IT is a trite saying, and an unique one, that there is "a skeleton
in every house." That every form however erect, that every face
however smiling, covers some secret malady of mind that no physician
can cure. This may be true, and undoubtedly is; but we contend that,
as everything has its opposite, there is also an _angel_ in every
house. No matter how fallen the inmates, how depressing their
circumstances, there is an angel there to pity or to cheer. It may
be in the presence of a wrinkled body, treading the downward path to
the grave. Or, perhaps, in a cheerful spirit looking upon the ills
of life as so many steps toward heaven, if only bravely overcome,
and mounted with sinless feet.
We knew such an angel once, and it was a drunkard's child. On every
side wherever she moved she saw only misery and degradation, and yet
she did not fall. Her father was brutal, and her mother discouraged,
and her home thoroughly comfortless. But she struggled along with
angel endurance, bearing with an almost saintly patience the
infirmities of him who gave her existence, and then hourly
embittered it. Night after night, at the hours of ten, twelve, and
even one, barefoot, ragged, shawlless, and bonnetless, has she been
to the den of the drunkard, and gone staggering home with her arm
around her father. Many a time has her flesh been blue with the mark
of his hand when she has stepped in between her helpless mother and
violence. Many a time has she sat upon the cold curbstone with his
head in her lap; many a time known how bitter it was to cry for
hunger, when the money that should have bought bread was spent for
rum.
And the patience that the angel wrought with made her young face
shine, so that, though never acknowledged in the courts of this
world, in the kingdom of heaven she was waited for by assembled
hosts of spirits, and the crown of martyrdom ready, lay waiting for
her young brow.
And she was a martyr. Her gentle spirit went up from at couch of
anguish--anguish brought on by ill-usage and neglect. And never till
then did the father recognise the angel in the child; never till
then did his manhood arise from the dust of its dishonour. From her
humble grave, he went away to steep his resolves for the better in
bitter tears; and he will tell you to-day, how the memory of her
much-enduring life keeps him from the bowl: how he goes sometimes
and stands where her patient hands have held him, while her cheek
crimsoned at the sneers of those who scoffed at the drunkard's
child.
Search for the angels in your households, and cherish them while
they are among you. It may be that all unconsciously you frown upon
them, when a smile would lead you to a knowledge of their exceeding
worth. They may be among the least cared for, most despised; but
when they are gone with their silent influence, then will you mourn
for them as for a jewel of great worth.