The Merchant's Sermon

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 19, 1871

The Merchant's Sermon.

“Oh! wad some power the giftie gie us To see ourselves as others see us.”

Mr. Wiseman spoke in a loud, fat, rich voice, that savored of stocks and funds, with a dash of compound interest, and a strong essence of the most intense respectability:

“My dear sir, you preached that sermon at me. I took it to myself. I’m in the habit of taking things to myself. I know you were thinking of me. Occupying my position, it’s impossible you should not frequently be considering my benefit.”

“Now, when you preach upon pride, I say to myself, ‘Wiseman, that’s you.’ Thoughtlessness, ‘You too.’ Hasty temper, ‘You.’ Imprudence, ‘Ah, you again.’ But when it’s all the other way, you know, when your subjects are all favorable to the character, then I say to myself again, ‘that’s for you,’ meaning, ‘that’s against you.’ You understand? A good habit, sir—eh? A good habit—”

Mr. Butler said nothing, but went home and sat down to prepare his sermon for next Sunday.

When he mounted the pulpit and the text was given out, it was found that the subject he had chosen was “Egotism.”

Now, I am happy in knowing that I am not bound to give the text of this sermon, because I freely confess I could n’t do it; but that Mr. Butler did find in some portion of the Holy Scripture a countenance to his discourse—and indeed there is one hidden in every page—is certain, otherwise, as everybody knows, the sermon could not have been preached.

“There, Mary,” said he to his wife as he threw himself back in his arm-chair after service, “I hope Mr. Wiseman will take that to himself. For once in my life I have done what he fancies I do regularly. For once in my life I have thought of him, and preached against him alone, with a view to no one else in the church—especially, I mean, you know.”

“It would be a sad mortification if he knew that,” said she.

“No, I do n’t know that at all. He is so eaten up with egotism that I really believe he would be more flattered if he guessed that I had composed and delivered a long discourse for his sole benefit, than vexed at the reason of it.”

This he said, not the least intending to tell him, you understand.

Next day the merchant and clergyman met.

“Come along with me,” cried Wiseman; “it’s the shortest cut the way you’re going. ‘Ah, Mr. Butler’ (tucking his arm inside his companion’s), ‘you forgot all about me yesterday morning.’”

This was a view of the subject Mr. Butler was not prepared for. Fortunately, a long line of stone carts, passing with deafening noise, gave him time to think before replying.

“I hope I remember all my flock,” he said gravely.

“Ah, I dare say. Some of them. Quite right, too. Still you passed me by.”

“No, indeed,” began the clergyman, embarrassed.

“You did. I noticed it. And yet I must say I did think I was entitled to some advantages from your ministry. I am a constant attender and occupy a front seat, besides subscribing very handsomely. I did not think you would have looked me over, my dear sir, I must say.” And he looked really hurt.

A light to guide him out of his perplexity here dawned upon the clergyman’s mind, and he eagerly made use of it.

“If you will allow me to say so, my dear friend, I was about to reply, that so far from forgetting you in preparing my yesterday’s discourse, I thought of you many times throughout.”

“Indeed,” said the merchant. “Is that possible?”

“More than that,” continued Mr. Butler; “you were one of the first that came into my mind on choosing the subject.”

“No! you do n’t say so?” Wiseman brightened up amazingly.

“If I were to confess the whole truth, you were the very first.”

“Nonsense!” cried Wiseman, still more delighted: “nonsense!”

“The very first,” repeated his companion, “and very last too. That text was chosen and the sermon composed and delivered for you alone.”

“What!” cried the merchant, “Mr. Butler, my dear sir! What’s that you say? You sit down, take the trouble to look out the subject, study it and deliver it on a Sunday from the pulpit, and all on my account alone? That is a compliment. That’s the most friendly thing I ever heard of. That is gratifying!”

“May I ask if you found it instructive, as you are in the habit of making personal applications?” inquired the clergyman.

“Why, to tell you the truth,” replied his parishioner, confidently, “I did n’t listen very closely. When I saw what the drift of the whole was going to be, I said to myself, ‘Wiseman, this isn’t the sort of thing for you at all. It doesn’t apply, you know.’ Now, if it had been pride or hasty temper—I’m rather hot and peppery sometimes—or imprudence—ah, we should all look more to what is prudent—then—but that sort of thing yesterday. You see, my dear sir, it did n’t seem to hit. About the only failing I’m not guilty of. If I had had the least idea that you had done such an uncommonly genteel thing as to make it up on purpose for me, why I should have felt bound to give it the closest attention. Of course I should, you know. So exceedingly polite. If it were n’t asking too much now—I dare say that sermon’s all written down—could you let me have a look at it?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” replied Mr. Butler. “I will send it along to-night.”

