, and a second church-going family. After that, another, and another, and in less than six months 9* 20G TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. many of tlio dwellings became so altered that it was a ques- tion wliifli looked the bcjst. liut still one retained its dingy and miserable appearance, — the cottage where Philip resided, whose wife was in the habit of going to the pawnshop. Philip was not one of the best of men, but, no doubt, his wife was partly the cause of it. She never tried to make his home comfortable. He complained that his wages melted away like snow ; he could never tell what she did with the money. He could admire the clean, neat, tidy wife of his neighbour, and was grieved to see bis own wife such a dossy. She was one of those women who think that after they get married it does not much matter how they appear : trailing about all day long slip-shod, with hair uncombed, dress un- fastened, and face unwashed, and, altogether, anything but lovely. But such women make fatal mistakes. Men like to see their wives look as pretty as when they courted them. This retains their affection and strengthens their love ; but it is impossible for a man to love a slut, and I think sluts scarcely ever get a kiss. A few weeks since, a grown-up boy was sent by his mother to request I would call and see them, for they were starving and wanted help. I knew the boy and his mother. On entering the house I found everything even worse than I expected. The mother was gossiping in the next house, and the five children were huddled round the hearth, looking the picture of misery. All lived in one room, and slept in one wretched-looking bed : there was only one small table, three chairs — not worth two shillings, — and no fender. The house floor, and the children's faces, looked as if they had not been cleaned for a month, " Where is your mother?" I asked of the eldest girl, whom I took to be about twelve years of age. ■1 JOHNNY S DOX. 207 1 «' Slio is in some of the neighbours' liouaes ; I will go and see if I can find her," replied the child. While the sister was gone to seek her mother, I asked her little brother where the sweeping brush was. " We have none," he answered. " Well, my lad, will you go next door and ask them if they will lend me * long brush. Now, mind, a long brush — not the hand brush." The little fellow stared and blushed, but did as I wished him, and soon returned with the long brush. I had just begun work when the girl returned with her mother. " You see I am sweeping up these bits of straw and shavings, mistress. Perhaps you will lot your girl wash ^ and scour the hearth-stone, will you V* " We have no sand or stone," the girl replied. *' Well, take this penny and fetch a small stone and some sand ; and you, my girl, will you wash your hands, arms, and face, and comb your hair, while your sister goes for the scouring-stone ?" " We have no soap," replied the girl, " No soap ! then take this twopence, and get half-a-pound of soap, and then you, and your two brothers and sister can all be washed. When were you washed last V* " On Sunday," was the reply. It was now Friday. While the washing and scouring was going on, and after I had done sweeping, I turned to the mother, a tall, stout, strong, and healthy woman, who was looking very sheepish, and said, — " Do your children go to any school, mistress ?" " No, none of them, for I have had to fasten all theiiv^ decent things for bread," she replied. ^' You mean you have taken them to the pawn-broker V* 208 TALES OF IIUMDLE LIFE. ** Yes." A.ud ia'thut all the bed you have for five]" (( " Yes." " And where are tlie bhinkets ? Have you pawned them 1" "Yes." The sand and stone wero soon at work, and the four little brothers and sisters were soaping their hands, arras, and faces round the slop stone, out of the porridge pan, for the elder sister had the mug to clean the hearth. How their faces were wiped I must not tell, only that one of the boys wiped his on his mother's gown as she stood there. After the washing, I requested them to comb their hair, and divide it neatly ; but the eldest girl, who had done the hearth and was now washing her face said, — " We have no comb." • I took one out of my pocket, and lent it ; but though I often lend combs, I always decline receiving them back. Tho change in the house, and especially among the shining faces, was marvellous. Turning to the mother, I asked how many things she had in pawn, and for how much ? " I have both clothes and furniture in, and some of the tickets are sold." " Well, now, I will call to see you again in a few days ; and if I find your house and you and your children clean, — for cleanliness is much cheaper than dirt, — I will buy you a new bed. Send the children to the infant-school now, and I will pay for them. In fact if you w ill do your best, I will be your friend." I did call again in about a week after, but everything was as bad and dirty as before. The children had only gone to the infant-school two days, for the mother would not take the trouble to make them fit to go. JOHNNYS BOX. 2UU I loft the Ijouso with a aad heart, for w])!it liopo was thcro of the poor innocent children? — thi-ir mother's iynoraneo and idkuioss was hhisting all their prospects in life. When a woman begins to go to " my uncle's " it is a poor look out, and it would bo well if the children of such women had their Sunday clothes in Johnny's Box. OLD ADAM. One of our Roolidnle doctors, being asked by a friend if somo of his doings wcro not likely to exclude him from heaven, replied : — " When I die, I shall take with me an old book I have, which is full of debts owing to me by the poor, whom I have never distressed for payment, and show it at the gates of heaven j when they sec it they will say, * Admit him, ho is a decent fellow.' " This shocking expression of the doctor's reminded me of one of my neighbours, who, with several others, attended our village shaving-shop on Sunday mornings, to talk politics, read the newspaper, and rule the nation. His name was Adam Schofield. Adam, like the doctor, may be taken as a fiiir type of many persons found in almost every part of the country. He believed in eating, working, sleeping, and grumbling, and lived as if these were all for which a man was born. Once or twice in his life-time he went to Town Meadows Chapel, to hear Mr. Stephens; but his opinion was, that church and chapel-going people must be rather bad, to require so much preaching and praying to keep them right. After finishing his day's work, Adam often found his way to our fireside, to have what he called " a chat " with my father. One evening, addressing my mother, he said, " Do OLD ADAM. 211 ^f you not think a man may get to heaven without going to either cliurch or cha|>t'H" " 1 do not think that any person wishing to go to heaven wouUl ask such a question. They will be very ghul to go to either church or chapel if it would help them one step on the way," replied my mother. Adam was silent a few minntes, and then said, " Well I think God takes the average of men's actions, and I shall have as many good deeds to show as will get me out at the right end." This was Adam's estimation of himself, though he then confessed that ho sometimes got drunk, and, when in a passion, could swear a round oath, and sometimes tcU an untruth. For many years after 1 had left the village, I often thought about Adam ; for ever since I understood the Bible's teach- ings of how a sinner must be saved, I had regarded him as far from the kingdom of heaven. I, somehow, became so concerned about him, that I set out purposely to pay him a visit, though his house was two miles from mine. He was seated by the fire, and alone. He seemed glad to see me, requested I would take a seat, and asked me if " there was ought fresh or new." I began to tell him what mv errand was : — how concerned I had felt about his soul ; — and how I had often heard him talk in a way that convinced me he was not a Christian, and, having much respect for him for my father's sake, had come all the way expressly to see and converse with him about his salvation. For several minutes Adam looked into the fire without speaking ; at last he said, — " I think, John, you might have found hundreds, between 212 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I liere and your lioiiso, a doul worse than I am, I don't know why yon shonhl 1)0 so concorncd altout mo. ; I think 1 am as good as many tliat p^-ctond to bo better." " That is uhat I cxi)ected and feared you would say, Adam, and it is wliat makes me so concerned about you. If you felt yourself a sinner, you would seek for a Saviour ; but so long as you think you are not a sinner, there is no hope ^or you. You ai-e very like several persons that I have seen and heard of, and if you will allow me, I will tell you about some of them, Adam." " If it will not take long you can go on," he replied. " Well, I will give you the case of an old man. One Sunday, as I was going to Shaw, near Oldham, on ascending the rising ground leading from Buersill to High Cronipton, I saw him toiling slowly up the road. On overtaking him, and after the usual observations about the weatlier, I fell into the old man's speed, observing, — I can walk up this brow much better than you, my old friend. " ' Wait until you are seventy-two years of age, and then see what you can do,' he replied. " How much farther have you to go V " ' Not far. I am coming from church, but it is getting a long way for me to go now, and I think I shall not be able to go much longer.' " I am glad to hear you say you have been to church this morning, and that you are preparing for your latter end ; for I never see an old man, or an old woman, but I think they are not far from either heaven or hell. " * Well, as for that, I think I shall stand as good a chance as most folk, for I've attended church, at times, for foioy years, always paid ray way, and I don't know that I've done anybody ony harm ; what more done yo* wautl' OLD ADAM. 213 i " Tlicn, (luring forty years, every time you have attended church, you have told a li»", or uiis.sed thai part in your prayer-book which says, ' Wo liave (h)ne the things which wo ought not to have done, and left undone the things which wo ought to have done Lord liave mercy upon us, miserable sinners,' because you have just made it out that you are no sinner, but a decent sort of a man ? " ' I cannot walk up this hill so fast, you had better go on without me,' he said, leaning his arm on a gate to jest, I, too, leaned on the gate, and looking him in the face, said, — My dear old brother, I know why you want me to leave you, Imt I dare not until I have warned you of your danger. The Bible says all have sinned, and if we say we have no sin we deceive ourselves, and unless we repent we shall be lost for ever ! A man must be born again or he can never enter heiven. And here you are, an old man of seventy- two years of age, attending the church, at times, for forty years, and yet you are as blind as a bat, and as surely going to hell as you lean upon that gate. The moment you spoko of your goodness, you made me miserable, for I then knew that you are what the Bible calls a Pharisee, and Pharisees never go to heaven. The Lord have mercy upon you, for you are a miserable sinner. " During mj'^ short speech, the old man seemed amazed and restless, and begged I would leave him, for I had made him uneasy. T did as he requested ; but before leaving I again told him, as kindly as I could, that ho was a sinner, and unless he repented he would never see heaven. That is on^ case, Adam. " Another case, somewhat similar to this, occured about the same tiuie. 1 wjis sent for to see one of n»y neighbours, 2U TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. When I went up stairs T found him propped up in bed, and looking very poorly. " ' i am glad you are come, Mr. Ash worth, for I wan ted to have a little talk with you ; but you know I have not been as bad as some.' " ' No, John,' said his wife, * there are thousands worse than you are.* " ' I have never been much of a swearer,' continued the man. " ' No, John,' said his wife, ' nobody can say that about you.' " ' I have not been a drunkard ; I have been drunk, but not as often as some.' " ' No, John,' said his wife, * you have been anything but a drunkard, as some are.' " * I have had thousands of pounds passed through my hands belonging to others, but have always been honest." " ' Yes, John, you have always been honest to the penn3^ " * I have sometimes gone to church,' continued the man, *or I have sat in the house and read, for I never could bear to see people wickedly spending the Sabbath.' " * Yes, John,* again said his wife, 'you have stopped at home many a time, and read the newspaper, or a book for me, instead of going out when any of your companions have called.' " During the whole of these observations I had not spoken one word. But when they had finished, I quietly took up my hat, and said, * Well, I will go home, there is no need for me here ; Christ did not die for you.' " • Christ did not die for me ! How so V "I mean what I say. Jesus Chi-ist came into the world to save sinners only, but according to the statement of you OLD ADAM. 215 • 3 and yonr wife, you are no sinner, but a very good man. Christ came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repent- ance ; and as you make it out, and your wife confirms it, that you are a very righteous man, then Christ cannot have died for you, so I must bid you a good day, for 1 can be of no use if I remain. " * Do not go, do not go, for I have been very miserable for several days, fnd I want something.' *' Yes, John, you want those rotten props knocking down, and if they are not knocked down you will as sure be lost as you are in that bed. " * Well, what must I do ? I am willing that you should tell me, for I cannot bear to think that Chiist did not die for me.' " Well, John, just answer me a few questions. Have you ever taken God's name in vain? " * Yes, many times, many times.' "Then the Lord declares that swearers cannot enter heaven. Have you ever been drunk 1 I think you have. " * Yes, I have, many a time.' " Then the Lord declares that no drunkard shall enter heaven. Have you not had wicked thoughts, such as lust, envy, malice, hatred, or revenge ? " * Yes, thousands of times,' " Well, then, the Bible tells us that only the pure in heart shall see God. So, you see, all along you have been deceiving yourself, and depending on your good works. You admit you have broken the law, and unless you get forgiveness tlirough Christ, you perish. That is another case. " You knew old James Nnttall, Adam, did you not 1" " Yes ; I knew old James," he replied. 21G TALES OF IIUMBLK LIFE. " Well, good old James, who for many years went about visiting the sick and relieving the poor, once had two sliil- lings given him to take to a sick dressmaker. On knocking at the door a feehle voice called out, ' Come in.' Old James walked in, and in one corner of a large room of a very clean house, he found the sick dressmaker confined to bed. He told her he had got two shillings, sent by a f.-iend, for her. She soon stopped him by saying, — " * Old man, it is not me you are seeking, it is some one else, so you had better take it to the right place.' " The old man, thinking ho was right, asked her if she was a dressmaker, and if there was any other person of the same name in the neighbourhood. " ' Yes, I am a dressmaker, and the only person in the neighbourhood of that name.' " Then it is for you, and I will leave it on the mantel- piece ; and 1 always like to pray, both with sick people and healthy ones, if they will let me.' " While old James was saying this, he took off his hat, and laid it on a chair. He reared his stout walking-stick in the corner, near the sick woman's head, and, kneeling down, prayed that the Lord woidd bless the sick and poor, that He would pardon the woman all her sins, and make her happy. While he was praying, the woman took hold of the stout wall ing-stick, and lifted it up, intending to bring it down on his smooth, shining, bald head with a crash, for daring to call her a sinner ; but her hand was Vvithheld by the old man's God, and the self-righteous dressmaker was, i)robably, saved from being a murderess. When he rose from his knees, she began to abuse him, saying, * Who told you that I was a sinner ? I am as good as either you or them, and I do not thank you for either your prayer or your money. OLD ADAM. 217 Me a sinner, Indeed ! Whcr? you find one better you will find a thousand worse, and I liope you will not call hero again.' Old James, looking at the woman with surprise and sorrow, replied, — " * The money was giv en to mo for you, and I will leave it ; and I will pray for you when I get home, that the Lord will open your blind eyes, and soften your hard heart, for you need both, I am sure.' " This woman recovered from her sickness, and became a member at Hope Chapel ; but she told a different tale about her goodness the day she was admitted into tlie Church. " One more case, Adam, and then I have done. " One evening, a rough character came to my house, urgently requesting that I would go with him to see lui old woman who was very poorly. I at once went, and, on entering the house, found her sitting up in bed, moaning, and very restless. " * You have sent for me to come and see vou,' I observed to the old woman. " ' Nay, I have not, nor did I want you. I am not going to die, I have only got the cholic, and I shall soon be better j I will have none of your talk, nor your prayers,' said tlie old woman. " * Old Mary, you should not talk that way to Mr. Ash- worth, he comes for your good,' said the man who had fetched me. " * Hold thee thy noise, thou scamp ; I am as good as thee, thou devil, or as anybody in this street, or the next street to it. I will send for some one to pray with me when I am going to die, and not till then ; half an hour will do for that.' " The old woman was soon better, and walking aT^iit as 218 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I 1 usual. But one night, when she had got to the top of the stair, she lost her balance j there was one wild scream, and a crash, and she lay dead at the bottom of the stairs. A regard for the feelings of her son and daughter prevents rae from giving the name." After giving tlie above cases, T waited to hear what Adam would say, but he made iio reply. When on the point of leaving, I felt very nervous, and thought, shall I ask Adam to let me pray with him, or would it be more prudent to leave him without doing so ? 1 asked him, but his reply was, — " No, John, what little I do in that line, I can do for myself." " Will you have this little book, then ? It is good print, and, I think, you will find something that may interest you." " Well, ye^, you may leave the book, and I can see what it is about." I laic' the little book, called " Come to Jesus," on the table, bidding Adam good night, and for many weeks saw no more of him. Having to pass through the village, how- ever, on some business matters, I again called, and found him, as before, alone. On the table near him lay the little book, but backed afresh with some blue sugar paper. Tlie moment I saw the book had been covered afresh, I felt con- vinced that there was a change somewhere else beside the book back. "So you see I have called again, Adam. How are you getting on since 1 last saw you T He pointed to a chair, requested me to sit down, and at once began to tell me he had long wanted to see me, for he had spent some very miserable hours since I last called, and had come to the conclusion that he should be lost. •* 1 am glad such is the case, Adam. Now I have hope OLD ADAM. 21U concerning yon ; for Jesus Christ came to seek and save that which was lost." " So this little book says. There is no nonsense about this book ; it is all out of the Bible. I have been like tlio man you mentioned, all my life resting on rotten props, but this book has knocked them all down, and I am now almost in despair." I drew my chair nearer to where Adam sat, and, laying my hand on his knee, sixid, — "Do yo\i now think that you are better than others, and that your good deeds outweigh your bad ones?" " O dear, no, I feel ashamed that ever I talked that way, to you or any one else." " Do you still think there is too much preaching, praying, and Bible reading, as yoa once did?" " O dear, no, I have read the Bible more., and, in my way, prayed more the last two months than I have done for tweny years before." " Do you now think you are a sinner, Adam 1" " I am sure I am, and a great sinner. Whatever shall I do?" " Do you/eel you are a sinner? for there is a vast diilbr- enoe between merely believing we are sinners, and feeling we are sinners." " Yes, I feel tliat I am, and feel it so keen that it some- times makes me sweat." " Well, now, do you feel that Christ can save you ?" " Why He has saved millions, and He " — Here Adam burst into tears, in which I could not help joining him. " Do you believe that He will save you, Adam?" " I hopp He will," was ids reply, still weeping. 1 ii 220 TALES OF lIUMliLE LIFE. "Just one stop more, Adam. Do you beliovo Christ will save you now, just now 1 I'or, you know, if ever a man's sins arc forgiven, there is a moment when forgiveness takes place, and when that moment comes he can say ' O Lord, I will praise Thee : though Thou wast angry with me. Thine anger is turned away, and Thou comfortedst me.' " Adam buried his face in his hands, and hegan sobbing like a child. I was deeply moved, and, for some time, wo were both silent. At length Adam Haid, — " "What must I do ! what must I do ! I believe Christ died for sinners, and that He can save sinners, and does save sinners, and that He will, peshaps, save me, but I do not think He will save me yet." " Then Adam, you will never be saved until you believe that God, for Christ's sake, will save you, and with a present salvation. The promise, * Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved,' does not mean believe to- morrow, and be saved to-morrow, but noio. 'Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.' It is one of the devil's best stratagems, to make penitent sinners believe that Christ will not save them now. But, Adam, there are no promises of salvation for to-morrow." Adam still held down his head, and seemed in great trouble. When I rose to go, he begged I would pray with him, and ask God to have mercy upon him. We prayed together, and not without hope that God heard our prayei*. I then shook hands with him, and, at his request, promised to call again soon, thankful in my heart that the once self- righteous Pharisee was now the humble penitent, pleading for mercy. Adam still sought pardon, still studied the Bible and read the little book called " Come to Jeaus," attended the Louse i OLD ADAM 221 of God regularly, and the week-day prayer-meetings held in the neighbourhood, and before I saw him again ho was a sinner saved by grace, and a very happy child of God. His regular attendance at the means of grace, and his consistent Christian life, were strong evidence that the change was real. Speaking with him on one occasion al)out his fomier self-righteous views, and the difference betwixt those days and the time he was seeking pardon and mercy> he exclaimed, — " When I saw myself what I was, and what I had been, on the day I obtained mercy, 1 believetl and felt that if my sins of heart and life had been spread out, they were enough to damn all the people in Rochdale." The evidence of saving faith is a life of holiness, and Adam endeavored to live that life ; he was indeed a brand plucked from the burning, and his sun was going down in a clear sky. He loved his Bible, loved to talk with religious people, loved the House of God, and, with child-like simplicity, spoke of his entii-e dependence on Christ as the only founda- tion of his hope. One fine Sabbath morning I was going to my engagements, and had to pass the house at Cutgate where Adam still resided. My old friend Niff was looking out for me, for he was anxious 1 should call to see Adam, who was now very poorly. On entering his poor, but clean cottage, I was very glad to find that I was not too late, for on approaching his bed, he still knew me, and our hands were soon locked together. With a feeble whisper, and with a great effort, he spoke of his great joy and peace, and thanked me that I had ever come to tell him of his danger, saying, " It was the best day's work you ever did. Had I remained a self- righteous Pharisee I should have been lost, but now, by 10 222 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. ! i the grace of God, and faith in Jesus Christ, I am just enter- ing heaven. On returning in the evening, I again called to see my dying friend, but on entering the house found the spirit had winged its way to the invisible world. I laid my hand on his now cold forehead, and, while my breast was heaving with emotion and my eyes rained down tears, I thanked God for His gootlness and mercy in opening the eyes of the poor old man, and blesaing him with saving grace. Tliat day Adam went to where there are millions of con- verted publicans and sinners, but where there is not one self-righteous person, for there is no Pharisee in heaven, nor ever will be while heaven is heaven ; but amongst the millions of sinners saved by grace around the throne of God will now be found the soul of my happy friend, Old Adam. ■ I! I I i i ELLEN WILLIAMS AND THE "BLACK MAN." Few persons witness more weeping and tears than falls to my lot to behold almost daily, but especially on the Sun- day evening, when, after the aervice at the " Chapel for -the Destitute," groups of poor, miserable, wretched creatures, homeless, friendless, and penniless, stand, with dejected looks, waiting for an opportunity to 8i)eak to me. No doubt, some of these pitiable objects are the authors of their own sufferings, and are reaping what they have sown. Nevertheless, there they are, human beings ; every man and woman of them are my own brothers and sisters, and the deeper they are sunk in depravity, tlie more they stand in need of our syinpathy. One Sunday evening, fourteen of these strangers stood waiting for my appeai'ance. Five of them consisted of a man, his wife, and three children ; three others, men pro- fessedly on tramp, — two of the three without coats ; four others were elderly persons, all with pitiable tales to tell ; and the last two were females, one of them, who was dvqrsed in a seedy black silk, had a good address. She made a nice curtsey, begged my pardon, and, while wiping the tears from her eyes, ass\ired me that she had been so deeply impressed with the service of the evening, that she had vowed to return to her native place and lead a new life, 22 1 TAr.ES OF IIUMULB LIKE. but fiiiish(Kl by reqiiosting mo to bear the exponKO of her journey. The last of the fourteen is the subject of this narrative. She was about forty years of age ; the broken bonnet on her hoaainful, sickening sights in this world, the sight of a drunkou woman is the most painfid, the most sickening. When a woman begins to drink, farewell to everything tliat makes a woman lovely j farewell beauty, farewell modesty, farewell virtue and chastity, farewell self-respect. If slie be a young woman, farewell all bright prospects in this world ; if slie be a married woman, farewell all love and respect from her husband, even though ho be a drunkard — farewell all domestic joys and all hopes of prosperity. To a drunkard, either man or woman, the sun is gone down at noon-day — but especially to a drunken woman. Strong as the above expressions may seem, the following^ I think, will prove them true : — On the same form on which Ellen sat the first night she attended the " Destitute," there was an old woman who begged that I would go and see her son, who was very i)Oorly. I followed the weeping mother to the liome of her dying first-bom, and there found six young children seated on the floor, round the fire, all silont and sad. I spoke kindly to the oldest, a girl about ten years of age, for 1 remembered how the mother of these children had, a few weeks before, 226 TALES OF IIUMIJLE LIFE. left thnm a whole day without food, while she was drinking, and how this girl had found a little flour, baked a cake on the oven-tin over the fire, and shared it with her little hungry brothers and sisters. On going up stairs I found the father in terrible suffer- ing ; the moment he saw me, he stretched out both his hands, exclaiming, — " O ! sir, is not this dreadful 1 You have often told us at the chapel, that there is enough to do on a sick-bed with- out having to seek mercy, and now I find it true." Looking at his mother, he said, — " Mother, fetch all the children up, and let them kneel round the bed." When he saw them all round his bed weeping, he said, — " O ! my God, what a sight. What will become of you with such a mother ? I wish we might all bo buried in one grave on the same day, and then you would all go to heaven. Kneel down, my dear children, kneel down, and Mr. Ash- worth will pray for you, and for your erring mother, and d^^ing father." We all knelt down ; the trembling grandmother, the erring wife, and helpless children, sobbing and weeping. I closed my eyes on the scene, for I was not able to bear it, and, with choking utterance, pleaded with that God who heara the cries of the poor and distressed. In seven hours from that moment the man expired, and six children were left in the care of a drunken mother. When she got the club-money for her husband's funeral, she commenced drink- ing, and never left off until every farthing was spent. This miserable woman was a fit companion for the poor, wretched Ellen. A.nd how did Ellen Williams become a drunken woman 1 ELLEN WILLIAMS. 227 Hear the answer, yo young, unraarriod women of Ei^g- land ! Ellen kept company with a young man who was a tippler, who went to visit her with a small bottle of rum in his i)ocket, to let her have a drop in her tea ; and when Ellen walked out with her sweetheart, they often called at public-houses to have just one glass ; so, by keeping com- pany with a tippler, having drops of rum in her tea, and calling at public-houses on their walks, Ellen began to like drops of rum. Any young woman who goes with her intended into a public-house before they are married, deserves a drunken husband ; and if she goes with him after, she deserves no pity. These drops of rum in tea have made sad havoc in thou- sands of homes, they have made myriotls of thin, pale-f:iced, ragged children, and myriads of dirty, slatternly, red-nosed mothers. A poor woman called at my door one Saturday evening, to inform me that herself and children were starv- ing. I gave her a little help, and the day after unexpectedly called to see her. I found iicr and another woman having tea together, and the little pitcher with the drop of rum stood on the table. When they saw mo the faces of both went rod, whether from the drop of rum, or my unexpected visit, I cannot tell, — perhaps from both. The following day she again called, with a large woollen stocking around her face, looking very pitiful, and informed me that she had been bad of the tooth-ache, and that was the reason she had a little rum, and she hoped I would think nothing alwut it. " But you looked very merry with your tooth-ache when I called," I replied. "Why, just then I did; yo' seen, ono connot alwr.^o be crying." 228 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. While on tliis point I will mention another fact. There was formerly in this town a good old man, who for many years spent the whole of his time in visiting the poor, the sick, and the dying ; his name was James Nuttall, but ho was best known as Jimmy Nutta'. He was a good man, and highly respected ; his friends frequently furnished him with money and clothing to give to really needy cases ; and for many years he did great good in the town and neigh- bourhood. Three women, who wanted a drop of rum in their tea, laid a deep but wicked scheme to get the money to purchase it. They agreed that one should go to bed and pretend to be veiy poorl)', but as she did not look su ''• lently sick as she lay in bed, they rubbed her face with flour, minding to lay it on evenly. One acted as nurse to the pretended invalid, while the other went to fetch Jemmy Nutta' to pray with her. Of course the old man went, prayed vdth them, and gave the poor sick woman a shilling to get a little beef tea. The moment his back was turned, they all burst out laughing ; they had got the drop of rum for their tea. For several days I took charge of Ellen, provided her food and lodgings, and furnished her with a few decent clothes ; and, much sooner than I expected, she got partip,; "unloy- ment. She attended regularly all the services, aiul •.. :cume, in appearance, a gi'eatly altered woman. She was r.'X. an abstainer from what had been to her the greatest curse, her one besetting sin. Once again she could join in singing God's praises, and once again her face was lit up with bright smiles ; none of my poor acquaintances greeted mo more cheerfully in the street, nor seemed to enjoy more the means of grace. When talking with Ellen, on one occasion, about her 1 '' 'I'W. ELLEN WILLIAMS. 229 happy charge, she informed me that she had got entirely rid of the " black man." " What do you mean by the * black man V " I enquired. " Why, sir, when I w^as a drunkard, and living a wicked life, I was always miserable; I did everything I could to smother my conscience, and querch the strivings of God's Spirit, — sinking deeper and deeper in sin. One moonlight night, as I was walking the street, more unhappy than usual, I thought there was a tall man following close behind me. I turned round, and round, but still he was behind. I stood still, and looked over my left shoulder, and saw a sight that I shall never forget to my dying day." " But I suppose it was all imagination ?" ** I don't know that ; I have seen him many times since that night, always looking over the same shoulder, with ex- actly the same terrible fierce look, and awful black face." " Did he speak to you 1" I asked. " Yes, always ; and he always said the same words, or nearly the same." " And what are the words ?" " He said, * Put an end to your life, hang yourself, drown yourself, take poison.' He always told me to commit suicide some way." "And how did you get rid of this terrible ' black man V " I asked. " O, I have not seen nor heard him since I entirely gave up drink, and began to pray. So long as I pray, and feel that God hears my prayer, I never fear him ; he is like that evil spirit mentioned in the Bible, — when Jesus comes, ho goes away." Either the moralist or the physiologist will be able to understand why the " black man" was looking over Ellen's 10* m 230 TALES mF humble LfFE. ill j < 1 I i i shouldor, and prompting her to self-murder. She had, in the first i)hice, hift tlie path of piety and peace, and hy her wicked life disordered both body and mind, and — however it may seem to us, who, to some extent, understand the real cause — to Ellen it had all the force of a dreadful reality : to her he was a real, fierce " black man," Various minds are variously affected while under these awful influences caused by drink, but in all cases it is fejir- ful. A few days ago, a pale-faced, handsome woman came to my office, and wanted me to hear her make a vow to God, that she would never touch t-nother drop of drink as long as she lived. I had great difficulty to prevent her going on her knees to make the vow. I told her that all the vows she could make to man would be utterly useless, but if, when she felt her one besetting sin trying to get power over her, she would again and again seek help from heaven, and make her vow before God, and ask sti'ength to keep it, there would be hope for her. She seemed in great mental agony, the consequence of her last excess in drink. This same woman, a few days before, came to request I would buy a frock for her daughter (a girl about twelve years of age), that she might be decent to go to a nursing- place she expected for her in a few weeks. I promised that if she would not go into a public-house, and leave oif diink for one fortnight, I would buy her child a frock. She pro- mised, and at the end of the time the girl came for the frock. " Well, my child, I wished to fulfil my promise to your mother, but do you not know that she was drunk on batur- day and Sunday nights ?" The child did know ; and T shall not soon forget the look of shame and anguish depicted in that child's countenance. O how I did feel for the poor thing, but I durst not trust if- ELLEN WILLIAMS. 231 the iKolhor a new frock, knowing tJiai she woiiM have sohl it for drink. When I asked the woman how she hecame a drunkard, she replied, that for several years her husband, who earned good wages, had two or three pints of ale on the Saturday night, and every night had a pint to his supper, and she always fetched it ; that she got a gill for herself while they were measuring the husband's pint, and so began to like it. The same week that the sorrowing girl lost her new frock because of her mother, I was returning home about half- past ten at night, and at the bottom of Foundry Brow, or George street, I saw a boy and girl, dripping wet, and both crying. On asking what was the matter, they told me the door was locked, and they could not find their mother, who had the key. " How long have you been seeking her ]" I asked. " Since seven o'clock, but cannot find her," they replied. I looked the little girl in the face, I thought I knew her, and asked her if she knew me. " Yes," was the answer from both. Poor, little, weeping, wet, hungry, benighted creatures,— they were seeking a drunken mother ! " But to return to Ellen. None but those who watch for souls can form a right conception of what I feel at this moment. Whilst I am attempting to depict these facts, the whole circumstances pass afresh before me. My Scripture- reader informed me that he thought he had seen Ellen in questionable company, and that he was afraid she was again neglecting her duties. I had myself missed her from some of the services, but as she had been so orderly and regular for many months, I thought there was a reasonable cause. But one Sunday morning I met her in the street, and then III \ t 232 TALES OF IIUMRLE LIFE. I> ! at a glance saw how matters stood. She tried to avoid me, but I at once crossed the street, and met her face to face. " Ellen, you are not looking well ; surely you have not forsaken us, and are losing all you have recently gained by your good conduct ! How is it you have such a strange appearance — you seem as if you had not been in bed last night ?" Poor Ellen was speechless, she hung down her head, and tried to hide her tears. *♦ You will soon see the * black man ' again, I am afraid, Ellen." She threw up her arms, and, with a wild look, exclaimed, " He is with me now !" and ran swiftly away from me. Here I must make a confession, and I do it with bitter- ness and sorrow. A few weeks before the period of which I now write, Ellen was again out of work, and I had to render her considerable help. One day she came to inform mo ^hat she could have a nursing place — to do nothing but take care of two or three children, if I would merely say in a note, or by my Visitor, that I knew her. She got the place ; but had I known what I do now, she must not have gone. A man — whose name, for the sake of his father and grandfather, I suppress — found out the woman's weakness, tempted her, promised her marriage, and induced her to live with him. They sinned and drank together. Once or twice she came to the chapel on the Sunday, and sometimes on the week-evening, but she was a greatly altered person. Both myself and Scripture-reader tri'od to reclaim her, but she avoided talking with us, and still went on drinkipg. One Sunday evening I stood at tlio chapel door when ' 111 I'll \ ELLEN WILLIAMS. 233 Ellen was entering, She came uj> to me, and, in a strange, careless manner, s;ii)le monument, which may mark the tomb of king, prince, warrior, or statesman. Thirty years have rolled away since I first stood a Sun- day-school scholar on that interesting spot ; and now I find myself again looking at the same short epitaph. Other words liave since been added, but those thirty yeara have multiplied the number of silent sleepers. Our old superin- tendent, Robert Porter, our venerable, peace-loving deacon, Robert Ashv.?orth, and our highly respected minister, Mr. Jackson, who, for eighteen years, ministered to us in holy things, are added to the number. Mr. Jackson was generous and charitable in his theology, lived a life of earnest, con- sistent piety, and was very successful in his ministry. Near the same spot also rests his son Thomas, my old teacher, who was in many respects an extraordinary man. TRIALS. 