Part 3

IN passing along one of the busy crowded streets of a large city, it was my lot, on the same day, to witness two pictures very opposite in character. There was much of sadness in each, and much to learn from both.

The figures in the first were an elderly man and woman; evidently husband and wife. By right, the wife should have leaned on the arm of her partner; but, alas! His step Was unsteady, his gait tottering, and she was guiding him with a firm clasp, looking around from time to time, as if afraid and ashamed to be seen by any casual passenger to whom they might be known. It was evident that the wife's sorrowful task was a new thing to her, and that the man was no habitual drunkard.

All the way along the road as they tottered on, it was touching to hear the poor old fellow pouring out expressions of regret for having yielded to temptation, and promises to avoid it for the future. The woman wiped her eyes now and then with the corner of her apron, and spoke soothingly and tenderly, as if she would fain comfort her old partner in his evident humiliation. Then the man began to remind her in a broken pleading voice of all the years and years during which he had never transgressed by taking a drop too much; adding, "And thee knaws, my lass, I've had to wark reet hard a' the time."

The wife tightened her hold of her husband's arm, and, as she clasped her other hand across it, said, while her voice was fairly broken with a sob, "Doan't I knaw it, Jem? Doan't I knaw it?"

As she uttered these words, she and her half-helpless charge came to the turning into a narrow street, down which they went, and I saw them no more.

There was a dark shadow cast over this little picture by the condition of the old man; but there were some beautiful lights in it nevertheless. To see that wife's homely face, full of combined love and sorrow, and the earnestness with which she strove, as far as her strength would allow, to hide her husband's fault from the eyes of their neighbours, stirred my warmest admiration and sympathy. Not one word of reproach did she utter, to increase the pain her husband was already feeling. She was ready to meet his penitence half-way; to call to mind his long perseverance and hard work, and to strengthen him in making and keeping good resolutions for the future.

My fancy followed them to their little home, and I seemed to see its fast-closed door shut, to prevent prying eyes from knowing anything to Jem's discredit. And I pictured, too, the sorrowing wife on her knees, asking pardon for his fault and new strength for both. The two, doubtless, long joined together by the strongest earthly ties, would be drawn closer still; for all who practise such conduct as that wife manifested realise the truth of those sweet words, "He that covereth a transgression seeketh love."

Thus thinking as I passed onward, I reached a railway arch, under which my road lay. There I witnessed a scene of a very different character. A much younger couple than those I had lately noticed were standing beneath the arch; the man steadying himself against the wall as well as he could; while the woman, in a perfect fury of passion, was heaping reproaches and abuse upon his head.

She taunted him with her rags and dirt, with his barefooted children running wild in the streets and not half fed, whilst he, worse than a brute, was setting in a public-house. She was so bitter in her words, so quick-witted and sharp in her taunts, that they stung him, heavy as was his head, and muddled as were his senses. He replied by an oath and an expression which was full of hate and contempt towards herself, vowing, in addition, that he would spend every farthing he had left of his wages, and she might get money where she could; though he had meant to give it to her.

Stung to fury at this, she seized his arm, as If to drag him homeward, but she only succeeded in throwing him down on the ground. The man with difficulty regained his feet, and his first act was to aim a blow at the face of his wife which would be heavy enough to leave cruel marks there; his next to reel forward and enter the nearest public-house, which was just outside the arch.

There were several witnesses to this miserable scene, this picture all black, and without any gleam of light to relieve it. The woman's shrill taunts had called more from the adjoining street; for her idea seemed to be, not to cover, but to expose her husband's transgression to the very utmost.

Now she went on her homeward way alone, weeping, disfigured, hopeless, and surely we may suppose self-accusing, if conscience were not altogether deadened within her.

I suppose my face told something of the sorrowful feelings which this scene had stirred within me; for a decent-looking woman, who evidently knew the unhappy couple, said to me, "Isn't it a pity she can't hold her tongue a bit, not even till she gets him home and the door shut behind him? But it has always been the same!"

"You know this couple, then?"

