until this trip had never taken closer observations than through the
car windows. To-day the “lightning express” on the Michigan Central
road was three hours too early for the one train that in those
days--some years ago now--daily jogged along down the road leading
south. What should I do with the time? I looked into the waiting-room
of the station. No passenger had left the train but myself, and the
place was empty save for an old couple, who had evidently just come in
from the country.
I went out and explored the town. Up one street and down another
I strolled, until the circuit was made. In every direction was
sand--mountains of sand, valleys of sand. It was in drifts upon the
sidewalks, in hillocks in the streets. The houses were built upon
it. Many dwellings leaned from the perpendicular at various angles,
according to their age, the shifty foundations had so worn away and
blown away. Though it was a bright April day but few people were on the
street, and these seemed in haste to disappear as soon as seen. It may
have been a biased imagination that saw this, or the cause may have
been the chill lake wind.
Was it fancy, too, that made the women and children, visible here and
there at the windows, seem to draw back, as if to hide? The scattering
tufts of grass in the front yards seemed to have given over the
ambition to cover the earth with green, and were creeping under the
sand. Did I imagine a burden in the air, as of grief or guilt? The
shadow of the prison seemed to hover over the place. It grew oppressive.
In desperation, I resolved to climb the nearest sand-hill and view the
world from that eminence. Perhaps I might find an elevation of spirits
when I could survey the prospect from above. Were not poets always
telling us to commune with nature, and thereby escape from fret and
care; to seek the solitude of a height and see the earth grow fair
beneath our feet, the mists and clouds melt into sunlight? Laboriously
I crept and scrambled up the slippery side of that miserable hill. From
the foot it had not looked far to the summit--perhaps not over one
hundred feet--nor yet steep; but with each step forward and each slip
back it seemed to grow, until, when half way up I stopped to breathe,
it loomed above me like a mountain. Out to the north was Lake Michigan,
blue and cold. Far distant could be seen the smoke of steamers;
nearer, the white wings of sail-boats; but all were outward bound.
Along the shore the sand dunes stretched for miles. Once, long ago,
the lake is said to have covered this ground. Having been given up by
water, the earth had not had thrift to reclaim the waste. Even the idle
train of vagrant weeds had not wandered in to hide the barrenness.
Beyond the town rose the grim, bare walls of the prison. Hundreds of
men inside were wearing out the long hours of weary days in toil that
was heavy and bitter, because it was enforced. Deprived of freedom of
will, of liberty of body, without hope for the future, they waited--for
what? For release from bondage, to spend the remnant of their lives
as Ishmaelites, followed in the world by sneers and suspicion, or
received, if at all, with a virtuous condescension no easier to bear.
Probably they deserved their fate. Some of those men had stolen, some
had forged, some had murdered; and the way of the transgressor was
hard, we were told. It was right that they should suffer, then; but we
Pharisees, were we without sin, that we should cast a stone? Had we
not done those things that we should not, left undone that which we
should? Perhaps, my friend, you took advantage of a man’s need and made
an unrighteous profit. Did you not foreclose a mortgage and distress
a debtor, when you could have waited? Perhaps you did not love your
neighbor, or, may be, you loved his wife too well. Such things had been
known. Perhaps--but the catalogue was long. Because the law had not
touched us, were we to proscribe those on whom its finger was laid?
Life was bitter at best. What were we, good Lord, that we should take
all the sweet of existence from any man?
This little sermon I preached to myself, for lack of a better audience;
but the wind was too keen to encourage moralizing. What should I gain
by climbing to the top of this hill? Each step higher would only show
a wider sweep of desolation. Why should I emulate the young man of
Alpine fame? He was a foolish youth and came to an untimely end. I had
no ambition; besides I had brought no banner to plant at the top to
commemorate my deed. It was a gloomy world. Nothing was worth while. I
would go down.
The descent was rapid and undignified. Eyes, ears and clothing were
full of sand. To such irritation of mind had I come that I felt ready
for reckless deeds, but I swallowed wrath and sand together and walked
on.