And, with a warm shake of the hand, the two separated.

“A famous fellow, that Butler,” thought Wiseman; or rather, as was his habit, said it half aloud. “An able man. He shall choose his own day to dine with me, and get the finest dinner I can procure by hook or by crook. In my opinion,” continued Mr. Wiseman—“in my opinion, there’s nothing like a hearty meal for setting up a man and making him fit for his work. Luxury is the soul of study in my opinion.”

This was a great deal to say, for, in Mr. Wiseman’s opinion, his opinion was worth the opinion of the best part of the world.

Some people, having private opinions, hold them as others do contraband articles, to be smuggled through the world, seeing the light as little as possible.

Not so Mr. William Wiseman. He felt he could afford opinions, and he liked them. A loud voice and a long step were also within the limits of Mr. Wiseman’s purse. He was no man’s debtor, not he, to need a meek tongue or a modest face. His name was great on ’Change, and heard with respect beyond the seas. Perhaps with a little more than it was at home. But was he not a governor of hospitals? a director of railways? above all, a pillar of the church and upholder of the clergy, who, he always declared, “ought to be encouraged”? Mr. Butler was his prime favorite. In Mr. Butler’s church he exhibited his devotion, his family, and himself, every Sunday morning and afternoon, and many a pleasant nap had the soft velvet cushions yielded him.

Now, as he walked along, his eye wandered to the right and left over the fins of turbot and along the game departments of poulterers’ shops in search of what was most delicate and savory for the clergyman’s dinner.

Mr. Butler went home and took out his sermon. The last few pages were blank. He took up a pen, and not without a good deal of thought and a short prayer, filled them up. Then he rolled the paper up carefully, wrote the direction, and told his wife he should send it along in the evening, to which she replied, somewhat expressively, that she “hoped Mr. Wiseman would read it.”

“There is a great deal of good about him, more than has ever been brought out,” said her husband, warmly. “It is that one fault that, like a drop of poison in the veins, pollutes the whole system.”

Mrs. Butler shook her head a little doubtfully, but, like a wise wife, she said no more.

Mr. Wiseman sat in his study after his seven o’clock dinner. It was the most delightful place to sit in that could possibly be imagined. The soft, dark green of the curtains and carpet, the carved oak ceiling, the carved bookshelves, the carved chairs, great and small; the shaded lamps upon writing tables of the most convenient and enticing shape; the small, choice pictures on the walls; the books—a fine collection of ancient and modern authors—altogether formed a combination of comfort and elegance most pleasing to every sense. But why it was called a “study” was a mystery, or perhaps it was a slight mistake.

It was a place for Mr. Wiseman to sit in after dinner, as I said, and perhaps should have been more correct in saying, “to sleep in after dinner.” A place for his friends to seek an interview on business occasionally; a place where letters awaited Mr. Wiseman’s return from the office; where a handsome clock ticked away the time with wonderful regularity; where a large fire was always kept burning; where the windows were closed when the master was in, and opened as soon as he went out; in short, a place where everything was handsome and well appointed, and things were done “decently and in order.”

But this is not what men usually call a study. Perhaps Mr. Wiseman now and then had an idea of it too; for sometimes he did attempt to study—the newspaper.

I fear, however, that a new prime minister and government did not so greatly interest him as “girding up a farthing in the pound,” for he always began at that part of the column, and very seldom got beyond it.

Mr. Wiseman was sitting very happily this night, without even that occupation. He jerked his watch-chain up and down, hummed snatches of tunes, and stretched himself at full length in the soft, arm-chair, smiling all the time.