"Yes, ever since they were boy and girl; when they were first wed, he would only get a little drop of drink now and then; but when he did, she would make such an outcry, scolding and going on like anybody mad, that if he had come home meaning to stop, it was pretty sure to drive him out again. I think she might have done a good deal to improve him if she'd only had a bit of patience. But, poor lass! She never could hold that sharp tongue of hers. So they have gone on from bad to worse, and no signs of mending. She has made herself a lumpy bed; but as she has made it, so she'll have to lie."

The speaker then bade me good-afternoon, and went on her way. I went on mine also, musing sorrowfully on the last picture I had witnessed, and calling to mind that other lesson from God's Word:

"A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger."

I thought with deep sorrow of that poor young wife who, having a very real trouble to battle with in the intemperate habits of her husband, had made it greater and him far worse by her own ungoverned temper and bitter words. And oh, what a touching contrast did the example of the patient old woman present! It is hard, terribly hard, to be linked for life to a drunkard; to have a miserable home and ragged children, where peace, comfort, and plenty ought to reign. But surely, where a woman's own intemperance of language has tended to make bad worse, conscience must speak with a stern accusing voice; unless by long neglect she has succeeded in silencing its pleadings.

I was once describing these two contrasting pictures to a poor friend, whose husband—a good workman, and in the receipt of large wages, often had fits of intemperance which lasted for several days at a time. She listened to my story and said, "Ay, it's all very well to speak about having clean hearths and bright homes and pleasant looks for your husband. But how much does he see or notice when he comes in half blind with drink? I tell you, missis, there are men who, with kind wives, clean hearths, and pretty innocent children round them, would leave their homes if they were as grand as the Queen's, and find their pleasure in a public-house."

I knew that her home was a pattern of neatness, and that her well-trained children would have been a credit to a mother in any station of life.

The tears were streaming down her cheeks as she spoke, and I knew too how bravely she had fought, aided by a better strength than her own, against this great trouble. I held her honest hand, rough with household toil, in mine, and honouring with all my heart this true wife and mother, I said to her, "How much worse might things have been, if you had acted like that young woman in her mad passion? If you had taunted and aggravated your Tom, he would not have stayed in his downward course. He has never struck you, or given you bitter words and oaths. He has never come in and made you cower and tremble before him, and his terrified children run to hide themselves."

[Illustration: A true helpmeet.]

"No, never, poor fellow! He always slinks into the back kitchen in a shamed sort of way, as if he couldn't bear the little ones to see him, and I just get him to bed as quick as I can; for I can't bear that they should despise their father. He never gave me an ill word or a blow in his life; but when the fit is over, he doesn't know how to be sorry enough, or to work hard enough."

"Ah, Margaret," I answered, "that tells me your prayers and your labour have not been in vain. You have done your duty by your husband, even when he has failed; and you have withstood temptation in one way, when he has yielded in another. Go on, brave heart, in God's strength. Still strive, pray, and wait. It may be the will of your Heavenly Father to make you the instrument of winning your partner to the Lord's side. You will never drive him into what is good; but the cords of love are powerful to draw and to bind, and 'what knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?'"

We bade each other good-bye, and Margaret went homeward, I trust not the less hopeful for our little talk together. At any rate, a smile had chased away the tears, and she was enabled to see that her domestic cloud had still a silver lining, black though it might be at times. And thank God there is no cloud so dark behind which the eye of faith cannot discern the rays from Him who is the Sun of Righteousness.

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A WORD IN SEASON.

"YOU don't mean to say you are really going to hear that atheist lecturer, Jim," said a working man to his neighbour who had just entered his cottage after tea was over.

The two men had walked home from work together, and it was while they were on the way that Jim Parker had stated his intention of going to hear the so-called secularist, and asked his fellow-workman to accompany him. John Turner was not a little surprised when the latter made his appearance as he said "spruced up," to repeat the invitation.

"Yes, I am going, John," was the answer. "I always like to hear both sides of a question. Won't you go too?"

"Not I, Jim; I hope I've read my Bible to better purpose than that. I profess to believe, ay, and I do believe that it is God's Word, and if I were to go and hear that man it would be like saying that I'm willing to let somebody try and persuade me that it is not. Nay, nay, 'Let God be true, but every man a liar,' say I. I cannot afford to be reasoned or persuaded out of what is my greatest comfort, Jim."

"Why, you might be frightened that you would be persuaded out of your belief, if you were to go with me, John."

