THE CZAR AND THE PEASANT.
THREE hundred years ago, beyond the memory of the very oldest person you ever knew, there ruled over the great empire of Russia a czar, known amongst his people as the “Good Ivan.” They called him “good,” for he took more interest than many of their rulers had done in the welfare and wants of his people, and he would not trust for information as to their needs to the lords and councillors who surrounded his throne, or to the rulers who sent in their reports from the provinces, but he was glad of dressing himself up in various disguises and wandering here and there amongst the peasantry, and in this way he learned what was thought of himself and his method of government, in a manner that his people little suspected. One cold winter’s night, when few ventured abroad, the czar, dressed like a miserable beggar, wandered through the streets of a small village, not far from Moscow. He leant on a staff, as though footsore and weary, and begged for bread in a dolorous whine. Although he tried cottage after cottage, no one gave it him; he was so poor and shabby that they scarcely gave him a civil answer. Tired out at last, he turned to leave for the night, when he spied a miserable hut with a single rush-light in the window, and resolved to try once more; he begged for a night’s lodging and a few broken victuals. The peasant bade him enter and share his meal, “Although,” he added, “you have come at a rare bad time; the wife is ill, a newborn babe lies by her side, and there are five other hungry mouths to feed.” The czar entered, and ate with them the coarse, unpalatable fare, and watched the peasant put his children to bed and tend his poor sick wife. He asked to see the baby, and held it awhile in his arms, and then went to sleep as best he could on the rough, mud-plastered floor. Don’t you wonder how he slept, and whether he wished himself back in the purple-curtained royal bed in the magnificent palace of Moscow? However, he was awake with the dawn, and said to the peasant ere he left: “Wait in the cottage for three or four hours; I know a rich man in the city, and I will hobble in and tell him your case; I think he’ll stand god-father to this little babe of yours, and then he will give you a present, and reward you for all you have done for me.” The peasant thought very little of this promise from a shabby beggar-man, but, as his wife was weak and ailing, and there was not much work to do, he readily promised not to leave the house all the morning. By and by, when a couple of hours had passed, a great shouting and rumbling was heard in the streets of the tiny village, and the children ran in from the road and called their father, telling him the czar’s grand carriage and prancing horses were passing by, and begging him to come and look at them. The poor peasant rose wearily, caring little to see the grandeur, which so painfully contrasted with his own miserable poverty; but as he reached the door, he stood terrified and amazed to see the royal carriage standing still, and the great czar, in his richly-furred robes, advancing towards him. “Good-morrow, friend,” said the czar, smiling graciously. “How is the good wife now, and where is the little babe that is to be my godchild?” The poor peasant stammered and bent to the ground in great confusion, but Ivan raised him, and insisted on fulfilling his promise, and claiming the infant as his godchild. “I must enrich the little one with a gift,” he said, “and I will by and by take him into my palace, and train him for my service. He shall grow up in my presence, and learn to behave as my son.” And I need scarcely tell you that with the “Good Ivan” a promise was a promise, and was fulfilled to the very letter. Does not this true story of the Russian king carry you back in thought to that other King who—more, far more than three hundred years ago—came in the garb of a carpenter’s son, to visit His people, and to help them in their needs, their sorrows, and their temptations?—Selected.