If the Cap Fits, Wear It

FRIENDLY READERS,

Last time I made a book I trod on some people’s corns and bunions, and they

(7) wrote me angry letters, asking, “Did you mean me?” This time, to save them the expense of a halfpenny card, I will begin my book by saying —

Whether I please or whether I tease,

I’ll give you my honest mind; If the cap should fit, pray wear it a bit,

If not, you can leave it behind.

No offence is meant; but if anything in these pages should come home to a man, let him not send it next door, but get a coop for his own chickens. What is the use of reading or hearing for other people? We do not eat and drink for them: why should we lend them our ears and not our mouths? Please then, good friend, if you find a hoe on these premises, weed your own garden with it.

I was speaking with Will Shepherd the other day about our master’s old donkey, and I said, “He is so old and stubborn, he really is not worth his keep.” “No,” said Will, “and worse still, he is so vicious, that I feel sure he’ll do somebody a mischief one of these days.” You know they say that walls have ears; we were talking rather loud, but we did not know that there were ears to haystacks. We stared, I tell you, when we saw Joe Scroggs come from behind the stack, looking as red as a turkey-cock, and raving like mad. He burst out swearing at Will and me, like a cat spitting at a dog. His monkey was up and no mistake. He’d let us know that he was as good a man as either of us, or the two put together, for the matter of that. Talking about him in that way; he’d do — I don’t know what. I told old Joe we had never thought of him, nor said a word about him, and he might just as well save his breath to cool his porridge, for nobody meant him any harm. This only made him call me a liar, and roar the louder. My friend, Will, was walking away, holding his sides, but when he saw that Scroggs was still in a fume, he laughed outright, and turned round on him and said, “Why, Joe, we were talking about master’s old donkey, and not about you; but, upon my word, I shall never see that donkey again without thinking of Joe Scroggs.” Joe puffed and blowed, but perhaps he thought it an awkward job, for he backed out of it, and Will and I went off to our work in rather a merry cue, for old Joe had blundered on the truth about himself for once in his life.

The aforesaid Will Shepherd has sometimes come down rather heavy upon me in his remarks, but it has done me good. It is partly through his home thrusts that I have come to write this new book, for he thought I was idle; perhaps I am, and perhaps I am not. Will forgets that I have other fish to fry and tails to butter; and he does not recollect that a ploughman’s mind wants to lie fallow a little, and can’t give a crop every year. It is hard to make rope when your hemp is all used up, or pancakes without batter, or rook pie without the birds; and so I found it hard to write more when I had said just about all I knew. Giving much to the poor doth increase a man’s store, but it is not the same with writing; at least, I am such a poor scribe that I don’t find it come because I pull. If your thoughts only flow by drops, you can’t pour them out in bucketfuls.

However, Will has ferreted me out, and I am obliged to him so far. I told him the other day, what the winkle said to the pin: “Thank you for drawing me out, but you are rather sharp about it.” Still, Master Will is not far from the mark: after three hundred thousand people had bought my book it certainly was time to write another: so, though I am not a hatter, I will again turn cap-maker, and those who have heads may try on my wares; those who have none won’t touch them.

So, friends,
I am,

Yours, rough and ready,

JOHN PLOUGHMAN.

BURN A CANDLE AT BOTH ENDS,
AND IT WILL SOON BE GONE.

WELL may he scratch his head who burns his candle at both ends; but, do what he may, his light will soon begone, and he will be all in the dark. Young Jack (12)

Careless squandered his property, and now he is without a shoe to his foot. His was a case of “easy come, easy go: soon gotten, soon spent.” He that earns an estate will keep it better than he that inherits it. As the Scotchman says, “He that gets gear before he gets wit is but a short time master of it,” and so it was with Jack. His money burnt holes in his pocket. He could not get rid of it fast enough himself, and so he got a pretty set to help him, which they did by helping themselves. His fortune went like a pound of meat in a kennel of hounds. He was everybody’s friend, and now he is everybody’s fool.

