Читать книгу True to his Colours - Theodore P. Wilson - Страница 8

No one was more universally respected or more vigorously abused in Crossbourne than “Tommy Tracks,” as he was sneeringly called. His real name was Thomas Bradly. He was not a native of Crossbourne, but had resided in that town for some five years past at the time when our story opens. As he was a capital workman, and had two sons growing up into young men who were also very skilful hands, it was thought quite natural that he should have come to settle down in Crossbourne, where skilled labour was well remunerated. As to where he came from, some said one thing, some another. He was very reserved on the matter himself, and so people soon ceased to ask him about it.

Thomas was undoubtedly an oddity, but his eccentricities were of a kind which did no one any harm, and only served to add force to his words and example. He was an earnest Christian, and as earnest an abstainer from all intoxicating drinks; and his family walked with him on the narrow gospel way, and in their adherence to temperance principles and practice. He was also superintendent of the church Sunday-school, and the very life of the Temperance Society and Band of Hope, of both which associations the vicar, who was himself an abstainer, was the president. Indeed, he was the clergyman’s right-hand in the carrying out of every good work in the place. He was something of a reader of such sterling and profitable works as came in his way, but his Bible was his chief study.

His special characteristics were a clear head, a large stock of shrewd common sense, and an invincible love of truth and straightforwardness, so that he could hold his ground against any man in the place, William Foster the styptic not excepted. Not that Bradly was at all fond of an argument; he avoided one when he could do so consistently, preferring to do good by just sowing seeds of truth in his own humble way, leaving it to God to deal with the tares and weeds.

One of his favourite modes of sowing was to carry along with him at all times a little bundle of religious and temperance tracts, and to offer these whenever he had an opportunity, commonly accompanying the offer with some quaint remark which would often overcome the reluctance to accept them, even in those who were opposed to his principles and practice. From this habit of his he was generally known among the working-classes of Crossbourne by the nickname of “Tommy Tracts,” or “Tracks,” as it was usually pronounced—an epithet first given in scorn, but afterwards generally used without any unkindly feeling. Indeed, he was rather proud of it than otherwise; nor could the taunts and gibes which not unfrequently accompanied it ever ruffle in the least his good-humoured self-possession.

His family, which consisted of himself, his wife, their two sons, and a daughter, all grown up, and an invalid sister of his own, lived in a comfortable house on the outskirts of the town.

This house he had built for himself out of the profits of his own industry. Like its owner, it was rather of an eccentric character, having been constructed on an original plan of his own, and, in consequence, differed from any other dwelling-house in the town. Of course, he was not left without abundance of comments on his architectural taste, many of them being anything but complimentary, and all of them outspoken. This moved him nothing. “Well, if the house pleases me,” he said to his critics, “I suppose it don’t matter much what fashion it’s of, so long as the chimney-pots is outside, and the fire-places in.” Not that there was anything grand or ambitious in its outward appearance, nor sufficiently peculiar to draw any special attention to it. It was rather wider in front than the ordinary working-men’s cottages, and had a stone parapet above the upper windows, running the whole length of the building, on which were painted, in large black letters, the words, “Bradly’s Temperance Hospital.”

As might have been expected, this inscription brought on him a storm of ridicule and reproach, which he took very quietly; but if any one asked him in a civil way what he meant by the words, his reply used to be, “Any confirmed drunkard’s welcome to come to my house for advice gratis, and I’ll warrant to make a perfect cure of him, if he’ll only follow my prescription.” And when further asked what that prescription might be, he would reply, “Just this: let the patient sign the pledge, and keep it.” And many a poor drunkard, whom he had lured up to his house, and then pleaded and prayed with earnestly, had already proved the efficacy of this remedy.

When blamed by foes or friends for misleading people by putting such words on his house, he would say—“Where’s the harm? Haven’t I as much right to call my house ‘Temperance Hospital’ as Ben Roberts has to call his public ‘The Staff of Life’? What has his ‘Staff of Life’ done? Why, to my certain knowledge, it has just proved a broken staff, and let down scores of working-men into the gutter. But my ‘Temperance Hospital’ has helped back many a poor fellow out of the gutter, and set him on his feet again. It’s a free hospital, too, and we’re never full; we takes all patients as comes.”