"And so I am, and I'm not ashamed to own it. I'm only an ignorant sort of fellow, with very little book learning, and this lecturing man is sure to be up to everything. He could make lots of statements that I could not contradict. At least I couldn't argue so as to show that he's wrong, even while I am certain in my own mind that he is. Where would be the use of a poor working man like me standing up and saying that yon atheist was going about to rob us working folks of the best riches we have? Even if they would let me do it, and say what a comfort it is to feel that God loves a poor sinner like me; that Jesus died for me, and the Holy Spirit has brought home the blessed lesson to my heart, that was ready to sink with shame and fear, till that message of pardon came to me—who would listen?"

"I don't suppose anybody would; because, you see, the folks are going to hear the other man tell a different tale, and they would not have him interrupted."

"No, I should have to sit and drink in poison, and see other people doing the same without being able to knock the cup away."

"Poison, man! Why, who would want to poison you?"

"Anybody that would try to upset my faith in God, Jim. If anybody offered you a drink of prussic acid or laudanum, would you take it?"

"I should think not. I'd knock him down first."

"And yet, Jim, you would sit there and let him pour worse poison into your ears. Poison to kill the spiritual life that's in you; poison to destroy your soul and bring you not only to the death of the body, but to eternal death. I tell you, I'd just as soon drink a cup Of poison, as I would put myself in the way of taking in such soul-destroying stuff as that miserable blasphemer is trying to delude his fellow-men with."

"I've got his book," said Jim, "but I haven't read it yet. I thought I would go and hear him first."

"Don't, Jim, don't," pleaded Turner, earnestly. "It's poison all the same, whether printed or spoken, and if we take it in, the memory of it will stay with us, in spite of all we can do. Think what it would be in a time of trouble, where an earthly friend can't help us, if we had no Father in heaven to go to, no Saviour to feel for us and plead our cause! Oh, Jim, it is so precious to me to feel that when I go on my knees to pray, God is sure to hear and answer, too, in the way that will be best for me. And these atheist lecturers would take the comfort from us and give us nothing instead."

"I don't see what they have to give," said Jim, in a meditative sort of way, as if that thought had never struck him before.

"No, and there's the shame of it," said Turner. "It seems to me, that if there was nothing else bad about these lecturers, it is dreadfully cruel of them to go from place to place unsettling people's minds, taking away what is their great comfort, and giving them nothing in place of it. The simplest-minded, humblest Christian that just takes God at His word, and believes the promises which He tells us 'are all yea and amen in Christ Jesus,' is a happy man, in spite of poverty, trouble, hard work, sickness, or trial of any kind. He knows that all these things are only for a little while, and that far-away beyond the grave there is glory for him in the Father's house, and an 'inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, eternal in the heavens,' bought for him by the precious blood of Jesus."

John Turner's face glowed again as he spoke. He was thoroughly in earnest, and this earnestness produced an impression on his neighbour who had a respect for his fellow-workman, though he sometimes laughed at him as being over-religious. Still, where a man's religion shows itself in his conduct to others, in the very work he does, and the temper he displays to all around him even when purposely tried by his companions, he must, sooner or later, win their goodwill and esteem.

"Why, John, I think you are the very man to go with me to the lecture," said Jim. "You've no call to be afraid of losing your religion by listening to an atheist, such a preacher us you are. Why, I'm not afraid, and I couldn't hold forth like a parson as you've been doing."

"I wish you were afraid, Jim. You know what the Bible says, 'Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall;' and, 'Be not highminded, but fear.' I should like you to burn that bad book, and have a walk with me, or sit a bit, if you like, instead of going to hear that man."

"How do you know the book is a bad one, John, when you've never seen it?" asked Jim, with a laugh.

"Just as I know that clean water cannot come from a muddy pool or from a sewer. The fountain is unclean, Jim, and what comes out of it must be the same."

"That's not bad for you, John," said Jim, hesitating. After a little further kindly pressure, Jim made up his mind he would not go to the lecture; and surely he was no loser by his wise resolve.

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A RASH PROMISE, AND HOW IT ENDED.

MRS. GREAVES was a Bible-woman, and her visits brought comfort to many a home where the roughest and least God-fearing in a great city had a welcome for her. We give the following narrative in her own words.