237 Thotims WHS a layiirciiclior, and rcnuirkiiMo for ^i8 love for, and rlosf sfudy of \]w Scripiurcfs, mid liis alu'liiy in correctly quoting thorn. ITo travelled thousands of miles, chiefly on foot, to 8\i])j)ly vaiions jmlpits. Ho hnilt, for liiniself and family, a small stone cottage, near his helove^ church and Svinday-sehool. And, while standing near liis grave, ] look with a feeling of fwulness on tlmt cottage, for there, on a bed of suffering and bickness, lies his eldest daiighcer. On leaving the church-yard, crossing the I'oad, and open- ing the small gate that leads to the cottage, I felt au unusual d(^pression of spirits. I knew whose hand had planted the fruit-trees that bent theii* branches over the door, and saw tlie flower-bed that had, for years, in the season, brought forth the most splendid tulips ; and though these surpassers of Solomon in all his glory had, for a time, bowed their heads to the dust, yet the carnations and dahlias, now in full bloom, had equally shared the interest of him whose grave I had but just left. I walked for a short time in the small garden, hoping some one would see me, and invite me to enter ; but no one appearing, I ventured softly to knock at the door. A younger sister opened it and invited me in. It has been my lot to visit many homes of the sick and dying, and the chamber where many a " good man meets his fate ;" but never did I enter a sick room with such mingled feelings as I did on this occasion. There, in the twenty- sixth year of her age, lay an intelligent young woman, who had for two years and four months been lying in exactly the same jiosition, without power to move her body. And, during those two years and four months, in addition to her own aflliction, she had been called to pass through the most terrible trials and distressing bereavements. Yet this pa- ill 238 TALKS OF IIIJMIILR UFE. tiont, mock, fiiiflcriiig child of God, from lior bod of sicknosa and homo of sorrow, litid heon iiiiiiiifoHting, to all around her, tho power of religion iu tinui of tro\ihIo. On approaching tho placo near where she lay, sho ex- pressed her gladness that I had called, and requested I would *ako a seat near tho bed, for she wished to talk with me al)out ll! ing up a'brcaking heart. Calm reflection, and quiet com- muning of the spirit bowed down to the dust, are often tho best antidotes to grief, especially with those that recognize the hand of God in all events. Miss Jackson's was an intel- ligent piety. She was able to take a wide range of thought, and to draw largely on the imperishable promises of holy writ. SliiP knew that, a;j link by link of the mysterious chain of Pi ovidence was unfolding, the last link would be found in the hands of him who does not afflict his children willingly, but has for everything a purpose. Knowing this, I did not venture to commune with her for some time, but when I did, by letter, express to her a word of sympathy, she convinced me that my reasoning on her case had been right. Though her body invariably remains in the same con- dition, yet, at times, she is able to lift her hands and move her fingers. At these times she often pens her thovghts, and records her experience. In reply to my letter of condolence she wrote : — " I was enabled to bear my dear father's removal with comparative calmness, he had been so great a sulferer, and for so long a time. The moment I knew his spirit had left its earthly tabernacle, I, in imagination, watched its entrance into the heavenly city, and heard the Saviour say, — * Well done !' I hoped soon to join him. My bodily sufferings at this time were great and many, but the sweet consciousness that there was with me in the furnace ' One like unto the Son of God,* cheered me so much that I could often say, ' Lord, it is good to be here.* But a heavier cross was pre- pared for me, — waves and billows were to pass over me. How shall I tell you my feelings when I was informed of my dear brother's danger, and his death ? And scarcely was my brother no more, ere my beloved mother was overtaken m with TKIALS. 249 with the sloq) from wliicli sho never iiwoke. Now my cup of sorrow was full, — my heart was overwliflmer HUMBLE LIFE. if if they would. I refer to my conduct to my father and mother." For several minutes wo walked on in silence, for John seemed deeply affected, and I did not know what to say. At last I asked, — " Are they both dead ]" " Yes, many years since ; and I believe that my wicked- ness shortened their days." ** Were they religious ]" "Yes. I now think that two better creatures never lived ; but from the time I became a young man, they had nothing from me but sorrow upon sorrow. They died when 1 was at the worst. I believe they offered up thousands of prayers for my salvation. Many of them I heard, for we had daily prayer ; but, long before they died, I refused to join them, — I either contrived to be absent or walked out of the house, — but now I set a value on the old prayers beyond language to express. They piled them up in heaven for me." "In what did your bad conduct principally consist V " Refusing to attend church, abusive language, neglecting work, bad company, late hours, and worse. But I did not think of the pain I was inflicting at the time, in fact, I did not care. A kind old creature, who lived with my parents for many years, and who now resides in a cottage near my farm, has told me, at times, of what she saw, and she always weeps while telling. She has several times given me the history of one night, part of which I knew. " On going out on the day she refers to, my father told me, with a troubled look, that my conduct was getting past bearing, and that if I was not at home by eleven o'clock, he would bolt the door. Mother heard what he said, and I' ANSWERED AT LAST. 255 looked very uneasy, for she knew ho would perform his tlireat. My poor mother had often waited up for me much later, though eleven is a late hour for farmers. The old servant, when first telling me, said, — " * I saw your mother go up stairs several times that day, and I knew what for. She knew where to take her troubles, and you, Johnny, found her plenty of them. When night came, and it began to be late, she becanje very uueiisy, and many times opened the door and looked out into th^ ila;*':, liearkening for your step with breathless anxiety. Your father sat reading his Bible by the fireside, but, poo** man, he did not read much j he looked more into the fire than into the book, for he was greatly troubled. He looked often at the clock, and I thought he was afraidof the time coming. I, too, was very anxious, for I. knew what was going on, and would have given my new cap to hsive heard your feet coming. " ' The clock iitruck at last. Your father quietly roso, and bolted the door. Your mother bent down her head to hide her silent teai'S. I believe the shooting of that bolt went to her heart. O, Johnny, it is a sad thing to bolt a door on a child, — to lock one out that ought to be in. Not a word was spok«n. We all retired to bed, but not to sleep. I think your motiier was long on her knees that night ; and I have heard her say since, that neither sHie nor your father elept ,;ii l.s f prayers l>ecome a changed charac- ter. He made the i;i! i- jiarr of his father's days, days of continual Borrow : so much so, that he once said to a friend uith whom ^ wUrS coiivcx'hing about Lis sou, that he was hi . Ill 258 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. afraid that ho should lose his natural aflTection for him, and become absolutely indifferent to his welfare, either here or hereafter ; — but he finished this painful sentence with a flood of tears, showing that his love for him was still very jMjwerful. Many times when Thomas was out late, his mother would pretend to be busy sewing, that she might have an excuse for remainine; up, so that the door might not be bolted against her wicked son ; and frequently after her husband had retired to bed — not to rest — did the poor afflicted creature kneel down and pour out her soul to God on behalf of her erring child ; and Thomas, more than once, when peeping through the keyhole, saw his mother on her knees, and knew for whon: she was praying ; and though he was often more or less drunk, yet he could afterwards tell how painfully the sight affected him. Tlie mornings following these late hours, bad company, and drink, were sorrowful mornings. Few words were said W any of the family at breakfast. The little that was eaten, was eaten in sadness ; but the cause of all this would seldom be there, for he was like almost all such, too big a coward to face the consecjuences of his own wicked doings, and so contrived to get out of the house or remain in bed. He was in b«ti ©ne Sunday morning when all the rest of the family were gone to their place of worship. The subject, that morning, was David's sorrow for his son Absalom. The preacher wept amch while speaking of the broken hearts of Ijodly parents, broken by the conduct of ungodly children. Poor man, he spoke fi\)m experience, and he was speaking to some who could weep with him. That was the lust time the father of Thomas attended a placf of woi'ship. He gradually sank in health, lingering for many uioutlis. Step by step he went to the grave, with- ANSWERED AT LAST. 259 out any particular disease. The last day of his life he wished to have a private interview with his son ; he felt anxious to give him his hlessing, and a last warning, while he was able to speak. Thomas was led into the room of his dying father by his weeping mother, with tears rolling down her cheeks. He sat down beside the bed ; the father stretched out his thin, clammy hand, and Thomas took hold of it, waiting his father's words, but none were spoken. Speech had fled ; he never spoke ag^^iu ! Every day that Thomas went to his work he had to pa.ss within a few yards of his father's grave. I have seen him several times in the dark looking through the rails on the spot where his parent lay buried, and once ventured to ask him how he felt, as he was looking on the last resting place of his good, Christian father ] " O, he was a decent old chap," he replied, and went ■^vhistling away. Shortly after the night I last saw him he left the country, and little was heard of him for some time. One morning a letter came addressed to his mother. It was the hand- writing of her son — the undutiful son of a thousand prayers. On the last page of the letter were the following words : — " Mother, do you ever feel your heart hard when you pray? I have been on my knees many times, asking God to forgive me for my conduct to you and my poor dead father, but O, how hard my heart feels ! I want to pray, but somehow cannot ; yet I cannot give it up. Most of this letter has been written on my knees. The Lord have mercy upon me, and soften my heart, and bend my stiff neck. O Lord, keep me and save me !" When his mother received this letter, she, like Ilezekiah, went in private and spread it before the Lord. O, how she lii 260 TALES OP nUMDLE LIFE. praj^ed again and again tliat lior ungodly, wandering oliiM might now become a new creature in Christ JesuH. feho rejoiced over the letter, but she rejoiced with trembling. Hope was now brightening, but doubt still lingered, and she was afraid to say a word about it even to her most inti- mate friends. But letter after letter followed, all in the same strain, and then one came that money could not buy, telling the dear, dear mother, that Thomas was now a par- doned child of God. The pilcd-up prayers of the father in heaven, and the mother on earth, were answered at last ! Five years have now rolled away since Thomas wrote this letter to his mother, but still he remains a sincere and active Christian. He holds h'gh office in the church, and is much beloved and respected, and is an unspeakable comfort to his widowed mother ; but Thomas has often been heard to say that he never thinks of his father without a bitter pang of sorrow. " But are we always to wait till death before our prayers are answered?" some may ask. No, not always, though many have done so. Good old Mr. Grimshaw, one of the most popular and useful pi'eachers in his day, had a most wicked son. He prayed for him long, but he died without an answer. This son, on one occasion, entering the church where his father has often preached, was greatly overcome with sorrow and grief because of his sins, and, while at a prayer-meeting held after the service, in bitterness of soul he besought the Lord, for Christ's sake, to have mercy upon hira, and pardon his transgressions. His prayer was heard, and in the ful- ness of his joy he leaped to his foet, and, lifdng up both hands t<)wards heaven, called out with a loud voice, — " O what will my father say ? what will my father say ?" Yes^ AN.SWKllKI) AT LAST, 2G1 and wli.it will many a fatlior and mothor yot say, wlicn thoy shall soe tlu'ii* rotunusd j)nxligals in glory ! l»ut we do not always wait so long. There are thonsands whose hopes have hoen so long dc^fcrred that hope was almost gone, who have yet lived to see their hopes realized. Pray- ing breath is not spent in vain, and we give the following as an illustration : — Near the town of Bury, a place about five miles from llochdalo, there formerly resided a good old Christian of the name of Crompton. This man had l'?en long a labourer in the Lord's vineyard, and had been the instrument of much good to others. How inscrutable is this truth to many, and yet it is a truth. Ministers, Sunday-school teachers, and others, who are anxiously working and praying for the con- version of souls, can see others saved, and those for whom they avG most concerned hardening their hearts against all efforts made on their behalf. Tliey see many of the most unlikely brought to Christ, and those they have most reason for believing should be converted, become the most hopeless and hardened. Nothing but faith in God, and a conscious- ness of duty, could keep such men to their work, — reasoning never oould. This is one of God's lessons to teach us that the souls of other children — the souls of strangers — are as precious as the souls of those we feel we could die for. And if we have to preach and pray with sadder hearts, it makes us more in earnest : what to us is a great grief, may prove to others an unspeakable blessing. Our very sorrows, may, in this respect, be turned to the glory of God. Crompton was in this mysterious position. He had one son, named Samuel, who was to him a source of continiud anxiety. He had trained him in example and precept with much care, and while he was young — while ho could " give 1; K. 5,. 1>G2 TALES or HUMni.E LIFE, Ilim a kiss aiul ptit him to l)e(l " — lie was full of liriglit tli()u<^lits for tli<5 futur(! ; but as lio rose up to manhood, and his disposition began to unfold itself, ho turnod out to ho a very ungrateful and relKiliious son. Ifo left his homo, wandered for several 'oai-s from plaeo to place, and grow every day njore v/ioked. All news from Samuel was bad news, — all rey.oits respecting his conduct only deei>ened the wour.i in his father's heart, lie wished him at home, yet feared his coming, IFe seldom mentioned his name, yet there was no name so often thought of, and 08i)ecially when the old man was at pi ayer ; then he was never forgotten. O, what millions of j)rayers have followed the steps of wandering prodigals ! I have often thought that one reason why so many emigrant ships safely ride tho storms of the trackless dee}) is because so many pniyers follow them. Crompton's prayers had followed Samuel, and, after many years, wlien in shattered health, in the words of the prodigal he said, " I will aj jse, and go to my father." His father received the returning son with mixed feelingu of pain and pleasure, pain to see him so very miseiuble and wretched in ai)pearance, and pleasure to see that ho was yet out of hell. The change in Sfmuei's external appearance was not greater than the internal. His haughty soul was bowed to the dust, and he was come homo to implore forgiveness, and to tell of the wonderful power of saving grace to the chief of sinners. O, what joyful news to the poor old father ! his long-sorrowful countenance beamed with cheer- fulness. He had many times prayed,—" Lord, whatever may become of Samuel's body, do save his soul ;" ar.d now he saw him again, weak in body, but ha]>py in the conscious- pess of sins forgiven. Disobedience to parents had shortened his life, as it has done to thousands. The sin of tho soul ANHWKRED AT LAST. 203 WiiH pai'doiuHl, l)iit tljc cous(M^ucnc'(!S to the body was a long, ■wasting «i<'kin'.sH. During tho latt0()ts, this coat, waistcoat, an«l trouH'»r8, niaclo of gooout three years when her brother John was taken away. So completely was she i)ro8t rated, that she could not sit up or change her jwsture. She could use her hands, and the stroke had not affected her head, but in other resi>ect8 sho was quite helpless. She had learned to read in tho Sunday-school, a place she loved and attended regularly as long as she was able ; and now she found her little know- ledge of reading of great value. Sho improved herself in knitting and sewing, for sho always said, — " 1 will do what I can for the poor children in this place who cannot do any- thing for themselves." She greatly regretted not being able to write, for sho wished to occupy her mind as much as possible to keep away depressing thoughts. A good Christian, who often visited the workhouse, hearing of her wish, kindly under- took to teach her, and for several months attended to his charge, until she was able to write a letter to her brother. But often, after all that was done to mitigate the lonely sorrow of Priscilla, she was very sad j for none but those m ili 2G8 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. who have experienced it can tell the dreary, dt^prcssing effects of a long, protracted aflliction, — to be, month after month, and year after year, in tlie same condition, cut off from life's social enjoyments, and shut out from the world's busy scenes. The spring comes, and tints the world with ten thousand shades of beauty, but not for them ; to them flowers bloom and die unseen, except some loving hand gathers and brings them to the sufferer. The lark, the thrush, and the linnet fill the fields and the forests with their song, but they sing not for them. The shady walk, the mountain scenes, that inspire the poet and enrapture the philosopher, bring no inspiration or raptui'e for them. The church bell tolls its Sabbath peal to welcome worshippers ; but for the invalids they peal in vain, except to remind them of their loss. To have wearisome days and nights ; to lie awake while all around are sleeping ; to spend the long, lonely night in anxious thought, or troubled dreams, — no sound but the watchman's tread, or the striking hour, re- (piires something more than human he]p to fortify the soul against despair. Priscilla had not got that something, and, as a consequence, was often in the deepest despondency. She wished to die, yet was afraid to die. She was often found in tears, but had no hand to wipe them away. Is it a wonder that she should say, — " I have now been lying on this bed of afiliotion for seven years, and yet the doctor gives me no hope ! O, how gloomy are all my prospects ! I have iict one bright spot in this dark wilderness." Little did poor Priscilia know, when she uttered this moui-nful sen- tence, that she had yet to lie on that bed thirty years longer. How merciful is the Almighty in keepin^i; down the curtain of futurity, only revealing to us our coming troubles as lie knows we shall be able to meet them ; telling us that PRISCILLA 269 <( sufficient for the day is the evil thereof," thereby teaching us not to anticipate sorrow. But behind the dark cloud that had so long hung over Priscilla's hopes a light was appearing, and by the finger oi' a stranger was she pointed to this light. Many Christian friends, whose heai*ts beat with sympathy for the poor, the sick, and the sorrowful, went to the workhouse at various times. Amongst them was one who, when she came to the bedside of Priscilla, and heard from the trembling lips a sketch of her history, was touched to the deepest derUis of her soul, with a desire to be instrumental in !^ minting the desponding one to Him who can bind up the bieaking heart. In affectionate language she said to Priscilla, — " They tell me you have been laid helpless on your bed of sickness seven years, my dear sister." " Yes, a little over seven years." " Does the doctor give you any hope that you will ever be better " " Not much. I think he has no hope himself." " No doubt, my dear sister, you would like to get well, and he like other young people, walking about in the workW" " Yes ; I often think my lot a very hard one, and wonder what I have done that I should suffer as I do. I many times wish I had never been born, or died when I did not know what death was." " Then you are afraid to die, Priscilla ]" " Yes." " But the Bible tells us that tliey that die in the liOrd are blessed. Have you never read that cheering statement V " Yes ; but I do not understand it. I have many times read in Hevelation of the glories of heaven, and the happi- 12 ^ ^ L i I is: 270 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. :1 !i i ! 3 f I: I ness of those who had gone ; but I think I shall never get there myself." " But, uoy dear sister, the way to heaven is as open to you as it was to them. He that ojicned the way not only showed them, but led them every step ox the way ; and though there be a multitude that no man can number, from every nation, people, and tongiie, every one of them set out from Calvary, and Calvary is, and ever will be, the only ]ilace from which a poor sinner must start on his journey to heaven : it is from the Cross to the Crown." Priscilla turned her head to hide her teare. The last sentence evidently made an impression ; light was breaking into the dark mind of the poor invalid, and that light was the light of life. The kind friend wiped the tears from her own eyes, and from the eyes of the poor sufferer. Then taking hold of her hand, she kneeled down by her bedside, aAd, long and earnestly, prayed that God, for Christ's sake, wculd speak peace to the heart of the sorrowing one. That prayer was heard, but not that day did the answer come. Again and again did the earnest ChAstian, — the angel of jnercy, — visit the house of the poor, and read to Priscilla the blessed promises out of the holy book. Again and again did she, with increasing power, point the now penitent sin- ner to Him who came into the world to ssi\e sinners. Again they parted ; but soon after the following letter, written by Priscilla, was put into the hands of the kind, Christian lady, who read it with raptures of joys : — " Dearly Beloved Christian Friend, " 0, my dear friend, what a Saviour I have found ! In him I have now more than I could ask ; in his fulness I have found all thut my poverty could need ; and you, my dear friend, have been the humble instrument in the hands PRISCILLA. 271 of tlie Lord my God, of bringing me to the knowledge of the truth. I pray God you may never grow weary in well doing, but still go on visiting the sick, comforting those who are cast down, and instructing the ignorant. You de- light to do good in secret, but He that seeth in secret shall reward you ojienly. O, my dear friend, be fervent in prayer fen* the covcrsion of sinners. *' My dear friend, phnise to forgive my freedom and man- ner of writing to you, for it is all love which I owe to you for the kindness you have shown to me. " I remain your truly affectionate, " Humble friend, " FttlSClLLA P. PllOFFITT." I Now the spring may come, and, with its warm, soft breath, call forth the millions of flowers from their winter slumber; the linnet, the lark, and the thrush may fill the air with their melodious song ; the yoimg, the healthy^ and the strong ma,y walk the shady grove, or climb the moun- tain's side, catching pleasure from the scenes and sounds ; but thcrti is not one of tlvem more hai)py than the new-born babo in Christ, tln)ugh lying a sick pauper in the parish workhouse. True happiness comes not from without but from within ; ])eace with God through Christ is the only source of ival joy. Millions have proved this true, but never one to the contrary. Did Priscilla now wonder what she had done that she should suffer so much ? No. Did she wish she had never been born, or died when a buby ? No. Did she now fear to die ? No. Did she despair of ever getting to heaven ? No. Old things were [)asHod away, and all things were become new 1 The gloom that hung over her mind was now ciisperscd ; KKWf)H^JJ^pw^PTPBTPpKf»'- 272 TALES OF UUMBI.E LIFE. *' The cloud of deep darkness by mercy was riven, And she saw through the opening the oright face of heaven." God's greatest gift to man is pardon and peace, and the witness of the Spirit that we are His adopted chiklren. Priscilla had now got tliis greatest of all gifts. What a blessing to any, but especially to one who had yet to lie helpless in the workhouse for thirty years ! Priscilla's conversion opened out to her an entirely new sphere of action. She had now an object in life ; she now became anxious, as all real converts do, for the good of others. By her example, she taught them meekness, patience, resignation, and kindness ; and by her precept, be- came an instrument and guide to many of the poor, igno- rant creatures around her. From the day of her conversion she prayed that she miglit never be ashamed to testify to the power of saving grace, but speak of the love of Christ to poor sinnera on every fitting oj)poi ity. To many hun- dreds in the workhouse, and to friends and visitors wlio came to see her, she became a preacher of the gospel. Her peace was deep, and her joy great. The promises of the Bible were to her more precious tlian gems, or pearls, or countless gold ; they filled her soul with holy raptures. She often sang, — " In the dark watches of the night, I count his mercies o'er, I praise him for the blessings past, and humbly ask for more." Hearing of several persons in various parts of the country being similarly afflicted, she opened up with th^m a con-es- poudence. Seventeen of these letters I have had the privi- lege of reading, and all show how earnest she was in trying to point the poor sufferers to the source of all comfort. To Elizabeth Hill, Great Moore-street, Bolton, still alive and confined to her bed, she writes, — PltfSCILLA. 273 II ( "Preston, Marcli 21st, 1833. " My dear Sister, '• Wo are »till in the school of aflliction, and how long our dear Lord intends to keep r.s there I do not know ; but tills I hope we know, we are in the hands of God. O en- treat Him to fit us for the whole of His will and pleasure. I also trust it is our heart's desire to devote ourselves anew to the Lord, beseeching Him that all our affections may be morf^ than ever consecrated to His glory. When we consider how great our privileges are of calling God our Father, it ought to make us very humble. Compared witli such a relationship, the world and all its pleasures seem less than nothing, and God ap])ears all and in all. O how precious is His word ! Were 1 able to tell you what I feel when read* ing in my blessed Bible, — but, alas ! it is impossible. It may well be called a precious book. I ofteii wonder what would become of us without the word of God ; we should, indeed, be comfortless creatures. " From j'our companion in the furnace, "PUISCILLA P. PllOFITT." One of her Icttei's expresses her great distress of mind at the loss of the use of her left arm, because it deprived her of power to work a little. She was never again able to use it, and her visefulness, as far as regarded knitting and sewing, was" ended. Some time after . siie was smitten with a partial blindness. This was a sore trial, for she became dej)endent on others to read to her out of her blessed Bible ; l)ut none of these misfortunes caused her to utter one murmur. The medical gentleman, who attended her almost daily for twenty- six years, states that, though her sufferings were often very severe, he never heard one complaint escape her lips, but, on 274 TALKS OF IHMl.l.F LIFE. I, i the contrary, slio was full of (ixprossions of tliaiikfulnos.s for what sIk; called her mercies. And the governor of the work- house often declared that I'riscilla was a blessing to the whole establishment. The ignorant gathered round her bed to hear words of wisdom. Conscience-stricken sinners asked her what they must do to be saved ; the .sorrowing sought her sympatlv and advice ; and the friendless could always reckon on PrLscilla as one whose heart was filled with love to all. Disputes were brought to her for settlement, and seldom wei*e her peaceable counsels rejected. But the most interesting sight, and one which was liun- dreds of times witnessed, was the poor little orphan children of the workhouise brought to her beside 'to learn their prayers. Poor things, she frequently wept for them when she came to the part, — " Bless my fathor and my mother." They had no father or mother to bless ; and the loss of her own parents caused Priscilla to mingle her tears with the tears of the poor lonely creatures. Many of them to this day, remember her kind words to thein when kneeling by her side. One, who now holds a respectable position in society, says, — " I learned niy prayers at PrisclUa's bedside, and from her lips first heard of the love of a Saviour for poor children ; and I believe my conversion to God in after life to be the result of impressions received from her at that time. Night after ni^ht, for many years, the kind school-misti'ess of the Union repaired to the now almost blind Priscilla's room, to read for her a portion of the holy book. Many of her observations on what was read were truly sublime. Christ's love for sinners in dying to redeem them, and going to prepare for them mansions in glory, filled licr soul with wonder and love. When I stood beside her bed, and heard r * Ill PKISCILLA. 275 hor expressions of gratitudo for Gotl's wondort'iil mercies, tny conscience smote me for my want of fai h and confidence. Hor Christian experience seeuned immeasurably richer than mine, and my i)rayer on leaving was, that I might gather strength and confidence from what I had seen and heard. *' Yes, twenty-three years have I l)een confined to this bed of sickness, and if it be God's will that I must remain twenty-throe years more I am quite content, and only desire to wait His time and eullor His will." This was snid by Friscilla m Miss C. Johnson, who, for nineteen years after, went, almost weekly, to see and talk with her sick fri(3nd, " to learn, but not to teach." To this lady, and to Mrs. Fishwick (another of her long-tried friends), she was greatly attached ; they were to her friends indeed, and both speak of her with the tenderest afiection. Christmas day was to Friscilla the day of days. On this day she annually renewed her covenant with her God, solemnly consecrating herself to serve Him, by living a holier life, and in every possible way trying to seek His glory. The songs in the street, — " Christians, awake !" wero to her the most delightful sounds. To all the inmates of the Preston workhouse this day was a joyful day, for the guar- dians })rovided for them an extra feast. The rejoicing was generally very great, and Friscilla cheerfully entered into their feelings, for she loved to see them mei'ry and hap])y, — she could rejoice with them that rejoiced. The Christmas morn of 18G3 arrived, and to the inmates then present it will bo long remembered. Many of them wore seen standing in groups, and with anxious looks, talk- ing about Friscilla. The orphan children whispered to each other that Friscilla was very poorly. The halt, the maimed, and the blind, heard that her case was hoj)eless, with saxl 27G TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. l;i hearts. Tliroughout. tho entire house sorrow was vrrittoii on every coiuitenanee, as the report sjn-oad from room to room that she was dying. The clock struck tliree, and, witli one last expression borne on her lingering breath, — " What am I ]" — tho soul of the long-afllicted child of poverty and suf- fering winged its flight from a paiiper's bed in a parish workhouse to the bright and glorious plains of I*aradise. Farewell, thou child of many sorrows and many joys, thou hast taught the world a lesson. Murmuring souls, who fret and ])ino over little ills, i*cmembering all their crosses, and forgetting all their blessings ; counting theii cloudy hours, but never reckoning their days of sunshine, may learn from thee, who was forty-two years confined to thy bed, thirty of those yeara with a helpless arm, and fourteen years almost blind. Yet, from the day of thy conversion to God, — stretching almost over the entire length of those many long years, — not one nuirnnir wjus heard to jkuss thy lips by the many thousands who witnessed thy patient suffering. Amongst the many evidences that those Christians who aro h)ng(>st in the fire shine the brightest, may now be coxmtod the forty-two years bed-ridden Priscilla. JULIA; OR, THE FIRST WRONG STEP. Frequkntly I llnd myself taking stock of our congrega- tion at the Chapel for the Destitute, timing the singing of the opening hymn, and think that few gatherings present such a variety of character. Wo have vei*y old men and women, who have grown g ey in the service of Satan; many less advanced in years, but old in crime ; middle-aged, who are only just beginning to think about ser'ous things ; others still younger, but who look much older than they are, in conseiiuence of the self-imposud hardsliips through wliich they have had to pass. We have a goodly number of the staid and orderly, but very poor ; some who have seen better days, and who seem thankful for such a shelter ; some who come for a few services only, and some only once, whose brown faces and seedy garments indicate their restless characters. These brown faces are to me n(jt the least inter- esting, for with most of them there is a hiirtory of disobedienco to parents, of homes foi-saken, of morals ruined, and prospects blasted. Some of them 1 have seen writhe in agony during the singing of the sweet songs of the sanctuary, or the read- ings from the Holy Book, — being thereby forcibly rcMuinded of their happier days. The wanderings of one of these last characters constitutes the substance of this narrative. At one of our services during the past year, atnongst the brown faces there was • xie evidently young ; judging from 12* 278 TALES OP miMBLE LIFE. 1 i t* ii her apiM^araiH'O slio iniglit l>o nbout twenty yoars of ai;p. Everything ahout licr iiulicatod that «ho was a wanror, and, during tlio singing of tlio first hymn, she sat down on the fonn and buried her weeping face in a part of her torn dress. I liave witnessed many such sights as tliis, and I often feel that I could weep with them. I have only to suppose myself in their condition, or imagine them to be my own sisters or brothers, or children, and by thus bringing it home can enter into their feelings. As I expected, the wecpcu- sought me out after the service, I provided for her a little food and a niglit's lodging, and I next sa\7 her seated on a step in Drake-street, waiting my coming to my office. Poor thing, her feet were so swollen and sore she could scarcely move, and it was with difficulty that she could walk into my room. She evidently thought I might be her friend, and voluntarily gave mo much of her history. On asking her how old she was, she replied, — " A little over twenty years, sir." " Have yon a father and mother living ?" I asked. " Yes, sir, both." This question greatly distressed her. " Have yon sisters and brothers ] " " Yes, sir, four ; all younger than myself." " How long have you been from home, my girl ] " " Going on towards two years, sir," was her answer. " Have you ever written to your parents to tell them you are alive?" " No, sir, I durst not ; I have often thought I would, but ■when I tried I felt sick. I have so disgraced both them and myself that I dare neither go home nor write to them." " Have you attended the Sunday-school ? " ** Yes, sir," — weeping — " ar.d I have had two Bibles and THE FIRST WU()N<; STKP. 279 a C'hurt'h Service given to m(^ Ly my tcaclicr, for good conduct."* " And whatever made you leave; home, vry girl 1 — wcr* your parents not kind to you 1" " O yes, Hir, my parents wore very g^^od to mo. We all attended a place of worship, and many uiues when wo have been all going to school on .i Sunday morning, father and mother watched us off, and seeiixd < pleased to see us all so nice going to a j>lace of worship," "Then why did you not remain at home, my child 1" "Well, sir, two neighbouring girls were often talking a1>out wishing to see strange places and other towns, and we began daring each other alx)ut setting out. On one of our wakes we got all our better clothes, putting on as many as we could, and ran away, intending to get work at various places for a short time, and then go on further. We had each a few shillings with us. We thought we should like to see Liverpool, but before we got to Livei'pool our money was all sjt lit, though we walked all the way to save it." "And V lat did you do in Liverpool without money? — did you get work ? " " No, sir ; we each pawned part of our clothing, and the eldest girl persuaded us to go to the theatre. I was never in such a place before, and I felt very miserable ; all the young men and young women seemed to be very wicked. After the play there was a ball ; the wickedness of the ball was greater than at the theatre. I was miserable at both. I trembled and felt as if I should faint. The oldest girl laughed at me, and got me some spirits to drink. I never knew how we got to the place where we lodged. When I awoke in the morning, I was on a miserable bed in a dirty room ; the other girls were still sleeping on the floor. fr'.!: IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 ;f iM iiM 2.2 '- ^ ill 1.4 1.6 V] % A^^ ^.'^ (rm. w W o^i ut it was only a dream, a dream of home happiness, from which the first wrong step had driven her. Yes, she had suffered, but what must have been the suffering of her parents and all the family 1 I have sometimes wished that the wrong-doer might be the only one to suffer ; but it is often the most innocent, loving, and affectionate, that have to endure the keenest anguish, through the bad conduct of those of their own family and fireside. When I see mothers pressing their lovely little ones to their breast and covering them with kisses, I have often mentally prayed that they miii;ht always be able to kiss them, and never wish they had not been bom. The following day I had to attend a gathering of the Mothers' Meetings, under the care of Mrs. Midwood, of Hollingworth, near Mottram, and sent down to Smith's lodging-house, requesting Julia to meet me at the railway station, at half-past two. Poor old Mrs. Smith brought her, and on ray arrival I found them, waiting for me. On arriv- ing at Manchester I took a cal> to the London-road ter- minus, but found she could not leave till a qaarter-past six, while my train left at a quarter-past four. While talking with Julia at the station, I found her much troubled about ill W ! ,-, :' ^ ' M i 280 TALES or HUMBLE LIFE. [ liow she must venture to go into the house when she ar- rived, ami concluded it would he best to telegraph for some one to meet her. She stood beside me in the office, and when the message was read, saying, '• Julia will arrive by the half-past ten train from Manchester ; please meet her,^* she sat down on a box, and again wept bitterly. I felt concerned at not being able to see her off, and tried to interest the station-master in her behalf, by showing him the letter from her father. He very kindly promised to see her right, and give her in care to the guard on the line she hid to travel. I bought her three cakes for the journey, and, having got her to promise to wi*ite me the first moment she could on getting home, took her hand to bid her fare- well, and prayed that God would pardon and bless her. Long the poor creature held my hand, and sobbed out a farewell, with many blessings. When the telegraph messenger ran to inform the parents that Julia would arrive by the half-past ten train, he produced great excitement in the neighbourhood, but especially in the family. The little brothers and sisters laughed, and cried, and danced, and all begged they might go to meet her. The hours from five to ten o'clock seemed long hours, but, when the time drew near, father, mother, and three of the children, went with throbbing hearts to the station. The train was late, but at a quarter past eleven the long absent child was locked in the wild embrace of ten fond arms, amid sobs and weeping. Poor Julia ! she held down her head in shame ; she felt a poor guilty thing ; she knew how ragged and wretched her appearance was ; but, miserable and degraded as she was, she was welcome, — the dead was alive again, the lost was found ! On returning from my Saturday night and Sunday engage- THE FIRST WnOXO STEP. 287 menta, on the Monday morning, I found on my desk tho following letter : — " Dear Sir, •' I write to let you know that we have received our daughter safe, and we will i)ray to God to keep her in the narrow path, and I hope God will bless you for what you have done for me and mine, and as soon as it is in my power I will pay back to you what she has cost you. Both of the letters from Julia's father, as given above, are exact copies, with the exception of the name and residence, which I do not think it right to give ; and 1 am sure my readers will see the prudence of withholding them. If this narrative of poor Julia's wanderings and sufferings shall be a warning to others, who, regardless of the sorrow, and pain they inflict upon their parents and friends, are determined to see the woi'ld, my purpose will be answered. We are all tempted to do wrong, some more, some less, and " let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall. " Julia was tempted by two wicked companions to run from home, and she fell. I never see an old man or an old woman who has grown gray in the path of virtue, but I feel for them a deep veneration ; but at the same time I cannot help won- dering whether theif temptations have been as strong as those who have fallen by their side. Have they passed through the terrible tests that have overthrown their ruined brothers and sisters ? or have they had a firmer grasp of the hand of Him who alone can keep them fr(»m falling. 