Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: NEW STORIES BY A ∙ L ∙ O ∙ E]

[Illustration: The Look of the Thing.]



                         NEW STORIES

            The Look of the Thing and Other Stories



                              BY

                         A. L. O. E.



                          NEW YORK:
          GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL.
                UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY.
                        762 BROADWAY.
                            1865.



                           PUBLISHED

                    THROUGH THE OFFERINGS

                              OF

                     The Sunday School

                              OF

              TRINITY CHURCH, BRIDGEPORT, CONN.



CONTENTS.

   No. 1 THE LOOK OF THE THING.

   No. 2 GOOD-BYE.

   No. 3 GOOD FOR NOTHING.

   No. 4 HOW LIKE IT IS!



                         NEW STORIES



                              BY

                         A. L. O. E.


                No. 1—THE LOOK OF THE THING.



                          NEW YORK:
          GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL.
                UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY.
                        762 BROADWAY.
                            1865.


THE LOOK OF THE THING.

REBECCA BURTON and Lydia White sat chatting over their tea. They were
near neighbours, for they dwelt opposite to each other; and Rebecca,
who earned her living by going out washing and charing, and had but a
lonely time of it during the long winter evenings, was often invited
by kind Widow White to share a meal with her and her little daughter
Agnes. Not that Rebecca was one whose society gave much pleasure to
her friend: she was a bustling, gossiping woman, very full of her
neighbours' concerns. Where there is little thinking, there is apt to
be much talking; it has been well said that only empty bottles are
never corked up.

Little Agnes, with her large black attentive eyes, sat perched on a
high chair beside her mother, listening to every word that was spoken,
and not a little amused by Rebecca's idle gossip. While slice after
slice of buttered toast and tea-cake were despatched, cup after cup of
good black tea poured from the shining tea-pot, the guest talked as
eagerly and as fast, as if talking were "the business of life."

"Well, Mrs. White," said Rebecca, helping herself for the third time
from the well-filled plate, "I think that you've always had a bit of
a fancy for that Mrs. Miles, but she's not a person to my mind. Would
you believe it now, when the subscription went round for the poor
weavers,—and even I, hard up as I often am, could manage to drop a bit
of silver into the plate,—Mrs. Miles was not ashamed to put in only a
penny! And she with a house and shop of her own! I'm sure, if I'd been
she, I'd a deal rather have given nothing at all!"

"What a mean creature Mrs. Miles must be," thought little Agnes to
herself.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. White in her quiet tone, "you do not know that
for the last year Mary Miles has been struggling hard to pay the debts
brought on by her husband's long illness. She, no doubt, feels it her
duty to be just before she is generous, and however willing to give
much, knows that it would not be honest to do so."

"Oh, but think of the look of the thing!" exclaimed Rebecca; "who was
to know of her debts? But Mrs. Miles,—she's an odd woman," continued
the charwoman, lowering her voice, though not sufficiently so to
prevent every word being heard by Agnes: "though people say she's so
good, I take it she's not all that folk fancy her to be. You think it
right to go to church regularly, don't you? I often see you there with
your little girl."

"Mother always goes to church," exclaimed Agnes, "even if it is raining
ever so hard!"

"That's right," said Rebecca, approvingly; "it always looks well when
one is never missed from one's place in church. But I've noticed that
Mrs. Miles has kept away these last two Sundays, and I know that she
has not been ill, for I've seen her on week-days serving in the shop.
Even if she don't care for religion, I wonder that she don't attend
steadily, if but for the look of the thing."

"Mrs. Miles goes to church for something better than the look of the
thing," said the widow, with a quiet smile; "I am so glad that you
mentioned the subject to me, that I may be able to set you right. These
last two Sunday mornings have been spent by Mary Miles in nursing poor
sick Annie Norris, that her daughter may go to church; and then, in the
evening, Mary herself attends a place of worship with her husband. I
think it a privilege to go to the house of prayer, but I believe that
Mary Miles is doing her Master's work just as truly while nursing a
poor sick neighbour, reading the Bible to her, and giving up her Sunday
rest that another may be able to enjoy it,—as if she attended every
service in the church."

"Ah, well," exclaimed Rebecca, half impatiently, "you are always one
to find excuses; you're ready enough to stand up for your friends!
Another drop of tea, if you please," and she pushed her cup across the
table. Then, turning towards little Agnes, she said, in a different
tone, "You must come and pay me a visit some day, my dear,—I have
something to show you worth the seeing. I've been subscribing for a
long long while to the Illustrated Bible, and with some money which
I got as a Christmas box, I've had the numbers bound together into
such a beauty of a book. But I dare say that your mother has done the
same,—she's one to honour the Bible, as all know. Whenever one sees a
large handsome Bible in a parlour, to my mind it's a kind of sign of
the respectability of the people in it. None of your nick-nacks, say I;
give me a well-bound Bible, with shining edges and gilded cover!" and
Rebecca, proud of owning such a volume, sipped her tea with an air of
the utmost self-satisfaction.

"Mother," said little Agnes, "your Bible is very old,—it has not a bit
of gilding upon it, Could we not buy a new one?"

"My old Bible is more precious to me," said Mrs. White, "than any new
one could be. It belonged to my own dear mother."

"It is shabby, though," observed Rebecca, glancing at the plain black
volume which lay on a shelf; "you might any ways have it new bound,—you
should think of the look of the thing."

"It is in good repair," said Mrs. White; "I am quite contented with my
Bible as it is."

Rebecca gave a little meaning nod of her head, as if to say, "I care
more for the Bible than you do, though everybody thinks you a saint."

Nothing more, however, passed on the subject; and the guest soon
afterwards took her departure.

Agnes, with her thoughtful black eyes fixed upon the old Bible, sat for
a while in silence, turning over in her young mind the conversation
that had passed between her mother and their neighbour.

