BORN in a common lodging-house, brought up a half-gipsy, gaining his living as a hawker, William A. might have been thought by the great ones of the earth mere “rubbish.” But even while rolling drunk in the gutter it was to be of him as of a former slave of sin and Satan, “He is a chosen vessel unto me to bear my name”; and the grace of God, which magnifies itself in “choosing the base things, and the despised things, and things that are not,” claimed him as its own.
William was brought, as a lost, guilty sinner to the feet of Jesus, and it was true of him as of the Corinthians of old, “Ye are washed, ye are sanctified, ye are justified, in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God.” There was no mistaking the change. “Billy A. aint no hypocrite; we believes in him; he’s eighteen carat gold,” was the testimony of many of the poor and outcast, among whom his life was spent, and who would willingly have denied any reality in his Christianity if they could.
Trudging about, selling his goods, in the lanes and villages of the country or the streets of the town, it was his delight to tell, in his own simple way, of the Saviour who had delivered him from the power of darkness; and many will bless God throughout eternity that they ever met the hawker William. Among these is a South Down shepherd, to whom the earnest man often spoke as they met on the quiet hill paths; but for long the countryman refused to yield to the message of grace. God was working, however, in his soul; and, one pouring wet day, the two men met face to face on the hillside. Much in prayer for the shepherd’s salvation, the hawker noticed at once a change in his face. “Hallo!” he cried, “what has happened to you?” and the shepherd confessed that at last his stubborn heart had yielded to the tale of love so often told; he had believed God, his sins were forgiven, he was a saved man. The rain and the cold and the mud were forgotten as the two men knelt side by side on the soaking ground to give thanks to the God who had saved them both from sin and from judgment.
A Christian friend once met William standing in the road with a small parcel under his arm, counting some coppers in his hand. “Counting your coppers, William?” he asked. “Oh, sir,” was the reply, “don’t tell me my Father does not care for me! You know yesterday was wet, and I did not earn enough to pay for my night’s lodging. Now look here—there’s last night’s lodging, and tonight’s” (he counted them as he spoke), “and here’s my supper. Does not my Father care?”
A few days later a well-known evangelist was holding special services in the town. It was an afternoon meeting, mostly attended by the well-to-do and leisure classes, but William was there. It was nothing to him to give up his hawking for a few hours, if thereby he could get a feast for his soul; albeit it might cost him his dinner. And there he sat, in the midst of that fashionable assembly, the sunlight falling on his upturned radiant face. A hush came over the meeting, the power of God was present, as the speaker told of Him who holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand, but who feeds His flock like a shepherd. In low, earnest tones he spoke of His glory, till one heart there could bear it no longer, and “Bless Him!” burst from the hawker’s lips. The preacher turned at the sound; he saw the face once bloated and disfigured by sin, lighted with a radiance beyond that of the sunlight which fell on it; and as he responded, “You may well say, ‘Bless Him,’ my brother,” the whole assembly bowed with moved hearts before Him whose glory and whose love had so filled the soul of this one of His redeemed. William A. loved much, for he was much forgiven. What about my reader?
One Sunday afternoon William stood as usual in a lodging-house kitchen, with a servant of God whose companion he delighted to be; and after the gospel of God’s grace had been told out, he dosed the meeting with prayer. “Lord,” he said, “if Thou should’st call me away, I am ready, but these men are not. In Thy mercy spare them, and save their souls.” Little did any then present think how soon he would be called away. On the following Tuesday morning, word was brought to that same Christian friend that William was dying in the hospital, and, deeply shocked, he hastened thither, to find it even so.
“How do you feel now, William?” he asked.
“God bless you, my brother; the Master is coming for me to take me home. Oh, to think of the grace of God to me, a poor hell-deserving sinner!”
“Yes, William, we are a rubbishing lot,” replied his friend, quoting an expression often used between them.
“No,” came the answer, with surprising energy. “I am not rubbish in God’s sight in Christ. I am a king’s son. I shall soon be amongst the countless multitude that no man can number, taken out of every kindred and nation.”
After a pause of some length, he put out his hand to his friend, with the deepest expression of affection, saying, “God bless you, brother. We have had some happy times together on earth, but there are better to come!” And shortly after midnight he was “absent from the body, present with the Lord.”
T.