“Conscience makes cowards of us all.” The following rather amusing incident well illustrates this hackneyed observation of Shakespeare:
On one of Landseer’s early visits to Scotland the great painter stopt at a village and took a great deal of notice of the dogs, jotting down rapidly sketches of them on a piece of paper. Next day, on resuming his journey, he was horrified to find dogs suspended from trees in all directions or drowning in the rivers, with stones around their necks. He stopt a weeping urchin, who was hurrying off with a pet pup in his arms, and learned to his dismay that he was supposed to be an excise officer who was taking notes of all the dogs he saw in order to prosecute the owners for unpaid taxes. (Text.)
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The religious ferment of the age made a tremendous impression on Bunyan’s sensitive imagination. He went to church occasionally, only to find himself wrapt in terrors and in torments by some fiery itinerant preacher; and he would rush violently away from church to forget his fears by joining in Sunday sports on the village green. As night came on the sports were forgotten, but the terrors returned, multiplied like the evil spirits of the parable. Visions of hell and the demons swarmed in his brain. He would groan aloud in his remorse, and even years afterward he bemoans the sins of his early life. When we look for them fearfully, expecting some shocking crimes and misdemeanors, we find that they consisted of playing ball on Sunday and swearing. The latter sin, sad to say, was begun by listening to his father cursing some obstinate kettle which refused to be tinkered, and it was perfected in the Parliamentary army. One day his terrible swearing scared a woman, “a very loose and ungodly wretch,” as he tells us, who reprimanded him for his profanity. The reproach of the poor woman went straight home, like the voice of a prophet. All his profanity left him; he hung down his head with shame. “I wished with all my heart,” he says, “that I might be a little child again, that my father might learn me to speak without this wicked way of swearing.” With characteristic vehemence Bunyan hurls himself upon a promise of Scripture, and instantly the reformation begins to work in his soul. He casts out the habit, root and branch, and finds to his astonishment that he can speak more freely and vigorously than before. Nothing is more characteristic of the man than this sudden seizing upon the text, which he had doubtless heard many times before, and being suddenly raised up or cast down by its influence.—William J. Long, “English Literature.”
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See [Eye, The Searching]; [Missionary Accomplishments].
CONSCIENCE A LIGHT
The woodsman carries a box of safety matches protected against the rain and snow. In the arctic zone he knows that if he loses the match and the light he has lost life itself. Man can lose his health but not his conscience. But, if stumbling, the torch has fallen, and the light flamed low, snatch it up, and relight it, at the altars of God. So shall the light in thee wax into greater light, until conscience is a true pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, guiding thee into the summer land where man needs no light of the lamp, neither light of the sun.—N. D. Hillis.
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