THE COST OF A BROKEN SABBATH.
A bright Sabbath morning in August, a young minister was on his road to a distant parish, where he had engaged to take the services. He overtook a group of lads, evidently bent on an excursion of amusement. A boy, coming from the opposite direction, was being alternately persuaded and chaffed to give up for once going to Sunday School, and join the pleasure-party instead. Just then an old man, of venerable appearance, who had watched the group from his garden, came forward and addressed the boys in the following words—
"Lads, you may think lightly now of what you are doing, but Sabbath-breaking leads to ruin—has led to the gallows. Ben"—turning to the boy on his way to Sunday School—"don't be ashamed of doing right. The Lord saith, 'Them that honour Me I will honour, and they that despise Me shall be lightly esteemed.' Ah! boys, be warned in time. You cannot reckon the cost of a broken Sabbath."
Ben, strengthened thus, went on his way, regardless of the jeers of the other lads, who, turning over a stile, were quickly out of sight and hearing.
The minister also went on his way, but the earnest tones and sad expression of the aged man had made a deep impression on him, and he pondered if some personal experience lay behind that solemn warning, "You cannot reckon the cost of a broken Sabbath."
The evening of that day found him coming through the fields by a path which led hard by the door of the cottage of the old man. It had been pointed out as shorter and pleasanter than the dusty high road which he had travelled in the morning. The day had been hot, and an offer to go back to the rectory for refreshment had been declined, as it would lengthen the walk considerably; but now, tired and thirsty, he resolved to test the hospitality of the owner of the cottage.
The old man sat outside his doorway, with his big Bible on a round table. The wayfarer asked for a little water to drink. He was courteously requested to enter in and rest, and a draught of milk proposed instead, unless he could wait for a cup of tea. The kettle was boiling in the back kitchen, and the little table, covered with a snowy cloth, was already set for a solitary meal, which the visitor was invited to share. He accepted the kindly offer, not sorry to have an opportunity of converse with one whose words had lingered with him through the day.
Having explained how he had been occupied since passing in the early morn, he remarked—
"You live alone?"
"Yes, sir, I am alone in the world, but yet not alone, for the Saviour is often with me in my humble dwelling, and I hope in a little while He'll come and take me to His home above."
"That is a blessed hope to cheer and make you patient to wait His time, my friend," was the rejoinder. "Have you been left long alone?"
"The last went home twenty years ago, come Michaelmas," said the aged host. "It has been whiles a weary waiting-time, but it's sinful to repine. His time must be the right time."
Whilst the old man went to fetch the tea, the guest looked round and observed some articles of carved wood—boxes, flat rulers, and leaf-cutters—and was struck with the frequent recurrence of short words of Holy Writ on the Sabbath. Some little books lay on the window-sill, many of which were on the same subject.
After impressively asking God's blessing, and whilst partaking of the simple meal, the visitor remarked—
"I see the sanctity of the Lord's Day is a strong point with you. I was struck this morning with the expression you used to those lads—'the cost of a broken Sabbath.'"
"THE OLD MAN SAT WITH HIS BIG BIBLE." (See page 132.)
No response came for some minutes, as if the host was debating some question with himself; and so it proved, for at last he raised his head and said, with a vast depth of pathos in his tones—
"None have had greater reason to know the bitter cost, sir, than myself. It is not often that I speak of the past, but it may be the Lord has brought you here for a purpose to-day, and you may be able to use it as a warning to some within your influence."
"If your story will not be too painful to you, my friend, I should indeed feel grateful to you for it," was the response.
"I do not belong to these parts, sir," he began, "but I've been here over a quarter of a century. I lived in a large village in a midland county, where some extensive mill-works were carried on, and rose from a lad's tasks there to fill the place of foreman. I married happily, and had a home of comfort and peace with a loving, godly wife. Four children out of six born to us grew up—two sons and two daughters—and after the toil and din of the week, Sunday was a day of quiet enjoyment, in the midst of my family, spent in God's house and our home, with the aid of books and singing, for we all had fair voices. It had never been counted a dull day by the young folks. The lovely flowers and birds, and the wonders of the book of creation and the Book of grace, made the day of holy rest seem all too short. But our circle did not remain unbroken. First, our eldest girl, poor Maggie, left home to take a situation in a neighbouring town, and soon after, our first-born, David, who had never taken kindly to mill-work, obtained employment in an office in the same town, within five minutes' walk of his sister. This seemed well for both, being much attached to each other. Ned and Mary still clung to the old home, and the other two frequently spent the Sabbath in our midst. David almost always walked over in the early morn, or late on Saturday night, returning, if alone, on Monday morning, or, if Maggie accompanied him, the same evening, as she was not allowed out at night. She could only, of course, take turns with her fellow-servants; but, unless weather prevented, we could surely reckon on the flown birds coming, when able, back to their nest on the Sabbath.
"But at last came just such a lovely summer day as this has been. We lingered before starting for church till long after the bells had been chiming, but neither of them came. We looked to find them on our return, and dinner waited long; but the night came, and we had not heard or seen aught of either. I overheard Ned in the garden speaking to Mary—
"'I shan't feel easy till I've run over to the town to-morrow, after work-hours. I hear there was to be a river excursion from the town to-day—a steamer calling for a lot of folks.'
"'But, Ned, you don't believe Davie or Maggie would go?' said Mary, half reproachfully.
"'I don't feel comfortable about it,' replied her brother. 'Maggie could be persuaded to go anywhere with David, and he and I had a talk not long ago on Sunday trips. He said folks could thus get out into pure country air, for a few pence, who were cooped up all the week in the smoke of the town, and those who desired it could go to a place of worship even twice, and get tea, before they had to start on the return voyage.'