1 be- lieve an ounce of grace will go as far in some as a pound in others. The meek di;ciple, John, did not seem to need so \ 288 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. ■ r I" -1 nuich of liis INItistcr's care as tlio rougli, headlong, fiery Peter ; but it is a consolation fur some of iis to know that tlus j)Ound of firaee for the Peter can be as easily obtained as the ounce of grace for the John. If Julia had taken notice of only two lines in that book given to her by her teacher for good conduct, — those two lines, — "If sinners entice thee, consent thou not," — she would not hare had to carry a scar on her conscience all the days of her life. She left the school, left her parents, left lier little brothers and sisters, became a companion of fools, and however long she may live it will be a sore place in her memory. It is a mercy she did not perish on that day of her strong temi)tation, when she sat by the river. The thrush that was then singing in the trees over her head did not say, — " Stop, another trial ; stop, another trial ;" but she thought it did, and the song of that bird was to her a song of mercy. Her little sister's arms were not really round her neck, but she felt as if they were : this was another check to preserve her from destruction. The poor wanderer was getting sick of sin, and the Lord was mercifully preserving her from eternal destruction. I hope the lady who kindly 8j)oke to Julia in the lodging-house at Huddersfield, urging her to give up her life of wickedness and return to her parents, will still visit those haunts of ifiany a prodigal and lost one. One of them is now restored to her home, and her little sis- ter's arms are again round her neck : may the gentle Shep- hord keep them both ! Having recently to attend several meetings in the midland counties, and one of them being in the town where Julia's parents resided, I was glad of the opportunity to call and see them. I easily found the place, for I had the two letters THE FIRST WRONG STEP. 289 from tho father with me. Tho door was open, ami Julia, in amazement, called out my name. My [jresence was hailed with words of thank fulness, and \fith swimming eyes. Julia was greatly changed; her appearance was now neat and respectable, and she had got back her own natural complexion instead of the wanderer's brown face. But she will never forget that First Wrong Step. ■;; Si; i i i: 1 1 1 I \ i * 1 ■ i i 1 ,jl^v^i.a^B.a^^iMl^M^^^i^M^||,M^^ | ^||!jl^^j|lMl | ||||,y jm NO COTTON. I I • !i During a depression of business, about fifty years since, a local board for relieving the poor passed the foolish resolu- tion, that every male person receiving parish aid should have the letter p stitched on the left arm, to point him out as a pauper. The p, about two inches in size, was cut out of red cloth, and intended as a badge of disgrnce. A good man, with a sickly wife and several small children, had long been unable to obtain employment, and was at last forced to go to the parish. The red p was stitched on his coat sleeve, and, as he was returning home, a thoughtless young man called out, — *' There goes a pauper! There goes a pauper !" " Yes, my young friend, but p stands for prince as well as pauper, for though I am poor at present, yet, by the grace of God, I am a child of God ; I am set among princes, even the princes of His people." It is well that amongst the English people, — and nowhere more than in Lancashire, — there is a deep repugnance to be classed under the red p ; hundreds would sooner suffer death. But, during the last three years, a terrible necessity has been laid upon hundreds of thousands of as honest, in- dustrious, noble-hearted men and women as ever dwelt on God's earth, and these have been forced, with almost break- ing hearts, to submit to what, a few years since, they would NO COTTON. 291 ! J i,: even Imvo thoitglit inipossiblo. No toiiguo, no ])cn, will ever V)0 able to tell of the open distross, or hidilon and silent HufFer- ing, manfully endured by tens of thoiisunds of mill hands during the terrible cotton famine. The whole world hii3 looketl on in admiration of our patient, peaceable endurance. Rochdale, though not the greatest suflerer, will long remember, with ])Hin and sorrow, that period of hor history, when the winds of the Atlantic no longer wafted the cotton- freighted ship to our shores ; when the long chimney no longer sent forth its dense volume of smoke ; when the last fibres of wool passed through the machine, and the million wheels of industry stood still ; when thousands and tens of thousands of artizans, with their wives and children depend- ing upon their labour for bread, were seen quietly and thoughtfully gathering together, asking anxiously how long this thing would last. Then the more wealthy and affluent, forgetting all differences in religion and politics, began to form Committees of Investigation, determined to do all they could to help the poor. What a lesson have these periods of distress taught the different sects professing religion ! Why cannot we agree as well respecting feeding souls as we did then about feeding bodies? Our Committee consisted of a Quakei", our Vicar, an Independent Minister, the Catholic Priest, and the writer. Other Committees throiighout the neighbourhood were simi- larly constituted. Suitable books were provided for canvas- sing, and we soon found that fourteen thousand persons were requiring immediate help. Four large boilers, capable of supplying four hundred gillons of good, nutritious soup daily, were erected. Corn dealers, butchers, and grocers were contracted with for large supplies. Tickets were taken to the houses of the starving. S^ven large rooms were pro- 292 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. vided for sewing-schools for the young women, to provide clothing, and keep up their industrious haltits and self-respect, and adult schools and public works for the men, as far as possible. Every day, for many months, the tide of distress rolled deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until the scenes at all the Kelief Boards became truly appalling. But the various Committees manfully stood to their posts, meeting and work- ing, and many of them weeeping, day after day. And let it be known that almost every man constituting the various Committees, who laboured night and day during this terrible struggle betwixt life and death, were professors of religion, and the active members of Christian churches. Teachers of the various Sunday-schools met to sympathize with, and assist the young under their care. The various churches throughout every county sent their contributions. Rich and poor, nol only in our own, but other countries, sent their gifts, and even the Free States of America sent two ships laden with food. Never in the world's history was there such a general manifestation of feeling and sympathy for a distressed people. Vet, after all, the sufferings were intense, and the privations through which they had to pass were painful. » From early morn might be seen crowds of hungry men, women, and children at the various offices for relief. First came those who, being improvident in their habits, are at all times only a week from starvation or debt. Next came those who had been more careful, and held out much longer. But last of all came those who created the most commisera- tion, for they were the careful, saving, and truly respectable portion of the working-classes, who had determined to hold out to the last moment, but were compelled to submit to dire necessity. Many of them were members and officers of NO COTTON. 293 men, Clifistian chiirclios, and teacliors in onr Sabbath-scliools. Many of these last comers can tell how, in various ways, He who never forgets His sufF(;riMg children, mysteriously pro- vided for them, — sending help from unknown sources, when all other means seemed to fail. One family, not greater sufferers than many, we select as an illustration. One morning, before break of day, there was seen amongst the throng of people standing at the door of the relieving office, one who was there for the first time, — though it was many months after tlie office had been opened for the dis- tribution of food. So numorous were the applicants this morning, that Richard was seven hours before he reached the ])lace where he had to present his ticket. After obtain- ing his loaf of bread and small bag of meal, he returned home, hungry and cold, laid his bread and meal on the table, sat down near tlio small fire, bout down his head, and covering his face with his hands, said, — " This is hard work, I never thought we should coinc to this." The rest of Un family looked at him, and the food he had brought, in silence and in tears ; for though they were hungry, sorrow had so filled every heart, that none offered to partake of what ho had brought home. But Richard had been in the daily habit for many years, of remembering God's mercies, whether great or small ; and dunng these miiiy years, when his cup of temporal blessings had been full, his songs and prayers had ascended to heaven. And, now tliat the hour of his bitterest trial was come, he could yet trust him who is still able to multiply the loaves and fishes, and who nun\bcrs the sighs of those He loves. Turning round in his chair, he knolt down, and the rest of the family followe 1 hU example. In the fulness 13 ,^, 294 TALES OF nUMBLE LIFE. of his heart he poured out his soul before Him who never turns a deuf ear to the cry of the poor. " O Lord," he said, " Thou has not caused this distress, it comes from man's wickedness. Thou k newest our poverty and our sorrow ; Thou k newest how we are in danger of disgracing Thy cause and the church with which we are connected, by not being able to pay our just debts. And Thou knowest how this pains our hearts more than all our want of sufficient food. But, blessed be Thy name, we are in Thy hands, and we will trust Thee through this dark dis- pensation, believing that Thou wilt in some way provide for us. Lord, help us to trust Thee, for Thou hast told us to call upon Thee in the day of trouble, and Tliou wilt deliver U!«." The debts that so troubled Richard, and to which he re- ferred in his prayer, consisted of four pounds eighteen shillings for rent, one pound four shillings for coal, seven shillings for milk, and some smaller debts. When the mills stopped working he had ten pounds saved ; and though every penny of the ten pounds had been carefully spent, yet the continued want of employment had, in spite of every effort, involved him in these debts. This caused him con- tinued uneasiness, for debts are sore tortures to an honest mind. But Richard's prayer was true. God had not sent the distress, for He liad sent a gracious harvest ; but it came from the wickedness of man, and more especially from that sum-total of all wickedness, tlic man-stealer. I have in my possession a flour-tub. Wishing to keep this tub as a memento of the purpose for which it came over the Atla itic, I had it cleaned, painted, and varnished, and lettered a > follows, on one side : — " I am one of the thousands that were filled with flour. NO COTTON. 295 and sent by tlio Free States of America, in the sliip George Griswold, to the starving people of Lancashire, whose miseries were caused by the aggressive civil war of the slave-owners in 1862-3-4." I never see the tub, but the horrid carnage now going on in bleeding America passes before my mind. Our cup in Lancashire has been one of tears, but the cup of America is one of groans and blood. Justice has mixed that cup, that nations may learn how God permits wicked men to punish each other. For all laws based on injustice contain the seeds of revolution. The pride and wealth of the slave- owning American has sprung fiom the tortures and mur- ders of the bought and sold African. The simoon of the African deserts, the ferocious beasts and deadly reptiles of the African forests, are but as the gentle breeze to the tornado, compared to the ai)palling horrors inflicted upon her by the accursed slave-trade. The African mother, while watering her rice-ground, hangs her basket-cradle on the low branches of the Mango- tree, and sings in plaintive accents, — "When bad man shall come to steal thee Hush, baby, ho ! May he be good massa to thee, Hush, baby, ho 1 If he will not take mo with thee, Hush, baby, ho ! Then I'll pray him not to flog thee. Hush, baby, ho ! How often has this song been interrupted by the loud yells of the captors, rushing upon a peaceful village ! and the morning sun has risen over the dun smoke of its smouldering ruins ! its youth dragged away in chains to the suffocating twM 296 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. hold of the shiver, wliile the .Hgcd and infirm are left to perish broken-hearted. The horrors of the middle passage do not admit of descrip- tion. Gnawing hunger, burning thirst, madness, suffocation and death ; — bodies cast overboard, to be devoured by the shark, who ever fattens in the wake of the slave-shij), from the banks of the Gambia to the American shores of the Atlantic. Thirty thousand have been annually torn from their homes to supply this horrid traffic. Thousands die on the road broken-hearted ; and those that survive are sent to toil on the cotton grounds, under the lash of the taskmaster, and deliberately worked to death. For American slave- holders, publicly and openly, have decided that it is more jyrojitable to work them to death, and buy new ones, than to prolong their lives by humane treatment. If they attempt to escape they are shot, or hunted down by bloodhounds. By law, if seven of them are found together, without a white man, they are all flogged. To give or sell them a Bible, or any other book, subjects the pereon that dares do so to a fine of two hundred dollars. If found holding a prayer-meeting, any magistrate can, without trial, order them twenty lashes each. They are often forced to flog each other, — sons their mothers, and fathers their daughters. The American Slave States are one great conspiracy to insult, degrade, debauch, murder, and damn the poor slave, — and all for dollars ! But the knell of slavery is sounded. The vampire that has sucked the blood of one of earth's continents has received its death-wound. The prayers of the blaclc man have gone up to Him who says, — "Vengeance is mine, and I will repay." Richard, like hundreds of thousands of the cotton hands in Lancashire, knew why he was sufluring, and, like others, NO COTTON. 297 was willing to suffer still more, if it should result in the freedom of the dowu-trodden Negro. He hiid been tlu'eo years with only a few days' work ; yet, during those three years ho had never lost confidence in Clod's power to provide for himself and his household. To a friend who was speak- ing to him about his circumstances, he replied, — " We have sat down scores of times to nothing but bread and water, yet, with the blessing of God with it, we have been as strong and as hearty as if we had dined on roast beef and plum pudding every day." But the third year was to Richard a time of almost con- tinual trials. Clot)»'-^g was wearing out; his debts were increasing by little and little. Ho owed four quarters' rent for his pew in the place of worship he attended, besides the rent of his house. At last he received a note, demanding the payment of his house-rent, or an execution would be immediately served upon him. This may seem cruel, but his landlord's entire living consisted of the rents derived from a few cottage houses. When Richard received the note he was very miserable for several days. Had he been the only sufferer, he had many friends in the church who would gladly have rendered him help ; but they were nearly all like himself, and could render him no assistance. Day after day, for several weeks, he, in private, and at the family altar, laid his case before liis heavenly Father, — still be- lieving some way would be opened out for him. Richard's Christian experience at this trying season was, like many others in the same church, one of mingled joy and sorrow. They all stood in need of some counteracting influence, and to them the various means of grace, ai\i] especially the Sab- bath day, were times when heaven seemed let down to earth. The communion of saints, the stings and prayers of m 298 TALES OF IIUMULK LIFE. the sanctuftry, the swoot proinises of tlio Word, and the com- forting influence of the Holy Spirit, often give a depth to joy, and a sublimity to hope, whicli lifts the soul of the believer immeasurably above the sorrows of the wilderness, and nerves him with double energy for the coming conflict. Those who imagine that the Christian's joys are all pro- spective, know but little of Christianity. Tlie moment a man becomes savingly converted, heaven within him has begun. The Jews had ten possessions on the other side of Jordan, but they had two on this side. Christ is gone to prepare mansions in glory for those that love him, but He sends us the Comforter while we are on onr way to those mansions. It is painful to hear worthy persons in our ex- perience-meetings everlastingly talking about the " realms of the blest," and the " land of pure delight," as if no de- light or bles-ings were to be had before we go there. Such Christians miss many joys by not seeking those joys in Christ here. Habakkuk declared he would rejoice in the Lord, although everything was swept away. Paul could glory in tribulation, if the power of Christ rested upon him. And Peter, with Christ, could say, — " Master, it is good to be here." Heaven, we know, will be a glorious home, — glorious beyond all that we conceive ; but let us try, by faith and love, to sing while on our way there, and daily trust in Him who loves to see us happy. Richard was one of those who did not go to meet trouble ; ho did his best, and left the rest with God. Though he was now hourly expecting the coming of the bailiffs to take all his goods, yet he never lost faith that a way would be opened for him. He never missed the social means of grace, or public worship, for these were among his well-springs of joy and peace. His trials wei-c new very heavy, but those heavy NO COTTON. 209 ti'iiils brouglit hiiu nearer to bis Goil, and made him moi*o earnest for df^iverance. At last that dy bearer of the five pounds, and reachetl home panting for breath. Laying down the money on tho table, she exclaimed, — " We are saved ! we are saved ! Let the bailiffs come when they like, we are ready for them !'* The sight of the five pounds had a strange effect on all the family, and they first joined in a crying chorus, and then all knelt down to return thanks for this, to them, very great mercy. And they were saved : the clock, the cupboard, the draw- ers, the bookcase, the pictures, the beds, the table, and the old arm-chair were still to remain together. The warrant of distress for rent was not served ; the bailiffs did not come ; and this poor victim of the cotton famine fell on his knees, and thanked God for sending deliverance. And it was a deliverance ! To be " sold up," — to have the pre- cious ]iieces of furniture bought on the marriage-day, given by friends, or bequeathed by parents, — every one of which is a memento of some event of either joy or sorrow, and all to their poor possessors of great value, — to have these torn 3U0 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. from tlieni, tird hcpelej-sly scutterctl, is one of tlit; real ca- lamities of this life ; it stani})H the nioinory with a pang that the longest life will not cflace. And it is one of the com- forts I feel, -svhile writing these lines, that T have been the means of preventing four homes from being broken up by the auctioneer during the cotton famine, by the funds furnished to me by the friends of the poor. Itichard had just escaped the auctioneer, and had re- moved to another cottage, when I heard of his trouble. His wife, whose health was never very good, had suffered so much in consequence of the troubles through which they were called to pass, that she ^Y{ls mostly confined to bed ; Richard's debts were not all paid, especially the coal bill, about which he had often been " dunned." There was yet no cotton, no work of any dt'soription to be had ; no money, but what ctimc from tlie Relief Board, or a few friends. One of these friends, almost as poor as the rest, one day carried Richard eleven oatcakes, and another took him a little flesh meat. I liad received, fi'om some j)rivate soldiers in India, through Ml*. Shepherd, of Silverdale, Lancaster, one pound twelve shillings, to be given to some s[)ecial case of suffering caused by the cctton famine. I sent my visitor with one pound of this money for Richard, and a little wine for his sick wife. The twelve shillings I gave him afterwards. When my visitor laid the sovereign and the wine upon the table, the heart of Richard was so full of thankfulness and gratitude, that for some time he was overwhelmed with the depth of his emotions. The gift was a very timely one, and was acknowledged with gratitude in the way most in keeping with their feelings. All knelt down, the visitor VO COTTON. 301 and the family, ami Ilieliard, in liis simple ami huniMc way, said, — " Lord, Thou art good, Thou art very good. 1 have trusted Thee long, and I can trust Thee still. Thy i)ro- mises to Thy children are as firm as the everlasting hills. Thou hast said, * Thy bread shall be given thee, and thy water shall be sure.' Thou hast sai*' * Call upon rae in the day of trouble and I will deliver thee.' We have called, and Thou hast again and again delivered us, and Thou wilt do so till our last moment on earth ; and then, if we are faithful, we shall go to where we shall be hungry no more." All rose from their knees, but all had received a greater blessing than sovereigns can bestow. how precious is gratitude ! It is this that makes the morsel of the poor man so sweet ; and while he is acknowledging the goodness of God who gave it, he experiences a pleasure that exceeds description. It is this that gives a relish to the simple repast, and it is the want of this that makes affluence and riches a burden : where there is no gratitude, there is no real pleasure. When my visitor returned and informed me of the affect- ing scene witnessed in the humble cottage of poor Eichard, it was evident that both the bearer and the receiver had partaken of mutual pleasure. And so it ever will be. lie who has said, " It is more blessed to give than to receive," and, " He that watereth others, himself shall be watered," has tied doing good and getting good together. O think it not a little thing To lessen but one throbbing pain ; The act will surely with it bring To you its own reward again : To wipe one tear from sorrow's eye, Ourselves will feel the greater joy. 13* Vi 302 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. The mill iit which Richard should be working is still shut up. Little debts are still unpaid, but Richard is keeping a book, in which he puts down every i)enny given or lent him, and declares that when cotton comes again, if health and strength be still given him, he will return every penny ; and if they will not receive it, ho will give it to some poor worn-out old men and women, or to some charity. I hopo his wish may be granted, and by that time he will be near tho83 mansions, where the inhabitants can never suffer be- cause there is No Cotton. I. -'.3 MY YOUNG RAGGED FRIENDS. One of my ragged acquaintances, whom I had met at various times, always greeted me with a smile. She had frequently an old basket, sometimes turned wrong side up, on her head, and at other times svinging it by the broken handles. A few weeks ago, as I was turning the corner of School Lane, I heard her calling out, — " Good morning, Mr. Ash worth, how are you V " Good morning, Lizzie, and where are you going to-day V " I am going a-begging, for you see I am like to look after my father and mother ; for my mother is now very poorly, and my father cannot do anything. If he liad not a little pension we should have to die, or go to the workhouse. You know my mother was very poorly wlien you saw her, but she is worse now." " And do they send you out to be^, my child 1" " Yes, sir, for you know it helps up a little," was her reply. " But you should not beg ; I am afraid you will become a wicked girl if you grow up a beggar." " "Well, sir, I will not always beg ; but they send me out, and tell me I must get something." A few weeks ofter this morning's conversation, on my re- turn home very late one evening, I was informed that a little girl, living in a lodging-house in Church Lane, and calling 304 TALES OF IIUMBLK LIFE. herself Elizabeth Johnson, hud Keen at my lioiise tln(!e tinios, "wanting me to go to read and pray with lier mother, who ■was dying, and that she was weei)ing every time she eamo. One of my visitors and Kcriptiire-readers went to see tho motlier, and reported the poor ereature in a weak state. A short time after, little Liz/ie eame again, weeping, to tell mo her mother was dead, and to lusk me if 1 eould find her an old black frock to go to the funeral. " I have not got anything at present that will do for you, but if you can find a second-hand one, and tell mo how much it costs, I will pay for it," I rejdied. The overseers of the poor provided a coffin, and dues, and preparation was made for interring the poor wasted mother of little Lizzie. Perhaps nowhere is the social i)Osition of the dead more completely revealed than in the contrast presented at fune- luls. The solemn peal of the muffled bell — the silent mutes in their sable robes — the nodding plumes of the stately hearse, drawn by black, prancing steeds, and followed by the mourning coaches and the carriages of tho wealthy friends, all tell of the rich man's funeral, Who died on ft bed of down, And was laid iu a marble tomb. Such funerals wo have often seen pass beneath the lofty arches of our beautiful cemetery. But few scenes have been witnessed more affecting than the funeral of Lizzie's mother. She had breathed her last in a common lodging-house, amongst strangers ; her only earthly comfort was to have her eyes closed by her feeble husband and hor only child. On the day of her burial, when the pauper's hcarsp came to remove her remains to their las MY YOUNG KA^GP.D PRIKNnS. 305 rosting-plnco, tliere wns not one living lioing to follow hor to tho grave but her little weeping, luilf-cliid child ; Jind an the lonely little thing followed its parent through tho various streets, hundreds of persons stood still to gaze on the alFecting scene. It was a calm, sweet Sabbath, the 30th of October, when Lizzie Johnson followed lier mother through the gate of tears. Many persons were then visiting the last resting-place of their once-loved ones ; but the sight of the strange funeral drew them round tho sorrowing child ; and though none of them knew who it was who lay in the coffin, yetall hearts beat in sympathy for the solitary mourner, and they all crowded round the pauper's grave. In reply to a few feeling questions by one of the sijectators, Lizzie told them of her mother's sickness and death, of her step-father's illness, and of her temporary home in a lodging- house. A subscription was opened for her on the spot, and thirteen shillings and threepence collected. A kind-hearted woman, hearing of the case, was so affected that she offered to take and adopt Lizzie for her own child. The money was given into the hands of a policeman, who accompanied Lizzie to the lodgings, intending to give it to her father, but he found him in such a state of drunkenness, that he dared not trust him with it ; so he brought the money to me, with a req 3st I would take charge of it for the daughter. When I sent for Lizzie, and told her of the offer made by the kind woman, to take her for her own, send her to the Sunday-school, teach her a trade, and be a mother to her, her little eyes brightened up with joy ; and when, in a few days after, she called to pay me a visit, in company with her new mother, so changed was her appearance, that few people who had seen her in the cemetery would have known her to be the same. I gave her the money and a new petticoat, *'t. 30G TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE, my heart full of thankfulness that He wlio promises to take care of the helpless, had provided such a home for this poor, motherless, and worse than fatherless child. On the morning of the same day that my young friend interred her mother, I was requested to visit an acquaint- ance who lay sick in the workhouse. On passing the prison, which stands near the workhouse, and seeing the wife of the gaoler standing at the door, we entered into conversation about some young boys who were then locked up awaiting their trial for stealing. The woman seemed much concerned about the wretched home example, and gloomy prospects of some of the young criminals. On opening the strong doors and iron gate, we ascended the steps leading to the various cells, and on drawing the slides of each cell door, that I might see and speak with the inmates of those dismal abodes of penal suffering, a thin streak of light, from a small, high, grated window, enabled me to recognize several of my other young friends. One of them, called Stanton, seemed delighted to see me. " And you are here, my boy !how is this ? " I asked. " They say I have been stealing, sir." " And where is your elder brother 1 for I have not seen liim lately," I asked. " He is gone to Manchester New Baily prison for stealing, too, and will not have come back yet." " And whatever does your mother say ? — you will break her heart by being such bad lads." " No, not us ; she does not care, for she is nearly always drunk. You know her, don't you 1 She came to you last week to bug a p?ir of clogs for herself. I have the clogs on which you gave me." " And where is your father? Does he know you are here ?" MY YOUNG RAGGED FRIENDS. 307 iP • " II(; lives a long way off, with aiiotlicr woman : ho is like my mother, he does not care for us." " How long is it since you were at the Sunday-school, Stanton V " A long while since ; I am so ragged 1 cannot for shame go, but I wish I was there now." This last sentence was accompanied by a burst of weeping Yes, thought I, there is an amazing difference betwixt this dark, dismal dungeon, this sickening, gloomy cell, and the blight, cheering, happy class, in a blessed, joyful Sunday- school. Never did their glorious, heavenly character, so powerfully impress my mind as at this moment. Looking at them from this miserable cavern, they seemed to be like gardens of paradise, or realms of the blessed. Happy boys, and happy girls, whom precious Sabbaths find in the ever- blessed Sunday-school, who can sing, and feel as they sing — "I have been there, and still would go ; 'Tis like a little heaven below !" And God bless thee, my poor, poor little imprisoned friend ; they have sentenced thee to be once whipped, and to endure three months confinement in gaol, for it was not thy first offence. But this is not thy greatest misfortune — thy own words tell of thy greatest calamity : — " My father is living with another woman, and my mother drinks, and do^ not care for us." While I am making a few strokes in my diary, to remind me of my visit to the prison, a little intelligent-looking, but poor and ragged creafnre, creeps softly to the top of my office stairs, anxious, yet evidently afraid, to tell me his errand. " You want to say something to mc, my boy ; what is it 1 — come, lot me hear." 308 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. ""VTcll, sir, you know, a long time since, you Louglit me a new pair of clogs, with old tops. 1 have been making them last as long as ever I could, but I am now at the far end j if the factories had been running I coiild have done without coming to you. But I have done very little. You see all my clothing is nearly worn to bits, and the bottoms are nearly all gone out of my clogs. If work will begin I shall be better off, and then I p;hall not be so ragged and poor as I am." The little fellow blushed while he was addressing me, but spoke with great earnestness, and his eyes were swimming with tears. *' What is your name ? and where do you live?" " My name is Tommy Jones, and I live in Durham-street, I did live in Mason-street." " What does your father do 1" " I have no father." " Where is your mother ? Can she do nothing for you?" " My mother is in the workhouse, and I live with my sister ; but she cannot much help me."' " How is it that your mother is in the workhouse ? Is ehe old or poorly ?" " O no, it is her own fault. You know she went wrong ; if she had not gone wrong, I think we could have got along very well." *' What do you mean by going wrong 1 Did she go out of her mind ?" " no, she went away and left the door locked, and brother Edward and me were without anything to eat for more than a day. Edward was once three days, and I was two, and we were both nearly poorly ; we walked all over the town seeking for her, and when we could not find her, MY YOUNG RAGGED FRIENDS. 309 we did not like to tell anybody ; and we slept in pig cotes and coal-houses and anywhere we could get." " And where was your motlu.T my lad ?" " Why, she was drinking." Here the little fellow held down his head to hide his grief. "Drinking ! drinking ! your mother drinking ! then it is no wonder you are riigged and poor." " Yes, and she pawned the c) ock for drink, and sold the ticket for two shillings, ana drank that. She took the sheets off the bed and sold them for drink. My brother Edward had saved a few shillings in a box, to buy a new jacket, but she broke the box and took all he had saved, and drank that too." " Your shirt seems a poor one, my lad ; when was it washed V " I cannot have it washed, for it will come all to pieces, and I could not get it on again ; and this jacket I have on is my brother Edward's, but he lets me put it on." " When did you see your mother last T I asked. " Well, I went to take her a half-ounce of tobacco the other day, and I saw her then. My mother would be a very decent mother if she did not drink. She says she will never drink again," he replied. Poor little man ! who could turn thee away without help- ing to lessen thy sorrow 1 for thy tale of distress is true. My visitor, who was present, and heard these statements, knows thev are not overstated. I did what I could for him; gave him a note for his clogs, and also two good, new, boy's shirts that I happened to have at hand, and sent Tommy Jones home quite overjoyed, but couhl not forget his sad tale about his drunken mother. While penning these lines, I sec a pair of clogs hanging m^ 310 TALES OF HUMnLE LTPE. hesido nio, wlioso liistory is not a littlo })aiiifn1. Not many days since, another of my young friends, called Sarah tly up the stairs, and, M'K of K (nizie, ot Jvmg-streot, came smar with renjarkable eloquence, told me tliat her mother had sent her to ask me for a note for a pair of clogs. The sight of the dear young creat^^ure told its own tale; her bare feet were red with cold, and her thin, tattered clothes were little calculated to keep the body warm. I knew her mother and knew enough of her not to I'espect her ; but I could not stand proof against the appeals of the suffering child, and gave her an order to go to the dogger. In about two hours after, she came smiling down the street, quite proud of her new clogs ; not one of all the many persons that walked or rode up and down the street, was happier in their possessions than my little ragged friend, Sarah M'Kenzie, ■was of her precious warm covering for her feet. She laid them carefully by when she went to bed ; but the poor, little, heart-broken creature has never seen them since; for, whilst she soundly slept in her miserable bed that night, her mother pawned them for drink ; and again her sorrowing child walks about in a cold November, with her bare, red feet. When I hoard of this cruel, heartless conduct of the mother, I sent my visitor to demand the pawn-ticket, fetch them out, and bring them back again ; and here they are, for if I was to give thcmi to the child again, I should only be furnishing the worse than brut'jh mother with money to drink. But of all ray little ragged friends, there is none I have felt, and still feel, so much interest in as poor, feeble, af- fectionate Tommy Pollitt, My acquaintance with Tommy began a few months since, as I was passing the same place, near the end of School-lane, where I met Lizzie tho morn- ' MY YOUNO RAGOED FRIENDS. 311 ing she was going a bogging. As I nearod tlie place, an old Avonian was lifting np both hands, and, at the top of her voice, calling out, — " My heart fair warches [.tches], my heart fair warches, poor little thing ! My heart fair warches for him I" On turning round she saw me, and called out, "Here Mr. Ashworth conies, and I will tell him all about it. Do come here, Mr. Ashworth, and I will show you a sight that makes my heart fair warch." I followed the old woman with the aching heart, and we entered the most dirty, miserable home I ever beheld in my life, and that is saying a great deal. In one corner of this wretched room down stairs, there was something called a bed, consisting of filthy straw covered over with filthier rags. Amongst these lay a young sickly lad, almost worn to a skeleton ; his head hung clown at one end, for he had no pillow, nor anything higher than the straw on which he lay. The old woman led me near the bed, crying, — " Come here, come here ! God bless thee my child, but thou art a poor object !" Then turning to me, she said, — " See, Mr. Ashworth, this lad, little as he looks, is four- teen years old. He hurt the s])ine of his back by falling down the stairs several years since ; and he is a poor suffer- ing creature ; he never lies in the right place in bed or out^ his pain is so great. All the clothing he had was a pair of trousers,— he rolled thorn up for a pillow to lay his weaiy head on ; but his mother is on the fuddle, and she has taken the child's trousers and popped them for drink. Poor thing ! my heart fair warches for him, and I feel as if I could kill her if I had her here." Little Tommy looked mo in the face, with an expression of pain, sorrow, and fear; and, with tears in his eyes, said, — ! 312 TALES OP IIUMDLE LIFE. " Mr. A-sli worth, will you tell my mother that I did not tell you about tUe trousers 1 You know they were not worth much ; and I want you to say that I did not tell you that she had sold them." " But why do you wish me to say to your mother that you have not told me, Tommy V " Why, because she will abuse me ; I know she will, ^o say [ did not tell you." " Yes, my lad, I can truly say that, for you have not told me. Is there anything I can do for you. Tommy V For a few moments he looked at mo, evidently full of something he was anxious to say, and at last paid, in a whis- per, — " Will you talk to me about Jesus Christ T' Never, never, shall T forget my feelings, when poor, wasted, suffering little Tommy, on his miserable bed of straw, robbed by his drunken mother of the very pillow from under his sinking head, requested me to talk with him about Jesus ! O, what a thrill of j^y ran through my soul ! What a blessed change came over my thoughts and feelings ] In a moment I was seated on the broken chair beside his bed, talking with Tommy about the love of Jesus. " Do you think He will take me to heaven soon, Mr. Ash worth ? for I want to go, for I am so weary." " Do you love Jesus, Tommy, my child ?" " Yes, sir, I think I do. Does He love me V " Yes, I am sure he does, if you love Him. And if you love Him, and pray to Him to make you ready for heaven, He will hear your prayers and make you very liappy, even on your sick bed." Just then the mother came staggering in, and, walking up to the bed, looked me in the face with a fierc.', fiendish look, saying,— MY YOUNG RAGGED FRIENDS. 