"The Sundays of man's life
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife;
More plentiful than hope."
HERBERT.
"Mr. Rutledge's compliments, Miss, and he begs you will breakfast
without him this morning; he isn't well enough to come down," said the
servant, as I entered the dining-room next morning.
"Is his arm worse?" I asked.
"It pains him a good deal, Miss; and he's had a very bad night. Michael
has ridden over to get the doctor." That was bad news, certainly; I
wished very much I could do something for him; but as I couldn't, the
next best thing was to eat my breakfast; which, however, was rather
choky and unpalatable in all that grand solemnity, with the tall Thomas
(Mr. Rutledge's own man, temporarily supplying the post of waiter)
looking down at me. I broke down on the second slice of toast, and
concluded to give it up and go into the library.
It seemed incredible that it had stormed yesterday; such splendid
sunshine, such a clear sky, I thought, I had never seen before. I would
have given anything for a race down the avenue in that keen, bracing
wind, but I determined heroically that I would not stir out of the house
till Mr. Rutledge gave me permission. But about eleven o'clock my
reading was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Kitty, who, with her
face all aglow with pleasure, announced to me that Mr. Rutledge had
ordered the carriage for me to take a drive, if I felt like it; and sent
word, that if I was willing, he thought Kitty had better accompany me. I
tossed away my book, exclaiming, "it was grand," and, followed by Kitty,
ran upstairs.
"How odd," she said, as in breathless haste she prepared me for the
drive, "how odd that Mr. Rutledge shouldn't have sent word for Mrs.
Roberts to go with you, miss, isn't it?"
"Odd, but very nice, Kitty," I answered, with a grimace that made her
laugh; and as the carriage drove to the door, we ran down the stairs,
Kitty putting on her bonnet and shawl as we went. I am sure it would
have eased for a moment Mr. Rutledge's pain, if he could have known the
extent of the pleasure he had conferred on the two children who so
delightedly occupied his carriage that morning. All Kitty's knowledge of
it, I suspect, had hitherto been speculative, and I think one of the
dearest wishes of her heart was gratified when she tried experimentally
the softness of its new dark green cushions, and in her own proper
person occupied the front seat, an honor whereof she had only dreamed
before.
It was a perfect autumn day; the air was exhilarating, the sunshine
brilliant, the scenery picturesque, and a great deal less than that
would have sufficed to make me happy in those days; and before we
reëntered the park gate, three hours had slipped away in the most
unsuspected manner. Kitty having gathered, at my request, an armful of
the few gay autumn leaves remaining after yesterday's storm, I
entertained myself, during the drive home, with arranging them in a
bouquet. The glossy dark laurel leaves, and the varied and bright hues
of the maple and sumac, with some vivid red berries, name unknown, made
quite a pretty and attractive combination. As we reached home, I was
seized with an audacious intention, which I put into execution before
allowing myself time to "think better of it."
"Kitty," I said, "take this to Mr. Rutledge's door, and give it to
Thomas for him, and say I hope he is better, and I am very much obliged
to him for sending me to drive, and that I enjoyed it very much."
I was rather alarmed when Kitty had accomplished her errand, but it was
too late to retract. That evening was a very long one; I went upstairs
at nine o'clock, wondering at its interminable length.
The next day was Sunday. Mr. Rutledge was no better, and I went to
church alone in the carriage, with only Kitty to attend me, Mrs.
Roberts, she said, not being able to leave "the master." It was a
beautiful little church, Gothic, and built of stone, with nothing
wanting to render it church-like and solemn. When I looked at the
tablets on the wall, that recorded, one after another, the deaths of
Warren Rutledge, and Maria, his wife, and Richard, their son, I could
not help thinking it must be sad for him to come here, Sunday after
Sunday, and see that; but then it's easier to think of such things in
church than anywhere else; somehow, quick and dead do not seem so far
separated there.
Why, I could not tell, but there I remembered a great deal more
thoughtfully and thankfully than I had done before, the evening, not a
week ago, when I had lain, living and unhurt, among the dead and dying.
It was strange, in the humored nervousness of the first day or two, and
the returning health and spirits of the following, how little I had
thought of it. And when Mr. Shenstone read his text: "Were there not ten
cleansed? But where are the nine? There are not found that returned to
give glory to God, save this stranger," my heart smote me. I indeed had
forgotten, and had taken carelessly, and without much thought, my
preservation from a terrible death. I indeed had gone on without giving
glory to God, without acknowledging the mercy by which I yet lived.
