TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left the
pleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this period
had I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacred
by memory. Hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until the
lapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered by
disappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of early
days.
I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father's
family removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I had
not returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in another
place. But the desire to go back revived, after a season of
affliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. The
memory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such an
earnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained to
turn my face towards my early home.
It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of
the week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where I
stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the
old village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and larger
building stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why had
I expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age.
His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It was
but natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade of
disappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place was
unknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenance
was presented.
But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when my
eyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The old
homestead, with its garden and clambering vines--a picture which had
grown more vivid in my thoughts every year--how earnest was my
desire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, in
which, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirrored
face; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so many
times. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, and
think of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuring
wheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bank
I had gathered wild flowers and raspberries?
I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and when
morning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient to
see the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory.
"Am I in Brookdale? No--it cannot be. There is some strange error.
Yes--yes--it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannot
mistake that. Hark! Yes--yes--it is the early bell! I would know its
sound amid a thousand!"
On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had long
since been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose walls
and spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the old
homestead. The mill lay between--or, once it did. Only a shapeless
ruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and empty
forebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly to
mark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrown
with elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood out
sharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built and
thither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, or
dropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silence
and decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts in
giving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space I
stood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painful
presentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as I
had left, it in the white cottage I was seeking. The two great elms
that stood bending together, as if instinct with a sense of
protection, above that dear home--where were they? My eyes searched
for them in vain.
"Where is the spring? Surely it welled up here, and this is the way
the clear stream flowed!"
Alas! the spring was dried, and scarcely a trace of its former
existence remained. The broad flat stone was broken. The shady
alcove beneath which the waters came up so cool and clear, had been
removed. All was naked and barren. Near by stood an old deserted
house. The door was half open, the windows were broken out, the
chimney had fallen, and great patches of the roof had been torn
away. Around, all was in keeping with this. The little garden was
covered with weeds, the fence that once enclosed it was broken down,
the old apple-tree that I had loved almost as tenderly as if it had
been a human creature, was no more to be seen, and in the place
where the grape-vine grew was a deep pool of green and stagnant
water.
My first impulse was to turn and flee from the place, under a
painful revulsion of feeling. But I could not leave the spot thus.
For some minutes I stood mournfully leaning on the broken garden
gate, and then forced myself to enter beneath the roof where I was
born, and where I grew up with loving and happy children, under the
sunlight of a mother's smile. If there was ruin without, there was
desolation added to ruin within, but neither ruin nor desolation
could entirely obliterate the forms so well remembered. I passed
from room to room, now pausing to recall an incident, and now
hurrying on under a sense of pain at seeing a place, hallowed in my
thoughts by the tenderest associations of my life, thus abandoned to
the gnawing tooth of decay, and destined to certain and speedy
destruction. When I came to my mother's room, emotion grew too
powerful, and a gush of tears relieved the oppressive weight that
lay upon my bosom. There I lingered long, with a kind of mournful
pleasure in this scene of my days of innocence, and lived over years
of the bygone times.
At last I turned with sad feelings from a spot which memory had held
sacred for twenty years; but which, in its change, could be sacred
no longer. Material things are called substantial; but it is not so.
Change and decay are ever at work upon them; they are unsubstantial.
A real substance is the mind, with its thoughts and affections.
Forms built there do not decay. How perfectly had I retained in
memory the home of my childhood! Not a leaf had withered, not a
flower had faded; nothing had fallen under the scythe of time. The
greenness and perfection of all were as the mind had received them
twenty years before. But the material things themselves had, in that
brief space, passed almost wholly away. Yes; it is in the mind that
we must seek for real substance.
Slowly and sadly I turned from the hallowed place, and went back
towards the village inn. No interest for anything in Brookdale
remained, and no surprise was created at the almost total
obliteration of the old landmarks apparent on every hand. My purpose
was to leave the place by the early stage that morning, and seek to
forget that I had ever returned to the home of my childhood.