313 you " I do not thank you for coming here. If my boy wants anything, his fatlier and me nan get it for him. You are none of my religion, and T shall not let you talk to him." I retu ned the stern look, at the same time saying, — " What have you done with your Tommy's trousers ? You have taken them from under his head, and pav/ned them for drink." She cast a terrible look at the poor sick child. He saw the look and trembled with fear : but I soon set him ridit by saying, — " Tommy did not tell me, and he begged I would say to you he had not told me. An old woman up the street, that brought me in to look at him, told me. How much have you pawned them fori" For some time she would not speak ; but at last gruffly said, — " Sixteen pence." " Well, here is seventeen pence, go and fetch them back, and I will wait till you return." The moment she was gone. Tommy thanked me for saving him from being abused ; &nd we again began to talk alx)ut Jesus. O, how precious to me were those moments ! I cared far more about my little Christian inquirer, far more about leading his longing mind to the Lamb of God, than seventeen pence twenty times told. When the mother returned she rolled up the trousers, and rather roughly placed them under his head ; but it was evi- dent he was greatly afraid of her ; and when I took my leave of him, asking him if I might call again, he durst not speak, but liis eyes said, Yes. When I got home I sent a new shirt for the sick lad, for he told me had but one, and he wanted it washed : and 314 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. soon after I called again to see Tommy, to talk witli liim about Jesus. I found him still very weak, and greatly suf- fering. Yes, and I found his head again Jmnging down the end of his straw bed, for his mother had again j^a^'^ied his pillovj from under his head for drink t As I stood beside my dear young friend ; stood to see his wasted form — his wretched, miserable home, and more wretched bed ; when I saw his young face looking aged with suffering ; when I thought of his drunken father, and his still more drunken mother, my heart melted with pity, and my soul was heavy with sadness. Oh ! how I longed to see him die while I stood there, that his S[)irit might wing its way to Jesus, of whom he loved to speak. No man, no angel, can tell the terrible sufferings that thousands of the young are made to endiire, in consequence of the cruelty of their drunken, wicked parents. The hot- beds of young criminals are in their own wretched homes. If Lizzie escapes early ruin, it will be because of a providen- tial interference. The little imprisoned Stanton will have to return from the whip and the gaol to his drunken, sinful mother. Tommy Jones wept over his poverty and rags, the pawned clock and bed-sheets, having to be two days without food, and to sleep with the pigs and in coal-houses, all caused by her who ought to have been his chief comfort and joy. Sarah McKenzie had rejoiced over the new clogs I had given her to cover her cold red feet, and laid them carefully by when sha •\vent to bed, but tears ran down her cheeks in the morning, when she found they had been pawned for drink. And the feeble, afllicted little Tommy Pollitt, daily expect- ing to die in liis wretched bed of straw, had his trousers twice taken from under hia head, and by his heartless parent and MY YOUNG KAGGED FRIENDS. 315 pawned for drink. Well might lie say,— " I wish the Lord would let me die and go to Jesus." But Touimy still lives, and is not forgotten. A few days since T called to see him, and to talk with him again about Jesus : for to me he is the most interesting of all my YouNQ Ragged Fkiends. I -I THE LOST CURL. Fortune-telling is not so difficult as some people ima- gine, for is it not true that " Feathers show how the wind blows, Ami straws tell how the current flows ?" And is it not also true that, in some shape, we have all our straws and feathers, which give to the observing and expe- rienced such insight into our character, as enables them to foretell, with tolerable certainty, what will befal us in after days 1 For instance, I never see a man spending his money and time in a public-house, but I know that man is sowing dragon's teeth, and will have a terrible harvest ; nor do I ever see a woman neglecting her own household duties to gossip with her ntjighbours, but I know her children are not likely to call her blessed. I never saw a young lad with a cigar or short pipe in his mouth, who has turned his back on the church or Sunday-school, and can talk about his father as the " old governor," and his mother as the "old woman," trying to make himself look big by scoffing at things serious, but I know that young man is mixing a bitter cup for somebody, but one more bitter still for himself. Nor do I ever see a young womAn decked in showy finery, trying to attract everybody's notice, — preferring Sunday walks to Sunday-schools, places of amusement to places of woi-ship, and foolish companions to fireside duties, — but I THE LOST CURL. 317 am certain that sorrow is closo at lior heols. I know not how many books have been written on for tuno-tel ling, but I know of ono book that tells fortunes with amazing cer- tainty ; and in one passage it declares, that what wc sow WE MUST ALSO REAP. One illustration of this unerring truth, we give in the following narrative. Some of my readers will remember that, in my younger years, I resided in a village just outside the town of Roch- dale, called Cut-Gate. In this village there was ono public house and two grocers' shojxs. Out? of these shops was kept by an elderly widow, of considerable energy and spirit ; and, to help her in the business and household affairs, she ob- tained the assistance of a relative, a young female about nineteen or twenty years of age. The appearance of this young woman in our rural hamlet caused a little stir amongst its inhabitants ; for in most villages, everybody knows everybody, looks after everybody, and minds everybody's business, sometimes better than their own. Had she gone to reside in some largo town, she might have lived and died without her next-door neighbour know- ing her name. But not so in our group of country cottages. Wo all soon knew that her aunt called her Nanny, and the young women soon knew that she held her head a little above any of them, besides outstripping them in her stylo of dress ; for she was often seen in light, showy gowns, curls or ringlets, aiul a large scallo}»ed shell comb to fa.stcn up her back hair. One or two girls, the most foolish in the village, bought large combs, and tried to curl their hair like Nanny, but none of them oould compete with her. This caused not a little envy and mortification. But it was not our females only that wero influenced by the new arrival ; for some of the young men began to pull U 318 TALKS OF IIUMIiLK lAFK. \\\i ilnnv hliirt t'ollui'M, strotcli «lo\vn thoir eout-tiiils, and pay more than uhuuI attention to the brushing of their hats and shocH, with ft distant hope tliat they might not l>o entirely overlooked. After some time, one of thoHO young men was Keen arm-in-arm with Nanny, taking a Sunihiy walk ; and from that time it was generally understood that Iloheit and Nanny were engaged. One fine Sunday afternoon, almost all the inhabitants of our village turned out to see what, i)erhaps, had never been seen amongst us before. Two horwis, saddled and bridled, btood at the gi'ocer'b door — one with a lady's side-saddle on. While the children were gathered round the horses, and the villagers stood at their dooi-s looking for the riders, out came Robert anil Nanny, both finer than we had ever seen them before. He had on a white waistcoat, and she a long, light dress, and more curls than ever. He assisted her to mount, and both set off at a canter, quite astonishing every one of U8 ; for all were looking on with o]>cn eyes and mouth. When they had got out of sight, one old woman exclaimed, — " Well, that caps all ! If Robert weds yon lass, drai)ers will have to give him long credit." " Yes," replied another, " he will not need to go to old Thaniel to have his fortLv toud. I con tell him mysel." " Has she ony brass, I wonder ?" observed the firet speaker. " Brass ! Not her, indeed. I asked her aunt, and she said she was as poor as me ; and I am poor enough, every- body knows," replied the other. "Besides, what can he have 1 He is only a working man. Twice nought is nought, and nought will not keep folks on horseback." It was about this period that the circumstance took place Tllli LOST CUKL. 319 )ers old fii-st in he uglit, Iplace wlii<;li gives tlio ii'tlo to this Tmrnitivo. Tlic cottngt» in which I nisiilcd was two tloors fiom the gi'ocer's sliop. Quo room iioxt to the shop was used as a warehouse, and behind this room was a small i>laee, called the [)arlour. One afternoon, when I was about seven years of ag(5, I was helping in the warehouse, and was terribly frightened by a loud scream in the little } urlour. 1 ran to see tlie cause, and there stood Nanny, the very picture of despair, looking at a hirge h)ck of her hair that lay, along with the curling tongs, on the floor. Her aunt, having also heard the scream, can)o run- ning to see what was the matter. Seeing the lock of hair on the floor, she b(.'gan to scold her niece, declaring that, if she had been a minute, she had been two hours before the glass curling ; and, if she lived, she would have something more to scream about than the lei's of a few hairs from her head. Nanny, full of indignation, turned round to the glass, and began combing out her hair for a fresh start, minding, however, not to luive the curling-tongs too hot the next time, lest she might burn off" another precious curl. Soon jifter this event, the villi ge was all astir to gaze at a rather merry wedding party, going and returning from the church, and again the wise people were making their pre- dictions. One old man wondered how long it was sinv,e either bride or bridegroom had been inside a church before ; observing that he wished them much happiness, but some- thing more than a wish was required to make people happy. This merry w edding party was that of Robert and Nanny. I have no objection to people being merry ; I like to see proper mirth and joy ; but I do think, if there be one day in our lives that is an important day, it is that on wnich we link our destiny with one wlio will be to us a blessing or a curse. A Addling wedding is very often a foolish wedding. 320 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. For several months after the marriage, the young couple seemed all right, bnt it was remarked that Robert did not attend so well to his work as formerly. The reason of this was, he intended to change to some other business or trade, for his new wife did not tliink a blacksmith was sufficiently respectable ; and at her persuasion he left the forge, and commenced business as a wholesale dealer in malt. Respectable, indeed ! Is not all useful labour respectable? Is there not a real dignity in such labour 1 Many a man who through pride, has left honourable employment for questionable speculation, after having his high notions rolled in the mud, has been glad to creep back to his true position. •« Respectable is, as respectable does," is a maxim which applies to every grade of society. Soon after entering into the malt trade, it was evident to all that knew Robert that a great change was coming over liim. From being s])rightly and cheerful, he became silent and thoughtful. To get custom, he spent much time in public-hnuses, and this soon began to tell on his appearance. He bei^an to prefer the public-house to his own. He was deficient in what all dealers in malt especially require — self- control ; and very soon malt controlled him, as it has con- trolled millions. Oh, that malt ! that malt ! If one could collect the myriads of wretched children, whose pale faces are smitten by early sorrow, or stamped with the impress of early crime, and ask them why they are in rags, tatters, and tears, the answer would be " malt !" If one could stand on the top of St. Paul's, and shout with a voice that could be heard in every nuserable home in England, and ask — ■ " Why are you miserable 1" the answer from thousands of breaking hearts would be " malt !" Or if the same voice, tuniin" to the hundreds of prisons, with their almost count- i THE LOST CUKL. 321 silent Inie in tvnce. was self- is con- could faces ess of s, and stand could ask — nds of voice, ouut- less nnnod inmates, should ask why these j)ests of mankind are chuined, behind locks, bolts, and bars, tlie res])onse woidd be "malt!" Oi if we could stand on the brink of peuli- tion, and ask the lost souls what brought them into that place of endless woe, the rejdy from doomed mdlions, liko the roaring of many thunders, would be " malt !" No tongue, no j)en, can ever describe what misery, ruin, scnow, and crime MALT has produced. Robert, finding that he was sinking in health and circum- stances, wished to give up his destructive business ; but no ! his proud wife would not hear a word of it. For, though she new that his credit was bad, still she kept uj) her style of dress and showy appearance : and he, like many a poor, struggling husband, had a millstone hung romyl his neck, l^y a foolish, showy, proud wife ; as many a hard-working, honest father hast been made to carry continual sorrow, through the extravagance and vanity of proud, suowy daughters. I have often been ptdned both in our churches and chapels, by seeing the dignity, pomp, style, and evident self-admira- tion with which many of these gaily dressed females enter the house dedicated to humble devotion and pri'.yer, as if God Almighty were indebted to them for coming, and to hear them afterwards descanting on the dresses, and esj)e- cially the bonnets, of those that wens present. " Did you see jMrs. and Miss Edwards at tlio church yesterday ?" asks one, "Yes ; what style! ITow diil you like their bonnets V asks another. " Not very w(ill ; I dcui't think poA'-h triiu'iungs suit her complexion ] mauve, or niajenta would do much better." -I. II 'i *.' ^ dj TALES OF HUMRLE LIFE. " Did you sec Mrs Pliillips? Sho likes plouty of colour in her trimmings. Is ber husband doing much business ?" " I don't know, but I think he should be, for she costs no little to keep her j)onip, for They have the longest hills Who wear the most frills. " "What was the text on Sunday morning? for I have quite forgot," asks the first speaker. " Well, you are as bad as me, for I don't remember th.e text, or much of the sermon, only it was something about the Jews." This is only a small sample of what may be heard ovt;'.'' ■week, from a class of persons who seem to consider tlie church as only a place for showing fashions ; and it is quite time that ministers of the GTospel speak out on the question, for some of our sanctuaries are becoming places of gaiety, almost as much as the ball-room. While I do not believe in a religious dress — for I don't think religion consists in the shape of either coat, hat, or bonnet — yet I am persuaded that, as a rule, the dress is an indication of the mind. If one quarter of the time was spent in adorning the heart and in thoughtful preparation for the worship of the sanctuary, that is spent before the glass, in docking and adorning the frail, dying body, heaven wouhl gain many precious souls that will never enter there ; for, I firmly believe that many of our females think more about the shape of their bonnet, than the salvation of their soul. Isaiah spoke of su(;h in his day. Walking with wanton eyes ; mincing as they go; with chains, bracelets and mufilers; head-bands, tablets, and ear-rings ; mantles, wimples, and crisping-pins. These had all their doom predicted. It came, THE LOST CURL. 323 the the If the and piany rinly $hape mton lers ; and ^•auie, and come it ever will, for " the Lord hatcth a proud look." How immeasurably must such a tawdry thing be below the beauty mention(^d by Paul — adorned in moJest apparel ; not with broidered hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array, but with modesty and good works. Isaiah's mincers have ruined thousands ; Paul's beauties never one. TIjey are no expen- sive shams, but ornaments and blessiugs to every husband, every father, and every home. They are infinitely to be preferred, as wives, to mantles, wliimphis, and crisping-pins, and will be preferred by every sensible man. Well had it been for Robert had he chosen such a wife. Robert's malt business was a failure. His circumstances became desperate, and to escape from the consequences, Ito fled to America, leaving his wife to do as she could. No doubt he did wrong here, but people in desperate circum- stfinces cannot always reason. After he leffc, the shoj) was broken up, hor hus))and's father took the two children, and for many mouths Nanny lived amongst her new friends. But she was in good health, aid, had she bent her mind to her circumstances, as noble souls ever will, she might have found some honourable way of earning her bread. This she was too proud to do, however. Her friends, seeing this, one by one cast her off, and she was again left to fight her own battle. She now removed to Bolton, and for some time was lost sight of. But it ap]>ears that her love of finery was still her ruling passion ; for, on reading tlio paiiers, many of us were startled by seeing an account of her imju-isonment for stc^aling a shawl and a pair of Iwots. The evidence against her was so conclusive, that she was sent to Liver- pool, then; to await her trial at the assizes. Poor Nanny, how sad 1 was when I heard of thy dis- h 324 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFI- grace, thy droudful fall and tliy impending fate. I cojild have wept, and gone to speak a wonl of comfort to thee ; for well I remember how, in my boyisli day.s, tlion jiattcnl my young cheek, and gave me many a penny to take thy sealed letters to thy now self-banishod linsband. With my child's heart I loved thee, and tlionght thee a fine lady ; and when, in my innocence, I picked up the hot tongs that burned off thy lost curl, I felt a wish to put back thy lock of hair, if I could have done so. As my young heart wished for thee then, so do I wish for thee now, th.it thou hadst gone to some dear ])lace of worship, some house of j>rayer> and, in meekness of spirit, bowed before thy God, and sought I>eace with Him tliroiigh Jesus Christ. He would have saved thee, and guarded thee, and, instead of being immured in thy sileiit, gloomy prison cell, thou wouldst have been a happy child of God on eartli, or a blessed saint in heaven. The day of trial came : tlie heralds, lawyers, and jury came : and, with whatever indifference mere spectators may I'egard an assize day, to those whoso fate hangs on that day, and whose hearts almost die within them when the trumpet sounds to tell the judge is couiing, it is a very different thing, I have witnessed many such scenes, but never with- out remembering that another and last trump will sound, and then the Judge will come to judge us all. I have often thought of poor Nanny's condition on the day of her trial. It is pitiable enough to be imprisoned for crime, but it is sad, indeed, to bo without one loving heart, or one single friend in the wide, wide world. To love, and to be loved, is true life. God is love, and the source of love ; and the more we love, and especially the more we love Him, the more we are like Him. The devil cannot love, and those who LU'c most like the devil love the least. THE LOST CURL. 325 ay, pet ent ith- uicl, ,'1 Lim, hose Wlicn Nanny was brought from the cell to the clock, she held down her head in shame and sorrow. Ail eyes were fixed upon her ; and wlien the counsel for »he crown laid be- fore the judge and jury the crushing evidence of her crime, there was no reply ; she had no one to defend her, and the verdict against her was " Guilty ! " The judge lifted his head from a paper he was reading, and, in a voice of tenderness, said, " My young woman, have you any one in the court who can say anything in y«ur favour?" No answer. Again he asked, '* Have you no one present to speak one word for you 1" Nanny shook her head, but gave no answer. A third time he asked, looking round the court, if there was no person that knew her, that could stiy anytiiing in her behalf ] Still no answer ! He paused for a moment, and then, in slow, distinct words, said, " My young woman, the sentence against you is, that you be transported beyond the sea for seven years." One wild, piercing shriek, which sent a thrill of pain through the entire court, and Nanny fell senseless in the arms of the jfiilor. Scon after she returned to consciousness, one of the prison officials, with a large pair of scissors in his hand, came to cut her hair to the length allowed by prison rules. Crash ! crash ! went the shears through her yet long, beautiful tresses, and the poor creature was made to look like a felon indeed : but she did not resent it — she did not complain, or shed one tear, while her hair was being cut away. Dec^p sorrow had entered her soul — she was humbled to the dust — she was meek as a little child. Did she now remember her aunt's prediction 1 A few weeks after, tl.c transport ship came, and the trans- 32G TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. port ship went. Many on })oar(l that sliij) hail, like Nanny, darkened their future prospects by early follies and early ci'mes ; and, like her, were receiving the wages of sin, hav- ing inflicted on themselves and others unspeakable trouble. Oh ! how many biieaking hearts have followed the wako of the transport ship ! How many sobbing or wailing parting: ., never to meet again ! Early and continued piety would pve- vent these dreadful scenes. If none but the true Christian — the really religious — were imprisoned, transported, or hanged, every transport ship would rot, every prison would tumble into ruins, and the drop and beam of every gallows moulder to dust, before they would have one single soul for a victim. We know little of poor exiled Nanny after she left her native land, only that she became very meek, obedient, and kind to every one, and that she made many friends on the passage out, and when she reached her destination. We also heard that she never smiled, but often read her Bible ; that her health failed her, and she gradually sunk into a compar- atively early tomb. Her body now sleeps in a distant settle- ment and in a foreign grave ; but we trust that her bruised soul, renewed by Divine grace, is gone to where graves and penal settlements are unknown. Poor Nanny ! thou art not the only one that a foolish love of extravagant finery has dragged down to infamy and irre- trievable ruin : thousands, like thee, have had to wail, in after-life, over character, friends, virtue, peace, and hope, all gone — gone, never to return, in this world. And yet, this fearful whirlpool is still sucking down its thousands, who are bent on indulging in this destructive infatuation. Would that thy example might prevent some poor, erring creature, f I THE LOST CURL. 327 I love Irre- in all Ithis are )uld lave, from following in tliy fatal wako ; tlicn the object of tliis narrative will be answered. Whoconnnunicatod to Robert the intelligence of bis wife's banisbinont we know not, but wc know he returned from America some time after she was gone. He was greatly changed, and changed for the worse — malt was still doing ita dreadful work. He was never heard to mention his wife, or to make the slightest allusion to her ; not even when madly raving under delirium tremens, as he often was. We also know that ia one of these truly fearful conditions, with reeling reason and burning brain, he wandered wildly over a neighbouring moor, where he had often played in his happy, innocent childhood, and, in that frightful state of mind and body, he leaped into the deep, cold waters of the Lumb, near the valley of Clieesden. I have this day, October 27th, 1805, stood on the bank from which, in his moment of madness, lie plunged into the dark, deep waters, and this day talked with his near neigh- bour, Henry Howarth, who often tried to calm him in those hours of madness, and who, after the inquest, brought his dead body to the house from which he helped to carry it to its last resting place, about thirty feet from the centre of the east window, in the grave of his grandmother, in Spotland Chui'ch-yard. Poor Robert ! poor Nanny ! Silks and satins, mantles, wimples, crisping-pins, and malt, have done their gloomy work for you, as they have done for thousands : and never, while memory lasts, shall I forgat the lesson taught me by her who is the principal subject of this narrative. The pro- phecy of her aunt has been bitterly fulfilled — that prophecy uttered on the day Nanny screamed over her lock of hair — her bumed Lost Curl. EMMOTT. i As you enter the town of OKlliaro, fix)m the Mumps Railway Station, near the batljs in Union Street, there is a small cottage numbered 60. For many years the windows of this cottage had been fillect and smile at it, and it will respect and smile at you. To make this more clear, did you ever see a six-foot looking-glass V "Yes, many a one." " Well, the next time you see one, stand before it, clench your fist, and, with a look of defiance, say, * Who cares for EMMOT-: 331 jlencli i-es for you?' and j-ou will sco one with clcniclied fist ami defiant look saying, * Who cares for you?' ]Jut if you smile and say, ' Good morning, my liiend, I wish you })rosj>ority,' you will see one smiling in return, and wishing you prosperity. .Now, sir, this is society, and v hat you measure to it you will have meivsurod back. A man must, in this respect, reap what he sows." During this conversation we hul entered the house. lie folded his arms, leaned against an old mangle, and seemed in a deep study, then looking at his wife, said, — " Do you hear what this man says, huss ? I think there is some weight in it, for I have b jen snubbing and defying society for the last thirty years, and it has nearly snubbed us both into the workhouse. I think I will try smiling, — here goes," — and Emmott swept toffy, tobacco, cigars, and infidel pai)crs all out of the wintow, putting them on the top of the mangle, and pulled down his blind, — his wife staring at him with the gi'oatest astonishment all the while. While Emraott's wife was gazing at him in wonder, I was watching his proceedings with ploasure, and when ho had finished, I said, — " Well done ! and depend upon it you will be commer- cially a gainer. Now, if you keep a correct account of your dealings, I shall, all well, be coming this way again, and I dare venture to make up all you lose, if you will give me your gains ; and, now, what do you say to going to some place of worship ?" " Nay, nay ! Your looking-glass argument has knocked me down, for I believe it ; but no churches or chapels for me. Oldham folks will be amazed enough to see the shop shut up, but they will never see me in a church. I see by the bills on the walls that John xVshworth, of Rochdale, is II ! 332 TALES OF IIUMUIJ': LIFE. going to proacli in tlio cliupol ut tho end of tlip stnjct. I did tliink onco of going to lioar what that cliap had to say. I have road his ' Wilkins,' ' Sanderson,' and ' Nitf and his Dogs,' and long for a chance of just niuoting that uic Idling fool/' " Well, sir, if you will get ready, I will call on you about tho time, and we will go together." " No, no ! Chapels and churches are nought in my line — I wish they were all in ruins; besides, my Sunday jump is in the pop-shop, and I shall not go in these rags." When I returned to the house at which I was staying, and, during breakfast, recounted to tho gentleman and his wife the adventures of the morning — more especially my conversation with Emmott — they were greatly surprised and pleased. I expressed a wish that he might be visitet^ ^y a few judicious friends, to encourage him in giving up h n* day trading, and I thought it possible that he might yet be induced to attend some place of worship. This was done by Messrs. Mortimer, Hibbert and others, for they all became interested in Emmott's case. How mysterious are the ways of Him whose pathways are in the deep ! with infinite love and pity He looks on our fallen humanity, and, though there is no other name by which we can be saved but the name of Christ Jesus, yet many and varir>".G influences are at work intended to bring wicked men to seek salvation in that name, and to trust in the goodness of God. Bruce, the traveller, when dying in despair on the arid sands of the Abyssinian desert, was led to trust in God's providence from seeing a small green plant blooming amidst the sands. Linnajus, the naturalist, fell on his knees before the common English gorse, and thanked God lie had been spared to sec this additional evidence of i. EMMoTT. 333 our 3 by s, yet I bring ist in ingin lied to I plant fell on inked ice of His wlsflom. I know n poor woman who, almost l)rok<»n- licartiid with sorrow, sat w(M'jiiu"j; lH?siurposes of its existence, and is hap})y ; but T, a rational creature, am gloomy, and sad of heart. How is this ? If there be a God, Ho must have as much regard for my liappiness as for the happiness of that bird ? That bird sings its song without snubbing or insulting its fellows, or denying its Maker. It needs not to look into the six-foot glass to teach it that like must produce like." These reflections brought tears, and Emmott caught him- self offering up a prayer, that he too might answer the purpose of his existence, and become a hap])y man ; and, strange as it my seem, that prayer was the verse of a hymn taught liim by his mother — a mother that had olFered many prayers for her wayward son, but for thirty years he had never thought of it — but now that mother's verse — " Como holy Spii-it from above, Impart Thy gift of grace and love ; Visit me with celestial tire, And with Thyself my soul inspire," ■Hi—I 334 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. ■■:(( became the involuntary language of a burdened soul laden with guilt. The Sabbath followipg found Emmott in the house of prayer. Again and agjiin he sought the sanctuary, and in tears of penitence besought Him wliom he had denied and insulted to have mercy upon him, and pardon the most guilty of all guilty sinners. He Wiis in this state of mind when he sent me the following letter : — "60, Union Street, Oldham, Oct. 24, 18G4. "Kind Friend, — " I little thought when you came to my door the other Sunday morning, that I should have so soon to plead for God's mercy — me that had so often denied His exist- ence — but such is the fact. O Mr. Ashworth ! that I could but undo the injury that my principles and conduet have done, I might have some hope of yet being happy. Had it not been that the Lord directed you to my house, I should have been lost. Will you pray for nie, and if you can, soon come and see me ? " Yours ver}' sincerely, " KiCHD. Emmott." On my calling to see Ennnott I was much surprised to find him so greatly changed. He re(|uested me to remain with him as long as I possibly coidd, and take down in writing what he wanted to say. He then gave me the following sketch of his wayward life, which I give in his own words : " My earliest recollections are connected with Skii)ton-in- Craven. Tlien I went to the Sunday-scliool, l)ut left when ten years of age. When al)Out twenty, I lived in IJradford, and it wjis tlien I became an infidel, from reading Carlisle's "Destructive*." I joined the Charti&ts, bought a gun and 1 II I flee from the neighbourhood to escape imprisonment. I enlisted for a soldier, and had to stand ^uard over the jail containing three of our leaders — Frost* AVilliams, and Jones. This I did not like, and deserted. I travelled six hundred miles in womens clothes, but was caught, and I am now marked with the letter "D," I came to live in Manchester, and joined a company of low-lived infidels, and soon became so degraded, that my wife left me and came to Oldham. I followed her, and again found sevei'al of the same class, who call themselves " Secularists." AUi)ut this time I was perfectly savage against everyone pro- fessing religion, and took every opportunity of insulting them. I would not touch, or allow my child to touch the Bible, though I have flogged him because he would not tell a lie. I drove the Bible-sellers out of the Market-place by turning all they said into ridicule, and laughed and mocked at all the open-air preachers I could find. Many of them, especially young, inexj)erienced men, I have driven away, by asking obscene questions they could not or durst not answer. " I once pushed a donkey into a [irayer-meeting, telling the astonished company that I had brought them a sinner to be converted, that had as much a soul as any of them. " I was once sick, and, at my sister's re([uest, a minister came to see me. lie was taking out his Bible to read, but I told him to put away the cursed l)ook, and find mo two flannel shirts, which would do me more good than all the Bibles or prayers in the world. He replied that (rod could send l)lessings for the body as well as the soul ; but I told him he was a liar, for Cxod did not deal in flannel, if there was a God. " I never heard a church bell but I wished the grouiK 1 !«WW« 336 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. li would open and swallow up all the ehiirclies and chipola with the parsons, and I gloated in kec])ing open shoj; and selling sporting and infidel j)u1>lications ou the Sunday. Such has been my li^e for thirty years. " I have been in many towns, and amongst all classes of infidels, especially the Secularists. Some of these pretend to be rather more respectable than the old class of infidels, but they are all a miserable, wretched lot — a withering blight follows aught they take in hand. They are an organi- zation without a head, a body without a substance, denying the existence of a God, and are without faith in man. Re- jecting the moral law, they hiugh at all moral responsibility, and are only kept in order by the laws of the country. Most Secularists are better than their creed, for, did they practice what they pretend to believe, society would become impossible ; and I believe with Gordon, one of their late lecturers, * That a Secularist, to gain his own point, can com- mit the most horrid crimes, even murder, and be consistent witn his principles.' It is a mercy tliat mankind holds their principles in abhorrence, andthvt such a race of beings are almost extinct. " When my eyes were opened, and T saw how great a sin- ner I was, I felt greatly troubled about the injury I had done to others by the sale of infidel publications, those pass- ports to ruin, and resolved that not one more should pass through my hands or remain in my house. I gathered them all togetlier, with the books belonging to myself, costing in all about four pounds ; I i)ilGd them on the lire, and, as I saw thorn consuming in the fl imos, I ft.'lt as if I was burning the devil, and watched their destruction with the greatest pleasure. Now, thought I, you are done for. " Since this change came over my mind, my home is al- EMMOTT. 337 las 8111- luid [pass- pass jbem in iti as I j-ning latest \ al- roarly liko a paradiso lo what it was. Now, I Jiave a quiet, peaceable liome ; before it was like a bedlam, especially on the Sunday. Then it was filled with all sorts of rabble, talking all sorts of wicked, filthy talk, from morning to night. Never was there such a change in a house, and I hope God will have mercy upon me, and pardon my many transgressions, and then it will be a change indeed, — it will be bliss here and hereafter, and an immortality of bliss is bliss." Emmott finished this short sketch of his life by requesting me to provlue him with a Bible, that he might read it day and night. He also requested that I would couple our names with a date, so that he might be often reminded of the time and circumstances that had brought us together. I cheerfully complied with his request, and one true sign of the real change is, the book he once mortally hated he now loves. But is there not another sign of an amazing change ? No sooner does Emmott emei'ge from the gloomy casern of infidelity and catch a ray of heavenly light, but he began to talk about an immortality of bliss ! The change that Emmott was so troubled and anxious about came at last. He had been very attentive at the means of grace on the Sabbath, and requested he might be allowed to attend a week-night meeting for Chiistian expe- rience. From one of these meetings he returned in the deepest distress, and for four days sought mercy in prayera and tears. " O Lord, wilt Thou not pardon me 1 If Thou wilt not, I cannot be surprised, for I have laughed Thoc to scorn, and thousands of times insulted the very name of Thy dear Son that died for me. 1 have indeed been the chief of sinners, but wilt Thaw not save me ? O, do Lord, do ; for Christ's Seiko, that dictl for sinners, do savo mo !" 338 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. That Ijoart-broken prayer was heard, and again the power of Christ's blood was made manifest in being able to save the chief of sinners, for Enimott became a child of God, a sinner saved by grace. In a letter T received immediately after, in which he gives this prayer and his deliverance, he says : — " For a moment 1 felt as if I had left the earth, and that my spirit was soar- ing aloft into heaven. I felt my faith to be as strong as Samson. My wife says I am as hapi)y as a king, but no king is half so happy. This is the brightest day of my life, and now I truly begin to live for I am a child of God, bought with the blood of the Lamb of God, that takech away the sin of the world. I hope I shall walk humbly before Him, and daily ask His blessing and grace to guide me, and help me to live at peace with all mankind." Emmott's conversion produced great astonishment amongst all who knew him in Oldham. That the sneering, mocking, scorning, scolfmg, Sunday shop-keeping, infidel bookselling, thirty-year Secularist should become a Christian, astonished all, and greatly pleased many, but it was like a bombshell thrown among his old companions in infidelity. Many of these called to see if what tiiey had heard was true, and found it true indeed. But when it was reported that Eui- mott was expected to give a public confession of his conver- sion at the church he attended, many went who are not often found in a place of worship. This service, Mr. Mortimer, the minister, opened with sinking, prayer, and a short address. Several of the mem- bers spoke a few words, but when Emmott rose, with evident nervousness, all eyes were turned towards him, wih the most intense interest, and in breathless silence. His fii-st words were feeble and tremidous. He si)oke of the amazing EMMOTT. X\0 I with mem- vident h the is fii"st naming goodness of God in presorvinf; Ins life diirini; the many years of his wicked career, and mourned over his many transgressions, and the evil he had done to others. He al- luded to the mysterious way he had been brought to see his "wickedness and folly, but when he spoke of the love of God, through Christ, in pardoning his sins, he wept like a child. He concluded by declaring that he had enjoyed more real happiness in one hour since his conversion, than in all the time he was an infidel. Many that were present were much affected, and wept tears of thankfulness for this additional evidence of the power of saving grace. One poor man, an old acquaintance of Emmott's, declared that, *'if he could be as happy as Dick Emmott, he would give all he had, even his donkey and cart." My visit to Emmott after the public confession of his fnith was to both of us a joyful meeting, tie s})oke of his deep confidence in God's nifircy and love, tuid his firm conviction that He would sustain him iimidst all the ])eisecution and abuse he would i)robably have to suffer from his old compa- nions. I then took up the Bible, and, opening at the fifty- third of Isaiah, read, — "Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows : yet we did esteem Him stricken, smitten of God, and afllictcd. But He was wounded for our transgiessions. He was bruised for our iniquities : the chastisement of our peace was upon Him ; and with His stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray • we have turned every one to hia own way ; and the Lord hi'.th laid on Him the inic^uity of ua all." While reading this descrii)tion of our Saviour's suffering for us, tears titieamed down Eiuuiott's face. " What love ! u 340 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. ! wliat love !" he exclaimed, " and all for guilty sinners — for 8uch as me. O, what love !" Emmott's prayer at parting was the simple, earnest breathing of a thankful heart. " O Lord,'* said he, " how good Thou art ! Never, never can I praise Thee enough for what Thou hast done for me. What a wicked, wicked man I have been, yet Thou, for Jesus Christ's sake, hast forgiven me. I know, I feel Thou hast. Christ did carry my griefs and sorrows ; He was bruised for me, and by Kis strines I am healed. Do help mo to praise Thee ! O do help me tu praise Thee ! and bless all my old companions. Opej i their dark eyes, and show them the Lamb of God, that tt.keth away the sin of the world. Do, Lord, do, for my dear Saviour's sake. Amen.