Mr. Shenstone's sermon was one that those who recognize only as
eloquence, pathos and fire and passion, would have pronounced very far
from eloquent. His manner was quiet, and not particularly impressive,
his language simple and unostentatious. But he possessed the true kind
of sermon eloquence--keen perception of spiritual things, and the
clearest knowledge of the Christian life. He had learning and talents;
but it was not by them alone that he gained so deep a reverence from his
humble parishioners, so strong an influence over them. It was because
his own hope was high, that he could elevate theirs. It was because
learning and talents and fame were things indifferent to him, save as
aids in the service he had entered, that he could descend to their
level, to raise them more nearly to his own. They could grasp what he
taught them, for it was "a reasonable religious and holy hope," a rule
of life, sober, practical, and simple, that led to high things, but
began with low. It was because his heart was in his work, that his work
prospered; because the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, were his sworn
and baffled enemies, and not his half encouraged and secret allies, that
in his little flock he made such headway against them; because "through
faith and prayer" he kept his own heart and life pure, he could see more
clearly to guide them.
Thus it was, that though Mr. Shenstone hardly took his eyes from his
notes, and used very few gestures, and those few awkward ones--though he
preached quietly and unenthusiastically--though there were no ornaments
of rhetoric, no efforts at oratory, it was a sermon that, to this day, I
distinctly remember, and never, I fancy, shall forget. Keen, pithy,
conclusive, no one could help acknowledging its power; kind, earnest,
sincere, no one could doubt its spirit; full of a devotion the purest, a
faith that pierced to heaven itself, a love that cast out all fear and
slothfulness, no one could listen and not be better for the listening.
He put old truths in new lights, and gave to the familiar Gospel story a
vivid interest, that often reading had made tame and unimpressive. He
brought distinctly before the imagination the Samaritan village,
through which the Saviour was passing on his way to Jerusalem; the sad
company of leprous men, cut off from the sympathy and society of their
fellows, who attracted his notice. That they "stood afar off," not
daring to approach him, was no obstacle to him; no distance could put
them beyond the pity of that watchful eye, beyond the attention of that
ear, ever open to the prayers of his people. They were marked,
miserable, suffering men, and as such they cried with all their hearts
and humbly, "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!"
It was their one chance for restoration to home and kindred, no doubt
they cried with all their hearts. They were considered beyond the reach
of human aid; no doubt they cried humbly. And He "who hath never failed
them that seek Him," had mercy on them and heard their cry and helped
them. Sending them simply and unostentatiously to the ordained means of
cure and cleansing, they, obeying eagerly and unquestioningly, were
cured and cleansed. On their way to the priests, the hated disease left
the bodies it had so long degraded and afflicted, and with the glow of
returning health, they felt they were men once more, men without a curse
and a reproach upon them. And with returning health came the pride, the
self reliance that had been only slumbering, not dead, under the weight
of the punishment laid on them. Without a thought of Him to whom they
owed the power to do it, they hurried forward, one perhaps to his farm,
another to his merchandise, long denied, absent, but unforgotten idols.
Among the crowd, but one remembered to be thankful, but one returned to
give glory to God. And he was a Samaritan, but another name to Jewish
ears, for infamy and contempt. No doubt he had been in a good school to
learn humility among these proud Jews, who, even in their degradation,
had probably never forgotten to revile and to persecute. And on him
alone, of all the ten, rested the blessing and commendation, beside
which the bodily cure was but a paltry gift. These things were written
for our admonition; they had called for mercy in their extremity, they
had been heard and their prayer granted, and they had forgotten whence
came the mercy, and had used it only to harden themselves in worldliness
and sin. Had this case no parallel in Christian times? Was Jewish
ingratitude the last that had been offered to Divine love? Were there
none, among the Congregation of Christ's flock, who in time of peril and
temptation, had with all their hearts and humbly cried for mercy, which
when sent they had forgotten to be thankful for? The vows made in a time
of terror and despair, fade in the sunshine of returning prosperity, the
blessing is used, the Giver is forgotten. Must not such a sin look black
to Him who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity? Will it not provoke
Him more surely than any other, to leave the ingrate forever to the
idols of his choice, to let him see, when next comes peril and
perplexity, how worthless and how frail they are, and how fearful a
thing it is, to forfeit forever the protection of a God that can save.
If any such there were, let them repent while there was yet time, let
them wash out the ingratitude that stained their souls, with penitential
tears, and purify themselves with prayer and fast, and daily
self-denial. Let them remember that mercy was not yet withdrawn, that a
period was not yet put to His forgiveness; but how near the time might
be, how short the term of their probation, none could tell, not even the
angels in heaven.
Ah! I thought, as we passed out of church, If I could always come to
this little church, and hear Mr. Shenstone preach, there would not be
much danger of my caring more than I ought for that wicked world Mr.
Rutledge talks about.
I had not yet learned that there is not much merit in doing well when
there is no temptation to do evil, and that, though there was no harm,
but great propriety, in wishing to be kept away from all chance of
temptation, still, if my station in life lay in the world, the safest
prayer would be, not to be taken out of the world, but to be kept from
the evil.