"What is my quiet little lassie dreaming about?" asked Mrs. White, who
was clearing away the tea things.

"Mother," replied Agnes slowly, "I was thinking over what Rebecca
Burton said about Mrs. Miles, and your Bible which looks so old. You
and she didn't seem to feel alike. Is it not right, dear mother, to
care for the look of the thing?"

"It is right to care something for appearances, but a great deal more
for realities," quietly observed Mrs. White.

"I do not understand you at all," said Agnes; "is it not a good thing,
mother, to give to the poor, to go to church; and to honour the Holy
Bible?"

"A very good thing, my child, if done not to win the praise of men, but
from the motive of love to God."

"I do not know what 'motive' means," said Agnes.

"It is the spring or cause of our actions. Two persons may give exactly
the same sum to help a poor creature in great distress. One gives her
shilling for the look of the thing, because she wishes the world to
think her generous; the other gives it for the love of God, and so
that He accept her offering, cares not if her gift be known by not one
being on earth. You must see that the motive of the second is piety,
the motive of the first is pride. Both women do the same thing, but one
does it to please God, while her neighbour only pleases herself."

"But so long as the money is given," said Agnes, "I don't see that the
motive matters very much."

"It matters everything," observed Mrs. White, "in the eyes of Him who
readeth the heart. The cause of so much self-righteousness in the world
is this: people, respectable people I mean, count up all their own kind
actions, and never take the trouble of searching into their motives at
all. How few would say to themselves, 'I am honest indeed, but only
because I have found that the honest thrive best in the end;' 'I go to
church regularly, but only because it is thought a respectable thing to
do so;' 'I give freely, but only because I could not bear my neighbours
to call me mean;' 'I pay what I owe, but only because if I did not, no
one would trust me again.'"

"Do you not see, my child, that in all this the love of God is not
the motive? If as much gain, and respect, and praise could be had by
breaking God's laws as by keeping them, those who now do good deeds to
be seen of men, would do evil ones in their stead."

Perhaps little Agnes was growing sleepy, for Mrs. White could not help
perceiving that the child did not follow her argument. The mother did
not try to explain herself further; she waited for some opportunity of
making her little daughter understand more clearly the truth which was
so plain to herself.

On the following morning Agnes came running up to her mother with a
look of delight. "See, see!" she exclaimed, "What a beautiful watch my
uncle has given me!" and she held up for the widow's admiration a very
pretty toy watch! "It looks just as well as yours, mother, indeed I
think it much the prettier of the two. Just see,—it has a chain, and
seals, and a nice shining face, with all the hours marked on it, and
slender little bright hands that I can move to any part with my key! Is
not my little watch just as good as yours, mother?"

"As far as the look of the thing goes, yes, my dear," replied the
smiling parent.

"There's hardly any difference between them," said Agnes; "only mine
looks a little the brighter, because, you know, it is new. Please tell
me the time, the exact time, that I may set my watch right."

"A quarter of ten," said Mrs. White.

With pride and pleasure little Agnes turned the hands, till they
pointed just to the hour. It was almost time for her to set off for
school, which she did in very high glee, showing to all the companions
whom she met the beautiful present of her uncle.

"I am back a little earlier than usual, am I not, mother?" were the
first words of Agnes White, when she returned from morning school. "Oh,
you need not look at your watch,—you know I have now a watch of my
own!" Agnes pulled out her bright little toy, and there were the hands
exactly where she had placed them, pointing to a quarter of ten!

"Did you expect them to move, when there was no mainspring inside?"
asked the widow with a smile.

Agnes scarcely knew whether to look vexed or amused. "I was a stupid
little girl to fancy that they would move," said she; "mine is a very
pretty watch, but it is only good to be looked at," and she laid it
down on the table with an air of disappointment.

"Ah, my child," said Lydia White, gently drawing her little daughter
towards her; "is not the watch without springs like that of which we
were yesterday speaking, good conduct without a good motive? The most
precious part of a real watch is that part which is unseen; and in like
manner, it is the hidden motive for any good act which alone can give
it true value."

"But ought we never to care how our conduct appears?" asked the child.

"Yes, my Agnes," replied her mother, "for those who have been bought
with a price, even the precious blood of God's dear Son, are called to
glorify their heavenly Master both with their bodies and their souls.
We are called so to live that the world may say, 'There must be power
in religion, for none are so honest, so true, so kind as those who are
servants of God.'"

"I don't quite understand," said Agnes.

"Look again, dear child, at my watch, it may help to make the subject
clearer. You know that the watch is a good one, you know that the
mainspring is right."

Agnes nodded her head.

"How is it that you know?" asked her mother.

"The hands always point to the right place," replied Agnes; "they go
just the same as the church clock."

"But suppose that we pull off the hands," said the widow.

"O mother, that would be a pity,—you never would do such a thing! If
the hands were off, you might, wind up the watch, and the watch might
go, but it would be of no use to others."

"Nor would it, do honour to its maker, my child. Now turn front the
watch to the subject which I am trying to explain by its means. If
the motive of love to God be like the mainspring to a Christian, the
cause of all his good actions, his outward conduct is like the hands
whose steady movements show that the mainspring is within. If they are
constantly right, we believe that the hidden wheels are right, we know
that the watch has been wisely made, carefully regulated, daily wound
up. So when the Christian quietly goes on his circle of duties, ever
seeking, by the help of God's grace, to do the will of his Lord,—he
shows to the world a living example of the power and truth of religion;
he does good not for the look of the thing, but because the love of
Christ constraineth him to act as conscience directs.

"And then others, seeing the good example, may be led to follow it,"
observed Agnes, upon whose mind the meaning of her mother was now
dawning.

