The Workshop
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"You are not going to put in that piece of wood, Richard," said one workman to another.
"Yes, I am. No one will be the worse for it," was answered.
"But someone may be wronged by it."
"No very serious wrong. The worst that can happen will be a rickety drawer."
"But, Richard, if you will take the trouble to go up into the third story, and select a better seasoned piece of wood — you will then be able to furnish a drawer that will always run smoothly."
"I am not going to take that trouble. Mrs. Thompson would be very far from putting herself out as much for me."
"It doesn't strike me that you should have any concern with Mrs. Thompson's disposition towards you in the case. It is a simple question of right and wrong. You are at work on a bureau, for which she has agreed to pay our employer a certain price. The understanding is, of course, that the wood and workmanship are to be of good quality. Now, if you put in that piece of wood, you will wrong both Mrs. Thompson and our employer. She will receive a defective, troublesome article — and he will be injured in his business — for Mrs. Thompson would hardly engage him to make another piece of furniture after finding herself deceived. Your doing this thing, Richard, is, according to my notion, a violation of Christian love."
"I don't see that Christian love has anything to do in the matter. Mrs. Thompson crowded down in the price, and I am not too well paid for my part of the work. So, you see, I can't afford to be hunting about after seasoned wood. This piece comes nicely to my hand, and I am going to use it."
"I have nothing more to say," replied the fellow-workman, "except to repeat my judgment of your act, and call it a violation of Christian love. Our praying, singing, and Bible-reading, Richard, will not help us heavenwards — unless we are just between man and man. The Christian profession is nothing — without the Christian life. Our religion, in order to change us radically, must descend into all our commonest duties. It belongs as much to the shop — as to the family; and as much to the family — as to the sanctuary. If you put in that piece of wood, knowing, as you do, that it will render the bureau you are making permanently defective — you will hurt your own soul."
"Don't trouble yourself about my soul," was the rather short reply. "I will take good care of that. If you hadn't said so much about it — magnifying a molehill into a mountain — -I might have selected a better piece of wood; but this shall go in now. I'll risk the consequences."
"The risk may be greater than you imagine. It generally is in all such cases," was the grave reply.
And here the remonstrance closed. Richard Wheeler, the journeyman cabinet-maker, worked in the unseasoned piece of wood, and went on to finish the bureau, which was sent home at the time agreed upon, and the price paid. We do not know whether the suggestions of his fellow-workman remained with him or not, or whether the unseasoned piece of wood troubled, in any way, his conscience.
Time passed on. The bureau, which had been placed in the chamber of Mrs. Thompson, gave good satisfaction for a time; but the unseasoned piece of wood failed at length to do its proper duty, and the drawer began halting in its work. The disproportionate shrinkage of one side of the drawer bent all the parts out of line, and so the opening and closing thereof was always attended with more or less difficulty.
Richard, the journeyman who made the bureau, was in the wareroom one day, when Mrs. Thompson came in, and, with some warmth of manner, said to his employer —
"I don't think you have dealt fairly by me in that bureau, Mr. Cartwright."
"Rather a grave charge, Mrs. Thompson," replied the cabinet-maker. "Why do you say so?"
"You haven't made it of properly seasoned wood, a thing for which I particularly stipulated," said the lady.
"I beg your pardon, madam" — Mr. Cartwright spoke with visible indignation — "the wood was properly seasoned."
"And I say that it was not." Mrs. Thompson was growing excited. "Why, there's one drawer in particular so all awry from shrinkage in some parts of it — that it requires more humoring to get it in and out than I have the patience to give. I'm tempted some days to have the whole thing pitched into the street. It would be a disgrace to the worst cabinet-maker in the city!"
This was rather more than Mr. Cartwright could bear. He lost temper entirely, and gave Mrs. Thompson so bluff a reply, that she went off in a passion, threatening, as she did so, to warn all her friends against the cabinet-maker's establishment.
Richard made a hasty retreat from the wareroom to the workshop. His state of mind was not one to be envied. Here was the evil fruit of his wrong act; and what a monstrous production, from so small a seed! He had not only been unjust to Mrs. Thompson, but had seriously injured his employer; for it was plain, that custom would be diverted from his establishment, through his improper act.
The journeyman carried a sober heart home with him at the close of that day. His fellow-workman, the one who had remonstrated with him about putting an unseasoned piece of wood into the bureau drawer, called for him after supper to go with, him to a religious meeting; but Richard declined. For the first time, he saw clearly the lack of agreement between his conduct, in this particular, and that which was demanded by the divine law of justice from man to man.
"Come!" urged his fellow-workman.
But Richard said, "No, not tonight," in such a resolute way, that he was left to himself. He passed the evening in a very unhappy frame of mind.