It is several years ago since I knew two young men who were frequent companions. One of them professed to be a Christian, was a Sunday-school teacher, and never missing from his place in the house of God on the Sabbath. He was very self-confident, too, and often expressed his belief that no arguments could affect him, or cause him to falter in his faith. Perhaps it was this over-confidence that made him careless in choosing his acquaintances, for the companion he chose was a professed infidel. He ridiculed the Bible, boasted of his own freedom from such weaknesses as church-going, prayer, observance of the Sabbath, and so on. But yet he was a good workman, sober, diligent, and leading a decent life, being neither impure in his conduct nor accustomed to use bad language.

I think he was anxious that no one should have cause of offence; for he made his decent life an argument in favour of his infidel opinions. "Here am I," he would say, "living a better life without praying than some of you psalm-singing folks lead with all your religion."

The young Sunday-school teacher was very anxious about his infidel companion, and he told him so. He offered to lend him some good books, and the other said he was willing to read them. He took them in a pleasant way and read them; but without being in the least changed in his opinions. He only laughed as before, but when he returned the books, he said to his friend:

"I have read all you wished me; now it is only fair you should see my side of the question. You promised me you would read some of mine after I had done with yours. Here they are. Keep your word as I have done mine."

The poor young man had made this rash promise without asking counsel of God. He was too self-confident for that; and he could not bear for an infidel to reproach him with breaking even a rash promise. So he took the books and read them, after boasting that they and ten thousand such could not alter him or turn him from his faith. The result proved the folly of his boastfulness, and the vanity of trying to stand without a better strength than our own to hold us up so that we may be safe. He proved, by miserable experience, that there is no touching pitch without being defiled. Those wretched books, full of subtle arguments which he was not scholar enough to answer, or Christian strong enough to withstand, unsettled his mind, and he became a worse man by far than the companion who had been his tempter.

Time passed on and saw him worse and worse. An open blasphemer, an evil liver! At last he was laid on a sick bed without hope of recovery, and, surely, few more miserable sights have over been witnessed than his last days offered to those around him.

He raved about his former life, the faith he once possessed, and his present hopeless condition, and nothing gave him comfort. Many strove to remind him of God's love and mercy in Christ—of the Saviour's words of comfort to the dying thief on the cross; of the measure dealt out to those who began to work in the vineyard even at the eleventh hour.

"I know, I know," he would cry, "but there is no mercy for me. The dying thief had not been taught as I was. The labourers went into the vineyard at the eleventh hour; but they went when they were bidden. I left my work. I sinned against light and knowledge. There is no mercy for me now."

I am often called up, as you know, to go and pray with the sick and dying, and, in the middle of the night, a message came to ask me to go to this young man. Dear friends, that was the most dreadful experience I ever had, the only time I ever was restrained in prayer.

I knelt by the bedside, but it seemed to me as if the heavens were as brass above me. I longed to pray but no words could I utter. At last, I just said the Lord's Prayer, it was all I could say, and I got up from my knees compelled to own that I was unable to pray.

"I knew it, I knew it," the dying man cried. "I went wrong with my eyes open. There is no mercy for me."

I shall never forget that hour as long as I live, and whenever I hear the name of a professed atheist mentioned, that scene comes back to my mind, and I seem to hear again that despairing cry ringing in my ears. The poor man died before the morning. God grant that I may never see such another death-bed.

These are times of many snares, and there are temptations to infidelity at every step. I have told this true story, with an earnest prayer that the reading of it may prove a warning and be made a blessing to English working men and women.

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BEATEN WITH HIS OWN WEAPONS.

THE following anecdote was told by a gentleman at a little Bible reading meeting:

"I was going by steamer from the south of England to Dublin during my college days," he said, "and on the voyage I entered into conversation with a young man, my fellow-passenger. He told me that he was going to Dublin in the hope of obtaining a situation, as he had heard there were openings in that city, and trade was slack in the neighbourhood he had left.

"After some talk, I ventured to put in a word about eternal things, and asked him if he had ever come to Jesus for pardon, cleansing, peace; or, if like many another, he was putting off the consideration of that most important subject—the salvation of his immortal soul—to a more convenient season.