CHEAP REPOSITORY.
SUNDAY READING.
The
rvant Man turned Soldier; OR, The Fair Weather Christian. A PARABLE.
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[
Entered at Stationers Hall.
]
The Servant Man, &c.
WILLIAM was a lively young servant, who lived in a
great but very irregular family.
is place was, on the whole, agreeable to him, and
ited to his gay thoughtless temper. He found a
entiful table and a good cellar. There was in
ed, a good deal of work to be done, though it
as performed with much disorder and confusion.
e family in the main were not unkind to him,
ough they often contradicted and crossed him,
pecially when things went ill with themselves.
is, William never much liked, for he was al
ys fond of having his own way. There was a
erry, or rather a noisy and riotous servants' hall;
disorder and quarrels are indeed the usual
ects of plenty and unrestrained indulgence. The
en were smart but idle, the maids were showy, but
entious, and all did pretty much as they liked
a time, but the time was commonly short. The
ages were reckoned high, but they were seldom
id, and it was even said by sober people, that the
aster was insolvent, and never fulfilled any of his
attering engagements, or his most positive pro
ises; but still, notwithstanding his real poverty, things went on with just the same thoughtlesnes
and splendor, and neither masters or servants looked beyond the jollity of the present hour.
In this unruly family there was little church going, and still less praying at home. They pretende
indeed, in a general way, to believe in the Bible, bu
it was only an outward profession, few of them rea
it at all, and even of those who did read it still fewe
were governed by it. There was indeed a Bibl
lying on the table in the great hall, which wa
kept for the purpose of administering an oath, b
was seldom used on any other occasion, and som
of the heads of the family were of opinion that th
was its only real use, as it might serve to keep th
lower parts of it in order.
William, who was fond of novelty and pleasur
was apt to be negligent of the duties of the hous
He used to stay out on his errands, and one of
; favorite amusements was going to the parade to s
the soldiers exercise. He saw with envy ho
smartly they were dressed, listened with rapture
the music, and fancied that a soldier had nothi
to do but to walk to and fro in a certain regul
order, to go through a little easy exercise, in sho
to live without fighting, fatigue, or danger.
"O," said he, whenever he was affronted
home, "what a fine thing it must be to be a s
dier! to be so well dressed, to have nothing to
but to move to the pleasant sound of sife and dru
and to have so many people come to look at o
and admire one.
O it must be a fine thing to b
soldier!"
Yet when the vexation of the moment was ov
he found so much ease and diversion in his mast
house, so suited to his low taste and sensual ap
tites, that he thought no more of the matter. He forgot the glories of a soldier, and eagerly returned to all the mean gratifications of the kitchen. His evil habits were but little attended to by those with whom he lived; his faults, among which were lying and swearing, were not often corrected by the family, who had little objection to those sins, which only of
ended God and did not much affect their own interest
r property. And except that William was obliged to work rather more than he liked he found little, while
e was young and healthy, that was very disagreea
le in this service. So he went on, still thinking how
ver, when things went à little cross, "what a
ne thing it was to be a soldier!" and at last one
ay as he was waiting at dinner, he had the misfor
une to let fall a china dish, and broke it all to
ieces. It was a curious dish, much valued by the
amily as they pretended; this family were indeed
pt to set a false fantastic value on things, and not
estimate them by their real worth. The heads
f the family, who had generally been rather pa
ent and good-humoured with William as I said
efore, for these vices, which though offensive to
od did not touch their own pocket, now flew out
to a violent passion with him, called him a thou
nd hard names, and even threatened to horse
hip him for his shameful negligence.
William, in a great fright, for he was a sad cow
d at bottom, ran directly out of the house to avoid
e threatened punishment, and happening just at
at very time to pass by the parade where the
oldiers chanced to be then exercising, his resolu
on was taken in a moment. He instantly deter
ined to be no more a slave, as he called it; he
ould return no more to be subject to the humours of a tyrannical family; no, he was resolved to b
free, or at least, if he must serve he would serve n
master but the King.
William, who had now and then happened to hea
from the accidental talk of the soldiers, that tho
who served the
great family
he had lived with, we
slaves to their tyranny and vices, had also hea
in the same casual manner, that the service of th
King
was
perfect freedom
Now he had taken it in
his head to hope that this might be a freedom
do evil, or at least to do nothing, so he thought
was the only place in the world to suit him.
