The lonely souls
that hold out timid hands to an unheeding world have their meed of
interior comfort even here, while the sons of consolation wait on
the thresh-hold for their footfall: but God help the soul that
bars its own door! It is kicking against the pricks of Divine
ordinance, the ordinance of a triune God; whether it be the dweller
in crowded street or tenement who is proud to say, "I keep myself
to myself," or Seneca writing in pitiful complacency, "Whenever I
have gone among men, I have returned home less of a man." Whatever
the next world holds in store, we are bidden in this to seek and
serve God in our fellow-men, and in the creatures of His making
whom He calls by name.
It was once my privilege to know an old organ-grinder named
Gawdine. He was a hard swearer, a hard drinker, a hard liver, and
he fortified himself body and soul against the world: he even
drank alone, which is an evil sign.
One day to Gawdine sober came a little dirty child, who clung to
his empty trouser leg--he had lost a limb years before--with a
persistent unintelligible request. He shook the little chap off
with a blow and a curse; and the child was trotting dismally away,
when it suddenly turned, ran back, and held up a dirty face for a
kiss.
Two days later Gawdine fell under a passing dray which inflicted
terrible internal injuries on him. They patched him up in
hospital, and he went back to his organ-grinding, taking with him
two friends--a pain which fell suddenly upon him to rack and rend
with an anguish of crucifixion, and the memory of a child's
upturned face.
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