By-and-by the door opened, and a pompous footman presented a pamphlet on a silver tray. His master looked at the direction:

“Butler! Ah, yes, the very thing! I sha’n’t forget Butler for that dinner. Woodcock, certainly! Those were fine birds at Buist’s to-day. I dare say, now, that worthy fellow would hardly know one from a jack-snipe. More’s the pity. The clergy are poor observers of a table, but, I shall take care Butler gets a chance this time; let me alone for that. And now, that I think of it,” continued Mr. Wiseman, reflectively, “Mrs. Wiseman must take care that those birds do n’t do more than ‘fly through the kitchen’; they were ruined last time—positively ruined—dried up. Mrs. Wiseman must see to it. Yes, yes.” So, soliloquizing thus, our merchant unfastened the parcel. “This is pleasant,” he murmured, as he drew a shaded lamp to his elbow. How refreshing a little study is after a day of business and worry!”

“Business and worry” being the very marrow of Mr. Wiseman’s bones, and the refreshment of study not being too frequently resorted to, it may be thought that the latter would probably terminate on this occasion in a sound nap. But such was not the case. His ruling passion kept Mr. Wiseman’s curiosity awake, and kept himself, too; moreover, when he was awake, Mr. Wiseman’s abilities were quite beyond the average, as they would have told you at his office. Mr. Butler was right; he was capable of more than his life had shown. With simple curiosity Mr. Wiseman began, but curiosity began gradually to give place to interest. Mr. Wiseman did not feel as if he were reading a sermon. It seemed to him that he had come to look at a picture of himself, which the painter declared was a faithful likeness.

Oblivious of former recollections of it, not flattering, he expects on the whole to be well pleased. A few defects there must be, of course; but they shall not be very prominent, perhaps not visible but to his own keen observation. Well, well, every man has his failings, and he was not perfect; still the portrait, take it all in all, will be gratifying. What, then, are his feelings on beholding a deformity such as he had never dreamed of? Every feature is out of proportion; every little scar or wrinkle is enlarged and dwelt upon, and there are others introduced, besides, which he had never seen before. It is not the ugliness of the picture that enchains his attention for a moment, but he is riveted to the spot when he is told this frightful monster is himself.

Hour after hour passed away, and the merchant still sat in his easy chair with the shaded lamp by his side. Had he read straight through, the sermon must have been ended long ago; but Mr. Wiseman had been reading backward and forward, and up and down, keeping his finger in one place and turning down the leaf at another; sometimes, too, he paused a long time, leaning his head upon his hand with a look of grave and anxious thought. The great bronze clock ticked away, and, in the silent apartment, sounded like a solemn, monotonous voice. The fire grew lower and lower, but the mirror still reflected that motionless figure with his head bent down.

“That fellow Butler has the strangest notions,” he said, at length rousing himself; “the most extraordinary notions. If

any one had told me that this now”—tapping the paper with his finger—“was aimed at me, of course I should never have thought of believing it. But Butler’s a man of his word, and he told me so himself. Well, well, in that case I’m bound to believe it; and I do, hum! well, I do believe it—in a way—most extraordinary, all the same—must think it over.” At another place Mr. Wiseman’s finger rested still longer. “Why, if this be true,” said he, “it is the strangest thing about the whole. Butler quotes Scripture; I shall refer to Scripture.”

He rose, and mounting the mahogany steps beside the book-case, took down a magnificent volume, bound in red and gold. It opened stiffly—had evidently seldom been opened before. Alas! it was a Bible. “Word for word,” murmured the merchant with an involuntary sigh as he with difficulty found the place. “Not likely Butler would mistake; yet I could have sworn it was exaggerated folly—a piece of Methodistical nonsense, fit only for women and parsons. Somehow it isn’t; I should have read my Bible better, perhaps. Perhaps—perhaps if I had, I might have been a better man.”

One passage led to another. Mr. Wiseman could not lay the heavy volume down, or, if he did, it was only to take it up again the next minute; and the sermon accompanied him through all his researches in this unknown land.

It was not until nearly midnight that he quitted the study.

The party in the drawing-room was just breaking up.

“Slept too long to-night, papa. We are going now to follow your example,” said a daughter, playfully. “We have missed you, my dear,” said his wife. “You generally come and tell us all about yourself.”

Mr. Wiseman winced under the gentle remark as if it stung him.

“I have been reading,” he answered hastily, and, somehow, at the moment wished he need not have said “I.”

Nobody said that was a new thing, or raised their eyebrows, or smiled; but they were all secretly astonished, notwithstanding. It was altogether a new thing, almost unheard of.

“Mr. Wiseman,” announced the servant, as she threw open the door of Mr. Butler’s little study (a real study this time), the next morning, soon after breakfast.

