At the top of a steep hill, where two roads met, and where the wild wintry blasts from the mountain beyond swept right round the corner upon it, stood the poorhouse of the village of B—. Poor it certainly was; a wretched abode.
The authorities, whose business it was to care for the poor, had chosen it as a suitable dwelling for those who could not afford to have a roof of their own, under which to find a shelter, while the remnant of their weary days was ebbing out. Nothing but the utmost distress of circumstances, or the iron hand of starvation staring them in the face, would force any to seek a home in such a place; consequently, it at times stood quite empty; and, when any had the misfortune to be sent there “to live rent free,” as they were politely told, no provision was made for their daily need, save an occasional scanty supply of coals and a very small weekly allowance from the parish funds, by no means adequate to sustain life. I never liked to pass this melancholy abode. It was a two-story house, with the roof in very bad repair, the chimney-cans broken, and the small windows patched with paper or stuffed with rags. It had two cheerless chambers below, and two above; the access from the lower to the upper story being by an almost perpendicular staircase.
One day, as I was passing this wretched abode, I observed a feeble curl of gray smoke coming from one of the broken chimney-cans. I stopped to wonder who could be living there. A woman stood a short way from the door, so I went up to her, and said, “Can you tell me who is in the poorhouse just now?”
“Auld Peggie,” she answered. “She’s been sold out o’ house an’ hame; and she’s there noo livin’ her lane.”
“Old Peggie,” I said; “Is that the old woman who for years has gone about in rags, with a basket on her arm and a clay pipe in her mouth?”
“The same,” said the woman, laughing; “onybody kens her, I’ll warrant.”
Peggie was an old village celebrity, the terror of my childish dreams; and for years past I had wondered where she lived. “Poor Peggie,” I said; “And is she living all alone there?”
“Yes,” said the woman; “it’s a puir place, and she has nane to care for either her soul or body.”
I would fain have passed the door of that dirty, dreary house, but I could not: there was a soul there “living alone,” and “without Christ.” I knocked and was answered by a hoarse “Come in.” The crazy door creaked upon its hinges as I passed into one of the lower apartments; its mud floor was wet and dirty; its furniture consisted of a closed-in wall bed (admirably constructed to exclude all light and air), a small wooden table, a chair, a low stool, and a wooden plate, a rack on the wall, in which stood two or three plates, a basin, a mug, and a broken teapot; on the fire was a small iron pot on three legs. The inmate of this room sat on the low stool by the fire. smoking a much-blackened, short clay-pipe; her cotton gown and cap were dirty and ragged, and her boots almost worn out. Her face was sallow, wrinkled and ill- tempered, and her wandering eye old its own tale; no rest, no peace within.
I sat down without invitation, and, while Peggie continued smoking, I looked to the Lord to show me in what manner I could best present Christ to a soul in such a state of moral degradation. “Peorbgie,” I said by way of introduction, “You don’t know me?” “Hoot,” she growled, “I’ve kent ye from a bairn, you’re one o’ the teddies from the G —.” “You are right,” I answered, “though I never spoke to you in my life; but I heard you were living alone here, and I came to speak to you about a Friend and Comforter for such lonely ones as you.” “Whar does he bide?” “At the right hand of God now, Peggie, but once He was down here and suffered and died for you and me, that He might have us with Him forever.” “Gae wa, gae wa,” she said, waving her wrinkled hand and arm, “if it’s Christ ye mean I’d rather be without I’ve lived without Him Eclair than seventy years, and I’ll live on without Him.” “But you are very old Peggie, and death must come in at your door some day, and that before long, and how can you meet God as you are; a sinner, laden with sins; you’ve served Satan long enough, won’t you turn to Christ now?”
I pressed upon her the nearness of death, and judgment if she continued to reject Christ. She seemed a little frightened, took the clay pipe from her mouth, and laid it at the side of the fire, and gazing at me, said, “Will He save me noo, fist as I am?” “Yes, just as you are, for He came to seek and to save lost sinners like you; and He has given His word that He will save you this moment if you believe upon Him, for ‘God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish; but have everlasting life.”
“He that believeth not the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him.”
For a few moments she rested her aged head on her hands, as if weighing in a balance eternal life in Christ, and life without Him! I silently prayed. When I looked at her she had resumed her pipe; her face was callous and unmoved.
I rose, for I had staid to the utmost limit of my time, and said, “Well, Peggie, are you to have Christ now?”
Slowly she answered, “Na, na; I’ve lived without Him seventy years, and I can live without Him the rest o’ my days.”
“Peggie,” I said, “if you are determined to live without Christ, you must die without Him, and spend eternity without Him!”
It was a week ere I could again be in the village; we lived some miles from it, and only came in once a week. I eagerly longed for the day when I could again speak of Christ to this aged sinner living without Him. Quickly I ran up the hill, knocked at the door, and, getting no answer, went in. Peggie’s low stool was empty, the fire was out, her pipe was broken on the floor, the bed looked tumbled and disturbed. I drew aside the sliding panel of the bed, and stood horror stricken.
There lay Peggie, her withered arms thrown above her head, as if in conflict with some unseen foe. I listened, but there was no sound; her breathing had forever ceased. I touched her hand; it was cold. She was dead!
On going to the woman who had told me about her first, she would scarcely believe that she was dead. She had seen her as she passed the window a few hours before, smoking her pipe by the fire as usual, so that she was taken completely by surprise at this sudden announcement of her death.
I have written this account of Peggie specially for the aged who are still unsaved; O may it be a word of warning to you. You may be very old, but you are not too old to be saved.
Your time here cannot be long, it may be very short. Delay not a moment; put not longer off what you have put off too long already; accept Christ now, lest you perish like those who, refusing to have Christ to live with, must die without Him. Doubtless poor Peggie little thought, as she smoked her pipe for the last time, that in a few minutes she would be in eternity. If you are old and gray-headed in sin, there is all the more need for you to be in earnest about your soul’s salvation. The young may live many years; the middle-aged may live some years; but the old must die soon!
“Come now, and let us reason together,” saith the Lord, “though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.” K.