A fine likely young fellow as William was, ha
no great difficulty to get enlisted. The few for
were soon settled, he received the bounty-mone
as eagerly as it was offered, took the oaths of all
giance, and was joined to the regiment, and hearti
welcomed by his new comrades. He was the ha
piest fellow alive. All was smooth and calm. T
day happened to be very fine, and therefore Willia
always reckoned upon a fine day. The scene w
gay and lively, the music cheerful, he found t
exercise very easy, and he thought there was litt
more expected from him.
He soon began to flourish away in his talk; an
when he met with any one of his old fellow servan
he fell a prating about marches and counter-marche
and blockades, and battles, and sieges, and bloo
and death, and triumphs, and victories, all at ra
dom, for these were words and phrases he h
picked up without at all understanding what
said. He had no knowledge, and therefore he h
no modesty, he had no experience, and therefo
he had no fears.
All seemed to go on swimmingly, for he had yet no trial. He began to think with triumph what
mean life he had escaped from in the old quarrelsome family, and what a happy, honourable life he should have in the army.
O there was no life like
he life of a soldier.
In a short time, however, war broke out, his regiment was one of the first which was called out
o actual and hard service. As William was the
ost raw of all the recruits he was the first to mur
ur at the difficulties and hardships, the cold and
unger, the fatigue and danger of being a soldier.) what watchings, and perils, and trials, and hard
hips, and difficulties he now thought attended a military life! "Surely," said he, "I could never
ave suspected all this misery when I used to see
he men on the parade in our town.
He now found, when it was too late, that all the
eld-days he used to attend, all the evolutions and
xercises which he had observed the soldiers to go
hrough in the calm times of peace and safety, were
nly meant to fit, train, and qualify them, for the
ctual service which they were now sent out to per
orm by the command of the
King.
The truth is, William often complained when
ere was no real hardship to complain of; for
e common troubles of life fell out pretty much
ike to the
great family
which William had left, and
the soldiers in the
King's army.
But the spirit
f obedience, discipline, and self-denial of the latter
emed hardships to one of William's loose turn of
ind. When he began to murmur some good old
ldier clapped him on the back, saying, "cheer
p lad, it is a kingdom you are to strive for, if we
int not, henceforth there is laid up for us a great
eward, we have the
King's
word for it man." William observed that to those who truly believed thi
their labours were as nothing, but he himself did not at the bottom believe it; and it was observe
of all the soldiers who failed, the true cause wa
that they did not really believe the
King's
promis
▪ He was surprised to see the then soldiers, who use
to bluster, and boast, and deride the assaults of th
enemy now began to fall away; while such as ha
faithfully obeyed the
king's
orders, and believe
in his word, were sustained in the hour of tria
▪ Those who had trusted in their own strength all fain
ed in the slightest attack, while those who had p
on the
armour of the king's
providing,
the sword
and
the shield,
and
the helmet,
and
the breast-plat
and whose
feet were shod
according to order, no
endured hardships as good soldiers, and were e
abled to fight the good fight.
An engagement was expected immediately. Th
men were ordered to prepare for battle. Whi
the rest of the corps were so preparing, William whole thoughts were bent on contriving how h
might desert. But alas! he was watched on a
sides, he could not possibly devise any means
escape. The danger increased every moment, th
battle came on. William, who had been so sure an
confident before he entered, flinched in the m
ment of trial, while his more quiet and less boas
ful comrades prepared boldly to do their dut
▪ William looked about on all sides, and saw th
there was no eye upon him, for he did not kno
that the
King's
eye was every where at once.
at last thought he spied a chance of escaping, n
from the enemy, but from his own army. Whi
he was endeavouring to escape, a ball from the o
posite camp took off his leg. As he fell, the fir
ords which broke from him were, "while I was
my duty I was prese
ed, in the very act of de
rting I am wounded." He lay expecting every
oment to be trampled to death, but as soon as the
onfusion was a little over, he was taken off the
eld by some of his own party, laid in a place of
fety, and left to himself, after his wound was
ressed.
The skirmish, for it proved nothing more, was
on over. The greater part of the regiment es
ped in safety, while the few who fell
rejoiced
at they fell in their duty. William in the mean
e suffered cruelly both in mind and body. To
e pains of a wounded soldier, he added the dis
ace of a coward, and the infamy of a deserter. ▪ O," cried he, "why was I such a fool as to leave
e
great family
I lived in where there was meat
d drink enough and to spare, only on account of little quarrel? I might have made up that with
em as we had done our former quarrels. Why
d I leave a life of ease and pleasure, where I had
ly a little rub now and then, for a life of daily
scipline and constant danger? Why did I turn
dier? O, what a miserable animal is a soldier!"