Suddenly, in a sunny corner, between a pile of railroad ties and
another of fragrant pine lumber, I came upon the old couple whom I had
seen at the station. There they were--she with a napkin spread upon
her lap and nibbling daintily at a bit of cake; he helping himself
freely to sandwiches or chicken, now from the lap that served as
table, now from the basket at their feet. Involuntarily, I paused;
perhaps, to apologize for the intrusion, perhaps, attracted by the
people themselves, or drawn, maybe (who knows?) by the luncheon. Who
can tell afterward just how an acquaintance began? In ten minutes we
were chatting briskly, and I was cheerfully helping to empty that
lunch basket. I think the wife opened the conversation by saying that
they had seen me climb the hill, and only wished themselves a little
younger, that they might do the same.
No one is so charming to a traveler as a woman, young or old, who knows
when and how to dispense with formality, and talk kindly, yet with
dignity, to a stranger. It is a rare grace, however, I have come to
know.
If my old lady whom I met that day on the sand told too much of her
own story, it was not her fault, but mine. I asked questions now
and then to lead her on. As we talked about the weather, of the
trains, of the time--drifting along in the shallows of conversation
as strangers do--I became slowly conscious of a something out of the
common in the manner of these old people. Just what it was was hard
to define. There was nothing at all remarkable in their personal
appearance. He was tall, spare, with a mild, benevolent face, and it
needed only one glance to be assured that he was a minister of the
Gospel. A Presbyterian minister I would have said, judging from a
certain stiffness of carriage and gentle dignity, as well as from the
extreme neatness of his well-worn garments. With a little surprise, I
learned that he was, as he put it, “the Lord’s servant in the Methodist
vineyard”--Methodists of the old school whom I had heretofore met being
noticeable rather for a carelessness of dress and a soldierly bearing,
as of those who had conquered men. His wife was a slender, nervous
little body; one of the women who in these days are called “delicate”
and of whom little is expected; one of those who, when the tests of
life come, sometimes develop a power of endurance, mental and physical,
marvelous to see.
“No, we don’t live here,” she said. “We have been spending a day in the
country with some old friends, but we came up to see a young man who is
in prison for murder. He was a school-mate of our son Gabriel, and had
the making of a man; but he took a wild and reckless turn as he grew
up, and never got on the right track again till now.”
“You smile,” said the old minister; “but you know that building is a
place of bondage and of punishment for breaking our laws only, and
not God’s laws. If a man steal, we shut him up to teach him that he
shall not touch our property; but, unless he repent of his sin, I hold
that the Lord will punish him still, the same as if we had let him go
free. This boy drank to excess, he quarreled, and the jury found that
he had killed a man. For the sake of his dead mother and of our son,
who is dead and had loved him, we came to see if we could help him on
the way to be forgiven; and the good God has blessed us. We found him
wretched and without hope. We could give no comfort; we could only pray
for help, and the comfort came. Before we came away he began to feel
that there was mercy waiting for him. A little light shone out of the
darkness; just a glimpse of the glory beyond. It is not for me to say
that he was more guilty than another; but we all have need of grace.
Cynthy and I pray that the little grain of faith in that boy’s heart
may take deep root, until he can bear his punishment with patience;
until he can say with humility, ‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in
Him.’”
“It made my heart ache to leave him,” said Mother Ellis (I knew her pet
name must be “Mother,” it fitted so well); “but God, who has been so
good to us, has pity for him.”
There was no want of reverence in this continual allusion to the
Almighty; no cant, no grating familiarity. This old couple talked of
Him as of a revered friend, with whom they had constant intercourse
and in whom they had utter faith. Their simplicity was unworldly and
beautiful.
“The folks down to Freedom, where we’ve been living lately, wanted
us to go to Chicago and see the sights, while we were so near; but
John and I we’re too anxious to get home.” Here she looked at John and
blushed, and he took her hand in his. They were like a pair of young
lovers. It was curious.