The inside of the house was as suggestive of Thomas’s principles and eccentricities of character as the outside.

The front door opened into a long and narrow hall, lighted by a fan-light. As you entered, your eyes would naturally fall on the words, “Picture Gallery,” facing you, on the farther wall, just over the entrance to the kitchen. This “picture gallery” was simply the hall itself, which had something of the appearance of a photographer’s studio, the walls being partly covered with portraits large and small, interspersed with texts of Scripture, pledge-cards bearing the names of himself and family, and large engravings from the British Workman, coloured by one of his sons to give them greater effect. The photographs were chiefly likenesses of those who had been his own converts to total abstinence, with here and there the portrait of some well-known temperance advocate.

To the left of the hall was the parlour or company sitting-room, which was adorned with portraits, or what were designed to be such, of the Queen and other members of the royal family. Over the fire-place was a handsome mirror, on either side of which were photographs of the vicar and his wife; and on the opposite side of the room stood a bookcase with glass doors, containing a small but judicious selection of volumes, religious, historical, biographical, and scientific: for Thomas Bradly was a reader in a humble way, and had a memory tenacious of anything that struck him. But the pride of this choice apartment was an enormous illustrated Bible, sumptuously bound, which lay on the middle of a round table that occupied the centre of the room.

The kitchen, however, was the real daily living-place of the family. It had been built of unusually large dimensions, in order to accommodate a goodly number of temperance friends, or of the members of the Band of Hope, who occasionally met there. Over the doors and windows were large texts in blue, and over the ample fire-place, in specially large letters of the same colour, the words, “Do the next thing.”

Many who called on Thomas Bradly, and saw this maxim for the first time, were rather puzzled to know what it meant. “What is ‘the next thing’?” they would ask. “Why, it’s just this,” he would reply: “the next thing is the thing nearest to your hand. Just do the thing as comes nearest to hand, and be content to do that afore you concern yourself about anything else. These words has saved me a vast of trouble and worry. I’ve read somewhere as ‘worry’ is one of the specially prominent troubles of our day. I think that’s true enough. Well, now, I’ve found my motto there—‘Do the next thing’—a capital remedy for worry. Sometimes I’ve come down of a morning knowing as I’d a whole lot of things to get done, and I’ve been strongly tempted to make a bundle of them, and do them all at once, or try, at any rate, to do three or four of ’em at the same time. But then I’ve just cast my eyes on them words, and I’ve said to myself, ‘All right, Thomas Bradly; you just go and do the next thing;’ and I’ve gone and done it, and after that I’ve done the next thing, and so on till I’ve got through the whole bundle.”

Opposite the broad kitchen-range was a plate-rack well filled with serviceable chinaware, and which formed the upper part of a dresser or plain deal sideboard. Above the rack, and near the ceiling, were the words, “One step at a time.”

This and the maxim over the fire-place he used to call his “two walking-sticks.” Thus, meeting a fellow-workman one day who had lately come to Crossbourne, about whose character for steadiness he had strong suspicions, and who seemed always in a hurry, and yet as if he could never fairly overtake his work—

“James,” he said to him, “you should borrow my two walking-sticks.”

“Walking-sticks!—what for?” asked the other.

“Why, you’ll be falling one of these days if you hurry so; and my two walking-sticks would be a great help to you.” The other stared at him, quite unable to make out his meaning.

“Walking-sticks, Tommy Tracks! You don’t seem to stand in need of them. I never see you with a stick in your hand.”

“For all that I make use of them every day, James; and if you’ll step into my house any night I’ll show them to you: for I can’t spare them out of the kitchen, though I never go to my work without them.”

“Some foolery or other!” exclaimed the man he addressed, roughly. Nevertheless his curiosity was excited, and he stopped Bradly at his door one evening, saying “he was come to see his two walking-sticks.”