** On parting, with a face beaming with joy, he said, " Do you know I am now admitted a member of the Church ] Yes, 1 am ; and now, living or dying, I have the unspeak- able honour and pleasure of being a member of a Christian church. Happy day ! happy day ! who could have thought it?" Yes, Emmott, who could have tliovight it? Let none des- pair, seeing that faith in Jesus can snatch from the very verge of hell, such a vile tiansg.iessor as the Oldham infidel — lliciiARD Emmott. THE WIDOW. TiiKRR is no tlouht but that many women would be a vas'j cloal belter withoiit husbands, than to have such wicked, miserable creatures as they are plagued with ; and there is no doubt that many children would be gi'eat gainers by becoming fatherless, for they have fathers who are more to them a curse than a blessing. When I have witnessed the misery of some homos, and knew that it was caused by the conduct of those who ought to make these homes happy, I have thought that tho best use wo could make of some of our old coal-pits, would be to liil them with these torments, providing they had no souls, for thcsy dvidow mentioned in this narrative, are " widows indeed ;" left like the sparrow on the house-toj), alone ; bereaved of their stay and staff, forced to jitruggle with bitter adversity, and often to weep alone over tliuir h:ij)less condition. And it is a comfort to know that h'j;iven has maiked out tho widow for its s[)ecial caro 10 % I 342 TALES OF HUaiBLE LIFE. i I One of tlio noble replies given by Job to his * miserable comforters," wlioii they charged him ^vitl» liaviDg sent the ■widows empty away, was, that he had not turned a deaf ear to their cry, ])ut had caused their " hearts to sing for joy." And one of the mo.st touching scenes in the life of Peter, is when he stands looking at the dead body of Dorcas, and the weeping widows gatlier round to show him the garments she liad made for them. One of the imperative orders given by the Almighty to the ancient Jews was, " Ye shall not alllict any widow or fatherless child. If thou afllict them in any wi.-e, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their cry." And cue of the standing tests of true religion before Gray«a"H iumI Uiuih ui'u of no avail for mo now.* *' With tho same look of sorrow, Imt in a lOtvor and sad- dnr voico, ho re}tlicd, • You know how I rosistt;d tho strivir.gn of (lod'fi S|»ii-it. I might havo boon savod. f havcihadton thousand oiW-va of nu'rcy, and rrjocUMl thoui all. Farowoll.* " Hero the mother i^aused, and for sevi^al minutes wo again Hat in sihmce ; tlKui, turning to me, she said, — " Mr. Ashworth, do you know of any hook that has been ■written with the ol>jo(;t of giving comfort to those who are convinced they havo dear relatives or friends in perdition 1" '" No, I don't think such a book could be writt(;n. The Judge of all the earth will do right, and to Ijolieve that Ho will, is the only ground on which a smitten soul can find any repose. To believe that trod is infinitely holy and true, and righteous in His dealings with us, is the only thing that can teach such mourners as you to say * Amen ' to His myscerioua doings." " Yes, sir, I think you are right. Nevertheless it is very sad. I have often had a wi een good, so that she could have learned some suilabhi l)usiness, pt-rhaps we uiiglithavo done better, but from a child she has bec>n very delicate. A Blight cold will confine her to bed for weeks j and the know- ledge of her weak stf>to, and our continnal struggling to make ends meet, often makes her very dejected. We never Lave any of wJiat are called luxuries. We iivevery choa])ly and very L.are, and }>erha|)8 this makes against the health of my child ; but we mu.st Jo so. "And now, sir, I come to the part we wished to see yon about. During tlie last .seven years we have lost ground by little and little, until I .now owe two tradesnuin more than I can pay. To some, what I owe would seem a mei^ trifle, but to me it is a grejit sum. About six months since, I promised to pay them all on or before the 21st of June next, and have done all I can to fulfil :iiy promise. The time is near at hand, and I shall not be able to keep my word. This greatly distresses me and my daughter. We have wept much and prayed much over the matter, for we believe in the goodness and providence of God, and trust we are both His spiritual children. If we are unable to keep oji the shop, and our goods l>e taken, what shall we do? For, humanly speaking, we have not one relative or friend in this wide world to whom we could look for help. " A few weeks since, I was reading your book, ' Strange THE WIDOW. 340 Tales from Hun. Me Life,' and especially that nanativo called ' Twenty Pounds ; or, The Little Prayei'.' While read- ing, I was astonished to find such a clear desciiptiou of our own condition. After reading it, T said to my daughter, — ' If tliere be help for us in this world, I have an impression it will come through the writer of this book.' We talked much about you, and earnestly sought for divine guidance, and the result is the letter we sent you. I feel ashamed, and again make an apology for troul)ling you." Having now become acquainted with the bereavements, trials and stniggles ofthe two truly respectable and, I thought, pious creatures, that sat in silence, waiting my answer, I found it was my tiun to become thoughtful. Eighteen pounds would pay all, and establish their credit with their trades- men. The cotton famine was nearly over, and this sum might save two deserving creatures from misery and ruin. What shall I do 1 Yes, what shall 1 do ? I have no eighteen pounds to spare. I have, every year, hundreds of cases of distress, but I relieve them with very small sums, and this sum would relieve many such cases. These were my thoughts, and, not knowing what to do and fearing to crush all their hope, I at last said, — " Well, you must excuse me giving you no answer at present. I have a few wealthy friends, who might, if they knew of your case, give me something to help you. One of them has a long knitted purse, one end of which, he says, specially l)elongs to the Lord, for ho pives by rule, and gives much. Sometimes \i4', tells me the Lord's end is getting rather full, and nska me if / have any real ciises of need. I will see this good man, and a«k Lim how his purse is, and let you know early." With this [tromise they l>"t!i .scemrd greatly satisfied, 51* P I A n Jii 350 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. iii M' saying, that whoever foniul the money, they would ghidly return it when able. I saw my friend with tlic two-cuded purse, but was sorry to find both ends just then were empty ; b\it 1 was sure he had his own good reason for having giv(m his all, for he gave much, and much comes to him to give. I wrote to say that the purse was empty, but lest they should despair, jiromised to call and see them again. On Sunday, the 18th of June, I had an engagement at York-street Chapel, Ileywood. The day was very hot. Passing the house of one of my friends, residing betwixt Rochdale and Heywood, I called, requesting they would allow me to bathe my hands and face in cold water. I was shown upstairs into the bath-room. When I came down, the lady of the house said, '•'Mr. Ashworth, I have just been reading to my husband your narrative of ' Twenty Pounds ; or. The Little Prayer,' and he thinks it was a very timely deliverance for old Mr. Gadsby, and so think I." That moment a vei-y strange sensation came over mo, for I felt God was at work for the fatherless and widow. *' Indeed," I replied, " I have a little tale to tell you about another person that hn.s been reading that narrative ;" and at once I told them all abo\it the poor sull'ering creatures in Rochdale Road. They both heard me with the greatest in- terest, and one of them said, " But surely you are not going to liud theui the money, are you V " I don't knov that," I replied. " .Aly P>il)le says, * Blessed is he that considereth the poor, for the Lord will i-ememlKjr him in the time of trouble.' If I live, 1, no doubt, THE WIDOW. 351 gladly shall have trouhlc. Yet it will ho a groat consoliition to feel and know that the Lord will not forget mo then." For a moment hoth of them looked V(ry thoughtful; and, my time having expired, I .shook hands and loft them. On the morning of the 20th of June, I awoke much earlier than usual, for I had been much troubled in ray sleep by, as distinctly as a dream can be distinct, seeing mother and daughter in greater trouble than ever. I at once saw I must iinmodiatoly decide what to do, and I did detennine to advance eight jtounds for one of the creditora, and see the othei', md request him to wait another six months, and I would see thift he did not lose his money. This I deter- mined to do that day. On of'Cning my letter.s, on the morning I was going to see the distressed widow, one of them was from the house I had called at on the Sunday, and read as follows : — " Dear Sir, " After you left on Sunday, wo could not hel]) thinking of the two poor creatures you mentioned. It would be a very sad thing for them to be turned out of their living, and I write to say, we will furnish you with ten pounds. Will you be so kind as to convey it to them 1 The Lord bless yo.i. " Yours tndy, n 1 44 On reading this letter, I tiiought, — Yes, God lives ! He lives : Ho lives, and is a Fadu r to the fatiierloss. A Judge to the widow is God in His hoily habitation. Leave thy fatherless chihlron and T will preshe is very much lifted-up with more than a conviction that we are to have help to-day." Then, with tears in her eyes, aiic said, — " I never saw my mother so eai'nest in prayer, and so long on her knees as slu; was lust night. On rising she smiled at me, as I lay in l*«d, saying, ' Oh ! how happy I feel ! the Lord has really lizard nay pruyer, and we shall see it very soon.' " When the mother came inxo the shop, I laid the money down. She looked iii*st at the money, then at her daughter, then at me ; then folding her hands, she calmly said, " The L«rf did not turn a deaf ear to the cvv of the widow." I left the little thop ol" the poor but now exceedingly happy mother and tlaughtcr, thankful that my Lord had honoured me by making \uo the medium through which \Iq THE WIDOW. 353 liad sent help to His nt^etly children, and wishing that tlie rich in thi;, world's goods did but know how much real pleasure they forego by not honouring the Lord with their substance. Many of them 1 know often feel the joys of doing good ; to do good is a real joy. These have the bless- ing of Him who has said, " Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." And they will also have the blessing and the prayer of many a suffering one, many an orphan, and many a Widow. I Ml! 11; SARAH; OR, "I WILL HAVE HIM." An old eon at^Tood ujm)1i. Slie thon made some excuse for going out, and walked with him in l»ye- ways, sly-ways, and dark-ways, forgetting that no young man, worth a straw, ever thought better of any young woman for so far losing her self-respect as to walk with him in sly-ways. To both of them it is h)W and degrading, and to one of them it often proves worse than death. When it became known that Sarah was keeping company with Stephen, many of the more serious scholars, and several of her fellow-teachers (for she had now become a teacher) warned her of the consequences. They told her he had often been seen drunk, and that he attended no i)lace of worship ; and the dear old creature who had been, if j)ossible, more than a mother, besought her to give him uj), and bo warned in time. One evening, when they were more earnestly urging this upon her, she replied, — " When we get married I think he will mend ; buc, sjiy what you will, and do what you will, / will hiwe hiinf" After this her friends gave up the struggle, and ceased to speak to her on the subject. She was left to take her own courae, and in a few months after she was married. In a short time after, her new husband came home one evening, to use his own expression, "As drunk as a lord." That was a bitter evening to Sarah. She wept most of the night, and the following day, when he was sober, she besought him never to enter a public-house again. But ho doggeu inadc llu; bargiiiii with your eycM wide open." Wlifctlicr Sanili's ( yoK woro opoix'd liofore Iut nifirringe to Stoplicn, admits of soiiio dnuUt, but now tli<'y woro beiiii; opciied with a vcn^'caiu'o. She hocamo very «he came to my ofFicc. Her eyes were red with wtioping, and, in great earnestness, she be- sougkt me to try to tind lur husband employnu'ut, and do what I c*)uld to induce him to give up driiiking. She pei'- suadod him to come and see mo, and he then promised ho with yo\u' narrinpje to j(!ctt'(l, and , l>Mt (lur.st )lCV01lt tlio 10 luul been 'ill",' a niom- ntl once or slie began ad been ill erself iVotn . lint now Him wliosn ,ve dii-ected nd Sunday id strony;ei.' work, got , they left dale. But s, and tiio two small need Avero Dpti ly, her )r(!ad I Her eyes ss, .she be- nt, and do She per- •omi.sed ho " I Wn-r. HAVE iHM.' 3r»9 would refonu his liff, io better o .send mo tlirco sbillini's. VoiiiH, " Sarah." T read tlic noto, and, looking at tlio man that brought it, said, — " Well, old Fox, you liavo ])lanncd this well ; htit if Stephen and you had what many bettor have had, you would have a rope tied round both your necks, and bo hanged up, back to back." The idle drunkard sneaked out of my offifo as fast a.s pos- sible. Ho was one of the two men who had that morning sneered at, and entrapped foolish Stephen. I knew the man, and had often tried to do him good. He had attended the Chapel for the Desitute several times, and })roniised fair for becoming a changed character ; but one Sunday moi'ning I found him helplessly drunk, under the windows of an empty house. The water from the y, cheerful young woman, and contrasting it with her present condition. Tlieu full of hope and i)r()mise — now a poor, raggful, sorrow-smitten creature, shivciring in the streets, •with her drunken, idle husband, shouting " Cockles and mussels !" And I also remembered that she said, when warned by her friends, " / will hove him /" Oh ! I wish our yo'ang women would take warning from the many sad examples, to be seen every day, of the untold misery ad^'ng from thoughtless marriages. What a bless- ing it would be if every young woman would ask herself the following questions when a young man first speaks to her : Is he goo I tc his pirents? Does he sweir? Does he go into a public-house t What sort of company does ho keej) 1 Does he regulaily attend a i)lace of worship? Depend upim it, if he ii)e not good to his parents, if he takes God's name in vain, goes into public-houses, kcc[)S bad or iloubtful " I WILL llAVi: HIM." 3G:J nc six sliil- the rate of any money sh sto<.k of flico. I was and heard !" and saw momy. I [ wisUed to )f tho time sed, happy, ler jtresent 3W a poor, lio streets, ■oekles and said, when rning from the nntokl hat a bless- hcrself the :iks to her : )oes he go i, ho keep 1 1 Depend takes God's or iioubtful company, and attends no j)lace of worship, the woman will be a fool that expects to be anything but mi.seralde with such a man. Nor is it suri)rising if such, like Sarah, sliould have to cry " Cockles and inus.sels !" The little improvement that had taken place in Stephen enabled them to g(,'t a })Oor second-hand bed and an old table, and with these they r(3moved into a cellar. The elder boy was getting two shillings and sixpence per week, but the younger was running ragLre«l and wild about the streets ; for Ste})hen, like many ('.lunkcM parents, would not deprive himself of one pint of beer to get his child to school. See- ing the little miserable boy in the streets, and knowincr that, like thousands such, the fault was not his own, 1 gave him a note to the teacher of S[)arro\v-hill School, promising that, if he would take the boy, I would pay his school fee. The little fellow took the not(;, was admitted, and, a few days after, he gave me such a smile as well paid me for all I had done for him. A smile frcm a drunkard's child is worth something. Surah's health failing her a little, she was unable to go out with Stephen, and the consequence was what she ex- pected, — he drank the money with which he ought to iiave purchased a fresh stock, and became worse than ever ; for, like many drunkards, though he brought nothing home, ho abuscd-his wife if she did not lind him sutlicient food. One Saturday evening Sarah came to my house. On going to the door to ask her (!rrand, I found she had brought with her their eldest child, a boy about eleven years of age. She told mo he had oidy [)art of one shirt, and tluit she had to wash it after he had gone to bed. I i)romised the little fellow a shirt, for I well nnnembered how I mys(df had many tin cs gone to b d on the Saturday evening while my j)oor r 304 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. , ! i < : ;, r ii ,' n mother washod anil mendeJ mine. I noticed, wliilo Sarah was si)eaking to ni(5, that she covered one side of Jier face with her apron, hut though she tried to hide it, I saw that one of her eyes was very much swollen and quite Mack. " What is the matter with your face, Sarah ] How is it you eye is ;iO Idack 1" I enquired. Sarah began wee]>ing, which soon caused the little follow to weep ?!so. She told me that her husband had been doing a little work, for which he was to have four shillings ; that she had gone to the person he was working for to borrow two shillings, to get a little br(;ad for herself and children ; and that when Stephen found he had only two shillings for drink, he came home and almost killed her. Several months after this, late one evening, after she had put the two boys to bed, and got as good a supper as she could for her husband, she sat on the bed-side, the only seat in the house, and was reading a Bible she had borrowed from a neighbour. Ti.'^ moment Ste[)hen came in, ho looked at his supper, and, fixing his eyes on her, growled out, " Is that all ]" — then with a deep oath he swore he would chop her luiad olf. He then kicked the table over, rolled into bed beside his trembling children, without taking off his dirty clothes, and soon fell fast asleep ! His terrible look, and more terrible threat, so greatly frightened Sarah that she durst scarcely remain in the house. All night she sat in the corner in great fear. She durst not fall asleep, or make the least noise, and if he moved she trembled from head to foot. Oh ! iiow she })rayed that God would not forsake her, but help and protect her in this dreadful liour ! The fearful mental sufTer'ngs of that dreadful night had such an etl'ect upon Sarah that she lost all spiiit, for she daily expected her husband would murder her. So com- l|i Iiilo Siirali f Jier face I saw that l)laek. How is it ittle fellow been doing iiigs ; that aorrow two dren ; and i for drink, ter she had per as she e only seat 'Owed from ) looked at t, " Is that 1 chop her d into b'jd r his dirty so gi'catly the house. B durst not moved she I that God ler in this night had lit, for she So coui- "l WILL HAVE IllM. 363 pletely was she crushed by continual bad treatment and sufiering, that one evening, or rather about two in the morn- ing, she leaped from her miserable bed, tore oiF her ragged night-cap, opened the door, and, with nothing on but her night-dress, ran down the Foundry Brow, her hair flying loose as she ran, till she came to the end of Water Street. She then stood still, and, looking up at the bright, full moon, she lifted up her right hand, and in a clear, full voice sang — yes, the poor, stricken creature sanj, — and she sung one of those sweet hym IS she had often sung when happy in the Sabbath school. That sweet hymn was, — •* When I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies, I'll bid farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping oyos. * # * * * There shall I bathe my weary soul In seas of heavenly rest, And not a wave of trouble roll Across my peaceful breast. " She sung only the first and last verses, but how fully the words expressed her condition ! The wild, warbling tones of a female voice, in the dead of night, woke many of the surroiniding sleci)ers, who, lilled with wonder, opened their windows, and looked out on the strange, astonishing scene. The police stood in amazement, but one of them took her by the hand, and, knowing where she lived, kindly took her home. She went with him, quiet as a chiUl. Sarah, poof Sarah ! had lost her reaison. A cruel, idle, drunken husband had driven her ma^^* tod, i gloomy sat drops MY SICK FRIENDS. 3G7 Perhaps few men living can reckon amongst their ac- quainwtuces such a variety of character as 1 can, and fewer still have the unspeakable pr -ilcge of communing with so many remarkable illustratioLC of the tustaining power of religion in almost every condition of life, but more esj)ecially during long and painful bodily affliction. Two of these I have already recorded in " Priscilla" and "Trials ;" others Btill remain, several of whom constitute the chief subjects of the following sketches : — MARY. In a comp .itively quiet street, not far from the Leeds Town Hall, in a small but neut chamber, may be seen one of my many sick friends. Judging from her letters, her choice selection of books, and her keen perception of the pure and beautiful in language, poetry, and flowers, bhe must have had some one to care for her in her early days. She belongs to the Society of Friends, and I fii*st heard of her while staying at the house of Mr. John Whiting, Moreland Terrace, also one of the ITrieuds. I was intro- duced to her by a young Friend, who, on entering the room, took hold of the invalid's hand, siiying, — " How art thou to-day, Mary ? I think thou looks nicely. I have brought with me one whom I think thou wilt bo glad to meet, uud who wishes to see thee." A slight flush came over her placid ccAintenancn, but with a quiet smile she rep.ied, — " I have much to be grateful for, and I thank thee for thy kindness in remembering me, and bringing John Ash- worth with thee." Then looking to where I stood, she held out her hand, saying, " Thou art come to see a poor creature, but I make thee very welcome. Wilt thou take a t ;1 II 368 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. cluiir, for I want to talk with thee about thy poor {)eoplo, and thy labours amongst them." Interviews betwixt kindred spirits are amongst tlie sweet- est joys of earth. llelationshi[)S, pure and strong, often arise from sympathy of views and feelings. Several yeai*s have rolled away since this our first meeting, and have made me more acquainted with Mary's character and his- tory, but only confirming my first impression, that this daughter of suffering was a child of God, an heir of heaven. ** I thank thee for thy kindness in remembering me," was her feeling expression to the youn» guide that first led me to her sick chamber. No doutjt many had long forgotten lier, and many more, since the day she found herself a helpless invalid, had passed a,\v.<.y. Some that had smoothed her pillow, shared her sorrows, and wiped her falling tears, had gone to brighter climes, leaving their afflicted one still in the wilderness. Farewells and parting scenes are amongst the sad way-marks through life ; and on them, though sad, the memory often lingei's longest, recalling again and again the looks, words, smiles, and tears, — the hopes, joys?, and sorrows of the loved ones gone before. And the more of those loved ones that pass before us through the gates of paradise, the nearer paradise seems to us, and the pain of parting is almost lost by the sweet thought of again uniting. Amongst the felicities of this life, the bright scenes of this world, is an unbroken, happy family. And such was once the family of my sick frierd, — all there, all round the hearth and the altar, when her health began to fail. The mother was taken first ; three months after the father lost all his property, but not his character ; four months after her sister died, saying a\ ith her last breath, '* If God will permit me, I will come back and be your guardian angel." [• [KJOplo, lie sweet- ig, often tul years nd have and his- iliat this ' heaven. me," was first led forgotten lerself a moothed ig tears, one still amongst Ligh sad, id again oys, and moie of gates of pain of uniting. cenes of icli was und the il. The lier lost lis after od will angel." MY SICK FRIENDS. 369 A family of nine became reduced to three,— the father, sister, and my sick friend. For ten years tliis sister, niglit and day, watched over the atllicted one ; tlicn her summons came. In her last hours she begged to l)e laid beside; \n\v slie Jiad so long and tenderly nursed, and there, in th(^ stime bed, lying by her side, she l)reath(Hl her hvst. For a short time her dear father was spared to her. But one evening he entered her room, his countenance radiant with joy, to inform his sick child of a cl'eering discourse delivered in the Meeting House that day, on the blessedness of the heavenly city. After sitting sometime, he took a more than usually affectionate leave. In the morning iie Wiis found dead in his bed ! How dreary, dark, and desolate must Mary's lot now ap- pear to those whose Christian experience has never sounded those deeper depths of God's mysterious providence ! Dio we must, and it mattei*s little how, or when, or whore, if we die well. It is far more comforf/ing to know that our dear relatives and friends are .safely ai'chored in heaven's harbour, than to be daily fearing they will be wrecked on the shoals of pcrilition. When heaven calls the Christian home, It is the voice that Jeaus seiida To call them to His arms. Mary knew this, and through her tears could say, " It is the Ijord ; let Him ih) what seemeth Him good ;" for, in one of her letters to me, she says, " When our heavenly Father puts His dear chihlren into the fiery furnace, He sits by to conduct the needful refining process, and will, in His own time, — which is ever the best time, — bid them come forth purified. People of the wothl count it all joy when they are in ease and afihience, but the 370 TALES OF IIUMULE LIFE. i ill u roal Cliristisin is tsiuglit to count it all joy when he is tried as gold in tho lire, for — " lie knows how much the weak can bear, And helps them when they cry ; The strongest have no strength to spare, For such He'll strongly try. " Mary's letter may seem to the worldling very melancholy, but let the worldling remember that one drop of the Atlantic bears a greater proportion to that ocean than time beai-a to eternity. A child of God may have, on one the hand, " afflic- tion for a moment," but he has, on the other, " a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." The darkest day of the Christian is streaked with light, more precious than the brightest day of the sinner. Of this, Mary is only one of thousands of witnesses 3 but she is one, for there are few happier creatures on this side of heaven. And part of that happiness consists in recognising the hand of God in every- thing, in being calm and cheerful, never idle, doing all the good she can by caring for others. Though utterly unable to move her body, she often employs her mind and hands in writing, reading, sewing, knitting, and working useful arti- cles. I was much pleased with the neatness and orderly arrangement of Mary's sick chamber, and saw how attention to a few little matters greatly contributed to her comfort. Her canary, singing his sweet songs, going in and out of his cage at pleasure, often alighting on her finger to beg a crumb of bread, had been her cheeiful companion for eight years. She had siniill lliiwnr pots with choice plants, — a little nu\- hogany and glazed llljrary of well-selected books, so close to her bed, that she could reach the volume she wanted, — and a Huiull writing case, containing all she retjulred for record- ing hor thoughts ur conduct ing hev conespondeuce. e iti tried elancholy, e Atlantic > beare to d, "afflic- far more rkest day ious than only one •e are few ,rt of that in every- ig oil the ly unable hands in jefiil arti- d orderly attention comfort. out of his g a crumb ;ht years. little mi\- dose to I'd,— and >r riH'urd- MY SICK FRIENDS, 371 But what sui-prised me most was lier book -stall. On a stand beside her bed there was a squire box, with a glass cover. In this box she had seveml shillings' worth of small religious works, ranging in price from thveejjence to tenpence. These she had bought at the wholesale pi^ce, and was selling them to her visitors retail ; and all the profits weut to reiiovo a very poor, afflicted creature, residing in the ncigiibourhood. Mary had heard of her sad condition, and, v.ishing to send her a little help, had established her book-stall to provide her with means, for which the poor creature was very thank- ful. When I first saw this book-stall, and learned tlif pur- pose for which it was oj)ened, I thought that Mary, in her weakness and helpless affliction, was doing more on her sick bed for the glory of God, and the poor and needy, than thou- sands who were blessed with unbroken health and am])le means. I believe Mary hsis a strong desire to do all the good she can, — her sympathies are very wide. I have received from her, as a present for my poor peoj)le of the " Destitute," a beautiful complete needle-case, in silk, with patteVn in white beads, her own working, which sold for fifteen shillings. It is now thirty years since Mary sickened, and lay down in the bed from which she has never been able to rise. During those thirty years, dear relatives and friends have passed away. A kind and affectionate servant, who has been long in the family, is all that now remains of a once numer- ous household. If the honest doubter respecting the truths of Christianity longs to l)e convinced, — if the formalist in religion wishes to see the power of real saving gi"ace, — if the timid Christian desires to know if strength will be given according to the day, — if the long-tried child of God mourn- fully asks, "Can and will He still sustain me in these my heavy sorrows?" — and if the minister of the gospel wants * : il i 372 TALES OF HUM OLE LIFE. jK)\vorfnl evidence of wliat iuith in Christ can ain, — lot them see this rnonunicnt of triunipli and victory. I now take leave of IMary, more than over persuaihid that religion is the pearl of great price — the one thing needful. ANOTIIEK MARY. Before leaving Leeds I will again call to see another of my sick friends, residing in a nc;it cottage near Brunswick Chapel. Sh3, too, is called Mary. I have often thougiit that the busy, bustling crowds, pas- sing to and fro through the noisy streets of our towns and cities, little know how frequently they are very near to sights and scenes vastly different from the dazzle and show presented by trade and commerce, carriages, shops and fashions, liearty laugliter and merry greeting. The lowered blinds and closed shutters tell us when the dead arc near, — but how many chambers there arc whore the last foe is just entering, with short warning ; how many where the soft tread and faint whisper tell of feeble frames and anxious thoughts; and how many on the couch and the bed are doomed to the feebleness of old age, or chained by chronic disease as with bars of iron ! This last is the condition of our sick friend near Brunswick Chapel. This sufferer, in her younger yv*ars, was in business, and it was while sei'ving in the shop that she caught a cold, fol- lowed by a severe illness, which terniinuted in the stiffening of every joint, and deprived her of all p^ower to move hand or foot. Duiiiig this time she not only lost all the hard- earned savings of many years, and became absolutely penni- I. MV SICK FUIF.NDS. 373 I U]lllol(I- i-ty years see this uled that nocdiul. lother of •unswick *vtls, pas- wns and to sights )resented s, hearty id closed w many ig, with nd famt and how ebleness of iron ! unswick ess, and old, fol- iffening ve hand le hard- f penni- losR, Imt w:is in rcsscd her great pleasure at seeing me, and 1 felt thankful that anything I had written had been made to her a bhssing, or liad given her one moment's comfort. She spoke of " I'ris- cilla," and " Ti ials," as havinggreatly strengthened her faith and bnghtened her hopes, and, with deep emotion, olFercid up a prayer on my behalf, that God would still keep me in my labours auiongst the poor, the sick, ami the ;itllicted. She has several kind friends, who almost daily call upon her. One benevolent genth man has paid hei- rent for seven- teen year's, and frequently alls to converse with her. Another gentleman has liis regular periods of calling, and spends much time in storing her mind with the piecioiia promises of God's word ; and a Christian lady often calls to read to her the Lessons and Prayei-s of the day. These are, to Mary, friends indeed, and she cannot speak of their kind- ness without weeping. » Oh, how rich and joyous are the jileasures of doing good ! How sweet the thought that we can, in any measure, miti- gate human woe, or increase, in the smallest degree, the happiness of one suffering fellow-creature ! If, by a look, a smile, or a word, we can stay the falling tear, — if, by giving 16 Wli %. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. O 1.0 I.I 1.25 12.8 14 «..,. I 2.5 2.2 ^ lis illllM I- ^ UUt. 1.8 U IIIIII.6 6" Photographic Sdences Corporation •N? \ \\ ^9) .V O^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4503 4- o^ n!l,,r-9- 374 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. a little of our abundance, we lesBen the anxieties of indigence, producing gladness where otherwise there would be sadness, surely angels must covet such a privilege ! The sordid sel- fish man knows nothing of this. He may have mountains of gold, and millions of acres, and be clothed in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day, but there is a worm at his heart, a pang in his conscience ; for only they that do good can ever enjoy good. Only they whose souls are moved with sympathy can know the higher states of human felicity. And how much do such as Mary stand in need of our com- miseration ! It is hardly possible for the healthy and strong to form any adequate conception of the truly helpless condition of Mary, who, for twenty-eight years, has lain in her present deplorable state, \\rithout power to move, and entirely depen- dent on others, even for a drop of water. And yet she is made happy by the sweet presence of her Saviour, the deep consolations of religion, the glorious prospects of an eternal home amongst those that are clothed in white robes, and have come out of great tribulation. This home in heaven, as the sufferer lies On her bed of pain, and uplifts her eyes To that bright world, what a joy is given By the blessed thought of a home in heaven ! Yes ! Mary is happy, amidst loneliness, helplessness, and dependence, reaching over the long period of twenty-eight years. Her redeemed soul basks in celestial sunshine, light- ing up her countenance with holy rapture, teaching all around her the unspeakable happiness of being a child of God, and possessing what the world can neither give nor take away. We now take our leave of Mary, to call on another of my tick friends, who also resides in Yorkshire. ifligence, sadness, )rdid sel- ntains of ) and fine ; a worm r that do re moved I felicity, our com- r to form iition of p present [y depen- ret she is the deep n eternal bes, and less, and ity-eight ae, light- 11 around od, and ce away, er of my MY SICK FRIENDS. AGNES. 375 Those who have stood on the top of Ca-stleberg Rock, overlooking the little, quiet, respectable town of Settle, in Yorkshire, will see stretching out for many miles, some of the finest grazing ground in the world. The farmsteads, dotting these rich pasture-lands, seem from a distance to be homes of peace and plenty ; and the inhabitants of the miniature city, at the foot of the rock, carry on their com- mercial pursuits without the breathless race for riches that ' characterizes the residents of our large towns. Here the excited London, Liverpool, or Manchester tradesman would be likely to go mad, for the prospect of becoming immediately rich would be cut off. To him Settle would be almost as the silent cities of Idumea. But perhaps his greatest sur- prise would be, that he had time to think of his eternal prospects, and on the short span of his present existence. In the month of February, while carefully descending the rock, in the company of my host, Mr. Tatliam, we were sur- prised to see, amidst the frost and snow, a wall flower in full bloom. Mr. Tatham plucked the flower, saying, " The winter's storms have not killed thee, thou pretty little thing !" How it was I know not, but the sight of that flower drew my thoughts to an inhabitant of one of the small cottages at the foot of the rock. Flowers are all beautiful, especially winter flowers, but in that cottage there was something more beautiful, — a meek, patient, suffering Chris- tian, who, for many winters, had bloomed amidst the chilling, blasting winds of bereavement, sickness, and poverty. My visit to this remarkably small, but pleasingly neat cottage, constitutes one of the waymarks of my life; for here I learned another lesson that taught me how often I I 5 ! i 'I i I • 1 ?v ' ■« H' Vi w 1i: ! i 376 TALES OF IIUlinLE LIFE. had boon \in thankful for mercies, and forgetful of tlio good- ness and providence of God. To many, tlie sickness of a few days, a week, or a month, is a tenihle trial for their patience, and a cause of much fretfulness and murmuring ; but here years may be counted since Agnes was smitten with weakness of the spine. Yet there she still lies, the helpless victim of this terrible stroke. Sometime after Agnes began to be sick, her mother be- came unable to leave her bed. For three years they lay in two small separate rooms, — Agnes up-stairs, and the motlier below, — and, for the whole of that time, they never saw each other. Both were so helpless that neither could move. When the mother was laid in her coffin, that coffin was brought to the bedside of the bereaved child, that she might lay her clammy hand on the parent's cold foreliead, before she was carried to her silent home. Agnes often speaks of this as her greatest trial, but the thought of a mother in heaven is not a mournmg without hope. To be sick and penniless, — to subsist on the small pittance allowed by t(iie town, — to depend upon others for a place where the weary may lay their head, — to be only able to speak in a whisper, — to be shut out from the busy world by day, and often to lie sleepless and restless in the night, — to endure pain of body and weariness of mind, without the faintest hope of ever having relief, till the stricken form shall be laid in the dust, is the sad, sad lot of poor Agnes Cooper. How often would the crumbs that fall from the rich man's table be to such an unspeakable blessing ! And we are glad to know that a few such crumbs have found their way to her feeble hands, yielding the rich reward of the falling tear of thankfulness. By the kindness of a wealthy Friend, residing at Stratford-on-Avon, 1 have been provided MY SICK FRIENDS, 377 tlio good- ness of a for their rmiiring ; tten with c helpless other be- ey lay in le mother ever saw lid move. ofRn was ;he might d, before si)eaks of lother in pittance a place T able to ly world le night, without len form Agnes Tom the ! And md their I of the wealthy >rovidcd with spofial means for special cases, and Agnes has not been forgotten. When handing to her the small portion allotted, her face first became red, then white ; tears shot from her eyes, and, speechless with joy, she pointed to the spot where she wished me to kneel and join her in thankfulness to Him who had raised up this unknown friend. It was a moment of unspeakable bliss. Would that the donor had been there to witness it ! But He who was the real Giver would see and record this gratitude from His suffering child. YeK ! Agnes, like the two Marys of Leeds, is one of the Lord's precious jewels, and she, like them, knew the real source of her deepest and firmest comfort. In her last letter she writes, — • " I am now thirty years old, and it is fifteen years since my feeble form sank beneath the stroke ; but I think that it is somehow all for the best, though I cannot now under- stand it, and it is sometimes hard to say, ' Thy will be done !' The last fortnight I have been so happy, both night and day ; the sweet promises of the Saviour have been more than ever precious. I have been forced to cry out, * Bless the Lord, O my aoul, and forget not all His benefits !' Oh, I feel I can trust Him to the end. ' for what.are all my sufferings here, If, Lord, thou count me meet, With the enraptured host to appear, And worship at Thy feet ! ' Give joy or grief, give case or pain, » Take life or friends away, I soon shall meet them all again, In that eternal day.' " Oh ! to be present with the Lord, where there is no poverty, pain, or tears, — hero the inhiibitants never say ■ 1, 7*' 378 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. tliey are sick. What a glorious prospect ! And this pros- jHJCt, through Him that washed me from my sins in His own blood, is mine ; — yes, it is mine ! " We now take our leave of Agnes. Like Mary, she has chosen the good part. In her distress she sought and found the Lord, and in the little cottage at the foot of Castleberg Rock there is another witness that religion is an ever- green. ili ANN. No doubt there are many persons still living who can re- member this world before it was turned downside up ; — when men made their wills, appointed executors, and in tears bid adieu to dear friends, when setting out from our provincial towns to London, by the amazingly rapid coach the *• Highflier," performing the journey in three days, '' God willing." Then, pack-horses plied betwixt market towns, bearing on their backs the merchandise of counties ; and the poor tradesman thought it something grand to put on his great coat and muffter, wrap straw bands round his legs and feet, and mount the grocer's cart at midnight, to get to the nearest market by day-break in the morning. And when that wonderful and daring innovation on good old customs, the canal, was first opened, people cried shame on the companies for cutting up good land, declared they would never venture their lives in such a dangerous mode of journeying, and wondered what next they would live to see. I have not seen much of these old-world views, for they were dissolving and other scenes appearing, when I first began looking around me. But I well remember once ■mt mm mmmimm MY SICK PRIENDP. 