"It is a common saying, Agnes, that 'example is better than precept,'"
observed Mrs. White. "If we must search carefully into our motives for
the sake of our own souls, we must also be watchful over our conduct,
for others' sakes as well as our own. Never can we too earnestly study,
too carefully follow the Saviour's command which refers to the outward
behaviour of those who have the hidden motive of love,—'Ye are the
light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Let
your light so shine before men that they may see your good works, and
glorify your Father which is in heaven.' (Matt. v. 14, 16.)"



                         NEW STORIES



                              BY

                         A. L. O. E.


                       No. 2—GOOD-BYE.



                          NEW YORK:
          GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL.
                UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY.
                        762 BROADWAY.
                            1865.



[Illustration: No. 2. GOOD-BYE.]

GOOD-BYE.

"GOOD-BYE to you, Mr. Aylmer; I'm sorry that we're not to see you
again till the summer. You've always been ready with a good word, ay,
and a helping hand too for the poor. I'll miss your pleasant smile in
those dull, dark wintry days as have little enough to light 'em. And
little Emmy—she'll miss you too, won't you, my lamb?" said the Widow
Cowell, as she lifted up in her arms a pretty blue-eyed child of about
four years of age, to bid good-bye to the Catechist who was going to a
distant part, of the country.

"Good-bye, Mary Cowell," said Aylmer, shaking with kindness the thin
hand which the widow held out; "and good-bye to you, dear little one,"
he added, as bending forward he kissed the brow of the child, between
her clustering locks of gold. "It's a solemn word, 'good-bye,' when we
think of the meaning that's in it."

"I did not know as how it had any particular meaning," said Mary. "It's
a word that we're always a-saying, and sometimes with a heavy heart."

"'Good-bye,' is 'God-be-with-you,' shortened to a single word. It
is a blessing to the one who departs, echoed back to the one who
remains. God be with you, Mary Cowell; may you feel His presence in
the street—in the shop—by your board—by your bed—in your heart! You'll
have many a temptation to struggle against—God be with you in the hour
of temptation! You'll have many a trial to bear; God be with you then,
and he will turn all these trials into blessings! You've a little one
there, dear to your heart; remember that, like as a father pitieth his
children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him!"

"Ay, bless her heart! I love her!" thought Mary, as she led her little
girl back into the small room which she hired by the week, in one of
the back streets of London. "But if God pities me, like as a father
pitieth his children, why does he so often leave me to want, why does
he make my lot so hard? I'm sure I'd keep my darling from every trouble
if I could, and if I had the means, she should sleep as soft, and fare
as well as any little lady in the land!"

And in truth Mary Cowell was a kind and tender mother. The child had
ever the largest share of the scanty meal, and while the mother's shawl
was threadbare, soft and warm was the knitted tippet that wrapt the
little girl. Mary took a pride in her Emmy; she never suffered her to
run about the streets dirty and barefoot like many of the children
of her neighbours. Emmy's face was washed, and her yellow curls were
smoothed out every morning, and proudly did the fond mother look at
her little darling. The greatest sorrow which poverty brought to Mary
Cowell, was that it hindered her from giving every comfort and pleasure
to her child.

"Mother," said Emmy on the following day, as she watched the widow
preparing to go out, putting on her rusty black bonnet and thin patched
shawl; "mother, you won't take the basket; it's Sunday; I hears the
bells a-ringing."

"I must go," said Mary with a sigh.

"But didn't the good man tell us it was bad to go out a-sellin' on the
Sunday?" asked the child, with a grave look of inquiry in her innocent
eyes.

"Poor folk must eat," said the widow sadly; "God will not be hard upon
us if want drives us to do what we never should do if we'd only enough
to live on."

"May Emmy go wid you, mother?"

"No, my lamb," answered Mary, "not to stand at the corner of the street
in this bitter sharp wind, and just catch your death of cold. It chills
one to the bones," added the widow, stirring up in her little grate
the fire which burned brightly and briskly, for the weather was frosty
and keen. Mary then took the remains of the morning's meal, the half
loaf and small jug of milk, and put them on the mantel-piece, out of
reach of the child. Her last care was to place a wire-guard before the
fire. Having often to leave her little girl alone in the room, Mary
dreaded her falling into danger, and had, by self-denial, scraped up a
sufficient number of pence, to buy an old wire fire-guard.

"Now remain quiet there, my jewel! Don't get into mischief," said Mary.
"Look at the pretty prints on the wall; mother won't be long afore she
comes back with something nice for her darling!" So saying the widow
kissed the child, took up her basket, and went to the door.

"Good-bye, mother!" cried Emmy. The last sound which Mary heard as she
went down the old creaking stair was the "good-bye" from the sweet
little voice whose tones she loved so well.

"She's a-blessing me without knowing it," thought Mary, recalling the
words of the Catechist. "She's a-saying 'God be with you!' I'm afraid
all's not right with me, for it seems as if I couldn't take any comfort
from the thought of God being with me! It makes my conscience uneasy to
know that He is watching me now that I'm a-going to break his law, and
sell on his holy day."

O reader! If ever the thought of the presence of your heavenly Father
gives you a feeling of fear, rather than a feeling of comfort, be sure
that you are wandering from the right way, and—whatever excuse you may
make for yourself—that you are doing or thinking something that puts
your soul in danger!

As Mary slowly made her way with her heavy basket to the corner of the
street where she usually stood to sell, a friend of hers passed her on
the way, but stopped and turned round to ask after Emmy who had not
been well. A few words were exchanged between the two women, and then
the friend, who had a Prayer-book in her hand, said, "I can't stop
longer now; I don't like to be late for church. Good-bye, Mrs. Cowell."