As he was sitting in this weak and disabled con
ion, uttering the above complaints, he observed
enerable old officer, with thin grey locks on his
ad, and on his face deep wrinkles engraved by
e, and many an honest scar inflicted by war.
illiam had heard this old officer highly com
nded for his extraordinary courage and conduct
battle, and in peace he used to see him cool
d collected, devoutly employed in reading and
ying in the interval of more active duties. He
ld not help comparing this officer with himself. "I," said he, "flinched and drew back, and wou
even have deserted in the moment of peril, an
now in return, I have no consolation in the ho
of repose and safety. I would not fight then, I ca
not pray now. O why would I ever think of bei
a soldier? He then began afresh to weep and l
ment, and he groaned so loud that he drew th
notice of the officer who came up to him, kind
sat down by him, took him by the hand, and i
quired with as much affection as if he had been h
brother, what was the matter with him, and wh
particular distress, more than the common fortu
of war it was which drew from him such bitt
groans?" "I know something of surgery," add
he, "let me examine your wound and assist yo
with such little comforts as I can."
William at once saw the difference betwe
the soldiers in the
King's
army, and the peop
in the
great family;
the latter commonly withdr
their kindness in sickness and trouble when m
wanted, which was just the very time when
others came forward to assist. He told the offi
his little history, the manner of his living in
great family,
the trifling cause of his quarrelli
with it, the slight ground of his entering i
the
King's
service. "Sir," said he, "I quarr
led with the family, and I thought I was at o
fit for the army: I did not know the qualificati
it required. I had not reckoned on discipli
and hardships, and self-denial. I liked well enou
to sing a loyal song, or drink the King's heal
but I find I do not relish working and fighting
him, though I rashly promised even to lay do
my life for his service if called upon, when I to
the bounty money and the oath of allegian
n short, sir, I find that I long for the ease and
oth, the merriment and the feasting of my old
ervice; I find I cannot be a soldier, and, to speak
ruth, I was in the very act of deserting when
was stopped short by the cannon ball. So that I
el the guilt of deserting, and the misery of hav
g lost my leg into the bargain."
The officer thus replied, "your state is that of
very worldly, irreligious man. The
great family
ou served is a just picture of the WORLD. The
ages the world promises to those who are willing to
o its work are high, but the payment is attended
ith much disappointment; nay, the world, like
our great family, is in itself insolvent, and in its
ery nature incapable of making good the pro
ises, and of paying the high rewards, which it
olds out to tempt its credulous followers. The
ngodly world, like your family, cares little for
urch, and still less for prayers; and considers
e Bible rather as an instrument to make an oath
nding, in order to keep the vulgar in obedi
ce, than as containing in itself a perfect rule of
ith and practice, and as a title-deed to heaven.
he generality of men love the world as you did
our service, while it smiles upon them, and gives
em easy work, and plenty of meat and drink; but
soon as it begins to cross and contradict them,
ey get out of humour with it, just as you did
ith your service. They then think its drudgery
rd, its rewards low. They find out that it is
gh in its expectations from them, and slack in
payments to them. And they begin to fancy
ecause they do not hear religious people mur
ur as they do) that there must be some happiness
religion. The world, which takes no account of their deeper sins, at length brings them into discr
dit for some act of imprudence, just as your fami
overlooked your lying and swearing, but threa
ened to drub you for breaking a china dish, su
is the judgment of the world, it particular
bears with those who only break the laws
God, but severely punishes the smallest neg
gence by which property is injured. The wor
sooner pardons the breaking ten commandmen
of God than even a china dish of its own.