The clergyman rose, not without embarrassment. But Mr. Wiseman was quite unconcerned. He was a frank man by nature, and having talked perpetually about himself and his projects for nearly fifty years, he had grown very frank indeed.

“Sha’n’t keep you many minutes, my dear sir; I know you’re busy, of course—of course,” glancing at the piles of papers on the table. “But I want a word—a single word. That sermon of yours kept me awake all night, and I do n’t expect to forget it the rest of my life. It was a wonderful sermon. If you had not expressly said it was aimed at me, I should never have believed it—never. Now, tell me, is it possible that you have intended to describe me there exactly, as I am, without any sermonizing or exaggeration.”

Mr. Butler felt very awkward. It was an awkward question. When you have been portraying a character in its blackest colors, and a man comes and asks you in a friendly way, with no resentment, if you meant it for him, it is very hard indeed to look him in the face and say you did.

Yet the moment might never return, as a golden opportunity, once neglected, seldom does. The iron was hot and must be struck, or the impression pass, for the merchant spoke with an earnestness quite unusual with him.

“I told you,” said Mr. Butler, gently, “that I composed that sermon expressly for you. It is your part to discover its personal application.”

A gleam of pleasure just shot from his parishioner’s eyes, and he instantly grew grave.

“I am then the man,” he said, “who, body and soul, is devoted to the worship of himself; who talks incessantly of his own doings, his own feelings, and his own opinions—nay, who would rather talk of his own faults and losses than not be talked of at all; who has interest in nothing unless it has reference to him; who fancies each word in conversation alludes either openly or covertly to him, who, in fact, lives for himself.”

“But who,” said the clergyman, earnestly, “intended from henceforth to live not unto himself, but unto Him who died for his sake, and rose again for his salvation.”

The words appeared not to reach his companion’s ear, who pursued his own train of thought:

“I am proud, ill-natured, avaricious, narrow-minded, suspicious, unkind, unjust—”

“No, no,” ejaculated Mr. Butler, involuntarily.

His visitor smiled, and drew from his pocket a roll of paper, from which he read aloud:

“He is proud, because he thinks highly of himself; ill-natured, because he cannot endure the smallest slight upon himself; avaricious, because he must hoard up for himself; narrow-minded, for his thoughts seldom wander beyond himself; suspicious, he trusts only himself; unkind, he cannot be troubled except for himself; unjust, for he views everything in life from the point only where he himself stands.” This,” said the merchant, pausing and addressing his companion, “is my character?”

“True, but”—the clergyman hesitated.

“Allow me to finish the sentence. ‘He is self-willed, because he must have his way; positive, his opinions must be infallible; vain of his possessions, because they aggrandize him, and discontented if he has not, because he will be neglected.’ This is me?” continued the merchant, pausing again.

His companion bowed.

“Yet,” continued the merchant, reading, “will he do a liberal or a kindly action if it reflects honor upon himself, or if it is unavoidable. The unjust judge could right a helpless widow, lest by her continued coming she wearied him. But, prompted by this engrossing motive, what action will not be found wanting when weighed in the last balance?”

Once more the merchant ceased to read, and fixing his eye upon his companion with a searching look, said: “I am the man.”

Mr. Butler felt that the time was come for him to speak. With all imaginable tenderness, yet never for a moment swerving from the truth, he acknowledged the light in which the past life of the prosperous man of the world had appeared to him; spread that light before the merchant’s own eyes; hinted what even his own friends thought of his character; and concluded by earnestly directing his attention to that divine Saviour whose blood was shed for his pardon, and to that divine source from which alone strength could be given to overcome his powerful enemy.

Home influence, influence in the house of business, influence among many friends, over many servants; the influence of wealth, abilities, and position, were the talents given to Mr. Wiseman’s charge. Verily, they were more than five if less than ten.

And he had not hidden them in a napkin. Oh, no. But he had done infinitely worse. He had turned them into base coin, stamped them with his own image, written on them his superscription, and traded with them on his own account.

How had the speculation turned out? If you had asked that question of Mr. Wiseman yesterday evening, sitting in his luxurious board with his gentle wife and amiable daughters, waited on by liveried servants, and surrounded by every comfort, he would probably have answered you, “Very well, very well, indeed.”

Had you asked him the same question on the following morning, as he sat in the little dingy study, a humbled, softened man, he might have replied with the words uppermost in his mind, “Oh! what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?”