"Good-bye!" repeated poor Mary. "Ah!" she said with a sigh, as she
watched her friend hastening on, "God will be with her, to bless her,
for I know that Martha serves Him. Oft-times I've heard her say, 'The
Lord is my Shepherd, I shalt not want;' and though she's no better off
than myself, it's wonderful, it is, how she has always had friends
raised up for her in her troubles; and when trials came the thickest,
how somehow or other a clear way out was always opened afore her!
Martha says the best thing is to trust God and obey him, and that we
don't obey because we don't trust. May be there's truth in that word;
for if I really believed what Aylmer told me, that God cares for me as
I care for my Emmy, I should do even just as he bids me, and keep this
day holy. But it's hard to be hindered getting my bread honestly on one
day out of seven; I don't see the harm in a poor widow woman selling a
little on Sundays."

And yet Mary's mind was not easy; she had learned enough of God's
word to know that by selling her oranges and nuts upon the day which
the Lord has set apart for Himself, she was not only sinning herself,
but leading others into sin. When little children thronged round her
basket, eager to buy her fruit, Mary could not forget—she wished that
she could—the solemn warning of the Lord: "Whoso shall offend (cause
to sin) one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better
for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were
drowned in the depth of the sea."

There was a struggle in the mind of Mary between faith and
distrust,—between duty and inclination—between the desire to follow her
own will, and the knowledge that in all things we ought to follow the
will of God. Which side in the end won the victory will appear in the
end of my story. We will leave the widow doubting and hesitating at the
corner of the street, and return to little Emmy, whom her mother had
left carefully shut up in her lodging.

The child amused herself for some minutes as the widow had desired her
to do, by looking at the coarse prints which were stuck with pins on
the white-washed wall. But Emmy soon tired of this, she had seen them
so often before. Then she sat down in front of the fire, and warmed her
little red hands at the kindly blaze, and wished that that tiresome
wire-guard were away, that kept so much of the glow out.

"Why should mother not let me get all the good of the fire?" said the
little murmuring girl. "I'm sure there's no use in that thing that puts
the fire in a cage, and keeps me from doing what I like, and making
it blaze up high!" The child did not consider that one much older and
wiser than herself was likely to have good reasons for putting on
the guard. Emmy was no better judge of these reasons than the widow
herself was of the wisdom which had fenced round the day of rest with
the command, "On it thou shalt do no manner of work." All that either
mother or child had to do was simply to trust and obey. But Emmy had a
wilful temper, and could not bear anything like restraint.

Presently from looking at the fire, the child cast her eyes on the
mantel-piece above it, and the bread and white jug upon it.

"Why did mother put them up there, when she knew that Emmy might be
hungry, and want to eat before she comes home?" And impatiently the
child stretched out her hand, and rose on her tiptoes, trying to reach
the food. She could not touch the lower part of the shelf; and well was
it for Emmy that the guard so wisely placed over the fire, prevented
her little frock from catching the flame as she did so!

"Emmy will pull the chair to the place and climb up, and get at the
loaf!" cried the child, determined by some means to have her own way,
and procure what she thought that she needed. She ran off to a chair
placed in a corner, which was almost the only article of furniture,
besides the bed, to be found in that bare little room. But the chair
was of clumsy and heavy make, and had several articles heaped upon it;
all the efforts of Emmy were of no avail to drag it out from its place.

The difficulty which she found in getting what she desired only served
to increase the eagerness of the child, and her determination to have
the loaf which had been purposely placed out of her reach. Emmy was
ready to cry, and accuse her tender mother of unkindness. And was she
not in this but too much like many who doubt the love of their Heavenly
Father because He has not placed in their hands what they think to be
needful for their comfort?

At last a thought came into the mind of little Emmy, as she gazed,
through her tears, at the fire. She had not strength to move the big
chair, in vain she had struggled to do so; but might she not manage to
move the guard, and would it not serve her for a footstool to reach the
loaf on the mantel-piece? But then mother had told her so often not
to meddle with the guard! Why should mother forbid her to touch it?
The voice of discontent and distrust in the bosom of the little child,
was much the same as that whose whisperings had led Mary Cowell to go
out selling on Sunday. With both parent and daughter it proved to be
stronger than conscience. Emmy laid hold of the guard and shook it;
but old as it was, she had not the power to pull it from its place.
Presently, however, the child felt that though she could not pull she
could lift it. With eager pleasure Emmy raised the guard high enough
to release its iron hooks from the bars, and then there was nothing to
prevent her from removing the fence altogether.

Emmy's first pleasure was to poke up the fire with the little rusty
bit of a poker which she had seen her mother use for the purpose, but
which she herself had never been permitted to touch. Then, eager to get
at the loaf; she put down the guard in front of the fire, so that she
might be able to step upon it. Wretched, disobedient little child! With
one foot on that trembling, yielding wire-work, one hand stretched up
to take food not lawfully her own, her dress so close to the flame that
in another moment it must be wrapt in a roaring blaze, what can now
save her from destruction?

Suddenly the door opened, and with a cry of terror Mary Cowell sprang
forward in time—but just in time, to snatch her only child away from a
terrible death!

"Oh, thank God—thank God—that I came home, that He made me turn back!"
exclaimed the widow, bursting into tears.

Little Emmy was punished, as she well deserved to be, for breaking her
mother's command, and doing what she knew that she ought not to have
done. But Mary Cowell, with a contrite heart, owned to herself, and
confessed to God, that she had deserved sharper punishment than her
child. There had been doubt and disobedience in both; but the older
sinner was the greater, for she had most cause to trust the providence
of a Father who is almighty as well as all-good. If the child had
removed a guard carefully and wisely placed before the fire which,
while kept to its proper use, is one of our greatest blessings, but
which to those who misuse it may prove the cause of burning and death;
what had the mother done? She had tried on the Lord's Day to earn bread
by treading her duty under foot, by putting aside, as far as she could,
that law by which the great God has fenced round His holy day, "Thou
shalt do no manner of work."

Grateful for the warning given her, never again did Mary carry forth
her basket on Sunday. Henceforth, by example as well as by precept, she
brought up her little one in the fear and love of God. And when, after
many years, the widow was called home to her soul's rest, she could
with peaceful hope thus bid her daughter farewell.

