LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      “I think it is very good indeed: so true to nature. The trees, the clouds, the birds, the river, and in fact the whole of it commends itself to my approval. It does you great credit and contains very good promise for the future, if you continue in the exercise of painting.”

      “You are, indeed, quite mistaken in your judgment, Miss Slater. It is really not up to most of my other paintings. I am ashamed of it, and have often said it is not worthy the beautiful frame which father had made for it.”

      Now, if Miss Slater had expressed herself in censure upon any particular part, Miss Button would probably have shown signs of uneasiness, if not displeasure.

      Under this class of talkers may be mentioned those professors of religion who affect failings which they know they have not, and who acknowledge sins of which they know they are not guilty, for the sake of being reckoned among those who make a merit of “voluntary humility.” They are among the “most unworthy of God’s saints.” They are the “vilest of the vile,” “not fit to have a name or a place among Christ’s people;” “their righteousness is filthy rags;” they are the “chief of sinners.”

      Now, there is little doubt that these words are perfectly true; only, the question is, whether they themselves really believe them to be so. It often occurs that these “great sinners,” these “vilest of the vile,” while forward to say such things of themselves, are the last to admit them as true when said of them by others.

      This reminds one of an instance in which a member of a Church was giving way to this kind of self-disparagement, when a fellow member responding to him said, “True, my brother, you are among the greatest of sinners;” when he instantly warmed up in self-defence, and replied, “I am no greater sinner than you are; look at home before you accuse other people.”

      It also reminds one of the old story of the monk who heard the confession of a certain cardinal. “I am the chief of sinners,” said the cardinal. “It is true,” said the monk. “I have been guilty of every kind of sin,” sighed the cardinal. “It is a solemn fact, my son,” said the monk. “I have indulged in pride, in ambition, malice, and revenge,” continued his Eminence. The provoking confessor assented without one pitying word of doubt or protest. “Why you fool,” at last said the exasperated cardinal, “you don’t imagine I mean all this to the letter?” “Ho, ho!” said the monk, “so you have been a liar too have you?”

      Now, in all such cases as the above, it is not difficult to perceive the want of sincerity; and to talk in that way is anything but wise and consistent. While, on the one hand, it is unseemly to praise ourselves, it is, on the other, equally uncalled for to disparage ourselves. There is a proper place in which a man should stand in respect to himself as in respect to others. Towards himself let there be a dignified modesty, and towards others a respectful acknowledgment of any sincere commendation which may be given of his character and of his works. In all our personal confessions, either before men or God, let us endeavour to mean what we say and not act the hypocrite, that we may obtain the eulogium from others or from ourselves, what “humble and self-renouncing Christians we are.”

      Under this class of talkers there is another character which we wish to illustrate, viz., the household-wife, whose “house is never clean, and whose food is never such as is fit to place before you.”

      In a certain part of England, long celebrated for being a stronghold of Methodism, there is a small village, very beautiful for situation, and well known among the lovers of rural retreats. In this said village there lived a farmer and his wife, without children, who belonged to the Methodist Church. Squire Hopkins, which we shall call him, was a man of some note in the village, for his intelligence, influence, and character. Even the parson had a good word to say of him, and was not above holding a brief conversation with him, when he met him in the lane on the left side of the church. The Squire was a man who never was ashamed of his name as a Methodist, whether in the presence of the poor, the rich, or the clergyman. He had stood for many years a member, trustee, and steward in the Methodist Church. With all these honours, and the good-will of almost the entire village, the Squire was an unassuming and quiet man. His religion to him was more than all Church honours and worldly good opinions. His house was the home of the “travelling preachers,” when, in their appointments, they came to the village to preach. And a right sort of a home it was too, clean, airy, pleasant, and possessing all things requisite to convenience and comfort. There was, however, one drawback in the happiness of this home. Excellent Sister Hopkins was afflicted with one failing, which could not be hid from those who visited her house. The weakness to which we allude was on the one side of it, the love of praise; and on the other side, the disparaging of herself and her doings. This she did that she might obtain the other. She disparaged, that you might praise. We do not say she did not deserve praise, but that her way of seeking it was neither wise nor commendable.

      Sister Hopkins had so habituated herself to this way of speaking, that it was difficult for her to avoid it. As a housewife she was unexceptionable. She was careful to have everything in the most cleanly and orderly condition. She was an excellent cook, and the Squire an excellent provider, so that their table was always well spread, whenever good cheer was required. And yet you could not enter the house without being reminded that her “husband had company yesterday, and she could not keep the rooms half so decent as she would like;” and when you sat down to her table, covered with the best provisions, prepared in the best style of the cookery art, she was sorry that she “had so little, and so badly cooked.” She had been doing this or that, busy here or there, that she “really had not such things as she would have liked to have had, and you must excuse it this time.” It did not signify how bountiful or well-prepared the meal was, there was always sure to be something wanting which would be a text for a short sermon on self-disparagement.

      On one occasion a minister was at breakfast when the table was well stocked with everything which could be desired – coffee of the finest flavour, tea of the richest kind, cream and butter fresh from the dairy, chickens swimming in gravy, with various kinds of preserves, and other things of a spicy and confectionery sort. No sooner had her guest begun to partake of her hospitality than Mrs. Hopkins commenced. She was afraid the coffee was not so good as it might have been, the cream and butter were not so fresh as she should have liked them, the chickens were hardly roasted enough, and as for the preserves, they had been boiled too much, through the carelessness of Mary, the servant. She meant to have had something better for breakfast, but had been disappointed; and it was too bad that there was nothing nice for him to eat.

      All this was very heavy for her guest to bear. He simply remarked that “there was no need for apologies; everything was very good, and there was plenty of it.”

      We will now introduce another person to the reader in connection with Mrs. Hopkins. It is Superintendent Robson, who had just come on the circuit. He was a good man, plain, homely, practical. Like Mr. Wesley, he no more dare preach a fine sermon than wear a fine coat. Such was the action of his religion upon his conscience. He was well known for his common-sense way of teaching the truths of the Bible. He would speak just as he thought and as he felt, although he might offend Miss Precision and Mr. Itchingear. He gained the name of being an eccentric preacher, as most preachers do who never prevaricate and always speak as they think. The failing of Sister Hopkins had reached the ears of Superintendent Robson. He had no patience with such a failing, and he was resolved to cure her. On his first visit to the village to preach, he stopped, according to custom, at Squire Hopkins’s. Thomas, the ostler, took the preacher’s horse, and the preacher entered the house. He was shown into the best room, and from all appearances felt quite at home. Everything was in perfect order and cleanliness, fit for the reception of a prince. The preacher had not been seated long, scarcely long enough to pass the usual interchange of first salutations and enquiries, when Mrs. Hopkins began in her old style to say she was “sorry that things were so untidy; her house was upside down; she was mortified to be found in such a plight; she really hoped before his arrival to have had all things in such order as she always liked to see them. She hoped he would excuse their being so.” Superintendent Robson looked around and about the room in all directions, to find out the terrible confusion to which his hostess alluded; but he said not a word. Shortly after the dinner was announced

Скачать книгу