379 til is pros- i His own r. she has md found astleberg IN EVER- o can re- e up;— and in from our id coach ee days, market juntiea ; to put und his ight, to lorning. )n good shame 3d they a mode live to )r they J first r once paying my fare at LancaHter to go down (or up) to Kendal by a two-hoi-se packet boat; and I also remember a loving old couple at the starting-place greatly perplexing each other. The husband was urging his wife to venture on board the vessel, thinking there was not much danger, and she was beseeching him to walk for greater safety. Not being able to persuade him, she timidly came on deck, saying,— " Well, I will go if thou goes ; for if thou art drowned I might as well be drowned too." It was while on this journey, from Lancaster to Kendal, that I heard two old men talking about one of their neigh- bours, who had been long lying on a sick bed, and expressing a hope she might soon be released. They called her Ann. It was more than twenty years after this, my first visit to Kendal, that I received an urgent request to speak at a public meeting on behalf of a society, having for its object the visiting and relieving the indigent sick and poor of that town. On my arrival I was informed by Mr. Gaskell, one of the oldest workers in this truly Christian labour, that a person who had been long afflicted was very anxious I m should call and see her. On hearing the name, I was astonished to find that it was the same I had heard the two old men conversing about on the boat, and I at once pro- mised to pay her a visit as soon as possible. Those who have travelled through this stone-built town, bordering the lake district of Westmoreland, will have ob- served that, like many ancient places, it principally consists of one long, wide street, out of which run numerous courts or narrow openings le:iding to groups of buildings occupied by many of the inhabitants. It was up one of these courts, in Strickland Gate, where the invalid I was requested to see n Pi ■- ^ [ ;?^ w ii! i I 380 TALEP OF HUMBLE MTF. msidod, and I was pleased with tho ncftt aiiro- Y Christi- J)be(l oak ih lay my J, whom I cl, a kind, much be- er care. 3, mingled the long, helpless ; had come lingering y-looking led peace commii- was lostj • y proved one mile n ont in was up- time con- e uncon- short of ly seven- ^e years ionately attend the place of worship witli her mother, until she was able to juilgc for hei'self. Ilcr mother diod six years after, com- nutting her chihl to the caro of Hun who is the Father of the fatherless. The few pounds left by the motlier was Avell husbanded by Ann's nurse, '..very penny spent bei)ig Cixre- fully entered in a book, until tlie last })enny was gone. And now came a severe trial of Ann's faith ; she was re- luctant to receive parish relief, knowing how very poor many were who had to pay the rates. She prayed earnestly for many weeks that the Lord would some way send her de- liverance from this sore trouble. One day a Christian lady, calling to see her, left a sovereign on her bed, and soon after she I'eceived five pounds through the post. She was over- whelmed with joy, for she considered these gifts as from the skies, and at once declined to receive any further aid from ,the town. Another test and painful trial of her faith was permitted, one that almost caused her" to murmu?. Being able to write, she spent many happy hours in exchanging letters with Christian friends, and in recommending her Saviour to those who knew Him not, but a stroke, which took away the use of her right hand, deprived her of this comfort. This gi'eat loss often caused ^er to weep, until one day, seeing on the wall a portrait of Milton after he was struck blind, she dried her tears, and thanked God she could yet read her Bible and see the glorious light of day. Those that are able to move about, that live amongst, or frequently see the green fields, can form no adequate con- ception of the intense longing many have for such a privi- lege. Ann could well remember climbing the heath-clad hills, and looking on the wide spn id landsca})e ; she could tell of the lime when she gathered the dasies, bluebells and 1 ■■ 3«2 TALES OF nUMBI.E LIFE. }juttercu])S ; and often liad a strong desire once again to have a glimpse of long lost scenes. Her room being Bmall, and but one place for her bed, she could not look through the little window. One of her friends, hearing of her wish, fixed a looking-glass in such a position that, through the window, it reflected a green patch of rising ground behind the house. She shouted with delight, exclaiming " A green field ! a green field ! oh, how beautifiul ! how beautiful t " In a letter received from her, written I think with the left hand, she says, — " Language would fail to tell what Jesus has done for me, what kind Christian friends I have had, especially H. W. W., who has been to me a mother, — and what a faithful and affectionate nurse for all these years. Oh ! I have proved the Lord true to His promise in every case. All may put their trust in Him, especially poor invalids, for he will never leave or forsake them that believe on Him." No doubt the joys of this life are many to those that re- ceive them with thankful hearts. The Christian in every state has great possessions here, but greater in prospect, and his faith, stretching over Jordan's streams, beholds fairer fields beyond the flood, and hopes to bask in happier climes. The blessedness of God's children, in sickness or in health, living or dying, none but God's children know. Ann, like the poor man at the pool of Bethesda, has now been laid on her bed for thirty-eight years. That feeble, afflicted man had no friend to help him into the healing pool, until he met with Jesus, the feeling friend of all. He then heard this short sentence, " Take up thy bed and walk," and in amazement he rose, not only able to walk but to carry his bed ; — a lesson to all, that, when Christ bida us carry our burdens, he will give us strength to carry them. T!?" MY aiCK FRIENDS. 38.'{ again to ing Bmall, k through r her wish, roiigli the nd behind " A green itifult" : with the s done for especially ad what a J. Oh ! I very case, invalids, on Him." e that re- in every spect, and ds fairer er climes. n health, has now at feeble, 3 healing all. He bed and walk but it bids us ry them. Ho found Christ at the end of hij^ thirty-eight weary years, Ann found Him at the beginning ; for at nineteen she on- joyed the sweet consciousness of sins forgiven. Christ could long since have raised her from her bed as He did the cripple at the pool-side, for all power is His ; but it is quite us great a miracle to give grace and patience to meekly endure and even joyfully suffer, as to take the cause of our suifering away. And, in this respect, the thirty-eight yeai-s' bed-ridden Christian at Kendal is as much a monument of God's good- ness and power as the healed man of Bethesda ; and no doubt as willing as he was to give all the glory to Him. And, from the little cottage in Strickland Gate, comes forth another witness that can stand side by side with Paul, and like him say, " There is laid up for me a crown." NAOMI. "We now leave the border towns of Westmoreland, and descend into one of the manufacturing districts of Lanca- shire, to visit another of my sick friends, and one not the least interesting. Those who have attempted to trace the course of the River Roche, from the various little rills at its source to its junc- tion with the Irwell, will have observed many bends and windings as it wends its way amongst rocks and woods, and well cultivated fields. In several places, the scenery on the banks presents great variety, and is often grand and impo- sing. Many cotton and woollen mills, for the purpose of ob- taining water or steam power, have been built on the banks of the river, giving employment to some hundreds of the inhabitants. At one of those mills, called Hooley Bridge, near Hey- wood, Naomi, the subject of this sketch, was at one time a I .! 384 TALES OF irUMDLE LITK. lioaltliy, cliooi*ful, active labourer, and, like; tlioTiRands of young people found in these mills, could .sing the sweet hymns learned at the church and Sunday school, amidst the rumhliiig and rattle of machinery. She can sing yet, but under greatly alU^-ed circumstances. Her voice mingles not now with her fellow worker.^ at the loom, or with the Buhlimer songs of the sanctuary, but in her lonely cottogo chamber, upon a bed of pain. Naomi was about sixteen years of ago when a spinal weakness, felt by herself, became apparent to others. The means adopted to stay its jjrogress being ineffectual, she gradually sank beneath its iufliience, until she became ut- terly unable longer to Wcalk the short distance from her homo to the mill ; and in a few months her feebleness was so great that she had not strength to rise from her chair. Ultimately she became so helpless that she was forced to remain con- tinually in bed. Sickness is sickness at any time of life. Even in old age, after having moved and mingled in the mazes and bustle of the ever-rolling current of active, busy scenes, it is sad to have the energies prostrated, the course of action arrested, and to be bound down in the comer with trembling limbs, able to move only at the will of others, or lie on the couch feeble and helpless, until the weary wheel of life stands still. Though this condition to the old may to some extent be looked for and expected, yet much patience and resignation is required to endure it. But to be smitten down in the very spring of life, when the world's pleasures are just dawn- ing, and joyous hope daily brightening, — when the thorns and thistles of life, yet neither seen nor felt, are covered over with emerald leaves and scented flowers, then to fall from the ranks of healthy, cheerful, merry companions, with "nisand.s of tlie sweet ol, umiilst I wing yet, L-emiiigloH with the ly cottoge 1 a spinal crs. The ?ctnal, she )ecarae iit- I her homo LS so great Jltimatoly main cou- in old age, bustle of ; is sad to arrested, ng limbs, ihe couch ands still, extent be signation ti in the ist dawn- le thorns covered 2 to fall ons, with MY SICK FlUENDS. 365 blighted i»ros|)eot8 and dark forbodings, needs soinething more than earth can give to prevent madness or absuluto de8[)air. Such was the condition of Naomi, ten years ago, and such it still remains. During the first three years of her hel[)- lessness she had some relief from tlie weary hours, in being able to refresh licr mind with the; phiasures of reading. For this privilege she was very thankful, and greatly prizetl it ; but, at the end of three years, intense pains in tlie head began to seriously affect lier eyes. After a time those jiaina were followed by dimness, darkness, and at last by utter blindness. Then The glorioua sun, the moon, the stars, The hills, the dales, the tields, the flowers, on which Naomi had often looked with innocent delight, all disappeared in blackness and darkness. Yes, Naomi was Blind. Was not the first burden laid on our greviously afflicted sister sufficient 1 Was it not enough to be for three yeai'S absolutely deprived of the power to raise herself from her bed, and all the time dependent on others for a crust of bread or a drop of water ? Could not this deeper wound have been spared her 1 Surely the cross at first was heavy enough, but to be " Shut out from the living whilst amongst the living j Park as the grave amidst the bustling world ; At once from business and from pleasure barr'd j No more to view the beauty of the spring, Nor see the face of kindred or of friend." Let Naomi herself answer these questions. The Bard of Avon draws well the horrors of blindness, but there are deeper depths of pleasure than worldly poets know. The 1 I 386 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. secrets of the Lord are with them that fear Him, and He will show them His covenant. And the nearer we get to God, the more we shall know His secrets, and better under- stand His covenant. He that tints the lily, clothes the grass, aijd notices the falling sparrow, numbers the hairs on the heads of His children. This Naomi firmly believes, for she is one of His children ; she has the utmost confidence in the declaration that " all things work together for good to them that love God ;" and she knows that sickness, blind- ness, and dependence are amongst the " all things.** All the love of angels and of men falls infinitely short of the love of Naomi's Saviour. This she feels, and it is to her a real light, a heavenly radiance, shining into her happy soul. On one of my visits to see Naomi, I was much concerned about her painful condition. She wa.s unusually sore in body, and the pains in her head were more frequent. I thought it possible that, for a few pounds, a softer substance, placed under her weary frame, might considerably relieve her, and perhaps prevent the pains in her head ; and through the kindness of those friends who trust me with money for the poor, I was abia to purchase a water bed, which was to her an unspeakable boon. It is now ten years since Naomi, through weakness and feebleness of body, became unable longer to attend the calls of the factory bell, or join those Sabbath gatherings that slie so dearly loved in the school and church, of which she is a member. During seven of these years, the orbs of day have been closed, and she has been in one perpetual night. Milton's lines, — " Dark, dark, dark, amidst the blaze of noon : Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse j Without all hope of day," and He Nre get to er under- othes the ) hairs on ieves, for Qdence in r good to 38, blind- ?s.»' All rt of the ) to her a ppy soul. loncerned f sore in ment. I ubstance, relieve through loney for h was to uess and the calls } that slie she is a day have U night. MY SICK FRIENDS. 387 are powerfully descriptive of Naomi's condition, but her faith in the love of Christ sustains her, and she is another evidence that there is no condition of life that transcends the power of religion to relieve. Her resignation to God's will is amazing, and the sweet peace arising from Divine love flowing through her happy soul, wonderfully cheers her. I now leave poor, afflicted, blind Naomi, quoting her words at our last interview, — " For I reckon that the suffering of this present life are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us." ELIZABETH. Let us now call on Elizabeth, the last, but not the least, of our " Sick Friends," residing at Bolton, in Lancashire.! "When Bolton had only half its present inhabitants, when a few benevolent persons met to talk about the temporal circumstances of Samuel Crompton, before this generation appeared, and long before Bolton sent a member to parlia- ment, or could boast of a mayor and corporation, the sub- ject of this sketch was laid helpless on a sick-bed. In a group of cottages, called Union Buildings, now pulled down to make room for the railway, resided a labouring man of the name of Hill, with a wife and five children, of which Elizabeth was the eldest. Up to the age of sixteen, she did what she could to earn her own bread, and was a great help to her mother. TJien weakness of the spine set in, and laid her utterly prostrate. She had been eighteen years in this condition when the house was pulled down, and, when removed, so entire was her paralysis, that she had to be 388 TALES OP '.UMBLE LIFE. carefully cariied, as if in he.'* coffin, on the shoulders of four men — the doctor walking by her side, — and quietly laid in the cottafie she now occupies in Great Moor Street. Those who have read " Priscilla," will remember that she often corresponded with Elizabeth. Fellow-sufterers have kindred feelings, weeping with them that weep. It was through reading those letters that I first became acquainted with Elizabeth, and since then I have often had the privi- lege of sitting in her homely cottage, and hearing her tale of trials and triumphs. Speaking of hor earlier years, she said, — " When I first became convinced that there was little or no hope that I should ever recover, and saw that I must be a burden and continual source of anxiety to my pa,rents, I wished to die. Oh, how I besought the Lord then to take me, in mercy to others ! My father's wages were sorastimes very small ; my little sisters and brothers were too young to earn anything ; the direst poverty visited our home, and we were frequently reduced to the last morsel of bread. One Saturday, I felt quite faint for the want of food. There was nothing for any of us. My mother was greatly distressed, for she did not know what to do. I covered my face in bed, and wept and prayed that God would send us help, and, while I was weeping and praying, a man came in with a basin of broth and five shillings. This deliverance greatly affected my mother. She showed me the broth and the money, snying; — " How could the man know we were starving V " Mother," I replied, " the Lord sent him." " When the man saw our condition, he went and told a good Christian lady what he had seen. She came and told us she was just setting out for a month's pleasure to Black- MY SICK FRIENDS. 389 111 klers of 1 quietly ir Street. that she rers have It was quaintsd [le privi- her tale ^ears, she little or '. must be arents, I a to take omstimes young to ^me, and of bread, of food. s greatly vered my send us came in liverance )roth and id told a and told bo Black- pool, and was glad she had heard of our case before she had left. She informed us she had ordered a person to see us weekly until she returned, when she would see to us herself. This lady was kind to me as long as she lived ; she is dead now, and so are many of my old dear friends. But the Lord raises up new ones ; and I wish, Mr. Ash worth, you would tell all God's afflicted children, that He who cares for the sparrows will not forget us." No doubt many of Elizabeth's old friends are gone. Many ministers of the Gospel that have read and praycid at her bed-side — many benevolent Christians, young and old, that sought her house as a means of grace, have gone to their account ; but others rise up, to whom she can tell her hopes and joys, and with whom she can join in songs of praise. Having to attend a meeting in Bolton, I called in Moor Street, with a small present sent from my friend at Strat- ford. Elizabeth had that day been vefy happy, telling her dear, patient, loving, God-fearing sister, who has nursed and attended to her wants for many years, that some blessing was coming that day, but what it would bo she could no t (ell. On putting the little money I had brought into her hands, she looked at it, then at me. She was so surprified that her thin hands lost the power to hold it, and it fell on the bed. " Sister ! " she exclaimed, " sister ! the blessing is come ! I told you it would. Oh ! sister, we will have a better fire now, and a little stronger tea. Oh, do help me to praise tho Lord for His goodness, for He is better to me than He is to anybody in Bolton ! " (^4 Hear this, ye that fret, miirnitu', and pine, under littlo clouds and little trials ; and ye that doubt, and wet3p, and 17 nir ? -. •' » i ] 'Wmr 390 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. li fear lest God should forget to be gracious. Here is one of His childi'en who, for forty-two years, has lain helpless on a sick-bed, — so helpless, that if that bed was on fire, she could not move ; yet she is rejoicing and praising her dear Saviour for His goodness, and declaring that He is better to her, than to any of her neighbours. And hear this, ye who tell us that the religion of the Bible is a cunningly de- vised fable. Ask Elizabeth and her answer will be, — ** On this my steadfast soul relies, — Father, Thy mercy never dies. " I have often felt ray weakness, both in speaking and writing, but never more than in preparing these short sketches. What tongue or pen can give the biographies of lives both remarkable and monotonous 1 We have records of heroines, thrilling accounts of Boadicea, of the Maid of Orleans, of Grace Darling, Elizabeth Fry, Miss Nightingale, and others, all full of interest ; but may not a nobility of soul be as much manifested in meekly bowing to a painful providence, as boldly performing the most glorious deeds 1 I now take leave of my Sick Friends for the present ; others still remain, of which something may yet be said. But I leave them with a conviction tliat, though they have unitedly been in pain, affliction, and helplessness for 07ie hundred and sixty-five years, yet they are amongst the hap- piest creatures in this world. They may go down to their graves in silence, but they have taught a lesson to thousands ; and that lesson is, that heaven's briglitest beams can pierce the darkest cloud; 8 one of helpless fire, she ler dear is better this, ye igly (Ic- ing and se short kphiea of 1 records Maid of itingale, bility of 1, painful 8 deeds 1 present ; 36 said, ley have for one the hap- to their tusands ; n pierce GEORGE. Amongst the many callers at my house and office during the past year, there was one young man who, like most beg- gars, tried to look as sheepish as possible. Pulling off his hat, and looking to the ground, with a pitiable whine he said : — " If you please, will you relieve me V* " What is your trade, my young man ?" I asked. " A cabinet-maker, sii*," was his answer, still whining. " What age are you ?" I again asked. " Six-and-twenty, sir." " Are you in good health V* " Yes, sir; but I cannot get work," — still whining. I had been standing on the door-step, in my back yard, during this convei'sation, but, stepping down, I stood beside him, and, taking off my hat. said, " Now, my young man, look at me." Then, holding down my head, and trying to look as pitiable and sheepish as he did, I, in the same dole- ful whine, said, — " If you please, will you relieve me ? If you please, will you relieve me ]" Then, looking him right in the face, I asked him what he thought of me. But he was too much astonished to speak. Then, putting on my hat, and request- ing him to do the same, [ said, — "My young man, here you are, in good health and strength, with a good trade, and work plentiful, and you know it; ;r.i 1 ■ ■ i i.. 392 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. yet you are sniffling and whining at people's doors, with your ' Please, will you relieve me V Why, man, if you had the spirit of a sparrow you would never so degrade yourself. Hold up your head, shake yourself, look into God's blue sky, and be a man. Here is sixpence ; and now, let that be the last money you ever beg. Work, man, work, and no more whining. Whistle, and sing, and work, and be happy." I thought for a moment he would have refused the six- pence. His face was red with indignation ; and when he did take it he returned no thanks, but walked rather quickly away. About four months after, the same young man called again, and, gently removing his hat, asked, with a smile, if I knew him. " I do not, m.y young friend," I replied. " Do you remember giving a young man, that came to your back door begging, a good blowing up, and mimicking him, whining, and saying, ' Please, will you relieve me ?' " " Yes, I think I do." « Well, sir, I am that young man ; and look, sir, I am now worth six pounds, all got by working, not whining and begging. I got employment the same day ; and every hour that terrible whine, and * Please, will you relieve me V has been ringing in my ears. Oh! I could have shot you that day. But you d.'d me a great kindness, for I did shake my- self, and look into God's blue sky, and work. I have never been in a public-house since, for it was there I learned to be idle ; and I am returning to my parents a new man. I wished first to call and tell you. And now, Mr. Ashworth, I beg you will serve every young man as you served me, for it will be the best thing you can do for them. Good day, sir, and thank you for what you have done for me." I am GEOUafi. 39a "What a mercy for this young man, that the iron bands of indolence were snapped before they had for ever bound him in their fatal coils ! A few months, or years, might have dragged him into the abyss of shame, infamy, and crime, inseparable from a life of idleness. For idleness is a self- inflicted curse ; a sin against God and man ; the parent of almost every evil. Its victims are legion. George, the jjrincipal subject of this narrative, was one of them ; and I pray that this sketch of his life may be a warning to many. Goorgfe, in his early life, and after he was married, was by trade a hand-loom cotton weaver, — at one time a good business. He resided in the neighbourhood of Rochdale, where hand-loom weaving — both cotton and woollen — con- stituted the principal occupation of the inhabitants, and by which many of the careful and industrious have risen to great wealth. But George, like many weavers of this period, would only work three or four days a-week, how- ever much " pieces " might be required by his employers ; for the more labour was wanted, the less he cared about it. Like thousands of such characters, then as now, he had the greatest difficulty to tell what to do with the Sunday. The day God has given for special blessings hung the most heavily on his hands. Most of this precious day he spent in bed, until he became so tired that he got up to rest. Towards evening, if the night was too liglit for other purposes, he . would get his pack of cards, and go out amongst his com- panions, drinking and card-playing. This card-jjlaying was to George what it has been to many — both i-ich and poor, high and low, vulgar and polished, old and young — a terr.ble besetment, bringing in its train untold evils ; it is one of i ! h m i^' M :•} ' EMv m m ^9 ■' m i 1 i Mm 'ifl ^I'j^mH ■vl'l • ■ 'I'. 394 TALES OF HUMULE LIFE. Satan's principle snares, and specially adapted to the indolent, tlioughtl(!SR, and profligate. There is an old Spanish proverb, " If Satan finds a man idle he sets him to work." George was often found idle ; for, besides lounging in bed the most of the Sunday, ho seldom went to work on the Monday. He would go miles to a foot-race, a dog-race, or a dog-fight where he was sure to meet with the most idle of the country ; for like and like always go together. Towards Tuesday noon, or Wednesday morning, he began thinking about his loom ; and his poor wife, besides doing her own weaving and housework, had very frequently to help him with his piece, by working during the night. The wife of George was one of the most melancholy look- ing creatures I ever saw. She was tall, thin, with high cheeks bones, black hair, and had once been good looking. She was cleanly in her habits ; and, I well remember, her principal dress consisted of a bed-gown then generally worn, a quilted green worsted petticoat, a white linen cap, with full screen, a crimson cloak, and black bonnet. She seldom entered any of the neighboui's' houses, and seemed to avoid company, except when she attended a cottage service held in the neighbourhood on Sunday evenings. She always seemed sad ; I never saw her smile, for her husband, besides being idle, was a great tyrant to her and the children, as most idle husbands are. But he was something more than either indolent or tyrannical ; which, when she discovered it, made her miserable indeed. She had trouble enough be- fore ; but when she found out what her husband really was, her soiTow was greatly increased. Oh, idleness ! idleness ! thou parent of many sins, — thou nurse of every crime, — thou Dead Sea, that swallowest up CEOROE. 395 udolcnt, s a man ad idle ; iday, ho go miles i sure to and like dnesday his poor ork, had working )ly look- th high looking. er, her y worn, p, with J seldom to avoid ice held always , besides dren, as )re than icovered )ugh be- lly was, !, — thou ivest up ovory good thing, — thou gi'ave of every virtue, — what wretchedness has thou produced 1 Thou art a most fruitful source of temptation ; a field where the enemy sows many tares. The idle man's heart is Satan's workshop ; he travels so slowly that poverty soon overtakes him. He will not plough, and he begs in harvest ; he is always looking for something turning up, instead of working to turn up some- thing. It has been my lot to mingle much with ever}"- descrijition of self inflicted misery, — in the prison, the union, the night- house, and penitentiary ; in the streets, in dens of infamy, in homes of squalor, filth, and rags ; and I believe that most of the appalling wretchedness I have witnessed springs from idleness, especially amongst the young nien and young wo- men. I am grieved to say — but a conviction of its truth, and a hope it may do good, compels me to declare — that seven out of every ten of the fallen women prowling about our streets are there because they are idle ; they prefer a life of infamy to a life of honest industry. I have found homes of mercy for many such ; but, finding they had to work, they soon left. I have obtained places of service for them amongst kind peoj)le, who engaged them with the in- tention of helping in their reformation, but very few have remained, the places invariably being too hard. The injury inflicted by the curse of idleness, on either man or woman, can never be told. The discovery made by George's wife, that so distressed her, took place late one dark evening. She had often been Burprised that he never wanted to go out when it was moon- light ; but, if the night was dark, he would frequently be absent till three or four in the morning. And she had no- ticed, with grief, that though their children were poorly clad, i;!! 390 TALES 01' lIUMULi; LIFE. I ■ -f '■ Ji he never seemed to care for them, tliongli he kej^t liimscilf well clothed, — how, she could not tell. She h.'d once ven- tured to a«k him how he got his nowclotlies ; but he replied \\'Jh Buch a terrihle oath, — " What is that to you ]" that she durst not ask him again. The night wo mention, Crcorgc went out about ten o'clock. It was very dark and stormy. His wife asked him where ho was going, and begged of hiru to stop at liome j but he told her to mind her own business, and not meddle with his. Tho moment he was gone she burst into tears, and walked about the house, almost wild with fear. She trembled from head to foot, and all desire for sleep or rest departed. Hour after hour she waited for his retui'n, weeping, walking, sitting, kneeling, praying. For the poor thing sought help from Him who has promised to help in the time of trouble ; who never turns a deaf ear to the cry of the sorrowful ; who sees every tear, and counts every sigh, and who mercifully invites tho burdened and heavy-laden to come unto Him for rest. Hour after hour she waited. The candle died out, and the last embers of the flickeruig fire blackened in the grate ; still slie waited. She often started, thinking she heard liis foot- steps. At last, certain of his appi-oach, she hastened up stairs, fearing his anger if he found her below. She quickly un- dressed, and leant out of bed, listening to hear his move- ments. Ke gently opened the door, went into the weaving- room, and was there some time, — what doing, she could not tell. He then went to bed, without speaking one word, and it was near noon the following day before he rose to begin •weaving. A few days after, two constables, armed with a search- wari*ant, came to seek for stolen goods. After a long search, they found several pieces of gold and sil ver plate hid under \ i GEORGK. 397 a flag. George had Ikmhi liovisebioakiiig ; tlie goods were owned, and ho was sent to j)riKon. When his time expired he returned home, but not to the home he had left ; for his disgraced wife and children had removed from the village to hide their shame. For sevei-al months after his liberation, George attended better to work, and the family began to imj)rove in circum- stances. His poor wife hoped the worst was past ; but when dark nights came again he was more than once out the whole night, and the piece he ought to have woven in a week was in the loom for a month ; — his idle habits had returned. One day the whole country was alarmed >)y the report that a dreadfu! robbery, with Tdolence, had been committed at Hopwood Hall, near MMdleton. Again George was appre- hended, and some of the stolen property found in his posses- sion. At the time of this second robbery I was a young lad, and went to the free school, in Redcross-street, Rochdale. James, the youngest son of George, v,as in the same class. One evening he asked me to go with him to the prison, in Rope- street, to enquire if they would let him see his father. He could not get admission, but he put his mouth to the lock- hole, and called out, — "Father! Father 1" " Is that you, James ?" replied his father. " If it be, tell your mother to come and see nie to-morrow." " Do you want her to bring you anything, father?" said the poor lad, weeping. " No, nothing but ray night-cap," was his father's answer. James lived near to me, and we returned home together. He wished me to call with him, and tell his mother what his father wanted, saying, — 17* I i i ■;.:, 39H TALKS OF IIUMULK LIFF. "I cannot tfill hov witlioiit crying, and slio will cry too." Tho mother went the following day to sne her hnsbaml, and called at the school for James on her return. Hct eyes •were red with weeping. She feared to go the highway, shunning every one she know, and we came through tho fields, past the Oakenroad, Capterhood, and the Pitts, coming out at Passmonds. Just behind the farm-house at Pitts there is a brow ; on tho top of this brow James and his mother sat down, for she was greatly distressed. She had never spoken a word from calling at the school, but now her feelings overpowered her. She threw her arras roun^^l the neck of her sobbing child, and they both wept aloud. I stood a few yards from them, with tears running down my young cheeks. She sat there till it was dark, and when she arose she took hold of both our hands, and we walked out the narrow, dark road in silence. A few words she said, only a few, but I have never forgotten them : — " My dear boys, never be idle, never steal ; pray to God to make you honest and good. And you, James, do be a good lad, for your mother's sake." We both promised, and promised I am sure, very so- lemnly. James, I think, is now in heaven, and I hoj)e the writer, through the mercy of a dear crucified Saviour, is on the way there. George, with other two men, — John Taylor and Thomas Lang, charged with the same robbery, were examined before the magistrates, and all three sent, heavily ironed, to Lan- caster Castle, to await their trial at the next assizes. How many idle men have entered through the arch of the frowning walls of Lancaster Castle ; — entered, too, because they were idle ! for indolence was at the foundation, at the very root of their crimes. How many idle men and women cRonon. 30<> aro at tliLs moinenl, pacing tlioso narrow deuB liko wild beusts, or lying on their iron beds in sullen wrath, or writh- ing with remorse from the fiery stingings of a guilty con- science, or sinking in despair, or, where the soul is not yot callous, thinking of homes by tliem made desolate, — of rela- tives by them made to blusli with shame, — of wife and children made by them to weo]) and sigh in hopeless soitow ! Oh, indolence ! indolence ! — thou proof and scourge of man's foul sins, what crimes have sjjrung from thee ! I well remember the intelligence reaching llochdalc that George was condemned to death ; and I also remember that day poor James, his son, could not eat his dinner, but g.^ve it away to the boys in the school. Poor lad! he was in great trouble. His distracted raotlier set out for Lancaster, to ask permission to have a last interview with her husband, and to beg his body. The sorrow-smitten creature travelled on foot many weary miles on her melancholy errancL Oh ! virtuous woman, thou wert made Like heaven's own pure and lovely light, To cheer life's dark and desert shade, And guide man's erring footsteps right. And when the last sad scene is past, 'Tis woman weeps upon his bier : Silent, yet long her sorrows last ; Unseen she sheds affection's tear ! Both her requests were granted, and the night before his execution she was admitted into his cell. In those parting moments, when holding the hand and looking into the moistened eyes of some dear friend whom we fear we shall nevier see again, the heart is often filled with irrepressible sorrow. To stand by the death-bed of some loved one, to hear tlieir last whispered farewell, and .§!■ ■ t ■,: 400 TALES OF HUMBLE LirE. witness t?»eir last sigh, lias often lx)wed down the stoutest hearts. To take the last look of the closing grave, — closing over the remains of those for whom our affections were stronger than life or death, has brought many to the. border of madness. All this is sonowful enough ; but what must it be for a wife and a mother to take the last look, and speak the last jjarting word to her husband going to be hanged ! 1 believe in broken he-arts; I believe there may be anguish fo deep, so profound, that all human aid is utterly useless. But I also believe that there is one Hand that can bind up broken liearts, and that Hand sustained the wife of George. After the interview, she took shelter in a cottage house in the town for the night. She thought not of rest, but wandered about the room all n'ght, unable to speak. Early in the morning of that di-eadful 20th of April, she heard the sound of many feet hastening to the castle, to get a good place for seeing the death-struggles of a fellow-being. Drunk- ards, racers, dog-fighters, thieves, and robbers — the scum and dregs of society, — singing obscene soFgs, whistling, shouting, laughing and swearing, — hundreds of the lowest and laziest characters gathered round the gallows. Only such could bear to look upon such a scene ; for a man that can take pleasure in seeing another man hanged, is not unlikely to be hanged himself. Geoi-ge was executed. After he was cut down, his body was handed over to his trembling, sobbing wife. She had a cofiin ready, and hired a cai-t to carry his remains to Roch- dale. When the crowd of idlers had dispersed, the coffin was lifted into the cart, and she began to retrace her steps the wearisome, dreaiy miles, she had come. For a long time she walked alone behind the cart — walked until she was ^nt and foot-sore. Yet, weai-y as she was, she refijse4 to wt OEOROK. 