"Good-bye, my loved one! God be with you in your trouble, He has never
failed me in mine! 'Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land
and verily thou shall be fed.' Good-bye, until we meet again, through
the Saviour's merits,—the Saviour's love,—in His kingdom of glory!"



                         NEW STORIES



                              BY

                         A. L. O. E.


                  No. 3—GOOD FOR NOTHING.



                          NEW YORK:
          GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL.
                UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY.
                        762 BROADWAY.
                            1865.



GOOD FOR NOTHING.

"GET away with ye, for an idle good for nothing thief!" exclaimed
Mrs. Paton, as with an angry gesture she waved from her door a ragged
miserable lad who stood before it. "Never shall you be trusted with
another errand by me! To take the biscuits out of the very bag! Don't
tell me you were hungry; don't tell me you won't be after doing it
again! I was ready, I was, to give you a chance, since I knew that you
was a homeless orphan; but I'll not be taken in twice! Go, beg about
the streets or starve, or find your way to the workhouse, or the jail!
I wash my hands of you, I'll have nothing more to do with ye, I tell
you! Ungrateful and good for nothing as you are!" and as if to give
force to her words, Mrs. Paton slammed the door in his face.

Rob Barker turned away from the house with the look of a beaten hound.
He knew that the reproaches of the woman were not undeserved, that he
had not been faithful to his trust. Deprived, when a child, of his
parents' care, brought up in the midst of poverty and vice, growing
even as the weeds grow, uncared for and unnoticed, save as something
worse than useless, he seemed as if born to be trampled upon; he
appeared to be bound by no kindly ties to the fellow-creatures who
despised him. A feeling of savage despair was creeping over his soul.

"Ay, I'm good for nothing, am I?" Rob muttered, as with slouching gait
he sauntered down the street not knowing whither to go, for all the
world was alike to him, a desert without a home. Almost fiercely he
looked at the passers-by, some on foot, some in carriages, some upon
prancing steeds. "They are good for something," thought Rob; "they
have their homes and their friends, their kind parents, their merry
children. They are loved while they live, and sorrowed for when they
die. But I, I have no one left on earth either to love or care for me,
or miss me when I'm gone. Life is just one tough hard struggle, there's
none will help me through it!"

Rob stopped at the corner of a street, leant against an iron lamp-post,
and moodily folded his arms. The bare brown elbows were seen through
the holes in his tattered sleeves. His worn-out shoes would hardly hold
together.

"I say, you, won't you come in there?" said a voice just behind him.
Rob started, he so little expected to be addressed, and turning half
round he saw a pale boy, in clothes that were poor but not tattered,
who pointed to a door close by, over which was written "Ragged School."

"I'm not wanted there," muttered Rob.

"Every one's welcome," said the little boy, "and it's better to be in
a warm room, than standing out here in the cold! I'm late, very late
to-day, for I've been sent on an errand, but I think I'm in time for
the little address; teacher, she always gives us a bit of a story at
the end. I can't wait, but you'd better come in;" and with the force of
this simple invitation, Sandy Benne, for such was the young boy's name,
drew the half unwilling Rob within the door of a place where a devoted
servant of the Good Shepherd was trying to feed His lambs.

Rob did not venture to do more than enter the low white-washed room
in which he heard the hum of many voices. A poor-looking room it was;
its only furniture, rough benches; its only ornaments, a few hymns and
texts in large letters fastened on the wall. Rob stood close by the
door, a shy, almost sullen spectator, watching the scene before him.
The room was thronged with children, such children as, but for the
Ragged School, would have been playing about in the streets. Little
rough-headed urchins, who once had been foremost in mischief, pale
sickly boys who looked as if they had had no breakfast that morning.
Seated, some on the benches, some on the floor, they were conning their
tasks with a cheerful industry which might have shamed some of the
children of the rich. But a few minutes after the entrance of Rob, at
a signal given by the teacher, a tall fair lady in mourning, books and
slates were put back in their places, the morning's lessons were ended,
and the school looked like a bee-hive when the bees are about to swarm.

"Now we shall have the little address," whispered Sandy, who had kept
all eye upon Rob; "the teacher is going to knock upon the floor with
her parasol, and then, won't we be quiet as mice!"

There was no need to call "silence;" two little raps upon the floor
were enough to make every rough scholar in the place go back to his
seat in a minute, and remain there as still as a statue. All the young
eyes were fixed on the teacher, the gentle loving lady, who daily left
her comfortable house to trudge, sometimes through rain, and snow, and
sleet, to spend her time, her strength, and her health, in leading
ragged children to the Saviour. Her voice was a little faint, for the
lady was weary with her work, though never weary of her work, but her
smile was kindly and bright as she began her short address.

"I have promised to give you a story, my dear young friends," she
began, "and as I am speaking in a Ragged School, and to those who are
called Ragged Scholars, you will not be shocked or surprised if I
choose for my subject—a Rag."

The teacher's cheerful smile was reflected on many a young sunburnt
face; rags were a theme on which most of the company felt perfectly at
home, though few present, except poor Rob, actually wore the articles
in question.

"On a miry road," continued the lady, "trodden down by hoofs, rolled
over by wheels, till it became almost of the colour of the mud on which
it was lying, lay an old piece of linen rag, which had been dropped
there by a beggar. Nothing could be more worthless, and long it lay
unnoticed, till it caught the attention of a woman who, with a child at
her side, was picking her way over the crossing."

"'I may as well pick that up for my bag,' said the woman."

"'Oh, mother, don't dirty your fingers by picking up that rag!' cried
the boy with a look of disgust; 'such trash is not worth the trouble of
washing! It's good for nothing; just good for nothing; it is better to
leave it alone!'"