After some cross or opposition, worldly men,
I said before, begin to think how much content a
cheerfulness they remember to have seen in religio
people. They therefore begin to fancy that re
gion must be an easy and delightful, as well as
good thing. They have heard that, "her wa
are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths a
peace;" and they persuade themselves, that
this is meant worldly pleasantness and sensu
peace. They resolve at length to try it, to tu
their back upon the world, to engage in t
service of God and turn christians; just as y
resolved to leave your old service, to enter i
the service of the King and turn soldier. But
you quitted your place in a passion, so they lea
the world in a huff. They do not count the
▪ They do not calculate upon the darling sins, the
bitual pleasures, the ease and vanities which
undertake by their new engagements to renoun
any more than you counted what indulgences
were going to give up when you quitted the lu
ries and idleness of your place to enlist in the
dier's warfare. They have, as I said, seen ch
tians cheerful, and they mistook the ground
their cheerfulness; they fancied it arose not
cause, through grace they had conquered diffic
es, but because they had no difficulties in their
assage. They fancied that religion found the road
ooth, whereas it only helps to bear with a rough
ad without complaint. They do not know that
ese Christians are of good cheer, not because the
orld is free from tribulation, but because Christ
eir captain has "overcome the world." But the
religious man, who has only seen the outside of a
hristian in his worldly intercourse, knows little of
secret conflicts, his trials, his self-denials, his
arfare with the world without, and with his own
rrupt desires within.
The irreligious man quarrels with the world, on
me such occasion as you did with your place.
now puts on the outward forms and ceremo
es of religion, and assumes the badges of Chris
nity, just as you were struck with the shows of
field day; just as you were pleased with the
usic and the marching, and put on the cockade and
e red coat. All seems smooth for a little while.
e goes through the outward exercises of a Chris
n, a degree of credit attends his new profes
on, but he never suspects there is either diffi
lty or discipline attending it; he fancies reli
ion is a thing for talking about, and not a thing
the heart and the life. He never suspects that
the psalm-singing he joins in, and the sermons he
ars, and the other means he is using, are only
the exercises and the evolutions of the soldiers,
fit and prepare him for actual service; and that
ese means are no more religion itself, than the
ercises and evolutions of your parade were real
arsare.
At length some trial arises. This nominal Chris
an is called to differ from the world in some great point; something happens which may stri
at his comfort, or his credit, or security. T
cools his zeal for religion, just as the view of
engagement cooled your courage as a soldie
▪ He finds he was only
angry
with the world,
was not
tired
of it. He was out of humour wi
the world, not because he had seen through
vanity and emptiness, but because the world w
out of humour with him. He finds that it is
easy thing to be a fair-weather Christian, b
where there is nothing to be done, and confide
where there is nothing to be feared. Difficult
unmask him to others; temptations unmask h
to himself; he discovers, that though he is a hi
professor, he is no Christian; just as you fou
out that your red coat and your cockade, yo
shoulder-knot, and your musket, did not preve
you from being a coward.
Your misery in the military life, like that of
nominal Christian, arose from your love of ea
▪ your cowardice, and your self-ignorance. Y
rushed into a new way of life, without trying af
one qualification for it. A total change of he
and temper were necessary for your new calli
▪ With new views and new principles the soldie
life would have been not only easy but delight
to you. But while with a new profession you
tained your old nature, it is no wonder all
cipline seemed intolerable to you.
The true Christian, like the brave soldier,
supported under dangers by a strong faith
the fruits of that victory for which he fights
be safety and peace. But, alas! the pleasures
this world are present and visible; the kingd
and the crown for which he strives are remo
▪ He is therefore apt to think them uncertain. He
s therefore apt to fail, because nothing short of a
ively faith can outweigh the present temptation,
nd teach him to prefer the joys of conquest to
he pleasures of sloth."
Whether William went back to his old ser
ice, or was received again into the army, may be
nown hereafter.
Z.
FINIS
A List of the Tracts published during the Year 1796.
HISTORIES.
Mary Wood the Housemaid.
Shoemakers. Part II. III. and IV.
Charles Jones the Footman.
The Cheapside Apprentice.
The Gamester.
Betty Brown, the St. Giles's Orange Girl.
Farmers. Part III. IV. and V.
Black Giles the Poacher. Part I. and II.
SUNDAY READINGS.
Some New Thoughts for the New Year.
The Touchstone.
Onesimus.
The Conversion of St. Paul.
The General Resurrection.
On Carrying Religion into Business.
Look at Home.
The Grand Assizes.
Explanation of the Nature of Baptism.
Prayers.
The Valley of Tears.
POETRY.
Robert and Richard.
Sinful Sally.
The Shopkeeper turned Sailor. Part I. II. and III.
The Hackney Coachman.
The Election.
Turn the Carpet.
A Hymn of Praise.
King Dionysius and Squire Damocles.
The Hampshire Tragedy.