He came in to old Alderman Greedy’s money, for he was his nephew; but, as the old saying is, the fork followed the rake, the spender was heir to the hoarder. God has been very merciful to some of us in never letting money come rolling in upon us, for most men are carried off their legs if they meet with a great wave of fortune. Many of us would have been bigger sinners if we had been trusted with larger purses. Poor Jack had plenty of pence, but little sense. Money is easier made than made the use of. What is hard to gather is easy to scatter. The old gentleman had lined his nest well, but Jack made the feathers fly like flakes of snow in winter-time. He got rid of his money by shovelfuls and then by cartloads. After spending the interest, he began swallowing the capital, and so killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. He squandered his silver and gold, in ways which must never be told. It would not go fast enough, and so he bought race-horses to run away with it. He got into the hands of blacklegs, and fell into company of which we shall say but little; only when such madams smile, men’s purses weep: these are a well without a bottom, and the more a fool throws in, the more he may. The greatest beauty often causes the greatest ruin. Play, women, and wine are enough to make a prince a pauper.

Always taking out and never putting back soon empties the biggest sack, and so Jack found it; but he took no notice till his last shilling bade him good-bye, and then he said he had been robbed; like silly Tom who put his finger in the fire and said it was his bad luck.

His money once flashed like dew in the sun; When bills became due, of cash he had none.

“Drink and let drink” was his motto; every day was a holiday and every holiday was a feast. The best of wines and the dearest of dainties suited his tooth, for he meant to lead a pig’s life, which they say is short and sweet. Truly, he went the whole hog. The old saying is, “a glutton young, a beggar old,” and he seemed set upon proving it true. A fat kitchen makes a lean will; but he can make his will on his finger-nail, and leave room for a dozen codicils. In fact, he will never want a will at all, for he will leave nothing behind him but old scores. Of all his estate there is not enough left to bury him with. What he threw away in his prosperity would have kept a coat on his back and a dumpling in his pot to his life’s end; but he never looked beyond his nose, and could not see to the end of that. He laughed at prudence, and now prudence frowns at him. Punishment is lame, but it comes at last. He pays the cost of his folly in body and in soul, in purse and in person, and yet he is still a fool, and would dance to the same tune again if he had another chance. His light purse brings him a heavy heart, but he couldn’t have his cake and eat it too. As he that is drunk at night is dry in the morning, so he that lavished money when he had it feels the want of it all the more when it is gone. His old friends have quite dropped him; they have squeezed the orange, and now they throw away the peel. As well look for milk from a pigeon as help from a fellow who loved you for your beer. Pot friends will let you go to pot, and kick you when you are down.

Jack has worse wants than the want of money, for his character is gone, and he is like a rotten nut, not worth the cracking: the neighbors say he is a ne’er-do-well, not worth calling out of a cabbage garden. Nobody will employ him, for he would not earn his salt, and so he goes from pillar to post, and has not a place to lay his head in. A good name is better than a girdle of gold, and when that is gone, what has a man left?

What has he left? Nothing upon earth! Yet the prodigal son has still a Father in heaven. Let him arise and go to him, ragged as he is. He may smell of the swine-trough, and yet he may run straight home, and he shall not find the door locked. The great Father will joyfully meet him, and kiss him, and cleanse him, and clothe him, and give him to begin a new and better life. When a sinner is at his worst he is not too bad for the Saviour, if he will but turn from his wickedness and cry unto God for mercy. It’s a long lane that has no turning, but the best of all turns is to turn unto the Lord with all your heart. This the great Father will help the penitent prodigal to do. If the candle has been burned all away, the Sun in the heavens is still alight. Look, poor profligate: look to Jesus, and live. His salvation is without money and without price. Though you may not have a penny to bless yourself with, the Lord Jesus will bless you freely. The depths of your misery are not so deep as the depth of God’s mercy. If you are faithful and just in confessing the sins you would have forgiven, God will be faithful and just in forgiving the sins which you confess.

But, pray, do not go on another day as you are, for this very day may be your last. If you will not heed a plain word from John Ploughman, which he means for your good, yet recollect this old-fashioned rhyme, which was copied from a grave-stone:

“The loss of gold is great,

The loss of health is more, But the loss of Christ is such a loss As no man can restore.”

HUNCHBACK SEES NOT HIS OWN

HUMP, BUT HE SEES HIS