"'Let me judge of that,' said the woman; and stooping down, she picked
up the miry rag, all torn and stained as it was, and carried it with
her to her home. There she carefully washed it, and put it with other
pieces of linen in a bag; and after a while, it was sold for a trifle
to a manufacturer of paper."

"If the rag had been a living creature, possessed of any feeling,
much might it have complained of all that if had then to undergo. It
was torn to pieces, reduced to shreds, beaten till it became quite a
pulp; no one could have guessed who looked at it then that it had ever
been linen at all. But what, my young friends, was the end of all this
washing, and beating, and rending? At length a pure, white, beautiful
sheet of paper lay beneath the manufacturer's hands; into this fair
form had passed the rag which a child had called good for nothing!"

"But the sheet was not to lie useless. Not in vain had it been made so
white and clean. It was next carried to the press of a printer. There
it was once more damped, so as better to receive an impression: then
it was laid over blackened type (that is, letters cast in metal), and
pressed down with a heavy roller, until every letter was clearly marked
upon the smooth white surface. God's Holy Word had been stamped upon
it, the sheet was to form a leaf of a Bible; such honour was given to
the once soiled rag, which a child had called good for nothing!"

"And where was this Bible to be; to what home and what heart was it
to carry its message of mercy? It was bound, and gilded, and bought,
and carried to the royal palace of the Queen. The Bible lay in the
sovereign's chamber, it was opened by the sovereign's hand; her eye
rested upon it as upon that which was more precious to her than her
crown! What was it to her that a portion of the paper had once been a
worn-out rag dropped by one of the meanest of her subjects? It had been
washed, purified, changed, the Word of God had given it value; well
might the Queen prize and love it as her best possession upon earth."

"Dear friends," continued the lady, looking with loving interest on
the listening groups before her, "can you not, trace out now a little
parable in my story? Need I explain its meaning? There have been some
neglected ones in the world, as little cared for, as little regarded as
the rag which lay on the miry road. But who shall dare to say that even
the soul most stained by sin, most sunk in evil, is good for nothing?"

"Such souls may be raised from the dust, such souls have been raised
from the dust. While God spares life we may yet have hope. I have just
read of the case of James Stirling, a faithful servant, an earnest
worker for God. That man for twenty years was a drunkard, a grief to
his wife, a disgrace to his family, an evil example to those around
him. If he, by the power of God's Word, was raised from such a depth
of sin, who now need despair? What if our sins be many before God,
'the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth from all sin.' The soiled
may be made pure and clean. What did the Saviour say to the weeping
penitent whom all the world despised? 'Thy sins are forgiven thee, go
in peace.' And thus speaks the merciful Lord to the lowly penitent
still."

"And when a soul is washed from its guilt, it is not left to be idle
and useless. When God gives to a sinner a new heart, it is that His
Holy Word may be deeply stamped on that heart. Then those who have been
cleansed, forgiven, and raised, bear to others the blessed message
which they themselves have received. 'Come, hear what the Lord has done
for my soul. Come, taste and see that the Lord is gracious;' such are
the Bible words printed, as it were, on the heart of every pardoned
sinner, who, having been forgiven much, feels that he loveth much."

"And once more, dear friends, let me refer to the leaf of the Bible
described in my little story, as a picture of a soul redeemed. It too
will one day be borne to a palace; not the dwelling of an earthly
monarch, but the mansion of the King of kings! Precious will it be
in his eyes, and counted amongst His treasures. Oh, what a joyful,
glorious end may be reserved for some whom the world call good for
nothing, when penitent, pardoned, purified spirits shine as stars in
the kingdom of heaven!"

The lady ceased, but her words seemed to echo still in the ears of poor
Rob. He was fixed to the spot where he stood, scarcely conscious of the
bustle around him as the scholars noisily quitted the room. A door of
hope had been suddenly opened before the almost despairing lad, a gleam
of light had fallen on his darkness. Rob Barker had read the history of
his own past life in that of the trampled rag; could a like future be
before him, could he ever be one of the "penitent, pardoned, purified"
ones, who shall shine at last like the stars?

The teacher's attention had been attracted by the wretched appearance
and earnest look of the stranger lad. A feeling of interest and pity
made her watch him, as he lingered in that room in which he had first
learned that it was possible for such as he to be saved. As Rob walked
slowly from the place, the lady overtook him, asked his name, and
inquired what had brought him to the Ragged School that morning.

"I believe that God brought me," murmured Rob, and his answer came from
his heart.

"Where do you live?" said the lady.

"I have no home, no friends," replied the lad, in a tone of gloomy
despair.

"You are young, you look strong and active, you must never give up
hope," said the teacher; "God is willing and able to help all who come
in faith to Him. Let us see if no way can be found by which you can
earn your bread as an honest Christian should do."

The lady herself did something, perhaps to some it may seem very
little, to aid the poor homeless lad; she had many poor to think of,
many claims on her purse. She gave but a stale roll, an old broom,
and the means of procuring a single night's lodging, together with an
invitation to come every day and learn at the Ragged School. This was
but a small and humble beginning to Rob's new start in life. I am not
going to trace his career through all its various stages. He was the
crossing-sweeper, the errand-boy, the lad ready for any message or any
work, cleaning boots, putting up shutters, carrying parcels to earn a
few pence, or some broken victuals.

Life was a struggle to Rob, as it is a struggle to many who, when they
rise in the morning scarcely know where they will lie down at night.
But Rob Barker was learning more and more to put his trust in that
heavenly Father who never forsakes His children. He was learning to be
honest, sober, and pious. Gradually the sky brightened over Rob; his
character became known and trusted, and greater prosperity came. Having
sought first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, other things
were added besides, according to the promise of the Lord. Rob entered
service, and rose in it; he remained for nearly twenty years under the
same kind master, then with his honest earnings, set up in business,
and prospered. Rob lived to be known and respected in the world as a
good husband, father, and master. He lived to be useful in the station
of comfort and honour to which God's mercy had raised him, and to look
forward with humble hope and rejoicing to the rest of Paradise and
changeless glories of heaven.

