THE EFFECT OF RIGHTEOUSNESS.
By Mrs. S. M. I. Henry
THERE is to me no more significant statement in God's Word than that found in Isa. 32:17, "And the work of righteousness shall be peace; and the effect of righteousness quietness and assurance forever," which I once gave to a hopeless man, and saw it work its way through his life. The incident occurred in my Gospel temperance work nearly twenty years ago. One noon hour I was resting at our W. C. T. U. headquarters, when two little children—as pitiable objects as I have ever seen—came in. The day was intensely cold. It seemed impossible that children so thinly clad could have survived such exposure. One, a girl of nine, had her feet wrapped in old rags. The other, a boy of seven or eight, wore the soles and uppers of his shoes tied together with strips of cloth. In this condition they had come from far across the city, to find relief for the famishing ones at home. I had nothing eatable at hand, and started out to find something, when at the foot of the stairway leading to the street, I met one of our reformed men. I said to him: "I have a case of great destitution. Will you help me? Get a carriage, and go at once to Mrs. —; tell her to return with you, and bring everything she has in the house in the shape of food that is ready-cooked." He hurried away, and in a short time returned with my friend, and supplies. As we entered the carriage the children became almost frantic from the smell of food. It was pitiable to see how their condition had developed the animal within. There was nothing that could be called childish, little that would appear even human, in the manner in which they ate that which was placed in their hands. Arrived at the place, the children insisted on stopping at a large, well-built house, apparently vacant. We followed, and were led through bare hall and rooms, until at last we reached the kitchen, which, supplied scantily with makeshift furniture, was the living-room. There was a cook-stove, so broken as to be utterly useless, a woman, a girl of four, and a young babe. The woman looked insane, or heart-broken, or both. She had barely strength of mind and body to tell her story. We learned, however, that her husband was a man of liberal education. He had been a successful editor in several different languages, was a man of great gifts. All of which we verified later. She said that he was kind and good when sober, but that for years he had never been sober, consequently, he could get nothing to do, and they had suffered the most extreme want. "If he would only sober up, he could earn enough to keep us in luxury," she said. The house was their own. It had been at one time comfortably furnished, but the furniture had been sold, piece by piece, to keep them from starvation. She had rented a few rooms, but such was his conduct that no roomers would stay. The property might have been sold, but she had determined to hold on to that much, rather than to have it sold at a sacrifice, and squandered for drink. Her persistence in this had led to many quarrels. Her father, in the old country, had recently sent her some money, which she had hidden, and did not suppose her husband knew about it; but in some way he had discovered that money was in the house, and had tried to compel her to give it to him. She had refused until at last he had, the day before, thrown her to the floor, put his foot on her breast, telling her that if she did not give it to him, he would crush her breast with his foot, and kill her. She drew aside the rags that covered her, and exposed to me the marks of that heel upon her breast. Of course she gave him the money, and then, in his rage, because she had hidden it from him, he broke the stove, and raved like a maniac until they were exhausted with fear; then he had gone away. There had been no food since, and in the severe weather, without fire, their condition was desperate. "I could not do anything but send for you," was her pathetic appeal to me, as I was holding my shawl about her, and trying to encourage her. We made them as comfortable as possible, visiting them regularly for several days before the man appeared. We did not then see him, only heard of him from the terrorized wife and children, who were almost more afraid of him than of starvation. I had become very much burdened over this man, and determined to see him. Accordingly, I said to his wife:— "I must see your husband the next time I come." "I wish you could see him, but he would not see you," she replied. "But I must see him; it must be managed in some way." "The only way would be for you to go where he is, and take him unawares." This, however, I would not do. I had discovered that it was impossible to reach the heart and conscience of a man if he felt that he had been caught in a trap. So I replied:— "I can not take him unawares. He must know that I am coming, and what for. When he comes to-night, you tell him to expect me the day after to-morrow, at eleven o'clock. If he is not willing to see me, all that he has to do is to be away; but say that I hope he will surely be here, as I have something very important to say." "Well," she replied, "I will tell him; but he will not stay." "Let us pray about it," I said; "I will pray, so must you." "O," she replied, "I can not pray! I have no courage to pray." She, however, knelt with me, and I prayed that this effort might succeed, while she remained in helpless silence at my side. On the way home I called to see the wife of one of the city pastors who was a beautiful singer, and often went with me in my work. I explained the situation, and asked her to go with me at the appointed time, and to be ready with some of her sweetest songs,—something appropriate for the most desperate case which she had ever met; "for," I said, "I think I depend upon your songs under God more than anything else, in this time of need." At the time appointed, as we came near the house, we saw the woman with her babe pass us quickly, and disappear around the