“Lord, pardon Thy servant!” said Father Thomas humbly. “I am not worthy to carry so much as the corner of Thy cross after Thee. But I will take it up, and go forth. Indeed, I did not know I was such a selfish, lazy, ease-loving man as I am!”
Saint Peter had to put up with only half his hair for the rest of that day, for Father Thomas determinately washed and wiped his brush, threw a cloth over his book and painting tools to keep them from the dust, put on his fur cap, and went off to see the Vicar of Newport.
When a man braces himself up to do something which he does not like for the love of God, sometimes God makes it a great deal easier and less disagreeable than he expected to find it. The Vicar was just coming out of his door as Father Thomas reached it.
“A fine day—peace be with thee!” said he. “Whither go you, Brother?”
“May I have your leave, Father, to visit one of your parishioners—the smith that dwells about a mile hence, on the Newport road?”
“The saints love you! you may visit every man Jack of my parishioners, and take my blessing with you!” said the Vicar with a hearty laugh. “I am not over fond of that same visiting of smiths and tailors and fellows of that sort. I never know what to say to them, save hear confession, and they never have nought to say to me. You are cut from another quality of stuff, I reckon. Go your way, Brother Thomas, and make decent Christians of them if you can. There’s a she-bear lives there: I wish you luck with her.”
And with a farewell nod, the careless Vicar strode away.
“And into such hands as these, men’s souls are given!” thought Father Thomas. “Lord, purify Thy Church! Ah, dear old Bishop! you might well weep in dying.”
He walked on rapidly till he came within sight of the forge. Daniel Greensmith’s ringing blows on the anvil grew more and more distinct and at last the words he was singing as he worked came to the priest’s ears:
“All things turn unto decay,
Fall, and die, and pass away.
Sinketh tower and droppeth wall,
Cloth shall fray and horse shall fall,
Flesh shall die and iron rust,
Pass and perish all things must.
Well I understand and say,
All shall die, both priest and lay;
And small time, for praise or blame,
When man dieth, lives his fame.”