On the next Sunday, he attended church as usual. He was still troubled in his thoughts by what had occurred. Singularly enough, it seemed to him, that almost every sentence spoken by the preacher had a more or less remote application to himself. Every proposition was a mirror in which he could see his own distorted image. But the closing portions of the sermon, when the preacher gathered his generalities together, and condensed them into specific applications — smote him with humiliating convictions of wrong.
"No man can be a Christian," said the minister, "who is not faithful in his common, daily-life pursuits. The judge must administer justice from equity, and not from favor or the hire of bribes. The physician must regard the life and health of his patient above all other considerations. The merchant must deal justly, and the mechanic execute his work in all things faithfully. It will not answer to disregard these things. My brother" — and the minister warmed in his manner, as he leaned over the pulpit and looked, as it seemed, to Richard, directly into the pew where he sat — "do not hope to reach Heaven by the old way. You must walk in another, and narrower, road. Let us suppose you are a workman. Now, what is Christianity in the workshop? You must take it with you there, remember. You cannot leave it behind you, go where you will; for it is no loosely-fitting garment, but an element of life. Yes, you must take it with you into the workshop, my brother. Not as the Bible, in your hand; nor as hymns, to make the air melodious; nor as pious talkwith fellow-workmen. No, no. Workshop Christianity consists in a religious fidelity to your employer and his customers. If you neglect or slight the work you are paid to perform — you commit sin: you are irreligious, and your pious acts will go for nothing."
What further the preacher said, Richard knew not. He passed, in his application, to the trader, manufacturer, and the various professions in life; but Richard's thought was bound by the artisan's duty.
"A sad thing happened this morning," said Richard's wife, on his returning from work one day in the following week. "Mrs. Thompson broke a blood-vessel, and now lies very ill. The doctors have but little hope of her recovery."
"How did that happen?" asked the mechanic, with a sudden sense of uneasiness.
"She was trying to push in a drawer that didn't run smoothly, when it caught, and the jar, I believe, caused the blood-vessel to break. It was a bureau drawer. What's the matter, Richard? You look pale. Are you sick?"
His wife spoke these last sentences in a tone of anxiety.
"I don't feel very well," he answered; "but it's nothing of consequence. Did you say that she was thought to be in danger?"
"Yes. She lies very sick."
Richard turned his face away. When supper was placed before him, he tried to eat, in order that his wife might not see how deeply he was troubled; but only a few mouthfuls passed his lips. Silent, and apart from the family, he sat during the evening; and the night which followed was, for the most part, sleepless.
On his way to work next morning, Richard went past the dwelling of Mrs. Thompson. He almost feared to look at the house when he came in sight, lest death-signs on the door, should give the fatal intelligence of her dissolution. He breathed more freely when he saw that all remained as usual. So anxious was he, that he stopped and made inquiry as to her condition.
"Somewhat better." How the words made his heart leap.
"Is she out of danger?" he asked, almost tremblingly.
"Oh, no; but the doctor speaks encouragingly."
Richard went on his way. At night, as he returned homewards, he called to inquire again.
"She is no worse." This was all the comfort he received; and on this, he passed another restless night.
"If she dies — am I not her murderer?" This was the thought which troubled him so deeply, and made him so anxious about the life of Mrs. Thompson. It was more than a week before all danger seemed passed; and then the unhappy workman breathed more freely. How the thin, white face, and feeble steps, of Mrs. Thompson rebuked him, a month afterwards, as he met her one day in the street! He could not rest after that, until he had obtained possession of the bureau drawer, and adjusted it so accurately to its place, that it might be moved in and out by the hand of a child. In doing this, he took care to remove the defective piece of wood.
"Why have you done this?" It was the sudden question of Mrs. Thompson, as Richard, having made all right, was about leaving the house.
He was confused.
"I did not send for you to do this."
The dark eyes of Mrs. Thompson looked out from their hollow sockets upon the almost startled workman.
"There was an unseasoned piece of wood in that drawer," said Richard, speaking with as much calmness as he could assume. "I wrongly placed it there, and I alone am to blame. Mr. Cartwright believed that every part of the work was of seasoned wood, according to agreement. He never meant to wrong you. He is an honest man. Oh, ma'am! if you can forgive me, do so; for, since the accident to yourself, I have been one of the most wretched of men."
"I can do no less than forgive," answered the lady, gravely; "and I hope God will forgive also; for you have been the agent of a great wrong."
The journeyman cabinet-maker retired, with a lesson in his heart which was impossible ever to forget. After that, he tried to bring his religion into the workshop; and he was successful in a good degree. It was then, and not till then, that he began really moving heavenwards. Before, he depended on states of pious feeling; but now on just acts to his neighbor, grounded on a religious principle.
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