Such was the career of one who had once been deemed good for nothing by
a fellow sinner!



                         NEW STORIES



                              BY

                         A. L. O. E.


                    No. 4—HOW LIKE IT IS!



                          NEW YORK:
          GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL.
                UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY.
                        762 BROADWAY.
                            1865.



[Illustration: No. 4. HOW LIKE IT IS!]

HOW LIKE IT IS!

"I HOPE, aunt, that you did not mind my knocking up the house at twelve
o'clock last night," said Eddy Burns, as he sat down one Monday morning
to the breakfast which had been kept waiting for him nearly an hour.

"I own, my dear boy," replied Mrs. Burns, a gentle looking woman with
silvery hair smoothly braided beneath the whitest of caps, "I must own
that I should much rather have had you going with me to church, and
spending Sunday evening quietly here, than wandering off I know not
where, and never returning till midnight."

"Oh, if I were always living in London it would be different,"
cried Eddy, as he emptied the plate of grilled bacon; "but, you
know, when I'm only up on a visit, I must see all that's to be
seen, and make the most of my time. What a whirl I was in all last
week! sights and shows of all kinds—amusement from morning till
night—hither—thither—everywhere."

"Where were you yesterday, Eddy?" asked his aunt.

"Well, if the truth must be told, I was off to Brighton by an excursion
train to have a sniff of the sea air, and somehow or other we did not
manage to get back till late."

"I was very uneasy and anxious about you," said Mrs. Burns, in a tone
of gentle reproach.

"Oh, I'm sorry that I worried you!" exclaimed Eddy; "you're the best
of good aunts, and I owe more to you I know than to any one else in
the world. I may be a wild, thoughtless young fellow, but I'm not
ungrateful—no; there's nothing I hate like ingratitude!"

Mrs. Burns' only answer was a kindly smile. She might have upbraided
Eddy for his selfishness, his want of consideration, his neglect of all
religious duties, but she felt that this was not the time for doing so.

"Where are you going to-day?" asked the aunt.

"Well, I'm off to the Pantheon to see if my photo is ready," said the
lad.

"You did not tell me that you had been sitting for your likeness."

"Oh, everybody sits now-a-days," laughed Eddy, "you would not have me
behind the rest of the world. If the photo turn out good you shall have
it, aunt;" and the boy passed his hand through his light brown hair
with a very self-satisfied look, which seemed to say, "I'm sure they'll
make a good picture of a handsome young fellow like me!"

Off started Eddy for the Pantheon, not a little curious to see his own
face for the first time on paper. Eddy Burns was by no means free from
personal vanity. He had dressed very carefully for his sitting, put
on his best waist-coat and his bright new studs for the occasion, and
had spent nearly ten minutes in fastening his opera tie. Eddy was now
impatient to see the result of all his dressing and study, and hurried
up the Pantheon staircase with all the eagerness of a child. When he
reached the photograph stall, the youth could not wait until those who
had come before him were served; he pushed himself forward, and kept
demanding his picture as if every moment of his time were precious.

"What an age the woman takes in looking over her little packets,"
muttered Eddy.

"This is yours," said the person behind the stall, handing a carte de
visite to the impatient lad.

Eddy almost snatched it from her hand, and then, drawing back a few
steps, looked at it with angry disappointment, almost tempted to fling
it down on the counter in disgust.

"Ugh I what a fright they've made me," growled the youth as he
descended the staircase at a slower pace than he had mounted. "I've
half a mind to toss it into the fire; but I'll show it first to my
aunt, and see what she says of the likeness."

[Illustration: "Is it like?"]

About an hour afterwards Eddy entered the parlour of Mrs. Burns.

"Have you brought back your likeness, my dear boy?" was the aunt's
first question when she saw him.

"Here it is, aunt; what do you think of it?" said Eddy, seating himself
on an easy chair, and drawing the little carte from his pocket. He
watched the face of his aunt as she closely examined the picture, and
rather wondered at the tender expression in her gentle grey eyes, and
the smile which rose to her lips.

"How like it is!" was her first exclamation.

"I'm surprised that you think so," cried Eddy, rather mortified by her
words; "I did not fancy myself to be so ugly a dog; but I suppose that
no one knows his own face."

"The sun will not flatter," said his aunt with a smile, "he is too
truthful often to please. May I keep your photo?" added Mrs. Burns. "I
shall value it dearly, for it will so remind me of you."

"Oh, you're welcome to keep it, or light the fire with it!" cried Eddy,
"I never wish to see it again. I wonder whether," he continued, half
laughing, "if the sun could draw our characters as he draws our faces
in such a dreadfully truthful way, we should recognise ourselves at
all."

"I rather doubt that we would," said Mrs. Burns, with her eyes
thoughtfully fixed upon the photograph, which, though by no means a
pleasing, was a very faithful likeness of her nephew.

"Well, aunt, some time or other you shall play the part of the sun,
and make a photograph of my character. I should like to know what I
really am like, and I've heard that you're so sharp at finding out
all that folk are feeling and thinking, that you'll hit me off to a
hair." Eddy's eye twinkled as he spoke, and his manner was so careless
and gay that it was clear that he was not much afraid that any very
unfavourable opinion could be formed of himself. Indeed, he considered
himself, on the whole, a very pleasant, kind, good-hearted sort of a
fellow.

"You must give me a little time for reflection and observation, Eddy,
before I attempt to take your likeness; and you must not be angry when
I have done if my picture does not flatter."

"Oh, I like plain truth," cried Eddy; "I don't think that you'll have
much worse to say of me than that I like play better than work, and am
always up to a lark."

Nothing more was said on the subject at that time. Eddy went out to
some place of amusement, and did not return till the evening. He then
looked heated and flushed, and flung himself down on a chair by his
aunt with an air of indignant displeasure.