"The fear expressed was, alas! too well grounded. David's master's son was one of these habitual pleasure-seekers, and had long tried to persuade him to join him. He had also become acquainted with Maggie, through meeting her out with the children to whom she was nursemaid, and often fell in with her on the Sundays she spent in the town. In vain had he tried to induce her to join the steamer trip, till one day he said—
"'If David went, you could not scruple about going under his care.'
"'Oh, I'm safe enough not to go at that rate,' was her reply.
"But she was mistaken. David had been persuaded to put his conscience to sleep by the resolution that it should only be for once, just to see for himself how it worked really, for good or evil. He was more than half inclined to retract his consent, when he learnt that his sister was to be of the party, but the tempter having got his victims into the net, did not let them off.
"David and Maggie found a church near the river, and went to morning service. Their evil adviser accompanied them on condition that the afternoon should be spent in the woods.
"It was not difficult to get separated in the many paths, and when the steamer's warning bell was heard, amid the hurried rush onboard, David did not discover till too late that, amongst several missing, were Maggie, and also his master's son. No entreaty could induce the captain to put back.
"Some fresh passengers had come on board, showing views and engravings, and David, glad to divert his attention from self-reproach, amused his mind with looking through their collection, for he now repented bitterly that he had ever come—still more that he had brought his sister, and then allowed her to slip out of his charge. One of the new comers was especially friendly, explaining the views to 'cheer up his spirits.'
"When within ten minutes of landing, a boat came alongside with two or three police in plain clothes, and soon arrested, as well-known pickpockets, two of the fresh passengers, whilst all were advised to see what they had lost. Much of the booty was found on the prisoners, but not all, which led to a general search of the passengers. On my poor son, in his coat-pocket, was discovered the rest of the missing plunder, which had doubtless been slipped in by his friendly entertainer when he saw the police on board. David's protestations of innocence were all unavailing. The contents of his pockets were then and afterwards deemed conclusive proof of his guilt. All efforts to save him were in vain. He never breathed free air again in this life. His sentence placed him among convicts at Portland, where his health broke down under grief and disgrace. The tidings of his death reached me after I had moved here, in a kind letter from the chaplain, sending this precious relic [taking a well-worn Testament from his breast], with its marked verses of comfort and a few lines from my poor boy—all I have left of him."
A folded sheet of paper, yellow from age and tender from frequent handling, lay between the leaves of the little Book. The old man handed both to his guest. In the touching farewell to his father were the words, "You and mother know I've suffered innocently, and it's now nearly over, and I shall soon be free and with Jesus, whose precious blood has cleansed me from all sin. But, dear father, never cease to warn the young of the fearful cost of a broken Sabbath."
The aged man wiped away some falling tears.
"I shall see my boy soon," he continued. "I've tried to keep his injunction, and, by tract given or word spoken, not to let a Sabbath go by without some warning. His mother scarcely held up her head after his trial, and did not survive her first-born many weeks, and I was left alone with our youngest—my Mary. That broken Sabbath had lost Maggie her place and character. The doors were locked against her that night, and no explanation would be accepted next day. She wrote us word she'd got another situation at a distance through a friend. We never saw her more in the old house, and lost all traces of her. Our other boy, Ned, came to us soon after his brother's trial, and, asking our consent and forgiveness for going away, said he could not hold up his head in the village, and must go to sea. We let him go, hoping time and change of scene would heal the wound, and he'd come back to us to a fresh home, for I felt like himself, that I could not stay on in the factory, and resigned my post and came here, hoping our Davie might soon be free to join us also; but the Lord set him free to go to a better mansion in the skies.
"Four years after we came here, I had a letter from a neighbour who lived hard by in the old place. What Mary had often secretly feared, came to pass. Maggie had come back, to find no home left; but the widow over the way had seen in the dusk a woman go and return, repulsed from the old door, and sit down to weep by the road-side. She brought the wanderer to her own fireside. I fetched her away, and we nursed the poor, worn, wasted one tenderly, but she had only come home with the prodigal's cry, to die—'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee.'
"That broken Sabbath was her first step to ruin, but the blessed Lord, in His rich mercy, and by the Holy Spirit's gracious leadings, led her to the fountain which makes crimson sins white as snow, and she is gone before me too.
"The doctor—a good, kind man—shook his head, and bade me keep my Mary in the fresh air, and give her plenty of new milk. He feared she had taken the seeds of disease in that long nursing, and so it proved; but, with the hopefulness of consumption, she did not believe she was going to leave me desolate, and I deceived myself, and hoped against hope, as I looked on the sweet face and lovely bloom as she lay on this bench, enjoying the sight and breath of the flowers.
"By my carving, which went to a London house, we were kept from want, and Ned sent us home, with sailor generosity, supplies of money.
"'If he'd only come himself,' said my Mary, 'it would be better than all the gold.'
"'Write and tell him so,' I said; and so we both did, and I told him of the fading away of his favourite sister, hoping it would draw him back over the sea, if anything would; but the brother and sister were not to meet here again. My Mary left me one early morn, as the sun's first streaks were gilding the sky. No answer came from my sailor son, but the good pastor who had ministered to us in our hours of sore need, came one day, and gently told me, as I sat alone, that his ship had gone down in one of the wild Atlantic storms. My boy is now safe in heaven, where there is no more sea."
The aged man ceased. His eye was on the sunset cloud, but his heart was in the spirit land. His guest, rising up to depart, took tenderly the wrinkled hand, and said, "The ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion, with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
Then he hastened homewards, his own heart full with this touching record of the cost of a broken Sabbath.—From a Tract, published by S. W. Partridge and Co.