For all through the long hours of last night his heated pillow had been a bed of thorns, torturing him with painful and cruel recollections. They were not of things the world could take hold of—Mr. Wiseman had taken good care of that. There was nothing “dishonorable,” nothing “discreditable”; only some little bitter private memories; ties of nature that he could have bound together by the simple links of gold and silver from his well-filled purse; unforgiven injuries, perhaps very trivial, but which had rankled and festered into a wound from which grew the hinted slander that by-and-by brought ruin on its object; neglect of kindred; oppression of the defenceless; the sheltering hand withdrawn that might have screened a first crime, and saved a brother from degradation and a course of vice; on that last occasion Mr. Wiseman had remarked that “he foretold it, and was thankful he had done his duty by making him an example from the first.”

Now it was the sharpest thorn that galled him.

“My beginning of repentance,” he said over and over again; “my first beginning, must be to seek out poor N—”

And Mr. Butler said so, too.

“Then, as to my clerks,” said he, “I’ve been a hard man to them; there must be a reform there, sir.”

“Certainly there must,” replied the clergyman, with but a misty idea what reform was meant or needed, however.

“And our old book-keeper,” continued Mr. Wiseman, meditating, “he has worked and slaved for me twenty years; he must be looked to. There is Smith’s invalid sister, too—the cripple; and Wilson’s mother, who lives on next to nothing. Ah, Mr. Butler,” continued he, a little ruefully, “if I’m to go all lengths, there’ll be many a long score to be paid off, I doubt.”

“There was one long score paid for you more than eighteen hundred years ago,” remarked the clergyman.

“Ay,” responded the merchant, catching his meaning, “and if there hadn’t been, I should be a bankrupt forever. And now,” he continued in a lighter tone, “about this sermon—is it yours or mine?”

“Why, both; or rather, it was mine, and is yours—that is, if you will accept it.”

“I’ve not half done with it yet—not half,” replied Wiseman, rolling the paper carefully up, and patting in the corners; “there’s many a lesson in here for me yet. Oh, dear! ‘Me’ and ‘I’ at every turn. I shall cut myself out of my vocabulary.”

It sounded so very like it that Mr. Butler could not help smiling. Nobody knew that, however, for Mr. Wiseman, with the gravest face imaginable, was quite unconsciously rolling up his pamphlet, and tucking it away in his bosom.

“There,” he said, when it was safely disposed of, “I sha’n’t lose sight of that in a hurry.”

It was high noon when the friends separated. Had you seen the well-known, respectable merchant, Mr. William Wiseman, coming down the doorsteps, you might, and probably would, have recognized the coat, hat, and stick, of the self-important personage who had so long frequented the city thoroughfares; nay, his hair and his whiskers looked pretty much as usual, but the cold, light eye was dim, and the eyelid flickered in such an uncertain way, and the smile was so broad and kindly, that you would most likely have said as you came near, “I thought it was that pompous old fool, Wiseman, but I see it is only very like him.”

And you would have been quite right. It was not that “pompous old fool Wiseman” that came down Mr. Butler’s doorsteps that sunny morning, or the old nature had begun to disappear, and the new life to spring up within.

When our merchant reached the foot of the steps, he turned suddenly and ran back: “My dear sir, I had forgotten—ah! Mrs. Wiseman will be happy if you and Mrs. Butler will join our dinner-party some day this week—say to-night. Come to-night.”

“With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Butler.

“Seven o’clock—family party, no one but yourselves. I shall—hum, ah!—Mrs. Wiseman will be delighted to see you.”

So she would, poor little kept-down wife that she was, but her delight had never before been prominent in an invitation, Mr. Wiseman’s formula being, “Come and dine with me; I shall be happy to see you.”

“Now for the office,” said our merchant, as he walked along. “What a mess it will be in without me! I should have recollected Davis can’t get on at all without me. Oh! dear, dear! what am I saying? Of course he can. He can, and he does as well without as with.”

To the office, however, Mr. Wiseman went, but not to business.

“Kerr,” said he, addressing a clerk, “it’s a long time since you’ve been home to see your friends. So, as business is slack just now, you may take a week. You had better be off on Saturday night, and return Monday week, and I hope” (internally: “all right.”)—“I hope,” he proceeded, in a firmer tone, “you’ll find all well and enjoy yourself. Graham, as soon as Kerr returns, you’ll get your week, and the rest in rotation, unless things get suddenly brisk, of course. I wish it to be understood in future,” continued Mr. Wiseman, in conclusion, “that the clerks in my—ah!—this office get a month’s holiday in the year, instead of the fortnight they have usually had.”