"He's the most ungrateful dog that ever I met with!" muttered Eddy
between his teeth.

"Of whom do you speak?" asked his aunt.

"Of Arthur Knox, to be sure; who was my school fellow, and to whom I
lent half my pocket money one quarter—which, by the by, he has never
returned to me. There's no saying how many scrapes I've helped that
Arthur out of, for he was always getting into scrapes. And now—would
you believe it—he passed me to-day in the street as if he had quite
forgotten me. A dead cut, if ever there was one."

"Perhaps he did not see you," suggested Mrs. Burns.

"Oh, but he did though," cried Eddy, quickly, "I caught his eye as we
met. But he has lately come in to some money, and that has turned his
head, I suppose; and he was walking with some grandly dressed folk; I
fancy he did not choose they should know that I was an acquaintance
of his. Oh, I hate ingratitude of all things. A man may be honest,
pleasant, kind—anything that you like, but once show me that he's
ungrateful, and I would not care ever to set eyes upon him again."

"Ingratitude is hateful, Eddy, and yet—"

"Oh, don't you try to defend Arthur Knox!" exclaimed the lad, with
increased impatience of manner; "why, I once sat up a whole night to
nurse him, and that's not what every one would do, I can tell you. I
really cared for the fellow, and that makes his conduct the harder to
bear. To cut me dead in the streets! Did you ever know any being so
ungrateful?"

"I know a youth," replied Mrs. Burns, "who has, I think, shown himself
to be quite as ungrateful as Arthur."

"I can hardly believe it," said Eddy.

"You shall hear and judge for yourself. A youth—I need not give you
his name—had incurred a very heavy debt, which no efforts of his own
would ever enable him to pay. There was nothing before him but, utter
ruin, when a friend, who knew and pitied his distress, before he had
even been asked to relieve, came forward and freely offered to pay not
a part only, but the whole of the debt. But the sacrifice was great to
him who made it; the generous Friend who had once been possessed of
great wealth brought himself to poverty and want, and for years endured
the greatest hardships, on account of his kindness to another."

"What wonderful goodness!" cried Eddy.

"Nor was this all," continued Mrs. Burns. "The Benefactor adopted
the youth as his son, gave him his own name; provided him with food,
clothing, lodging, all that he really required; and when the lad
was old enough, placed him in a situation in which he would be able
comfortably to earn his living."

"Now that was a friend!" exclaimed Eddy. "And what return did this
youth make for such unheard of kindness?"

"I grieve to say," replied Mrs. Burns, "that I believe that the youth
almost entirely forgot the Benefactor to whom he owed everything. His
Friend desired him to come to his house—but that house appeared to
be the very last place which the lad cared to enter. Months, perhaps
years, would pass without his crossing the threshold. Letters received
from his Benefactor were never opened by the youth, he thought it a
weariness even to read them."

"What a heartless wretch!" exclaimed Eddy.

"He never did any one thing to please the Friend who had paid his debt
at such vast cost, and who had cared for him from childhood. He loved
the company of those who were enemies to his Benefactor; he did not,
indeed, like them, speak openly against him—"

"I should think not," interrupted the indignant Eddy, "it was hateful
enough to forget him."

"Nay, but I have not told you all. You have heard how freely and
lovingly the Friend had bestowed many goods on the youth: he had,
however, as he had a perfect right to do, reserved a portion for
himself. Even this portion he was laying up to increase the future
wealth of his adopted son; but, he forbade the youth, in the mean time,
to do what he pleased with this portion."

"No one could complain of that," observed Eddy.

"But the youth did complain," said his aunt, "and he did not content
himself with murmurs, he resolved to spend all as he pleased. Against
right, conscience, and gratitude, he wasted on idle follies what his
generous Friend had reserved. Eddy, what say you now to this youth?"

"Say?" repeated her nephew, "I say that he is the most ungrateful,
despicable, good for nothing being in the world. Is he living still?"

"Living—yes, and not far hence," replied Mrs. Burns, with a glance of
meaning; "is not my photograph like?"

"What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed the astonished Eddy, opening his
eyes wide, and fixing them on his aunt.

"Is not the likeness that of every soul that forgets and neglects the
greatest of Benefactors—the best and kindest of Friends? Oh, Eddy
what hath God done for us, can we number up a thousandth part of the
benefits received from His love? Think of the heavy debt of sin, that
sin which, unpardoned, is death! Did not the Lord of glory leave the
throne of heaven to live in poverty and want, and then endure the
scourge and the cross, that our heavy debt might be paid? Was not
that the proof of most wonderful love? And think how, from our feeble
infancy, God has watched over, cared for, and blessed us. For the sight
of our eyes, the strength of our limbs, for the faculties of memory and
reason, we have to thank our great Benefactor. For the home in which we
dwell, the food which we eat, the friends whom we love—we must thank
him. For all that we have in this world, and for all that we hope for
in the next, we must bless and praise our Redeemer."

Eddy looked more thoughtful than usual, and, after a pause, his aunt
went on: "And what return do many of us make for all this goodness
and love? What is the conduct of many of those who bear the name
of Christians? Do they care to please the Lord, or only to please
themselves? When God invites them to His house of prayer, do they not
neglect his invitation, and prefer any place of amusement? Would they
not rather read any light book than the Bible, which is the word of
God, and contains His gracious message? And to mention but one thing
more, that precious portion of time, the Lord's Day, which God has
reserved in His wisdom to be an especial blessing to the soul, the time
which he commands us to hallow—do not many rob him of it lot their own
purposes; their business, their trade, their amusement? If ingratitude
be hateful towards man—oh, what must it be towards God!"

"Aunt, you are hard upon me," said Eddy.

"Since you take the picture for yourself, dear boy, I can only say—Is
it not like?"