corner. I knew she saw us, and I understood. This meant that her husband was waiting for us, and that she had the tact to know that he would be more ready to listen if he were alone with his children. Bessie, the little girl, a very womanly, serious child, opened the door for us. I had learned from the mother that she had more influence over her father than any other human being, even sometimes controlling him in his fits of drunken rage, when he was more demon than man. Her face was very expressive as she led us in, but she said nothing. As the door into their little living-room swung open, I saw the man retreating through an opposite door. For a moment we stood among the children, scarcely knowing whether our mission was to fail or succeed; but he returned with a look of determination on his face, and began to apologize. He had been a man of culture and refinement, as well as education, and could but feel a desire to cover his shame at the conditions for which he was responsible, with efforts at politeness. "My wife is out for a moment," he said, "and will probably soon return." But we had no time to waste, so I interrupted him, saying, "I am glad to see that you were expecting us. I am glad you stayed for our message. We came to talk with you about the condition in which I found your family, and that which we have been obliged to do for them, and find out what we are to hope for in the future, now that they are more comfortable. We came, also, to bring you good news. There is manhood for you yet." He looked dumbly at us, sat down heavily, and dropped his face on his hands. Then I began to tell him what kind of a man he might be if he would repent and let God do his work in him. I said: "If you would be a sober man and go to work, instead of this shell of a house you could have a home. You could buy furniture from the shops, carpets from the store, food from the groceries, books from the book-store, and have a pleasant place in which to live, make your family happy, and enjoy life with them. You would be able to educate these children, but, as it is now, your children—the children of a man educated as you are, one who has had influence as you have—are likely to grow up ignorant vagabonds, and perhaps criminals. Look at your wife, the wife of a man of education. Does she look like it? She ought to be recognized as a lady, and the mistress of a beautiful home." I said: "I don't see how you have managed to keep this house as long as you have. You could not have done it if she had not been courageous and kept it in spite of you, that she might have a shelter for your children. She has not been able to keep the money with which she could have purchased food, because you have used brute force to take it away from her. I saw the mark of your heel on her breast." And so I talked to him, using the plainest language which I could employ. He sat and listened, looking occasionally at his children, who were in turn looking at him and me, wondering at the way in which he was receiving the strong language which was being uttered. They were sure that something was going to happen, and were afraid of him, as well as of us. At last, as I was telling him of his heavenly Father's efforts in his behalf, the first father-like expression came into his face, and he suddenly held out his hands towards the youngest of the three—a girl of four. We knew then that God had touched him. The little frightened child was not, however, quick to respond; but Bessie was equal to the occasion, and, altho the little one drew back, she led her to the father. He drew her to his knees, and bowed his head upon hers. Then my friend10lifted up that beautiful voice of hers, and began to sing "The Ninety and Nine." How she sang it! I have never heard it as I heard it then. The circumstances, doubtless, gave it peculiar power, and God made it the vehicle of his Spirit. As she finished, we all knelt to pray,—that father, with the child still in his arms, and the other two huddled at his side. As we prayed, he groaned in bitterness and struggled, until at last, turning his face, wet with tears, toward us, he said, "O, do you think there is any help for me?" "Of course there is help for you; you are helped already, or you could never have asked such a question," was the answer. "You are a different man now than when you put your foot on that woman's breast to make her give up that money. You are sober now; you have kept sober ever since yesterday. You have waited because you knew that we were coming in Christ's name. You could not have done that yourself. The Spirit of God has been holding and leading you. The question for you to answer now is, Will you accept Christ as he offers himself and his salvation to you?" He made his answer to God. It was a scene never to forget, as he, led by the Spirit and Word, came to the joy of salvation, and began at once the "work of righteousness," the "effect" of which we could but observe through all the following months, in which comforts increased, until one day it was put to the test of "quietness and assurance." Bessie was dead. I had been sent for, but did not arrive until the dear little woman, whose life had been worth so much, was no more. I stood with that father and mother in that silent presence, and rejoiced with them even in their sorrow, because of the reality of the salvation which had sweetened even this bitterness. There was comfort in the house, light on all faces instead of the old-time despair—quietness and assurance, the dignity of a deep, earnest confidence in God, which might well have taken a lifetime to produce instead of two short years. I stood and looked at the sweet little dead face, my own tears rolling down my cheeks, as he said, with a pathos indescribable, "I am so glad, I thank my God, that Bessie lived long enough to have a comfortable home to die in." This was to him the practical manifestation of the grace of God, and no less spiritual because so material. MRS. S. M. I. HENRY.
Sanitarium, Battle Creek, Mich.