401 ride, tliinking it disrespectful to the dead. But, her strength failing her, she reluctantly consented to bo lifted into the cart. Before she reached her home the evening came on ; and, in the black and dark night, sitting beside the coffin containing the body of her dead husband, she psissed the house in which they had lived when he committed the firs^ robbery, — the house and home of her children, — and, in the darkness, arrived at the narrow court in Town Meadows, from which George was taken to his grave. On my last visit to Kendal, to speak on behalf of the Benevolent Society of that town, I called at Lancaster, at the request of a lady friend of mine, to give an address to the poor mothers she had brought together for that purpose. Her father, a magistrate, had kindly obtained permission for me to look through the castle ; and, after the address, in company with the lady, I went through the small door of the massive arch of that ancient fortress. The moment the door closed behind us, painful and gloomy thoughts, mingled with other feelings, came rushing into my soul. I was dis- tressed to think that such a huge prison was necessary in any part of this world. Towering walls and battlements, firm as rocks ; grated windows of gloomy cells ; iron doors to deep, dark dungeons ; bolts, bars chains, and gallows, — all told how terrible sin is in its consequences, even in this life. For Christ's redeemed children, sinners saved by grace, don't come here. Oh, how forcibly these engines of punish- ment for crime, these penal caverns, these doleful, silent cells, proclaim the glorious truth of the divine word : "God- liness is profitable for all things, having the promise of the life that now is" Again and again, while walking tiirough the various scenes of this castle of misery, did I feel thank- i ■j I - i tif i! -f :'*! i! 402 TALES OF HUMBUG LIFF. ful for the Ijlessed influence of that religion which had saved, protected, and guided me ; for, had it not been for this, I miglit have been long since found amongst the felons of my country. So, like Paul, my boasting shall be in Christ only. By the kindness of the Governor of the castle, I obtained a copy of the records of the assizes, as far as related to the trial and sentence of George ; and not till then did I know- that he had two companions in the perpetration of the rob- bery, which was, at that time, a crime punishable with death. The record is as follows : — " George , John Taylor, and Thomas Lang, tried at Lancaster assizes, March, 1822. George sentenced to death, and executed, 20th of April, 1822 ; the other two were transported for life ; — for a burglary at the house of Mi's. Gregg, Hop wood, near Rochdale, in October, 1821." I also requested the Governor to show me the cell where George was confined the night before bis execution. I entered : the heavy door was bolted and barred, and in darkness I sat down on the foot of the iron bed, with strange feelings, — feelings not easy to describe. I then went to the fatal door, or window, looking from the castle to the church-yard, — the opening where George stepped out, pini- oned and bound, to look his last look on this world before he was launched into eternity. As I stood and looked on this mournful part of the old castle, — mournful because of its painful associations, — and knew that it was the spot where many, in a moment, and in the prime of life, had been violently sent from an erring to an unerring tribunal, I thought rmd still think, that, if their melancholj'' end could be traced to its true cause, it might be wi'itten on the grave of thousands besides George, HE WAS RUINED, IMPRISONED, AND HANGED BECAUSE HE WAS TOO IDLE TO WORK. f ill JAMES BURROWS. "He that walkeiL wUh wise men shall be wise, bat the com- panion of fools shall be destroyed." — Fkov£RBS xiii. 20. m \ 4 < i i: :f When concluding the narrative of " George," I thought I would never again write on so painful a subject ; but a request from poor James Burrows, made only sixteen hours before his execution, that I would " make his mournful condition a warning to all young men," leaves me no choice in the matter ; for how could I refuse him anything in that dreadful hour 1 I felt 1 could not, and promised to carry out his wish to the best of my ability. I am no believer in dreams ; neither do I despise them. No doubt they are often the result of certain physical con- ditions, — the tangled fragments of mental emotion, or the reflex action of our working hours. It is probable that from this last cause I was greatly troubled in my sleep on the night of August 23rd, 1866, for I had been hoping, during the whole day, that the Home Secretary might possibly grant a reprieve to James, — prolong one life, and save Manchester from the demoralizing effects of a public execu- tion. So deep had been the impression during the night, and so great was my anxiety about the young man, from knowing something of his family before they left Bamford, that in the morning I felt a strong desire to gain admission 1 4' raf: m. I m 404 TALES OF UUMBLE LIFE. to his cell. I knew the difficulties would be great, for the condemned are very properly guarded from unnecessary intrusion. On approaching the prison, I found crowds of people lounging able then repeated the Confess BJon, and the Collect for the 21st Sunday after Trinity, with such earnestness that many, and even Calcraft, the hang- man, shed tears. After he was bound, the procession moved, and I read the service, — ' I »iii the resurrection and the life,* tfec. " Through the long dark cell-yard, and up to the foot of the gallows, Burrows seemed absorbed in repeating, without an omission, the whole of the 51st Psalm. The procession paused, and he emphatically uttered the Lord's prayer, once more, and the entire hymn, * Just as I am,' with much energy. I then closed the service, nnd my work being done, took leave of him. Ere I reached my room I heai'd the heavy thud of the falling floor of the scaffold, and all wan soon over." I thank Mr. Bagshawe for this account of the last moments of poor James, and, like him, would draw a veil over the scene on the scaffold ; — that scene which twenty thousand 3lisli. It concerns le surging Y plainly, effect on truck, and Ist Psalm, ir. iff, Under be prison, ier Sheriff :e. At his lowledging he Confess inity, with the hang- ion moved, n and the JAMES BURROWS. 415 upturned faces beheld, but which I have no wisli to describe. A coffin had been provided, and a grave was in readiness, and, in a few houra, the body of the victim of bad compan- ions was buried in that grave. As I stood beside it, I remembered standing over the graves of those who had been executed at Newgate, London, and on the mounds under the willows, in Kirkdale, Liverpool. Now I stood on the one, the first, and I hope the last, in this melancholy spot, and as 1 stood, I again felt how terribly true are the words of the Holy Book. Thousands of young men and young women, who, by sin in its various forms, are cut down in the midst of their years, or left to linger out a life of suffer- ing and sorrow, worse than death, coidd, with a voice loud as the roar of tlie raging storm, bear their ^.estimony to the truth of these words : " He that walketu "vith wise men SHALL BE WISE, BUT THE COMIANION OF FOOLS SHALL BE DESTROYED >> r ^ i il 4 HI the foot of without procession payer, once vith much jeing done, heard the md all waB ?t moments il over the thousand JOHN AND MARY. There is something very impressive, and if seeii aright, profitable and instructive, in marking time's silent power. Ancient nations and ancient cities, — halls and palaces of ancient song, moulder into ruin, and are numbered with the things that were. The old tree, and the old ' ise, sacred from many endearing associations, crumble into dust, and succeeding ages know them only by tradition. But nowhere is the touch of time's fatal finger seen and felt so distinctly as in the gaps made amongst our relations and friends, or in the changes in schools and congregations ; — here his doings are often painfully visible, and annual records have to tell of their death. The " Chapel for the Destitute " shares largely • in these changes, for, in proportion to our numbers, we have many aged and infirm people ; and this year two of these ancient ones, amongst others, have fallen from our rinks — old John, and old Mary his wife. One is dead, a)..'i the other is dying; and two more primitive creatures it v.oa^ \, perhaps, be difficult to find. Old John was small in stature, had thin grey hair, carried his head on one side, walked with a short, quick step, and leant heavily on a stout hazel stick. Mary, like her husband, was short in stature, had grey locks, very thin in flesh, and had a sharp nose. She wore a well-washed printed dress of very ancient pattern, but no crinoline; a scuttle-shaped bon- net, a white linen cap, witli a large lx)rder round her small JOHN AND MARY. 417 I aright, , power, laces of with the 3, sacred lust, and nowhere iistinctly ids, or in is doings to tell of IS largely we have of these rTaks — U..1 the it v.'oaJ'l, 'tarried jtep, and husband, esh, and dress of iped bon- ier small face. In their later days they wore so infirm that they had to depend on friends to help them np the steps cf the chaj)el ; and, when they made their appeaiaxice, persons sitting in the aisles rose to make way for the feeble couple to reach their accustomed place amongst the aged worsliippers near the platform. John, in his younger days, hac been a v^ .y hard-working man. For more than thirty yeara he hai': been a •* slubber " in a woollen mill, and during the whole of that time he had never once entered a place of worship, except at a funeral. Like thousands, John, during these thirty years, lived very much like a donkey — eating, working, sleeping, drinking ; only the donkey never drank until it tumbled into the gutter, which John often did. But he adopted one plan which drunkards might imitate to advantage, — he gcli drunk at the public- house nearest his own home ; for he said drink was so bad to carry, that he did not like to cany it far. His little wife had not only a sharp nose, but a sharp tongue J and the sound of that tongue at the door of the drink ing-house, was a signal for John to finish his cup. Some wives fetch their drinking husbands home when they want to taste a little themselves ; but Mary would never touch a drop, r ir would she prop him up by taking hold of his arm when going home, for she said people could not tell which was the tipsy one. If he fell, ho fell, and she would give a long or a short lecture until ho could gather up his legs and walk. Her speeches on these occasions did not vary much. When he tumbled she woidd say, — " There — down again, down again ! Thou should bring the publican with thee to lielp thee i\\) ; thou hast bought his fine wife another yard of ribbon lor her fine cap, and when thou buys her another yard thou wilt roil in the mud again. ; i. ■ ,j H: 418 TALES OF nbMBLE LIFE. I wonder what I was doing when 1 wed thee ; I wish it was to do again. Get up, this minute ; get up!" John took h^s wife's scokling very patiently ; he would scra^ible to his feet, balance himself, and make another trial. He thought as much of his little wife as such charac- ters generally do, and that is not saying much. For a man to pretend to love his wife, when he loaves her fretting, sor- rowing, lonely, and often weeping because he is degrading and disgracing both her and himself, and spending the money that she needs for the requirements of the house, — for such a man to pretend to love his wife or children is down right hypocrisy : a man is what he does, not wliat ho says. But there was one good thing about John — ho never neglected his work for drink. He would toil hard, at his toiling business, during the week, and have a short fuddle on the Saturday evening, and a longer one on the Sunday. His careful, plodding wife did the best she could ; she kept their cottage clean, had a tidy fireside, a well-polished set of mahogany drawers, and the stockings well mended. But what a life was this for two immortal beings, made in God's image, made capable of the highest enjoyments — sleeping, eating, working, merely dragging on an existence, and nothing more ! — utter strangers to those higher and sublimer thoughts arising from intellectual aspirations ; or those still grander and more enduring spiritual emotions springing from union and communion with the Fountain of purity and bliss. They lived as many live, — with no joy ''ul greetings for the return of the blessed Sabbath morn ; no longing for the sweet period mercifully given for the gather- ing of the sons and daughters of toil to those earthly sanc- tuaries emblematic of heavenly mansions. The cheerful intermingling of the followers of the Lamb, as they gathered JOHN AND MARY. 419 I from hill and dell rownd their vaiioua aluirs on the Lord's day, never found Jolin or jVIary joining in their happy assemblies. No ; nor did they in their cottage homo even kneel together in prayer, or open the pagers of the Book of life. They lived without God and without hojie, conse- quently without joy and without peace ; for lot the world any what it will, — Solid joys ami lasting ploasurca None but Christians ever know. Mary, in after life, when speaking of this loug, mibci-able, blank period, often said, — " We lived like pigs, and worse than pigs, though we were thought to be as good as our neighbours. Many of them died in ignorance and sin, and I can never tell how it was that God spared our John and me ; but there was not the same chance of knowing things tlien that there is now, and I think tJie poor were less cared for. There were not so many churches, schools, and chapt-la. There was one place of worship about two miles from where we lived, but tho parson never went to see after any of us, except when wo had a child christened ; for we always brewed a peck of malt at a christening, and invited the parson to come ; yet he wa« a very decent man, taking him altogether, for I never heard tell of him being drunk, though he liked a drop; butl think teetotal parsons are the safest, for then they can say, — * Do as I do,' and folks will take more notice of what they say/ Mary's opinion may or may not be endorsed by all, but in one thing she was right, — churches, chapels, and schools have greatly multiplied, and the privileges of this day are immeasurably beyond what they were fifty years since. Old peojile then wei'e ignorant of the simplest principles of ■ !f IJ mm rw. 420 TALKS OF IIUMBLK LIFE. Christianity, and often showed their ignorance to an amaz- ing degree. 1 know .sojucthing of tl»e oM minister to wlioni Mary referretl, and have often been to the church or ehapel "whero he officiated for many years. One hot summer morn- ing, as this minister wa« quietly wending his way up the rising gi-ound leading to the church, in company with an ohl man, looking at the hard, cracked gi'ound, and tlie brown, parched fields, he sfud to his agetl friend, — " James, we must have prayers for rain to-day." James stood still, looked up at the sky, then at the waving branches of the trees, and quietly replied, — " It won't do, minister ; it will be of no use. You might as well whistle while the wind is where it is." Foolish as was the reply, and strange as such ignorance may seem to us now, let us remember it is through our schools, and especially our Sunday-schools, that we have been led to think differently ; for now almost every child taught there could tell that old man that He who created the winds hokk jhose winds in His hands, and both winds and clouds obey Him. We live in a glorious day, and we have glorious privileges, at least in this country. He that is a fool now, in things sacred and divine, is a fool because he will be a fool; but let him know, that to whom much is given, of him will much be required. My*first acquaintance with old John and Mary arose from seeing them at the chapel. Many have heard Mary tell of the first time slie came. When repeating the story she would say : — " I was wandering about in the streets one Sunday eve- ning, and seeing a card at the door inviting all poor people that attended no other place of worship, I stood still and read it, saying to myself, — 'Chapel for the Destitute ! Chapel r-i JOHN AND MARY. 421 i nj\ amaz- to wliom )r chapel er morn- y up the bh an old e brown, e wavirg on might gnorance nigh our lave been tl taught he winds id clouds glorious bol now, will be a , of him ose from r tell of bory she lay eve- r people itill and Chapel for the Destitute ! this is a new shop, and I think it is the shop for me, for I am Destitxite enough in all conscience, and I will see if they will let me in.' I went in and saw scores as poor as myself, and when they rose up and all began to sing, I began to cry. I never was so affected in my life. The hymn was, ' Come, let us join our cheerful Bonga, With angels round the throne.' " After singing, the minister began to read out of the Bible the thirteenth chapter of Luke. I shall never forget that chapter. When he was reading that part which said, ♦ Ex- cept ye repent ye shall all likewise perish,' I thought well I have done some things which I had better not have done, but I am not as bad as some that are here by a long way. But when he came to that part which says, * Strive to enter in at the stjrait gate,' he stopped, and, looking at us all, he said, ' How many present are doing what Christ here com- mands, striving ? There is a time when we may enter the way to heaven, and a time when we caimot ; when the door is shut we may strive, but then we shall strive in vain.* I felt very strange while he was reading and speaking. I am not striving, I thought, nor is our John, and if heaven's door is shut on us it will be a very sad thing. " Before I came out of that place that night, I began to think I was as bad aa any one in it. I went home and told our John all about the chapel and what I had heard, and I said to him, I can understand yon man every word he says ; he neither talks about Jews nor Gentiles, but about Jesus Christ coming to seek and save lost sinners ; that we are all sinners, and that Christ died to save us all, and that, except we repent and receive this salvation, the door will be shut, and we shall perish. 18* U 422 TALES OF nU.YBLE LIFE. " I Wii8 in good eiirnest while I was teslliiig our John, and ■was vexed to see that he did not seem to care ; but I said, * If I live until next Sunday I shall go to yon place again, and thou shalt go with nie.' " Mary did not succeed in persuading John to come the following Sunday, nor the Sunday following that ; but she talked so much about the chapel, telling her husband all she could remember about the reading and sermons, and trying to induce him by kind words to make a promise to go with her, that at last he consented. She was so much afraid he would break his promise, that she got Matthew Shepherd, an old man in the neighbourhood, to call a little before the service time and encourage her husband to go. Between them they succeeded, and all three set out together. Mary took good care that her partner got as near to the preacher as possible, on account of his slight deafness, and two more attentive hearers could not be found in our congregation that evening. As they were returning home after the service, Mary asked John how he liked it, and if it was not true that they had been living like pigs. " Well, I do not think I shall go again," replied John. " Why V asked his wife in great alarm. ** Well, I don't like to be made uneasy, and I have felt very much so to-night ; if what we heard oe true, I have been wrong a long time." "It is true, John, and we have both been living as if we had no souls, and it is quite time we began to cry for mercy, if it be not too late ; and T do hoi)e God will pardon us both, for I feel I cannot do as I am.** I was glad when I heard of the conversation of the old couple, but was still more pleased when I was informed that JOHN AND MART. 423 they had begun to pray together in their huii>ble collar, and to ask others to pray with tlicin. The Spirit of God had "wounded their consciences and troubled their souls, and is it not a mercy when sinners, high or low, ricli or poor, ai^e troubled on acoount of their sins ? It is a fearful thing when a man is so hardened in his crimes that he is past feel- ing. One of the kings of France, Louis XIV., said to Fenelon, " When I hear some men preach I am pleased, and with others I am edified ; but when I hear you T am miserable and unhappy, and feel my sins." " Thank God for that," said Fenelon, " for if there bo no feeling of need, there will be no crying for help." Fenelon was right. *' God be merciful to me a sinner !" is, and ever will be, the stereotyped cry of every contrite spirit, and that cry from a breaking heart ever was and ever will be heard. At the request of John and Mary, a part of our company of the " Destitute " went weekly to hold a pi lyer-meeting in their cellar, in Falinge-road ; and glad the old people were to receive them, for one of the true signs of either penitence or pardon is the love of prayer, — not simply praying, but loving to pray. I well remember attending one of these de- votional gatherings. The company that day oonsif^ted of John and Mary, Matthew Shepherd, John Hamer, an old blind man, a street sweeper we called Ben, a half-wit called Roberc, and several others. This Robert, or, as he is more frequently called, " Bobby," is a well-known imbecile, about forty years of age. He has small, deep-sunk eyes, near to each other, a low forehead, a strange, vacant look, and is very harmless. He regularly attends some place of worship, knows nothing about texts, but can always tell when it is twelve o'clock. He seems to hearken to all that is said, but if the preacher goes beyond <• fj '■' -I' m. 424 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I I the time, Bobby leaves him, and (quietly walks out of the chapeL There is not one spark of intelligence in his coun- tenance, but lie can bo moved to joy by a Sunday school procession, a tea-party, or the sinking of children ; and if the preacher should mention Camuin, happy land, realms of the blest, glory, heaven, or Jeaus, then he clasps liis hands, smiles, and looks up, tuid soems truly happy ; and ho was happy that night. I have been in many prayer-meetings, and heard many gtmins of humble and exalted eloquence, but none more memorable than that evening in that cellar, amongst those simple-hearted worshippers. Old John prayed firat, saying, after he had I'epeated the Lord's prayer, — " J Drd, I thank thee for Thy goodness to me and our Mary. We had nearly been lost, and should have been, but Christ Jesus saved us. What a mercy ! how good Thou art, Lord. Help us all to be good, and to praise Thee. Amen." Mary, very modestly and tremblingly, prayed after her husband, saying, — " Lord, Thou knowest what I want better than I can tell Thee, for I feel afraid to pray when so many are here. I can pray the best when our John and me are with our two selves ; but Thoxi knows I can just say what Peter said, * Thou knows all things. Thou knows I love Thee.' And I wish I could love Thee more, for Thou hast done wonderful things for all of us, and me especially, for once I was blind but now I see. Amen." After singing a verse, we again all kneeled down, and old Matthew, always simple and earnest in prayer, said, — " Lord, help nie, and help me to pray. I have hsid hard work to get down on my knees, for old age Ls making my JOHN AND MARY. 425 li it of the lis coim- ,y school ; and if 'ealms of s hands, ho was d many ae more 5st those , saying, and our •een, but )d Thou se Thee. fter her can tell liere. I our two er said, And I )nderful as blind and old iul hard ing my joints very stiff. I know what tlmt |)aK.sago of Thy word moans now, better than ever I did before, — the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I find I am getting very weak but I love Thee, Lord, this very minute as much as ever I did in my life, and I think more ; and if these old limbs are soon to tumble into the grave, well, it is all right, for I can truly say that if my heart and flesh faileth, * Thou art the strength of my heart and my portion for ever.' But I have one request to make. Lord ; and oh ! I do wish Thou would grant it before I die. Yon wicked son of mine, I think he gets more wicked every day ; I am sometimes ready to wish he was either mended or ended. O that I could but see him converted, then I think I could die any minute. I would then say, with old Simeon, — * Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.' And now. Lord, look at us all a* Thy feet in mercy ; Thou hast done great things for old John and Mary, for which I believe they are glad j and they may well be glad, for they have had a narrow escape ; the door had been near shut. And, Lord, bless old blind John Hamer; I think sometimes thou hast perhaps made him blind to save his soul, for he thinks more about his soul now than he did when he could see. David said, before he was afflicted he went astray, and so have scores done besides David. Lord, bless us all, and make us what thou would have us to be at any price, for it will be the best for us in the end, and the end will soon come, and then I hope we shall all meet in heaven. Amen." While old Matthew was praying, Ben, the street-sweeper, a fine, healthy, middle-aged man, was much affected, and, with a tremulous voice, said in his prayer, — " O Lord, when I see these poor old creatures, and think I may very likely live to be as old as they are, I wonder : '■ 420 TALKS OP IITTMBLE LIFE. wliutlier I sliiill Juivo gmcc to koojj me ffutliful and ixitiont, for I am sure I shall need it then. Well, the promLso is, that as our day is so shall our stiength Vjc, and that will do both for mo and them. Help us all to have our lamps trimmed ; foi to know they are trimmed it will make ua happy, whether th? Bridegroom comes soon or late. Amon." It was well for Benjamin that his lamp was trimmed, for, in fourteen days after he offered that prayer, he was laid in his grave, though the most likely for a long life of any pre- sent at that meeting. I repeat the simple prayers of these illiterate people, to show how their hearts were imbued with the love of God. The intelligent, educated Christian, when bowing before his Maker in the social means of giace, will ne'^essarily clothe his thoughts and desires in more elegant ' uage ; but it does not follow that he gets nearer to the ^urono of grace. Simplicity in prayer is taught us by Him who is the medium of all effectual prayer ; and if the prayer of these simple people appear in the eyes of some to be irrevorent, my ex- perience amongst many such has convinced me that this is more in appearance than in truth. In these cellai prayer-meetings, a scene both painful and pleasing was often witnessed. Feeble and infirm as old John was, he would kneel down during the devotion. No persuasion could induce him to remain standing or seated ; for he had a strong conviction that in prayer he ought to bow down both soul and body. But after prayer he had al- ways to be assisted to rise. His wife, the moment she rose, would walk across the floor, take hold of his arm, and help him to his feet. In their younger yeai's she could scold him, and refuse him the helping hand, when ho lay drunk in the patioiit, mi.sc is, , will do r lamps uako ua Ainon." Qed, for, laid in a,ny pre- ^ople, to of God. sfore his y clothe ; but it if grace, medium I simple ray ex- this is iful and as old |)n. No seated ; )ught to had al- he rose, nd help old him, in the JOHN AND MAUY. 427 ^ t ditch ; l)ut now, with toarH of thank fulness, slic supports his trembling limbs, — raising him up, ami placing him in his chair. Great care was taken that John and Mary should not bo without food, clothing, or attendance. Tlioy luul a small allowance from the parish-funds, and many kind friends added to their comforts by daily seeing to their jHjrsonal wants and requirements. But the time was now come when their increased infirmi- ties made it impossible for them longer to attend their " blessed chapel," as they called it. Old Matthew and others had brought them there and taken them back, as long as they could. On my last visit, Mary expressed a conviction that her time was short, and spoke with remarkable calm- ness of her approaching end. Her only concern was about leaving her old partner behind, and she freqiiently desired that, if it was God's will, they might be both buried on the same day. But this desire was not granted, for on the morning of the 27th of February, 18GG, in the seventy- seventh year of her age, her last lingering whisper died on her tongue, and that last whisper was — " Mercy's free." Mary now lies buried in the free ground in the Rochdale Cemetery, and John's days are fast drawing to a close. His mind often wanders, and then he forgets tliat his aged partner is gone. He asks her to sing for him ; he talks to her about the chapel, and wonders how soon old Matthew will call for him ; tells her if no one calls for him he will try to go himself, and wants to know how it is she never speaks to him now. Because she does not answer he weeps, and begs her to speak to him just once more. Much of his time he sleeps, but during his conscious hours his mind 3 I %m 428 TALES OF IIUMDLE LIFE. is fixed on eternal things. He prays for the people at the " Destitute," prays for all those who go to visit the sick and poor, and prays that he may soon be taken to heaven. Soon that prayer will be hoard ; and I believe that, when the pages are read in the Lamb's Book of Life, on these pages will be found the names of John and Mary. I A SAD STORY. . V m h AoES to como will hear with sadness and sorrow of the moiirnfiil catastrophe, involving the instant destruction of over three hundred men and boys, at Barnsley, in Yorkshire, on the 12th day of December, 1866. And the day lollow- ing, at Tunstall, in Staffcrdshire, one fearful and fatal ex- plosion killed over one hundred of its husbands, brothers, and sons, calling forth the shrieks and heart-rending agony of its mothers, widows, and orphans. At the Lund Hill mines, in February, 1857, one hundred and eighty-nine were killed ; and at the Hartley colliery, in January, 1862, two hundred and nine perished. All these are, indeed, fearful in the immense sacrifice of life ; but Barnsley exceeds all colliery explosions on record, in this or any other land. The principal newspaper contained short telegraphic accounts of this deplorable accident, on the morning of the 1.3th, and the Queen telegraphed from Windsor anxiously requesting information, for she could always weep with those that weep. And when, on the 14th, full particulars were given, the whole country felt the shock. I had been on a distant journey, and while returning, read the account with painful interest, but saw the first mournful evidence of what had happened at the Guide Bridge Junttion. Tliere four middle-aged persons, evidently colliers, were waiting at the station for the train that would take them near the fatal ■'■•'■ *■ !,'. 430 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. min( Deep R">rr(iw on oacli countonanco, i',nJ eyes rod with weeping, i)laiuly told a sad tale. Wisliing to converse with thorn, I, in as kindly a tone as possible, said, — " I suppose you are going to Barnsley, my dear friends 1" " Yey, sir ; we are all on a sorrowful errand," was the reply. "Have you some relatives among those that are lost?" I asked. •* We have each a son killed !" This painful answer accompanied by a flood of tears, made me almost regret having spoken to tliem on the subject, and I felt I could not ask any more questions. There is a melancholy interest in visiting scenes memor- able from some sad events. No spot in all the parks and squares of London arrests the mind, or calls forth so many associations, as the few square yards in Smithfield, where the martyrs for the truth bravely met their fate. Oxford boasts many places uacred to the good and brave, but none to compare with the place where Ridley and Latimer triumphed in death. The chronicles of our sea-girt shores contain many accounts of fatal rocks and shoals, but none more to be remembered than the spot that wi'ecked the "Royal Charter ;" and now the inhabitants of Yorkshire, and visitors, will ever rogard with mournful interest this deep, dark sepulchre, containing three hundred unburied dead. And is not this right? Is it not well for the living that we are not indiiferent to the memory of the dead 1 Sad thoughts are often the best thoughts ; and to mourn on the spot where others liave been made to mourn, draw;? nearer our syuipathijs and binds humanity in closer bonds. The I \ ■' A SAD STORY. 431 house of mourning is sometimes better than the house of feasting. Such were my thoughts, and such my cxj)erience, on the day I wended my way tlirough Barnsley to the Ardsley Oaks Colliery, the scene of the terrible explosion. On nearing the place, I found the approach to the jjit's mouth guarded by boards, rails, iron ropes, and policemen. On the boards were large placards, with the word, " dangerous." Seeking a shelter from the cold, bleak wind, behind a low stone olfice near the pit, I watched, with feelings not to l)e descr')ed, the derse volumes of dun and dark smoke rolling from the hot, fiery depths, as from a gi-eat burning fxmiace. But, O ! the thought — the sickening, appalling thought — that down that flaming gulf were the bodies of three hun- dred human beings, the husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons of heart-broken wives, mothers, sisters, and children, who were wringing their hands in the wildness of grief, agony, and despair. While silently standing and sorrowfully looking on the scene, I was joined by several minera who had relative^^ and friends in the pit. Some of them had been present on the day of the explosion, and could tell of the fearful events. They said that it being ** making- up" day, more men were in the mine than usual ; and a terrible making-up day it was* It was about half-past one on the 12th, when terriffic booming, foUowou by a tremendous rush of roaring air, black smoke, and broken timber, belched forth from the shaft. The convulsion shook the whole country, as if rent by a mighty earthijuako. Immediately the inhabitants, in fr.mtic terri)r, came running from all parts, — mostly women and children, — screaming as if bereft of reason, wildly ask- ing for husbands and fathers. And well they might, for ) ' f 1 5 ■■! • flu' ^1 IH' ,^ IHi •( Hi 1 ^^■' 432 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. there were one hundred and thirty husbands and fathers down the roaring pit. These wtae followed l»y long lines of people running in from more distant parts, and soon the mouth of the i)it was surrounded by crowds breathless with excitement. After the stunning effects of the awful explo- sion had a little subsided, a cry rose, " Can nothing be done ] — can nothing be done ? — let us go down and save the poor men if possible !" Volunteers for the perilous under- taking instantly presented themselves, even more than required ; and down the sulphureous deep went a number of as brave men as ever existed. Eighteen were found alive near the bottom, but so blackened, burned, and mangled, that, on reaching the top, nearly all expired in great agony. James Barker, one of those noble and brave volunteer?, who had formerly worked in the mine, in a letter to me gives the following sad story of his terrible eleven hours work, in bringing out the dead. His words are : — *• When we got to the bottom, the scene there was indes- cribable, — death and horror on every side. O how dreadful ! But the thought of having a father and three brothers in the dismal mine, besides many comrades, drove all fear from my mind ; so, without asking if there was any danger, I asked where my father and brothers were working. The place being named, oflf I went. O ! how dreadful was the smell of sulphur, and the sight was heart-rending. Dead bodies of men, boys, and horses, lay on every side; but, wi+h my soul lifted up to heaven in yearning prayer for help, on 1 went to seek for the living, yet almost without hope of finding any. I met with one of the volunteers, a bottom- steward, who had a son in the mine ; we went together, through smoke and damp, over fallen roof and broken timber, with beating heart and listening ear for the voice of a com- A SAD STORY. 433 1 fathora ; lines of soou the less with Lil explo- thing be save the ts under- )re than i number re found mangled, it agony, lunteerp, r to me en hours as indes- readful 1 )ther8 in ear from anger, I ig. The was the Dead mt, wi+h help, on hope of bottom- iogether, timber, f a com- rade, or anything to show the sign of life. But all was still as death. Still we went on and on, the smoke getting thicker and thicker, and nothing but death and destruction all around, but we were forced to return. ""When we got away, we saw the fire burning in the distance, near the road we had to pass, and we put it out to save our lives. This done we got to the bottom of the pit, almost dead ourselves with the sulphur and fiery damp. They brought us brandy and rum to revive us, but I had nothing but water. Being a total abstainer, and believing, at that time especially, that water was b^ter and safer than spirits, I took nothing else all the eleven hours I was in those dismal mines, and I was in all the worst places. I found a small tin bottle, filled it with water, fastened it to my belt, and being ordered along with another man, to go with and take charge of other four explorers, we again went back to seek for my father and brothers. We got three hundred yards further this time, but again we met with the black damp. We had only about three hundred yards further to go, but we were forced to stop. I cannot express my feelings at this time, but I still prayed to God for help. After resting awhile, we tried again but could not go. Two went back to fetch some sht^ ing to take the fresh air with us, and we waited until they returned. While waiting, we shouted and listened, but no response, — all was painfully still. We had not been waiting long before the air began to waver : then all was as if life was put into everything, for all was on the move. Then came a rush of air that sttiggerod \is all, and brought the black damp over us. T got my cap in my mouth to keep it out, but it had nearly choked me. I fell down, and after a time feeling a little better, I got to my feet and ran for my life. I did not run far before 434 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I got into the ficbh air ; here I stopped antl called for my companions to come on. I again prayed to God to Iiavo mercy and help me, and I felt he ans vered my prayer, or I should now huve been numbered among the dead. It was a fearful struggle, — so dreadful that I cannot describe it. " We again got to the bottom of the shaft ; my comrades then left me and went up to the top. Brandy and rum were again offered me, but still I would hot take any, but kept to water, thinking it preferable to spirits. Feeling I could not leave my father and brothers in the mine, T got another man to go .with me to seek for them. Streng^^hened by the hand of my God, we got three hundred yards fur- t- jr up than bef< re ; but here we had to stop, — sulphur, smoke, and black damp, hot as a furnace. "We lay down, harkeniug, but still uo sound. O ! where was my father 1 where my brothers? and how was my poor mother] Lord, help my poor, poor mother ! These were my cries, nor could I help it. " On 'returning back we met the master and the en- gineers ; they wanted to know what we hud seen. We all tried to explore further, but were driven back to the bottom of the pit. Some wished me to ^'O and see how my mother was ; but I durst not see her, so 1 did not go up. I again filled my bottle with water, again prayed for help, and again set out. This time I got one thousand yards. O ! the sights I had to pass ; some poor creatures had not a rag left on their bodies ; there were fifteen in one lot, all dead. Some of our company began to carry them out ; but my anxiety to fiuvl my father and brothers overcame everything, i had been dovrn nine hours, and could not have endured what I did but for Divine help. On going further I saw A SAD STORY. 435 I for my to havo er, or I It was be it. omrades lid rum my, but 'eeling I e, I got ig^jliened irds fur- sulphur, y down, father 1 I Lord, 'ies, nor 1. the en- We to the how my o up. I elp, and Ms. O ! ot a rag ill dead, but my rything. endured er I saNV another and another of the slain. Then came thirty-seven all in one lot ! This was a sickening and a dreadful sight : the lamp that I held seemed as is if it were mourning ; — it was just like a little 8[)eck. My three brothers were amongst this lot, all dead, cold, and stiff. O that one of them could have spoken to me ! " Thomas lay on his back ; about two yards further was Andrew, laid on his face ; William r/as next, poor lad, also lying on his face, — these two lay together. I cried out, — * O ! what must I do, — what must I do ? O my mother ! my dear, dear mother ! what will she do when she gets to know the worst !' I fell on my knees and prayed to God that He would support my mother, strengthen her faith, and sustain her. " I believed He had taken my father and brothers all to Himself, or I think I should have died on the spot. "When sufHcient help came, one after another were borne away to near the bottom of the shaft. My strength was now done, I was taken up the pit, about hrlf-past two in the morning Agreeing with some others to gc down again at nine, I set off home. And now came the ^rief, — how could I tell my mother the truth? You mAf think how it would be, poor, dear mother ! After telling her, my spirits seemed to die away, and I lay down comi)letely exliausted. But rest I could not, so long as my father and brothers were under grovmd. I returned again to the pit, went down, brought up my brothers, got them home, and had them laid out. My dear mother was stujnfied and helpless. I requested her to let me go again and try to recover my father ; she made no answer. I was patting on my cap to go down ag>\in, when the second terrible explosion went of. O ! how i. 1 ',.; 436 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. I thanked God for this wonderful do.Uverance, — it wan all His goodness. A few moments more and I should have been killed. " Yours very truly, "James Barkeu." It is scarcely possible to conceire anything more truly dreadful than this simple narrative. When the second appalling explosion, reverberating like thunder, burst forth, followed again by the belching of dense volumes of smoke, and shivered timber from the two shafts, it produced the most bewildering effect. Another rush was made to the sad scene of this double disaster, and the most intense excitement prevailed. Again sorrowing relatives ran wildly about, their grief breaking out anew ; for now all hope of one being saved was dashed to the ground ; the men about the pit sat down in horror and stupefaction, or wept like children, for twenty-six *nore lives were now sacrificed. (There were twenty-seven in the pit, but one miraculously escaped.) And these twenty-six were the brave, courageous, generous volunteers tha^i had gone down to seek and save their fellow-mon ! This second direful catastrophe was felt to be a calamity indeed ; and the gloomy intelligence hung like a black cloud over the whole country. There is something truly dreadful when, in the midst of the ocean's rolling, rising billows, and raging, roaring storm, to see the blue-light shot up into the riven clouds telling of a ship in distress ; or the cry of the mariner, amidst the howling blast, when his vessel is tossed among the breakers. But when a band of fearless hearts man the life-boat, and push out into the wild, foaming deej), with the express object of saving the perisliing, and are themselves engulphed i A SAD STORY. 