“What an extraordinary chap the governor is,” said one of the young men, as soon as he could shut his mouth sufficiently to speak, for it had been wide open with astonishment before. “Offers us all a week round, and then goes away stuffing his papers into his pocket without ever looking at them.”

“But I say, isn’t it jolly, though, and won’t my old dad feel grand when he hears about the month?” said another. “He’s a brick, after all, old Wiseacre. I always hated him before. Do you know what Stephen called him when he was here? ‘Old I.’ Not bad, was it? He never has it out of his mouth, you know.”

They did know, every one of them. Who did n’t know that peculiarity of Mr. William Wiseman, merchant?

As Mr. Wiseman walked along, he met a friend.

“Hallo, Wiseman, heard the news!”

“No,” replied Wiseman, “does it concern me?—hum, ah! I hope it will benefit you.”

“It does, indeed, and you as well.” (“Catch me expecting sympathy from a man like you if it hadn’t,” said the friend internally.)

He then explained the news.

“Accept congratulations,” cried Wiseman, heartily, abbreviating the “my.” “You deserve success, I’m sure.”

The friend went away amazed.

“Get Wiseman off himself; he’s not a bad fellow, after all. To-day, now, it was really singular.”

A turbot of elephantine proportions here caught Mr. Wiseman’s eye.

“I shall have him for my dinner—tuts! I mean the very thing for Butler’s dinner,” said the merchant; and the turbot forthwith set off on a long journey in the direction of —— Square, clasped in the affectionate embrace of a lobster.

Upon the couple’s reappearance at the dinner table, Mr. Wiseman was uneasy, for everybody present, led on by Mr. Butler, pronounced it the largest turbot they had ever seen.

“I have seen larger—ah! I mean there are larger,” said the host, correcting himself; for he had only intended to show that he was not vain of his turbot, which anybody might have been.

But the way the merchant went on all through the evening was a most extraordinary thing. He talked incessantly, disturbing his sentences, breaking off short, and stopping altogether in the middle, sometimes; the nonsense he had made of it was surprising; and yet somehow no one liked him the worse, but rather the better.

How hard it was! He was quite astonished to find the way in which that great “I” had intruded itself into all his sentences. If not leading off, which was its most frequent position, it was somewhere in the middle, or you might be positively certain of finding it at the end. The conversation would have been utterly incomplete, without head or tail, if the “I” had not been the subject.

Mr. Wiseman, looking back, saw it now, and manfully began his campaign against himself. He stepped about from fireplace to piano, and from the piano back to the tea table, looking after every one, praising this, and noticing that.

“My dear,” said the meek little wife, “pray sit down and rest a little.”

“My dear,” said her husband, kindly, “I have had nothing to tire me—ah! walking is not tiring.”

“Is business still dull?” inquired she. She was always interested in his affairs; if she had not been, it would have gone hard with her.

“Rather. I have allowed—hum! Kerr is going to get a week’s holiday, and some of the rest afterward.”

“Kerr got a week!” Mrs. Wiseman paused. “Will you let me send a little parcel to his mother? She is poor, and a better creature never lived.”

“A very good idea,” said the merchant heartily. “A bottle or two of port would do her no harm. Send her a dozen; perhaps not the best; yes, it shall be the very best, for I can afford to give it. Oh dear! I mean there is plenty in the cellar.”

Mrs. Wiseman rose joyfully: “I shall say inside it is from you.”

“No, no,” said her husband, hastily; “say nothing of the sort. Do n’t mention me. My dear,” he added, in a lower and softer tone, “do n’t be vexed if I say that you have helped me to make the old egoistical fool that I am, and you must help

me to get right again. Now I must n’t begin to tell you about it, for that would set me on the tack again. Ask Butler, if you want to know more. There, now, go to your parcel, my dear.”

But once, at the end of the evening, the old habit rose beyond control; it was when Mr. Wiseman wished his guest good night.

“I have had a happy day,” he said, “and to you, my dear friend, I owe it all. My own sermon I hope to remember the rest of my life.”

And he did, and profited by it, and it was found among his private papers at his death, with “My Own Sermon” written upon it in the merchant’s own hand.—Sel.