“Good—very good,” said the other. “Come in. There, sit you down by the table—and, missus, give us each a cup of tea. Now, you just look over the chimney-piece. There’s one of my walking-sticks: ‘Do the next thing.’ And, now, look over the dresser. There’s the other walking-stick: ‘One step at a time’. And I’ll just tell you how to use them. It don’t require any practice. When you’ve half-a-dozen things as wants doing, and can’t all be done at once, just you consider which of ’em all ought to be done first. That’s ‘the next thing.’ Go straight ahead at that, and don’t trouble a bit about the rest till that’s done. That’s one stick as’ll help you to walk through a deal of work with very little bustle and worry. And, James, just be content in all you do to be guided by the great Master as owns us all, the Lord Jesus Christ, who bought us for himself with his own blood. Just be willing to follow him, and let him lead you ‘one step at a time,’ and don’t want to see the place for the next step till you’ve put your foot where he tells you. You’ll find that a rare stout walking-stick. You may lean your whole weight on it, and it won’t give way; and it’ll help you in peace through the trials of this life, and on the road to a better.”

Such was Thomas Bradly’s kitchen. Many a happy gathering was held there, and many a useful lesson learned in it.

But, besides the rooms already mentioned, there was one adjoining the kitchen which was specially Thomas Bradly’s own. It was of considerable size, and was entered from the inside by a little door out of the kitchen. This door was commonly locked, and the key kept by Bradly himself. The more usual approach to it was from the outside. Its external appearance did not exactly contribute to the symmetry of the whole premises; but that was a matter of very small moment to its proprietor, who had added it on for a special purpose. The house itself was on the hill-side, on the outskirts of the town, as has been said. There was a little bit of garden in front and on either side, so that it could not be built close up to. At present it had no very near neighbours. A little gate in the low wall which skirted the garden, on the left hand as you faced the house, allowed any visitor to have access to the outer door of Bradly’s special room without going through the garden up the front way. On this outer door was painted in white letters, “Surgery.”

“Do you mend broken bones, Tommy Tracks?” asked a working-man of not very temperate or moral habits soon after this word had been painted on the door. “If you do, I think we may perhaps give you a job before long, as it’ll be Crossbourne Wakes next Sunday week.”

“No,” was Bradly’s reply; “I mend broken hearts, and put drunkards’ homes into their proper places when they’ve got out of joint.”

“Indeed! You’ll be clever to do that, Tommy.”

“Ah! You don’t know, Bill. P’raps you’ll come and try my skill yourself afore long.”

The other turned away with a scornful laugh and a gibe; but the arrow had hit its mark. But, indeed, what Thomas Bradly said was true. Broken hearts and dislocated families had been set to rights in that room. There would appointments be kept by wretched used-up sots, who would never have been persuaded to ask for Bradly at the ordinary door of entrance; and there on his knees, with the poor conscience-stricken penitent bowed beside him, would Thomas pour out his simple but fervent supplications to Him who never “broke a bruised reed, nor quenched the smoking flax.” And mothers, too, the slaves of the drink-fiend, had found in that room liberty from their chains. Here, too, would the vicar preside over meetings of the Temperance and Band of Hope Committees.

The room was snugly fitted up with a long deal table, as clean as constant scrubbing could make it, and boasted of a dozen windsor-chairs and two long benches. There were two cupboards also, one on each side of a small but brightly burnished grate. In one of these, pledge-books, cards for members, and temperance tracts and books were kept; in the other was a stock of Bibles, New Testaments, prayer-books, hymn-books, and general tracts. A few well-chosen coloured Scripture prints and illuminated texts adorned the walls; and everything in Bradly’s house was in the most perfect order. You would not find a chair awry, nor books lying loose about, nor so much as a crumpled bit of paper thrown on the floor of his “Surgery,” nor indeed anywhere about the premises.