Presently she went on, with a contented sigh, as if the little by-play
needed some explanation:
“You see, John and I, we’re going home--to a home of our own--for the
first time in our lives, though we’ve been married forty years come
June. Forty years! It’s a long time, looking at it some ways; but
again it only seems a little while since we were young and lived ’way
back in York state. Those hills and woods were pretty to look at. I’ve
never seen their like since. Maybe it’s wicked, but I always think
o’ the hills ’round the New Jerusalem as being like those about the
head-waters o’ the Allegheny. Like as not, though, the New York hills
have been cleared and ‘improved’ till they’re bare enough and ugly; but
I’ve no fine words to tell ye how they used to look to me. I’ve learned
now to see beauty in a level country; but it took a long while. When
we first came to Indiana, John and I, seemed as if I couldn’t any way
get used to the low land. Do you remember Chestnut Hill, John, over
toward Cattaraugus? If I were one o’ the painter folks I could make a
picture of it now. There was a tall, dead tree at the very top, with
two branches reaching out like arms, making a cross that could be seen
for miles. When I was young and foolish, I used to wish I were a Roman
Catholic, that I might go and pray at the foot of that tree rather than
in church.”
“I don’t remember about the hills being so pretty--’bout the same as
others, I guess,” said unpoetical John; “but I reck’lect the road
through the pine woods. Do you, Cynthy?”
Again the faded eyes of both brightened with love that is ever young.
Again came the blush on the wife’s wrinkled cheek, and this time John’s
feeble arm went around her waist. There was silence for a little space;
but I doubt not the air was filled with the fragrance of the pine
forest, that their ears heard the murmur of the trees. Once more they
listened with their hearts to the words of long ago, which had made
that woodland path so fair a memory.
“When I first knew John he taught our district school, and used to come
to my Uncle Isaac’s pretty often. Teachers boarded around in those
days, and I did think he took his turn at Uncle’s pretty often. I knew
he was a pious young man, who’d had a call to be a preacher, and, like
a silly girl, was a little afraid of him and didn’t want to see him.
He stayed all summer when there was no school, helping my uncle and
the neighbors in haying and harvest, studying between times. In those
days the best of men worked in the harvest-field. Before early apples
were ripe I mistrusted what was keeping him, and somehow I had got all
over being afraid of him. I had found out that he was an orphan, like
myself, and had no home. I was only _staying_ with Uncle Isaac, and it
must have been that which made my mind turn toward him. But he never
said anything, John didn’t; only kept hanging ’round and looking as if
he wanted to speak. John was bashful; but, though I’ve heard o’ men
too bashful to ask a girl to marry ’em, I never knew one, and I guess
John ’u’d a plucked up courage after awhile, even if the revival hadn’t
come. ’Long in October Brother Duzan came along through that region,
and held meetings that were powerfully blessed. It was early in the
season for a revival; but everybody turned out to the meetings at our
school-house. I had never experienced religion then, though Uncle Isaac
often made me the subject of prayer. I was giddy and thoughtless, and,
like many another, I couldn’t or, rather, wouldn’t see how good the
Lord was to me.
“Well, I went with the rest to the meetings; but my heart was hard.
Seemed as if it grew harder the more the brethren and sisters prayed
and exhorted, though all the young folks I knew were going forward to
the mourners’ bench and were being converted. One night Brother Duzan
preached his dreadful sermon on future punishment of the godless,
that he always kept for the crowning effort. He told, in awful words,
how the unconverted sinner would finally suffer and burn in endless
torment, and everybody was crying and groaning but myself. That threat
couldn’t soften me then, and I’m free to confess has no effect now.
Then John, he led in prayer. His voice was so soft and gentle that it
hushed the excitement. He besought the tender Shepherd, who loved all
His sheep, to look with special care upon the playful lambs, whose
willful feet refused to follow whither they were led; to draw them
back with merciful hands before they should learn, too late, that only
the narrow, rocky path led to the green pastures that were beside still
waters.
“I knew he prayed for me, and my heart was melted then; and, for fear
the tears would come, I slipped out of the door, while the rest were
on their knees. But John saw me--though how he could, with his back
turned, I never knew--and I didn’t get far into the pine woods alone.
