John Gaspard Lavater and the Poor Widow.
It was a practice with Lavater to read every morning several chapters from the Bible, and select from them one particular passage for frequent and special meditation during the day. One morning after reading the fifth and sixth chapters of the gospel of St. Matthew, he exclaimed, “What a treasure of morality! how difficult to make choice of any particular portion of it!” After a few moments’ consideration, he threw himself down upon his knees, and prayed for divine guidance. When he joined his wife at dinner, she asked him what passage of Scripture he had chosen for the day. “Give to him that asketh thee; and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away,” was the reply. “And how is this to be understood?” said his wife. “‘Give to him that asketh thee; and from him that would borrow of thee, turn not thou away,’ are the words of Him to whom all and everything belongs that I possess,” rejoined Lavater. “I am the steward, not the proprietor. The proprietor desires me to give to him that asks of me, and not to refuse him that would borrow of me; or, in other words, if I have two coats, I must give one to him that has none, and if I have food, I must share with him who is an hungered and in want; this I must do without being asked; how much more then when asked?” This, continued Lavater in his diary, appeared to me so evidently and incontrovertibly the meaning of the verses in question, that I spoke with more than usual warmth. My wife made no further reply than that she would take those things to heart. I had scarcely left my dining room a few minutes, when an aged widow desired to speak with me, and she was shown into my study. “Forgive me, dear sir,” she said, “excuse the liberty I am about to take—I am really ashamed, but my rent is due to-morrow, and I am short of six dollars. I have been confined to bed with sickness, and my poor child is nearly starving; every penny that I could save I have laid aside to meet this demand, but six dollars are yet wanting, and to-morrow is term-day.” Here she opened a parcel which she held in her hand, and said: “This is a book with a silver clasp, which my late husband gave me the day we were married; it is all I can spare of the few articles I possess, and sore it is to part with it. I am aware it is not enough, nor do I see how I could ever repay—but, dear sir, if you can, do assist me.” “I am very sorry, my good woman, that I cannot help you,” I said, and putting my hand into my pocket I accidentally felt my purse, which contained about two dollars. These, I said to myself, cannot extricate her from her difficulty—she requires six; beside, even if they could, I have need of this money for some other purpose. Turning to the widow, I said, “Have you no friend, no relative, who could give you this trifle?” “No, not a soul! I am ashamed to go from house to house, I would rather work day and night; my excuse for being here is, that people speak so much of your goodness; if, however, you can not assist me, you will at least forgive my intrusion, and God, who has never yet forsaken me, will not, surely, turn away from me in my sixty-sixth year!” At this moment the door of my apartment opened, and my wife entered. I was ashamed and vexed. Gladly would I have sent her away, for conscience whispered, “Give to him that asketh of thee; and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.” She came up to me and said with much sweetness:— “This is a good old woman, she has certainly been ill of late; assist her if you can.” Shame and compassion struggled in my darkened soul. “I have but two dollars,” I said in a whisper, “and she requires six; I’ll give her a trifle in the hand and let her go.” Laying her hand on my arm, and smiling in my face, my wife said aloud what conscience had whispered before, “Give to him that asketh of thee; and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.” I blushed, and replied with some little vexation, “Would you give your ring for the purpose?” “With pleasure,” answered my wife, pulling off her ring. The good widow was either too simple or too modest to notice what was going on, and was preparing to retire, when my wife called her to wait in the lobby. When we were left alone, I asked my wife—“Are you in earnest about the ring?” “Certainly; how can you doubt it?” she said. “Do you think I would trifle with charity? Remember what you said half an hour ago; O my dear friend, let us not make a show of the gospel. You are, in general, so kind, so sympathizing, how is it that you find it so difficult to assist this poor woman? Why did you not, without hesitation, give her what you had in your pocket? And did you not know there were yet six dollars in your desk, and that the quarter will be paid to us in less than eight days?” She then added, with much feeling: “Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for the body, what ye shall put on. Behold the fowls of the air; they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your Heavenly Father feedeth them.” I kissed my wife, while tears ran down my cheeks. “Thanks, a thousand thanks for this humiliation.” I turned to the desk, took from it six dollars, and opened the door to call in the poor widow; all darkened around me at the thought that I had been so forgetful of the omniscience of God as to say to her, “I can not help you. O thou false tongue! thou false heart! If the Lord should mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?” “Here is what you need,” I said, addressing the widow. At first she seemed not to understand what I meant, and thought I was offering her a small contribution, for which she thanked me and pressed my hand; but when she perceived I had given her the whole sum, she could scarcely find words to express her feelings. She cried:— “Dear sir, I cannot repay it; all I possess is this little book, and it is old.” “Keep your book,” I said, “and the money too, and thank God, and not me; for verily I deserve no thanks after having so long refused your entreaties. Go in peace, and forgive an erring brother.” I returned to my wife with downcast looks; but she smiled, and said:— “Do not take it so much to heart, my friend, you yielded at my first suggestion; but promise me that so long as I wear a gold ring on my finger, and you know that I possess several besides, you will never allow yourself to say to any poor person—‘I can not help you.’” She kissed me, and left the apartment. When I found myself alone, I sat down and wrote this account in my diary, in order to humble my deceitful heart—this heart which no longer than yesterday dictated these words: “Of all characters in the world, there is none I would more anxiously avoid being than a hypocrite; yet to preach the whole moral law, and fulfill only the easy part of it, is hypocrisy.” Merciful Father, how long must I wait, and reflect, and struggle, ere I shall be able to rely on the perfect sincerity of my profession? I read over once more the chapter I had read this morning with so little benefit, and felt more and more ashamed and convinced that there is no peace except where principle and practice are in perfect accordance. How peacefully and happily I might have ended this day had I acted up, conscientiously, to the blessed doctrine I professed. Dear Saviour, send thy Holy Spirit into this benighted heart, cleanse it from secret sin, and teach me to employ that which thou hast committed to my charge, to thy glory, to others’ welfare, and my own salvation!—Set.