When a neighbour once said to him, “I see, Tommy Tracks, you hold with the saying, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ ”—“Nay, I don’t,” was his reply. “I read it another way: ‘Cleanliness is a part of godliness.’ I can’t understand a dirty or disorderly Christian—leastways, it’s very dishonouring to the Master; for dirt and untidiness and confusion are types and pictures of sin. A true Christian ought to be clean and tidy outside as well as in. Christ’s servants should look always cleaner and neater than any one else; for aren’t we told to adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things? And don’t dirtiness and untidiness in Christians bring a reproach on religion? And then, if things are out of their place—all sixes and sevens—why, it’s just setting a trap for your feet. You’ll stumble, and lose your temper and your time, and fuss the life out of other people too, if things aren’t in their proper places, and you can’t lay hold of a thing just when you want it. It’s waste of precious time and precious peace, and them’s what Christians can’t afford to lose. Why, Jenny Bates, poor soul, used to lose her temper, and she’d scarce find it afore she lost it again, and just because she never had anything in decent order. And yet she were a godly woman; but her light kept dancing about, instead of shining steadily, as it ought to have done, just because she never knew where to put her hand on anything she wanted, and everything was in her way and in her husband’s way, except what they was looking for at the time. It’s a fine thing when you can stick by the rule, ‘A place for everything, and everything in its place.’ ”

But now it is not to be supposed for a moment that a man like Thomas Bradly could escape without a great deal of persecution in such a place as Crossbourne. All sorts of hard names were heaped upon him by those who were most rebuked by a life so manifestly in contrast to their own. Many gnashed upon him with their teeth, and would have laid violent hands on him had they dared. Sundry little spiteful tricks also were played off upon him. Thus, one morning he found that the word “Surgery” had been obliterated from his private door, and the word “Tomfoolery” painted under it. He let this pass for a while unnoticed and unremedied, and then restored the original word; and as his friends and the police were on the watch, the outrage was not repeated. All open scoffs and insults he took very quietly, sometimes just remarking, when any one called him “canting hypocrite,” or the like, that “he was very thankful to say that it wasn’t true.”

But besides this, he had an excellent way of his own in dealing with annoyances and persecutions, which turned them to the best account. At the back of a shelf, in one of the cupboards in his “Surgery,” he kept a small box, on the lid of which he had written the word “Pills.” When some word or act of special unkindness or bitterness had been his lot, he would scrupulously avoid all mention of it to his wife or children on his return home, but would retire into his “Surgery,” write on a small piece of paper the particulars of the act or insult, with the name of the doer or utterer, and put it into the box. Then, at the end of each month, he would lock himself into his room, take out the box, read over the papers, which were occasionally pretty numerous, and spread them out in prayer, like Hezekiah, before the Lord, asking him that these hard words and deeds might prove as medicine to his soul to keep him humble and watchful, and begging, at the same time, for the conversion and happiness of his persecutors. After this he would throw the papers into the fire, and come out to his family all smiles and cheerfulness, as though something specially pleasant and gratifying had just been happening to him—as indeed it had; for having cast his care on his Saviour, he had been getting a full measure of “the peace of God, which passeth understanding, to keep his heart and mind through Christ Jesus.”

Nor would his nearest and dearest have ever known of this original way of dealing with his troubles, had not his wife accidentally come upon the “pill-box” one day, when he had sent her to replace a book in the cupboard for him. Well acquainted as she was with most of his oddities, she was utterly at a loss to comprehend the box and its contents. On opening the lid, she thought at first that the box contained veritable medicine; but seeing, on closer inspection, that there was nothing inside but little pieces of paper neatly rolled up, her curiosity was, not unnaturally, excited, and she unfolded half-a-dozen of them. What could they mean? There was writing on each strip, and it was in her husband’s hand. She read as follows: “Sneaking scoundrel. John Thompson”—“Jim Taylor set his dog at me”—“Hypocritical humbug; you take your glass on the sly. George Walters!”—and so on.

She returned the papers to the box, and in the evening asked her husband, when they were alone, what it all meant. “Oh! So you’ve found me out, Mary,” he said, laughing. “Well, it means just this: I never bring any of these troubles indoors to you and the children; you’ve got quite enough of your own. So I keep them for the Lord to deal with; and when I’ve got a month’s stock, I just read them over. It’s as good as a medicine to see what people say of me. And then I throw ’em all into the fire, and they’re gone from me for ever; and when I’ve added a word of prayer for them as has done me the wrong, I come away with my heart as light as a feather.”

It need hardly be said that Mrs. Bradly was more than satisfied with this solution of the puzzle.