He began where the prayer had stopped. ‘The Lord was waiting,’ he said,
‘for me to stretch out my hands, and He would take me into the blessed
fold.’ And I? What should I do but cry, as a woman always does when
she should not. Then John, to comfort me, began to tell how God loved
me; and from that, some way, it was easy to say how--well, no, John,
I shan’t tell what you said then, and don’t you, either. I kind o’
forgot for a minute that we were not alone, and was thinking out loud,
I guess. I hope our friend will excuse me, for when she comes to be old
such places in her life will stand out clear in her memory, where many
another important thing has faded away.
“The next night I went to meeting, and made a profession of religion.
What could I do but praise the Lord for being so good to me, who was
so undeserving. Had he not given me John, and what was I that such a
blessing should be mine?”
Here, the mild eye of Reverend John looked at me over his wife’s head
with a mischievous twinkle. As she went on, however, his face resumed
its serenity.
“We have lived many years since then. Sometimes the way has been rough
and hard. We have had trials and losses; but mercy and goodness have
followed us, for we have borne the burdens together. I can confess now,
though I never said so to John, that one of the heaviest crosses of my
life has been the wish for a home. When we were married, I knew that I
was taking an itinerant Methodist preacher for better or worse (it has
always been the better, never the worse, John); but I could not know
till I had tried it what a wandering, unsettled life it was. Different
in the early days from now, too. When we came out here, it was looked
upon as more of an undertaking than going to Europe now. There were no
railroads then running here and there across the country; so we came
by water on a flat-boat to Pittsburgh and in a steamboat from there.
Stopped at Cincinnati to see the sights. It was a fine city then, but
they say it’s grown since.
“Daughter, a volume would not hold our experience of forty years. We
have been sojourners, never long in one place. It’s only of late years,
you know, that Methodist ministers are allowed to labor more than two
years in one church. Then there was the loneliness; for sometimes John
would be gone on the circuit, away from his family for weeks at a
time. I could not go, because of the children. We have been here and
there, here and there, and used to live in pretty wild places, with few
neighbors.”
John took up the thread here: “I never was what is called a popular
preacher,” he said, with a gentle smile. “I tried to do my duty--the
Lord knows that; but the people would sometimes grow anxious about
building up the church, and would want a man who could bring in large
accessions to the membership. I tried to win souls to the Master,
with His help; but, though I trust my sheaves will contain more than
weeds, the harvest in my field has been less abundant than in many.
The elders and bishops are judges of men, and they stationed me where
I could do best, no doubt. Latterly, some have told me that people
nowadays do not like to hear so much about Christ and Him crucified,
that they prefer the religion of humanity, and that I should adapt
my style to the times; but it is too late. I am too old to learn a
new religion or to sugar-coat or rarefy the old one. It was a lack
of faith, I fear, that caused a disappointment when they sent me to
an obscure corner, a by-way, as sometimes they did. It was all the
Master’s vineyard, and I should have worked without a murmur; but I
thought too much, perhaps, about the little earthly reward and that I
could make no provision for old age. We knew the Lord had always been
good to us, Cynthy. We should have trusted Him in this, for He had
never failed us and He never will. ‘Underneath us are the everlasting
arms.’”
“Yes,” said Cynthy, “the Lord has provided for us. We are to have a
home of our own in our old age; a home where our children can come to
visit us or to stay. As I said, I couldn’t complain. It was the will of
Heaven that we should live as sojourners. We could not set our hearts
upon this house or that tree, as people will. The room where the son
died or the daughter married could not be kept sacred, for we must
leave them; the roses and the vines which we might plant would grow
to gladden other eyes than ours. Such worldly affections do not seem
wrong; but they might have been a snare to us. For a year or two John
has been so afflicted with rheumatism that he could not go about, and
has been put on the superannuated list.
“If you know anything about Methodists, you know they do not contribute
to the fifth collection as liberally as to some others, and the fund
for worn out ministers is small. I suppose they do not realize the
needs of any one so near them. We have always lived on a little--no one
knows so well as a Methodist preacher’s family how to make much out of
nothing; but of late we have been sore pressed. Our children--only five
are living out of ten--are scattered far and wide. Two are missionaries
in India; two are teaching in the south, and our oldest son, a farmer
in Texas, is the only one who is at all forehanded. He has wanted us
to make our home with him; but we couldn’t quite make up our minds.
