YES, indeed! there could be no two opinions about it, the stool ha’d seen its best days, and must soon come to the fire.” So thought its owner, an old woman, little suspecting how important a part her old stool had yet to play in her history.
It was a very old stool, and she was a very old woman; and somehow there was a link in this very fact between them, so that though she had often threatened as above, she could never bring herself to accomplish the dire sentence.
It had been in her family for many a day; ay, long before she was born. As a little girl she had sat upon it by the fire. It had done its duty well. It had been scrubbed and sanded, and sanded and crabbed, until it was quite worn, and, showed furrows upon its surface, as if lined with age. But its old face shone again still, in keeping with the rest of that little cottage, for its owner was a thrifty old Soul.
Yet, really she began to be ashamed of it. It was so worm-eaten, and began to be shaky on its legs too, that—and there it ended; for she had grown to look on the old thing as a sort of companion, so nothing came to her threat.
The clergyman of the parish in which this old woman lived, the late Mr. Penne father of Mildmay, was very much concerned about her. Not that she was a wicked old woman,. with a loud tongue and meddling manner, for she was, on the contrary, a highly respectable and most religious creature. Blew it hot ‘or cold, was it wet or dry, did it rain or snow, it mattered little; for sure as the church door was open, on ordinary or extraordinary occasions, there old Betty was to be found. First in her seat she had said her prayers, smoothed her hair, composed her features, and was ready to look round patronisingly and self-approvingly on the congregation as it slowly filed in. And THEN, when service began, she was in her element! Her voce led in the’ responses. She stood or knelt with the nicest exactness, in accordance with rule. During the sermon, she was all attention—SHE never slept in church! Nodding approval at this, smiling complacently at that, deeply sighing as the sins of OTHERS were mentioned, for, in her opinion, hers was too blameless a life to have need of thought for herself in this respect.
But you wanted to visit Betty, to see her in her happiest mood. With her hands folded, she would commence to tell you of her goodness, her prayers, her church going, the good books she read, the chapters out of the Bible—and on, and on, she would go, never needing a word from you, telling the deeds of her good life; generally concluding with a sentence of this kind—”Though it’s me that says it as shouldn’t; not for that I would go for to say that MY goodness is any value, but there’s not a many as does more in the way of religion and good works than myself, and I think I have as good a hope of heaven as anyone can have.”
But what about the stool, and the important part it has to play? Well, this is how it came to pass. The good clergyman already alluded to, was sitting in his study one afternoon, conversing with a gentleman who was on a visit with him, a well-known servant of God, and one wise to win souls.
They were talking together of the different characters one meets; and the variety of hindrances to receiving the finished work of Christ, as the sole ground of faith and hope, which Satan, the great enemy of souls, raises in the mind.
From one device to another, they came to speak of that most artful species, so fashionable today—of an outward form and diligent religiousness, shutting out from the heart the Lord Jesus.
Upon this, Mr. Pennefather exclaimed, “‘Tis too true; I know in this very parish of one woman in particular, though, alas! she is not the only one who is completely ensnared by the devil and rocked to sleep to the lullaby of religious works—but no life—no Christ. I have spoken to her, until I despair of ever reaching her heart. She listens, but in that self-complacent manner that hears for everyone except herself. So satisfied do such become; is hard to show that they must be saved alone through Christ.”
“Let us pray for her, and I will then go down and see her,” was his friend’s rejoinder.
He was shown the house; and he went in, just as Betty was ‘putting away her tea things, for she was early in this respect also. She curtseyed low. Would the gentleman take a seat, though it was a poor place enough for the likes of him to come into, looking contentedly round on her neat little room the while. He thanked her, begged she would be seated also, that he had just come from his friend, Mr. Pennefather, and would like to have a little talk with her, he had heard she liked good things. In short, he set her so entirely at her ease, that she launched forth at once on her favorite topic, and gave him a long account of her good life, her prayers, her works; reflecting on the difference between herself and others, who were not so particular. He listened quietly, not needing to say aught; waiting, like a wise man, until she had quite run the length of her cable.
When a pause in her flow of language seemed to ask for a word of approval, her visitor simply raised his hand suggestively, and pointed with his forefinger to the old, well-worn, worm-eaten, three-legged stool, sitting silently by the fireside. Following the direction indicated, and seeing the article he pointed out, she began a long apology. Indeed, the gentleman might well think it was good for nothing, a worn-out, worthless old stool. She had said, many’s the time, it should be broke up and put behind the fire, it was, “fit for nothing else.”
At these words, the gentleman raised his eyes, his finger still pointing to the stool; and looking into hers, said, deliberately and solemnly, “ ‘Fit for nothing else!’ My dear woman, YOU ARE JUST LIKE THAT ,THREE-LEGGED STOOL.”
I let the reader imagine what words would fail to depict the effect produced on that self-satisfied, self-righteous, old woman’s mind and face, as she heard herself, and her condition, compared to “THAT THREE-LEGGED STOOL.” She gasped for breath—surely her ears deceived her! She! “LIKE—THAT THREE-LEGGED—STOOL!” only fit for the fire! No! there was no mistake; that finger steadily pointing, that face looking calmly on hers, dispelled any doubt on the subject. Her Pride was wounded. It was the reverse of what she had expected, and been prepared to hear. Were all her “good hopes,” cherished for years, thus to totter and fall: Totter they did; but fall? Nay! not while she could defend them. She would have spoken, but her visitor, seeing his arrow had penetrated, prudently withdrew without another word; and before the anger which burned in her eyes, and showed itself in her clenched hand, found relief in speech, he was gone.
(To be continued.)
Messages of God’s Love 8/25/1907