My way was past the old village church where, Sabbath after Sabbath,
for nearly fifteen years, I had met with the worshippers; and as I
drew nearer and nearer the sacred place, I was more and more
impressed with the fact that, if change had been working busily all
around, his hand had spared the holy edifice. That change had been
there was plainly to be seen, but he had lingered only a moment,
laying his hand gently, as he paused, on the ancient pile. New and
tenderer feelings came over me. I could not pass the village church,
and so I entered it once more, although it was yet too early for the
worshippers to assemble. How familiar all! A year seemed not to have
intervened since I had stood beneath that roof. The deep, arched
windows, the antique pulpit and chancel, the old gallery and organ,
the lofty roof, but most of all the broad tablet above the pulpit,
and the words "Reverence my Sanctuary: I am the Lord," were as
familiar as the face of a dear friend. There was change all around,
but no change here in the house of God.
Seating myself in the old family pew, I gave my mind up to a flood
of crowding associations; and there I sat, scarcely conscious of the
passing time, until the bell sounded clear above me its weekly
summons to the worshippers. And soon they began to assemble, one
after another coming in, and silently taking their places. Conscious
that I was intruding, I yet remained in the old family pew. It
seemed as if I could not leave it--as if I must sit there and
hearken once more to the words of life. And I was there when the
rightful owners came. I arose to retire, but was beckoned to remain.
So I resumed my seat, thankful for the privilege. Group after group
entered, but faces of strangers were all around me. Presently a
white-haired old man came slowly along the aisle, and, entering the
chancel, ascended to the pulpit. I had not expected this. Our
minister was far advanced in years when we left the village, yet
here he was! How breathlessly did I lean forward to catch the sound
of his voice when he arose to read the service! It was the same
impressive voice, yet lower and somewhat broken. My heart trembled,
and tears dimmed my eyes as the sound went echoing through the room.
For a time I was a child again. I closed my eyes, and felt that my
mother, my sister, and my brothers were with me.
I can never forget that morning. When the service closed, and the
people moved away, I looked from countenance to countenance, but all
were strange, except those of a few old men and women. Still
lingering, I met the minister as he came slowly down the aisle
towards the door. He did not know me, for his eyes were dim with
age, and I had changed in twenty years. But, when I extended my hand
and gave my name, he seized it with a quick energy, while a vivid
light irradiated his countenance.
I will not weary the reader with a detail of the long interview held
that day with the old minister in his own house. It was good for me
that I met him ere leaving Brookdale under the pressure of a first
disappointment. His words of wisdom were yet in my ears.
"As you have found the old church the same," said he, while holding
my hand in parting, "amid ruin and change everywhere around, so will
you find the truths which are given for our salvation ever
immutable, though mere human inventions of thought are set aside by
every coming generation for new philosophies, and the finer fancies
of more brilliant intellects. Religion is built upon a rock, and the
storms and floods of time cannot move it from its firm foundation."
"THE WORD IS NIGH THEE."
DWELL'ST thou with thine own people? are the joys,
The hopes, the blessings of "sweet home" thine own?
"The Word is nigh thee;" hear the sacred voice!
At morn, bow with thy loved ones round the throne;
At noon-tide read and pray; and in the hour
When evening's shades close round thee, let the truth
Subdue thy heart by its transforming power;
That thou, whom God has blessed, may'st serve him from thy youth.
Affection's ties oft sunder; and the home
Of peace and love, sorrow and death can enter.
Art thou, indeed, a mourner? dost thou roam
Alone and sad, where late thy joys did centre?
"The Word is nigh thee!" and though bitter grief
Makes all the future seem one day of sorrow,--
Its words of peace shall grant thee sweet relief;
The night of pain and fear shall find a joyous morrow
"The Word of God is nigh thee!" let it be
The lamp that o'er thy pathway sheds its light,
Then, through the mists of error, thou shalt see
The way of truth, all radiant and bright,
In which of old the sons of God did go,
Leaning on Him who was their friend and guide;
Nor shall thy heart be faint, thy step be slow,
Till thou in Heaven, thy home, shalt triumph by their side
The Word of God shall bless thee, in the hour
When human hopes and human friends shall fail:
It was in health thy portion, and its power
Is mightiest even in the gloomy vale.
No evil shalt thou fear while He is with thee;
The sting of death his hand shall take away,
His rod and staff shall comfort thee and cheer thee,
And thou with Him shalt dwell through heaven's eternal day.