437 lidst of storm, lling of [dst the leakers. [at, and express julphed in a watery grave, a still more intense and painful feeling is excited. Such were the men, and such the ohjoct, and such was the fate of those six-and-twenty heroes, the last wlie perished in this fearful calamity. But had they perished? — had these men of rs^ience and of experience, these engineers, masters, men of position, perished 1 — was there no hope 1 Some thought there was, and the cage was slowly lowered to the bottom, and, after a short pause, amidst inexpressible excitement, slowly drawn ttgain to the top. JBut it was empty I the fiery foe had slain them all. " The strife is o'er ; death's seal is set. On ashy lips and marble brow." Explosion after explosion followed, which too plainly told that the mines were burning. Practical engineers advised the filling up of the i)its to extinguish the flames ; tens of thousands of tons of earth were i)oured down the shafts, and now Ardsley Oaks is one of the world's great sepulchres. On leaving this never-to-be-forgotten spot, I mot three young women, whose sad countenances plainly told they were amongst the sufferers. All their husbands were amongst the dead, and still in the mines; they were the widows of three brotliers, and tbcy requested I would call to see their mother-in-law, Mrs. Winter, in Baker Street, who had five sons all dead in the burning pit. I felt great reluctance to intrude on the aged creature's hopeless sorrow, and yet I had a wish to comply ;itli the request. I went to the wrong door, the house ot a person named Evans, who, with swollen eyes and quivering lip, told me her husband and son were amongst the killciL On entering the house of Mrs. Winter, 1 found tlio aged mourner sitting in her arm- chair, near the fire ; for several weeks she had been very 10 M 438 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. poorly. At her desire, I sat down beside her, but felt that no words of mine could meet her case. Taking hold of her feeble hand, I said, — " I have called to see you, Mre. Winter, at the request of your daughters-in-law." " Did you know any of my sons?" she anked. " No ; I am a stranger," I replied, " and am just re- turned from the pit." " Do you think there is any hope that any of them will be saved !" " I fear not j but T hoi)e you will again see them all iu heaven." " Thank you — thank you ; for that hoj)e is all that is now left me. Oh ! my John, Thomas, Duncan, Joseph, William, — shall I meet you there ? Ah ! my dear William, he was my youngest — only eighteen^ and that morning, knowing I was poorly, be brought my breakfast to my bed- side, and said, — * Mother, is there anything I can do for you, before I gol* Ah ! he thought well of his mother, and he would have done anything for me. I had very little trouble with any of my lads. Whatever must I do now ]" •' Well, my aged sister, there is only one hand that can bind up the broken heart. He knows your heavy sorrows, and He only can sustain you now, and I believe He will." Before leaving the bereaved creature, I hired a neighbour to keep her company, night and day, for a month, as she feared being alone, for now she was the only person left in the house. My next call was on the mother of James Barker; the dear mother for whom he prayed when he found his three brothers amongst the dead. She resided at No. 3, Ash Row, Hoyle Mill. In this row of stone buildings, there are thiity A SAD STORY. 139 the three Row, bhiity (IwelliiigK, and, sad to relate, twenty-eight out of the thirty had one or more of the family amongst the dead. The angel of death had indeed visited these homes, and a great cry, like the cry of Egypt, had gone up to heaven. Groups of children, many of them too young to understand their loss, were playing about the doors. One of these often asked, " Mother, when will father come home." Others, a little older, looked on in silence. These dear creatures Would no more nin to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his kueo the envied kiss to share. I found Mrs. Barker with both hands pressed against her throbbing heart, seated on the sofa. James told her who I was, and she held out her hand, saying, — " O, how glad my husband would have been to see you ! Many times, when reading your book, has he wished to see you. I thank you for calling, for I know it would have pleased him very much." " Your loss is very sad and very great, Mrs. Barker ; but you do not mourn as those that are without hope, for your husband has long been a Christian, and you have taught your children the way to heaven." " Yes, my husband has been a member of a Christian church thirty years. He loved his dear Saviour, and we have been trying to live for heaven. We have had piety at home, and I believe that, through faith in a crucified Saviour, all four are now in heaven. But, O, the mysterious ways of Providence !" " Yes ; God does indeed move in a mysterious way, and is His own interpreter ; but He so far explains these myste- ries, as to tell us that all things work together for good to them that love Him, and that what^ we know not now of these mysteries, we shall know hereafter." W 440 TALES OK HUMBLE LIFE. And hero I would observe, that during the day I had bticn 80 overwhelmed with the magnitude of the calamity, so bewildered with the sceneri of desolation I had witnoHsed, that I was almost stupefied : I had never shed a tear. But the moment I left James and his mother, I burst out weep- ing, and was glad I could weep. But my tears were tears of sympathy and joy. Yes, of joy, to know that Mrs. Barker felt, amidst her terrible bereavement, that her dear husband and sons were now in paradise ; and I could not help exclaiming to myself, — " O, that all the mothers and widows who have lost their husbands and sons could say the same !" My next visit was to the house of a man whoso loss everybody seemed to mourn — Edward Cartwright. He was one of those brought up out of the pit dead, and had left a wife and three children. Edward had been for several years a lay-preacher, and had laboured hard to do good amongst men of his own condition in life, and at least ono of those killed attributed his conversion to Edward's instru- mentality. His widow was sorely distressed. She told me of his great aniity to be useful and to do good ; how he often, in family prayer, besought the Lord to have mercy on all the miners, and prepare them for all the dangers to which they were exposed, so that if it was sudden death it might be sudden glory. She spoke after long pauses, and after one of these she said, — " You sit in his chair, sir." This thought was too much for her, — she became almost convulsed with anguish. But at parting she said, "My dear Edward is now in heaven, and I shall soon follow." It is now pleasing to think that the week before he met his instant death, he was speaking to the people in " Thirty I had ftinity, But weep- 3 teal's t Mrs. 3r dear lid not srs and lid say 080 loss He wixs d left a several lo good ast ono instru- old me low he ercy on igers to ieath it OS, and almost , "My ■ow." he met ' Thirty A SAD STORY. 441 ) I Row," altout l)oing prcpan'il to meet their (Icxl, saying, — *' The last month of the year is now conic, and we may not all see the first month of the next." Speaking at a church meeting a day or two previous to the explosion, he, after giving out the hymn, "Earth has many a aceno of sorrow," Held up both his hands, saying, — *' There will lie an ama- zing difference when I ha.'e to exchange my dirty coal-pit cap for a crown of glory !" Edward ! that amazing change has come to thee ! Would thii*; all that perished with thee had so bright a prospect, — and would that the voice of this sad calamity might induce many, but especially the miners, to bo wise, and think of their latter end ! % LUCY'S LEGACY. Those who are acquainted with the young in our Sunday sohools and churches, have often witnessed the deep concern of youthful convercs for their unsaved friends and relatives, especially their parents. Pardoned themselves, +hey have* the most intense desire that tliose they love shoidd enjoy the same blessing ; and, when th -y see tliem indifterent to religion, and neglecting their soul's salvation, their fear that they will perish often amounts to bitter agony. One of these, who was daily praying in private for the conversion of her father and mother, told her teacher that if it was a question ^vhether she or they must be saved, she felt she would rather be lost herself, if her loss would secure their eternal safety. Only those who feel the value of souls, and who weep and pi'oy for those they lov^j, can ever understand this disin- terestedness. David felt it for his wicked son Absalom ; Paul felt it for the unbelieving Jews ; and Christ felt it for us all ; and those who are the ri»ost like Hira will feel the most concern for others. He wept over the sin-smitten cities, and His true followers still mourn over those who re- ject heaven's mercy, and bring down destruction upon their own heads ; and the young person mentioned in this narra- tive was for a time one of these mourners. When Lucy became old enoUj^h to understand her condi- tion in life, she found herself the child of parents greatly LUCY S LFOACY 443 diflVreafc in many rer:;|»oct.s, — pspooinlly in tilings of the greatest importance. Her father was a strong, healthy, labouring man, with wages barely sufficient for the require- ments of their small cottage. lie wnight came homo lather unsteady. He never attend d a place of worship, - not because ho "hated parsons," nor because ho doubted the truth of the I3ible, or that he objected to religion, — but because ho cared, or seemed to care, nothing about divine things ; — ho was a negloctor. When the Sundays were fine, he would go out to get what ho called fresh air, rambling about the streets or fields. At other times ho would sit in the house, reading history or the newspapers, or spending most of his time lounging on an old oak cou'.h, resting, himself, as he often said, " until his back ached." The mother of Lucy was rather tall, very good-looking, orderly, clean, and industrious. She had boon in the Sun- day-school from a child, b\it it was not until after her mar- riage that she began to be concerned about eternal things, or to think seriously about being saved. She had then two young children, four and six years old resjjectively. Lacy was the oldest, and almost every Sabbath the mother and children might bo seen sitting on a form near the church door, — a very humble place, but one the mother always pre- ferred ; for she went to the temple as the publican went, — his prayer w^n lu.r prayer, — and she said tluit any place in the house of G^xl was prfi^.'ious. She iin long a weejnng penitent, — cat nest seekers seldom do ; and w\tale ; when her cheeks are red, as they often are, she looks very beautiful," replied Lucy. " But what does ftither say she must have the doctor for, Lucy?" " I cannot tell, except it is l>ocause she coughs so much," was the answer. Little did these children know the import of their conver- jjation ; others, who knew something of the family history, gjiw another marked to fall. For several months the mother was able to attend to her housework, and she was frequently so much better that her friends rejoiced in hojies she might he spared. But this was not to be : little by little she lost strength, but, like thousands similarly afflicted, she tho\ight when spring returned, she should Ik) well again. She did not cling to life because she feared death. She loved her husband and children, and for their sakes alone she wislunl to live. Alo'it this time an event took place, which we wish was light lost ight (lid lier Lslied was Lucy's lf.oac^y. 445 more frequent. Several of the teachei-s of the Sunday school wliere Lucy attended, had met together for the special object of praying that the Lord wouhl send the convincing and converting influence of the Holy Spirit among the senior scholars. God lieard tlieir prayers, and many began earnestly to seek the Lord, and believed to the sjvving of their souls. Lucy was one of this happy number, and when her mother heard of this, her joy was great ; and especially when her other child, Rachel, near eleven years pld, began to ask what «»\e must do to be saved. The mother was in raptures; and had her husband been brought to seek for mercy, her cup of bliss would have been almost full. It was at this period I became acquainted with this in- teresting family, learned what is already narrated, and witnessed most of what follows. I had been addressing a large gathering of young people, after which many of them wished to speak to me on various subjects; amongst them was Lucy. She had a request from her mother that I would call and se*; her, if possible, before I returned to Rochdale. 1 called, and found her seated in a large arm-chair, carefully wrapjxid in a dark woollen flhawl. Near her stood a small table on which was her Bible, tv o half oranges, and a small basin of sago gruel. The cottagi a as veiy neat and clean ; Lucy had done it all, for though she was not yet fourteen, her mother had trained her well. She had been forced to leave the mill to nurse her sick parent, and willingly she did her work. When are we happiest? In the crowded hall. When fortune flKilea, and Hatterers bend the knee? How soon, bow ver- h:i8ures tlet*! We mt not happy there. ^'! 446 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. When are we happiest? 0, when resigned To whatsoe'er our cup of life may bring ; When we can know ourselves but weak and blintl Creatures of earth, and trust alone in Him Who giveth in His mercy joy or jiaiu ! 0, we are hapx>i^t then. And such was now the happiness of Lucy's mother. The last enemy's dart had once again found its mark, and soon the victim would quiver and fall. But there was no mur- muring, no repining, no doubts, no feara. She was dying, and she knew it ; yet how calm, how "composed, how unspeakably happy ; and in the only way in which it is possible for any beiyg to be truly happy. She was resting her soul, body, circumstances, and prospects on Jesus ; and, as the golden orb of day, on a calm summer evening, when sinking down the western sky, gilds as he does all around with glory, suggesting tlioughts of grander glories still, so did this dying saint behold by faith her home prepared by Christ in the mansions of the blest, and, as she passed away, sliowed tlifc same glorious path to heaven. Lucy brought a low buffet and sat beside her mother's knee, eagerly catching every word we spoke. My words were few, for I felt I was in the presence of an experience I had yet to mequire. She told me of her own conversion, and of the peace she had since enjoyed. She told me of the goodness of God in permitting her to see her two children, like Mary, choosing the " good part" in then- early days. She then paused, and for a time was silent. I did not like to Bj)eak, for I saw she was under some deep emotion. Re- covering hei'self a little, she said, — " O, how I did want to see my husband s^wed before I died ! I have long piaycd for this, and I bt;lieve it will LUCY S LEGACY. 447 mice fsion, the Lren, ays. like Re- yot corao." Then taking hold of Lucy's Imnrl, «he said, " liUcy, my child, I want you to ])ronii8C ine you will never give him up ; never, no, never !" Lucy buried her face in her mother's lap, weeping and sobbing, and, with an earnestness that showed it came from an overflowing heart, said, — " Mother, I never will, I never will. O, mother, we shall all meet you in heaven ! " The mother, smiling through her tears, sjiid, — " Thank you, my child, for that promise. Your young sister will help you ; and I leave you this as a legacy, especially to you, liUcy." Let us not think lightly of this affectionate, dying mother's request to Lucy, or doubt the influence of early piety. Mo.st of the brightest ornaments of the Church of Christ found the Saviour while young, and some of them while very young, and began to exort an influence for good amongst their youthful acquaintances, and especially amongst those of their own family. Had the church more confidence in early conversions, more faith in the power of saving giace to reach our children, many cheering harvests would spring lip amongst those who once sung hosannas in the streets of Jerusalem to the world's Kedeemer. God did, and God can, from the mouths of balxjs and sucklings bring forth praise. We know a girl who, one Sunday morning, wa« getting ready for the school, when three wicked men called for her father to go with them to a dog-race on the moors. The father promised to follow them on in a few moments. He sat down to his breakfast ; but his child was so shocked at the thought of her father going to a dog-race, especially on the Sabbath-day, that she could not help weeping, "What is the matter with you, ^ai-fih?" ^sked her father. li 448 TALES OF HUMDLE LIFE. The child wont and leaned on liia slioulder, and, putting her sraall thin fingers through his rough hair, said, — " Father, should you go to the dog races on Sunday, will not God see you ]" " Bless thee, child, how thee talks ! Away with thee to the school, and never mind me," replied the father. " I will, if you promise mo that you will not go," she said, still stroking down his hair with her delicate fingers. " But I told the men I would go," he replied. " Yes, but God will forgive you if you do not go, but He will not if you do ; and I shall cry all the day about you." •* Bless the child, how she talks ! Away with thee to school, and I will not go." She pressed both liis cheeks with her small hands, and ran off to the school, happy as a little queen. But that was not all; that same evening this little lady had hold of the homy hand of her father, leading him to the chapel. She could read better than he could, and found tlie hymn, and stood on the form to be high enough to see the words, ^or was that all : several months after, this man, when giving his experience, previous to being admitted a member of the church, mentioned his child's conduct that Sunday morning he was going to the dog-race, as the l)egin- ning of his concern for pardon. He expressed his thankful- ness to the Almighty that he had such a child, and said he felt, that if he had gone to that dog-race, God would have taken the child from him. Two months after I had called to see Lucy's mother, about twelve o'clock one evening, there was a scene in that humble cottage. The father stood at the head of the bed holding the l>ani of his dying wife ; Lucy and Bachel knelt at her side, in speechless sorrow, ..u(i two neighlioiirs sat at a dis- LUCY S LEGACY. 449 .tanco, silently looking on. There were a low last words faintly spoken : these last words were, — " l)ear husband, see in my greatest need what religion can do. I wished to see you a child of God before I departed, but I have left a legacy to my children, ai\d, when I am gone, Lucy will tell you what it is." Feebly, very feebly, where these words sjwken.and her soul in the company of the waiting angel, went away to glory. For several months after the mother's death, Lucy's father was very regular in returning home. He went less to the public-house, and once or twice attendou the church with his two children. He had some suspicion what the legacy was that his dying wife had left, but did not ask. Lucy dui-st not yet tell him, and nearly two years rolled over before it was explained. Lucy did most of the home work ; a little help from a neighbour on the washing day was all she required, and things were moderately comfortable. But there was this one thing, this one cause of concern, — father was not a Christian. Lucy sometimes thought he would never be saved ; that he would grow harder and harder in his indifference, and this gave her great anxiety. But she held fast to the promise made to her mother ; she did not arid would not give him up. About this period a circumstance occured, that greatly encouraged her to peraevere in praying for her father. She had a young, pious companion in the church, named Ellon, who had a careless, prayerless mother. Believing in the power of prayer, she had set apart ten minutes every day to plead with God for her niother's salvation. About seven o'clock every evening, the time she was most at libei ty from her work, she went up stairs to her bed-room, to ask again 450 TALES OV HUMBLE LIFE. and again for tho burning desire of hor soul, — hor mother's conversion. The mother had witnessed a great change in her daugliter. She was always affectionate and kind, but had been unusually so for many nionths. She never seemed weary in helping her mother in the house, un ' did everything very cheerfully. Often had she reque'^lod her mother to go with her to her place of worship, but there was always some excuse, — she never would go. Ellen's going up stairs about tho same time each evening, surprised her mother. She had noticed that sometimes, when she came down, her eyes were red with weeping, and determined to know what was going on. One evening when Ellen was gone np, the mother took off her shoes, gently went about half way up the steps, and sat down to listen ; she then heard in a soft, subdued, but earnest voice, words that sent a thrill through her whole soul. On the following Friday evening, Ellen was quietly sewing by the fireside, and her mother was ironing. Without turn- ing round, her mother said, — " Ellen, have you been praying for me ?" Ellen was greatly astonished at this unexpected question. Her face grew red, and her eyes filled with tears, and, when able to speak, she said, — " 0, mother, I could not help it, I could not help it ! I feel so concerned for your soul." Soon after this, Ellen had the unspeakable delight to walk beside her mother to the chapel, and to see her beome a member of the church. When Lucy heard of this, she was more and more deter- mined not to give her father up. She, too, had a set time for prayer, and often had so much faith that she was now LUCY S LEGACY, 451 ! I expecting it every day. Had the father known of this surely it would have softened his hard lieart. And ho did know at last, for one evening on returning home much earlier than expected, and finding the door a little oj)en, he entered without being heard. He stood for a moment wondering where his daughter was, and, hearing a voice up stairs, ho was on the point of calling out, but, on listening, ho became fixed to the spot. Lucy, thinking no one but God heard her, was pleading for her father. " O Lord," she said, ** Thou knowest I promised my mother I would never give my dear father up ; nor I never will. Thou saved my mother, Thou hast saved me and my sister, and Thou can save him. Lord, do save my dear, dear father, and I will praise TL\ee for ever." Fearing that Lucy might know he had heard her prayer, he silently stepped out, leaving the door as he found it, and set out on a short walk. But it was such a walk as he had never had before, and his thoughts were loud thoughts. " This is the Mothek's Legacy," said he ; "I thought what it was, but now I know. I have always thought my children the best children in the world, and now I think better of them than ever. But what shall I do 1 X cannot stand this ; and yet, wliat shall I do ?" So much of the family I knew when oii'cumstances separated us. Lucy's father lost his work, and had to reiuove into another county to get employment. Eleven years after, I was attending a religious gathering, and, in my address to the people, mentioned the Mother's Legacy. The moment I had done so, twc females who sat near the platform, seemed greatly affected, i could not tell why, and feared I had said something wrong. After the meeting was over, these two females followed me into the vestry, and I at once recognized 452 TALES UUMDLC MPR. Lucy and Racliel, both tlri:r;sed in l>liick. I diil notiusk them any questions, as I feared their father was dead, an. EDMl'KD. 4r)6 thongli far from solitary, illustratioi) of this trtith, as our liiMn-c'liv.ss rooords can tc'^stil■y. Eilmuncl was about the same age as mystslf, and, along witii others, sat with me on a good strong three-inch thick form, supported by six round legs. We had two teachers, attending (»ach alternate Sunday. One of them was a tall, patient, rod-cheeked man, with soft hands, kind words, and a loving heart. We called him " Old James," and we all loved him. The other was a stern, bad-tempered man, with a stick, which he took care to make us all well acquainted with. Some people say that you may flog a lad any time, fur ho is always either going into mischief or just coniinjx out. Our stern teacher seemed to be une of this class of thinkers, for he laid on right and left. Perhaps we deserved it, if so, we got it, but none of us liked it. One Sunday morning Old James was talking to us about heaven. We had been reading the twenty-first chapter of Revelation, and the old man seemed almost in j)iiradise whilo he was reading and talking with us about it. Never liofore that day had I such a view of that happy place. Old James saw we were all affected, and he laid his soft hands on our heads, one by one, and besoTight us to be good lads, and keep holy the Fabbath-day, and then we should go to that glorious place of which we had been reading. Most of us had taken our dinnera to the school, for nearly all in that class resided two or throe miles from the place. At noon we gathered round the large, warm stove, in the bottom of the chapel, and began to untie our small linen handkerchiefs, to see what we had brouglit for dinner. I well remember mine was an apple-cake, the half of a circle, with the widest selvedge of any apple cake I had ever seen. But it is a queer cake a hungry lad will turn his back upon, 1 456 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. SO I bogan oig to attend to Sunday-school. He had now become the companion of fools, and could mock at the Sabbath. It was easy to predict what would follow, for the way in which a person regards the Lord's-day is always a test of character. It is God's day, — the Sabbath of the Lord. It was mercifully given to man, — to all men, — at creation ; confirmed when the law was given to Sinai ; and tlie commandment then written by the hand of God Himself, imperatively demanded it should be kept holy. It was made for man, that he, his son, his daughter, his man-servant, his m.iid-servant, the stranger, and even his toiling cattle, should enjoy it as a day of rest. It was not given to the Jews only ; it no more belongs ex- clusively to the Jews than do all the other commandments. The ten commandments are for all nations, and are binding to the end of time. " Till heaven and earth pass away, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise i)ass from the law, till all Ije fulfilled. Whosoever, therefore, shall break one of these least commandments, and teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven." But it is doubtful if ever such a man, except he repent, gets to heaven at all. I 458 TALES OF HUMBLE LIFE. Isaiah, wlicn speaking of the blessed day, says, " If thou turn from doing thy pleasure on my holy day ; and call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable : and shalt lionour him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words ; then thou shalt delight thyself in the Lord, and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth ; for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it." There is something more in these words than mere resting; but it was ordered to be a day of rest, that it might be better kept as a day of holiness. Yet this day, given by heaven as a blessing, is by thousands turned into a curse ; for they are more wicked on this day than any other. And, though they have the advantage of ceasing from work on that day, because of the command- ment, yet they hate its holy character. The infidels of France, during the reign of reason, terror, and bloodshed, abolished the Sabbath, but there was soon a terrible retribu- tion. I et men say what they will, all the armies of Chris- tendom c.tnnot change one '* Thus saith the Lord ;" come to pass it must, and the events of every-day life amply prove it. Todd, the American writer, tells us that every merchant in New York who kept his office open all or part of the Sabbath-day failed in business ; that, in twenty years, at least forty Sabbath-breaking merchants went to ruin, — not one escaped. In the neighbourhood of Rochdale, there is a place called Bridge Mill. A good old Christian, of the name of William Heape, rented this mill from a large and wealthy woollen manufacturer, of the name of Walmsloy, residing at Castle- mere. One Sunday morning, Walmslcy sent Henj>e word that ho must set all the m n to work tliat day, and get ready EDMUND. 459 ailed liaiu (ollen astlo- wurd eady sonic pieces that were niucli wanted. He^ipo returned for answer, that by one o'clock on the Monday morning he wovdd begin, and do all he could, but he must be excused working on the Sunday. Walmsley was much offended at the answer, and sent his own warehousemen to do the pressing and packing of the pieces. The cart containing the goods had to pass through the brook called the Roach, that ran close to the mill. The river had risen during the day, but, being night, they could not see this, and the horse, cart, and goods were all upset and carried down the stream. The warehouse- men screamed out when they saw the cart turn over. Mrs. Heape, hearing them, ran out of the house to see what was wrong, and, seeing the goods floating down the stream, said, — " There goes your Sunday work !" The house and wealth of Walmsley have passed into other liandtJ, but William Heape, the lover and observer of the Sabbath, greatly pros{)ered, and his many sons, treading in their father's steps, have i)roved the words of Jsiiiah true. Kings and rulers may take counsel together against heaven's laws, but He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh at them. To go against a l^hus sait/i the Lord, will bring inevitable ruin ; and one Thus saith the Lord is, " Kemember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy." If it should lie asked, — " But what has all this to do with Edmund?" — my answer is, that his 8ul*scfpient life will show what misery a disregard of tne Lord's-day almost in- variably entails. We saw him last standing on the top of the hedge, shouting and mocking one of his school-mates. Three other scenes in his career will show the consequences of his early follies. A lough, drunken character that sometiuies attended the 4G0 TALES OP HUMBLE LIFE. ging-houbes. l-m Chaiiol for the Destitute, came to request I would a young man who was very ill in one of our lie said, — " I guess ho is somebody's child, and should not l^e left to die like a dog. He says he knows you ; come, go wi' me and pray wi' him, if he wants it ; that will do no harm, at ony rate." I at once went with the rough messenger, and found a young man doubled up with pain, in a miserable bed. He groaned, and entreated some one to put something warm to his feet. I immediately got tJie oven plate, wrapped in an old rag, and pressed it to his cold feet. This soon brought relief. I had not seen his face, for he covered his head with the bed-clothes the moment I went into the room, and seemed determined I should not know him. But the rough man said to hiin, — " Hold up thy face, Ned, and let Mr. Ashworth see who thee art. What art to feard on 1 He Vt 'iapj)en buy thee a drop o' brandy ; for thee needs something for inside as well as eawt." The dirty sheet was pulled off Ned's face, and I found that it was my old Sunday-school fellow, Edmund. He had been drinking for several days, fell ill, and crept into a common lodging-house, as he thought to die ; but care aud nursing, all at my expense, brought him round. I bought him a shirt and a pair of stockings, and he began work again, thankful for the kindness shown him. He told me during his sickness, that he never attended a place of worship for 3'ears, but that ho never saw people going to the chapel or church without envying them ; that he was most miser- ttblo on the Sunday, and thousands of times had wished that ■'1:^*: EDMUKD iei nd that id been mm on |ursing, him a again, during orship chapel miser- d that he had followed the advice of Old James, and kept the Sabbath-day holy. Poor Edmunr' ' he envied those that he saw keeping the Sabbath holy, aad going tc the house of God ; and well he might. Tliere are many beautiful scenes in this beautiful world, but there is one that has to me the most cheering interest, and awakens the most joyous thoughts. I am not insensible to the silent but impressive language of God's visible universe, — the heavens, the everlasting hills, the majestic rocks, the woods, the dells, the fields, the flowers, — these fill the mind with deep emotions, and give birth to unutterable feelings. But there is a sight still grander, awakening emotions still higher and nobler, when, on the Sabbath mom, you see the jiathering of thousands of God's people, old and young, to their various Sions, to mingle their voices in praises to Him whose voice called forth those glorious heavens, those hills, rocks, fields, and flowers. It is then that heaven Reems nearest to earth, and the glories of the temple above are reflected in the temple below. " Hou sweet a Sabbath thus to spend, Tn hopes of one that ne'er shall end !" fu The next time I saw Edmund, was under still more pain- -^iicumstances. I had been several days serving on the jury, at the Manchester Quarter Fissions, and, perhaps in cinsequen'^s of my name beginning with "A," was appointed foreman. There were many persons to be tried for stealing, and amongst tlie nund)cr I was sorry to find the name of my old Bible-class mate. The charge against him was that, along with three others, he \v.A stolen a sack of malt. Edmund was the least guilty ; lie had nothing to do with 20 If 462 l-ALES OF HUMBLE 1 PE. the stealing, but part of the malt vras found in a bag under his l>ed. The trial did not lant long, for there was no doubt of their guilt. Being the foreman it was my dutj to pro- nounce the finding of the jury, and when the court-cryer, with a loud voice, called out, " Gentlemen of the jury, do you find Edmund guilty or not guilty?" with a heavy heart I looked at Edmund. Our eyes met, and in hia eyes I could rv^ad the working of his soul ; they plainly said, " Have pity on me !" A choking sensation arose to my throat, and I was very near breaking down before I <;ould pronounce the word — "Guilty !" The rest of the jury seemed surprised at my emotion, but I did not tell them thpt the guilty prisoner at the bar was ^once a happy, innocent lad in our happy Sunday-school class. Edmund's sentence wab six weeks' imprisonment, with hard labour. Jurymen, after their work is done, have the privilege, if they wish it, of going through the cells, wards, and work- shops of the prison. On this occar 'on we all agreed to go together and see, what I am sorry can be seen in any part of this country. I stood on a balcony, looking at a number of men dressed in coarse, black woollen cloth, with yellow stripes, turning a large wheel with their feet ; — this was the tread-milL Edmund was one of these, and while I stood looking at the panting men, it was Edmund's turn to come off. He went straight to a pump that stood near, and taking hold of the chained tin cup, he drank deep and long, then wiped the sweat from his face, and sat down till his turn came again. It was heavy work, and I could not help thinking of the words, " The way of transgressors is hard." I felt truly sorry for Edmund, and was glad he did not see me, for I did not want to cause him pain by the wide con- EDMUND. 463 if ork- ^ogo part iber iUow the stood ;oine Iking Ithen Iturn help .rd." It see con- trast. I had not then, nor have I yefc, finything of which T can boast ; but I do believe that a love and constant regard for the Sabbath, has saved me from those snares into which many of my early acquaintances have fallen. After Edmund came out of prison, he was comparatively steady for many years. He kept away from thieves, but still most of his Sundays Vere spent in the public-house. I had often invited him to attend some place of worship, and never again to touch one drop of drink. Again and again he promised to turn over a new leaf, but he did not. An old proverb says, that "the way to hell is paved with good intentions." Good resolutions, Tn.ade in our own strength, are as weak as a straw. Another message came, — this time brought by an old woman. She informed me that she had a man staying at her house dying of consumption, — that he kept calling out, — "Will some one go and fetch John Ash worth ? I am sure he will come if you tell him how ill I am. Do go and fetch him !" We need not be surprised, when death stares the wicked man in the face, that he should be anxious for the company of praying men. When sickness lays a man on his bed, and, in the quiet hours memory begins to travel back, and the black way-marks of life rise up to the vision, — when coBseience can no longer be smothered, and the soul begins to realize and shudder at his gloomy prosi)ects, one that knew something of this tells uh that, — " The soul that lirdoila o'er guilty woes, Is like the scorpion girt by tire ; So writhes the miail remorse has riven ; Undone for earth, unfit for heaven ; I>arkness above, despair beneath ; Within it tire, around it death." \] 464 TALES or HUMBLE LIFE. I have long made allowance for the ungodly, even for the mocker and scomer at religion while in health, when the time of testing comes, as come it will, wanting the cottnsel and prayera of those they may have once slighted, but whom they now regard as the happiest of mortals, and would give a thousand worlds to be as they are. These were ray views and feelings when 1 entered the sick room of Edmund, for he it was that the old woman had fetched me to see. I was glad this time to find him in a clean, decent place. " I am fain you are come, John, but you Lave only come to see a wreck, — a poor skeleton," were Edmund's first words. " But why are you glad to see me ? I fear I can do but little for you now, Edmund." ** But surely I must not die as I am, — unprepared, unpre- pared ; surely not, surely not !" " But I cannot save you, Kdmund, nor all the men in the world ; no, nor all the saints and angels in heaven." " But surely I must be saved, John ; what must I do 1 do tell me!" " Do you believe you are a sinner Edmund 1" " Yes, I do," was his reply. " Do you y^eJ that you are a sinner 1 — for there is a vast difierence between simply believing it and feeling it." ** Yes, I do John," he replied. Do you believe that Christ died for you, and that He can save you V " Ves, 1 believe Ife could; but T don't believe He ever will." "Then there is no hope for you. Tf you don't believe He uhV/ HA\e you, how can you be saved 1" BDMUKD. 465 " Well, then, I car never be saved ; for 1 have been so wicked and sinned so long, and done it with my ejw wide open, for I knew bettn'. Sabbath-breaking has brought me to this ; that was my irst wrong step. O that I could undo what I have done ; but this can never be ! Wlxat must be done r " Believe that Christ will save you, Edmund," I iNnswored. " But how can I ]— how can I V " Because He says Ho will, and you ought to believe Him, for if you don't you grieve Him." '* Where does Christ say thati , Do tell mo, John." " You read many times in the BiUle-class, at school, these words : * Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, — He came to seek and to save that which was lost ;' and to those that are hurdenod witli sin, He s^ays, * Come to me, and I will give vou rest.' "' I then it;uised, to let the merciful words of a merciful Saviour hav<; their full weight. For a long time we were silent ; I feared to disturl) his thoughts, for he was evidently surprised at wliat had been paid. I took out my handker- chief to wipe the tears tluit were running down each side of his face, hut still T spoke not. Heaving a deep sigh, he quietly turned his head, and, looking me in the face, slowly said. " Is it so? — is there mercy for me 1" Seeing he was exhausted, I took my pocket Testament, read some portions suitable for his condition, and then knelt down to plead for poor Edmund. how precious to me was the sinner's Friend at that moment ! During that night Edmund was taken with a fit of cough- ing, and burst a blood vessel ; and, when Icalled the follow- 466 TALES Olf HUMBLE LIFE. ing morning, I saw a worn-out body covered with a white sheet. Edmund was dead. Do I think he was saved ? the reader will anxiously ask. I dare not answer the question. The Judge of all the earth will do right, but if the Sabbath-breaker take warning, ray object will be answered in writing this nan'ative of my old school-fellow, Edmund. TORONTO: P«INTED AT THE WESLEYAN CONI-ERtNOE OFFICE. ih a white ously fLsk. 1 the earth iming, ray of my old ICE.