Seemed as if we couldn’t quite give up to go so far and get used to new
things and a new country. Old people get dreadful set in their ways,
you know.
“It had got to look, though, as if the Lord meant that we should go,
and we were beginning to make our plans and to talk of a few farewell
visits we must make.
“We have some old friends we should want to see once more, and we
must take another look at the graves where our children were laid at
rest. It had come to be about settled that we were to go. The Gosport
Howitzer had mentioned it in its personal column, saying we should be
greatly missed, when a letter came telling us the Widow Green up at
Arcady had died and left us her property. We’d been up to see Mrs.
Green not long before, and she talked then of leaving what she had
to the Foreign Missionary Society, and we never once thought of her
mentioning us in her will. But she did leave us the home. Not much,
maybe you’d say--its only a little cottage and an acre o’ ground; but
it’s a home, for all that, an’ I’ve wanted one for so many years.
“We regret the Widow Green, of course. She was a good Christian woman,
though a trifle irritable; but she’d been bedridden and so afflicted
for many a day that it was her desire to go whenever the call should
come. We shall have no care for ourselves the rest of our days, for
the future is provided for. We are such weak creatures that faith is
not always strong enough to take no thought for the morrow. We want a
sign--something we can see and touch.
“Is it wrong, I wonder, to think so much about worldly things? I have
planned how every room shall look. I have seeds of all the flowers
I can find like the ones that grew in the yard when I was a girl.
We shan’t have very much money; but, with our share of the Retired
Preachers’ Fund and with our garden, we shall have enough. I’m spry if
I be old, and always had a knack at making things grow. John’s a master
hand to work in the garden, too, when he’s well. I tell John (don’t
laugh at a foolish old woman)--I tell John that this is like a wedding
journey. We traveled a long way when we were married; but we didn’t
reach the home for forty years. John is as anxious to get there as I,
but is more sensible and not so impatient. We are going to stop at
Kokomo to-night with Brother and Sister Roberts, and in the morning we
shall go on home to Arcady. Home! How sweet the word sounds, John!”
There had been a movement of freight cars in our vicinity for some
minutes; distant whistles of locomotives echoed around, and John had
become restless. He rose stiffly, but eagerly. “Cynthy, I think it must
be near time for our train; it would never do for us to miss this one,
or we shouldn’t get home till to-morrow night. Let us go.”
I left them on the car, with hope and expectation in their faces,
and said farewell as to old friends. “Come and see us in our home,
my daughter,” was their last word. “May the Lord bless you as he has
blessed us, and good-bye!”
As I waited yet a little for my train the benediction seemed to linger.
The boats were coming gayly in to shore now; the western sun shone with
a warm glow upon the distant prison windows; school children laughed
and shouted as if care and crime were not. Truly, the world had not all
gone wrong. There was hope yet, and life was worth living after all.
* * * * *
A year later, in the station at Indianapolis, I caught a glimpse of the
two kind old faces once more. The eagerness had gone out of them; there
was peace and resignation instead of hope. They looked out of a car
that was westward bound. A farmer, standing at my elbow, told the story.
“Father Ellis? Yes. Him and his wife is goin’ West, to jine their son
’at has a cattle ranch some’rs in Texas. One o’ these yer onlucky
Methodis’ preachers, the old man is. Preached around on circuits in
Indianny fer a matter o’ thirty or forty year. Married an’ had right
smart o’ children, of course, as his perfession allays does. How they
managed to scratch along an’ raise them young-uns on the skimped wages
Methodist preachers do get beats me. Seems ’sef people like them ort
to be fed by the ravens, as Elisha was, or some sech way; or their
meal-bar’ls filled up, like the widder Cruse’s. How’s’ever, I s’pose
some way’s allays pervided. In this case the old man had got past his
preachin’ days, an’ not a nickel saved fer old age, when old Mis Green,
at Arcady, north o’ hyer, up an’ died, an’ left him her little jag o’
proputty. Not worth much, to be sure; but a right snug little home.