In the afternoon, I went to church alone, and this time on foot, Kitty
pointing me out a path across the fields that shortened the distance
very considerably. I recognized Mrs. Roberts in the pew in front of me;
and began to feel somewhat ashamed of my unreasonable aversion, as I
caught sight of tears on her wrinkled cheeks, and heard a slight
trembling in her usually harsh voice. Who knows, I thought, how much she
may have suffered, and what heavy cares may have worn those wrinkles so
deep, and made her so harsh and exacting? I really determined to be more
charitable and patient, and that very evening, by way of bringing good
desires to good effects, I went softly to Mrs. Roberts' door and
knocked. Now it was one thing to feel the beauty and power of Christian
charity and forbearance, under the influence of Mr. Shenstone's earnest
voice, and in the solemn stillness of the dusky church, and another to
realize it brought down to fact, before the door of Mrs. Roberts'
sitting-room, and under the influence of her grim "come in."
My courage was beginning to fail, and I felt tempted to make a
precipitate retreat, letting the good resolutions evaporate as good
resolutions too often do, in pretty sentiment. But remembering how very
contrary this was to Mr. Shenstone's practical directions, after a
moment's hesitation, I opened the door and entered. Mrs. Roberts was
sitting by a small table with a small lamp upon it, reading a Bible,
which, upon my entrance, she shuffled away, very much as if she were
ashamed to be caught at it; then turned toward me with a look of
surprise that was anything but agreeable. She could not avoid asking me
to sit down, which I did, slipping into the first chair I reached, and
stammering out something about thinking she was lonely, and that she
might be glad of company for a little while. She stiffly replied she was
too much used to being alone, to mind it at all, and thereupon ensued an
awkward silence. The mahogany and haircloth looked dismaller than ever
by the feeble light of the little lamp, and Mrs. Roberts' face looked
colder and harder. How I wished myself out again! What possible good
could my coming do? What could I talk about? Mrs. Roberts did not make
any attempt to relieve my embarrassment, but sat rigidly silent,
wondering, in her heart, I knew, what brought me. I at last hit upon
what seemed an unexceptionable topic, and said, what a nice day it had
been.
Rather warm for the season, it had appeared to Mrs. Roberts. Then I rung
the changes upon the lateness of the fall, the beauty of the woods, my
admiration for the little church, the goodness of Mr. Shenstone, but all
without producing the slightest unbending in my auditor. She simply
assented or dissented (always the latter, I thought, when she
conscientiously could), and beyond it I could not get. By and by, I said
quite warmly, feeling sure that I should strike the right chord this
time:
"What a fine old place this is! I like it better every day."
She gave me a quick, suspicious look, and replied quite snappishly:
"I shouldn't think it would be very pleasant to a young lady of your
age."
"What does she mean by being so cross about it?" I pondered. "Is she
afraid I am going to put it in my pocket and carry it away with me when
I go. Really I think I've done my duty; she won't let me be kind, and
now I can, without any scruple, say good night."
As I rose to go, my eye fell on a book on the table, the title of which
I stooped to read.
"Ah!" I cried, "'Holy Living and Dying;' how familiar it looks!"
And with a mist of tears before my eyes, I turned over its
well-remembered pages. Rutledge, Mrs. Roberts, were all faded away, and
I was in a dim sick-room, where, on a little table by the bed a Bible
and Prayer-book and Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying," had lain day after
day, and week after week, the guides and comforters of a dying saint.
Again I was a child, half frightened at I knew not what, in that
tranquil room, half soothed by the placid smile that always met me
there. Again the choking sensation rose in my throat, the nameless
terror subdued me, as when longing to do something loving, I had read
aloud, till my tears blinded me, in this same book. I had never seen it
since then; since I had been away at school; but those five years of
exile were swept away at a breath as I opened it. I sat down, and,
shading my eyes with my hand, glanced over paragraphs that I knew word
for word, and that made my heart ache to recall. After a while, however,
the bitterness of the first recognition passed away, and it became a
sort of sad pleasure to read what brought back so vividly the love and
grief of my childhood.
"Shall I read aloud to you?" I said, looking up.
"I shall be very glad to hear you," she answered, in a softened tone.
I do not know whether she divined the cause of my unsteady voice, but it
is not unlikely that she did, or the book may have had some similar
association for herself, for after I had read nearly an hour, and closed
it, she said, with a voice not over firm:
"I am very much obliged to you, young lady; that is a book that, for
whatever cause we read it, is good for young and old."
"I shall be very glad to read in it again to you whenever you would like
to hear me, Mrs. Roberts," I said, as I rose to go. She accompanied me
to the door, and held the light till I had crossed the hall to my own
room.
If I had not done her any good by the effort I had made, at least I had
done some to myself.