WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT IT.
"Young soldiers of the cross, beware!
A watchful foe besets thy way."
THE carrier had just thrown the Westville "News" in at Deacon Griffin's
front door. The good old man had rubbed his spectacles with his red and
white spotted silk handkerchief, drawn his arm chair a little nearer
the window, unfolded the limp sheet, and read a few moments, before he
exclaimed—
"Can it be possible? Will the Lord suffer it?"
"What is it?" asked the soft-voiced woman who was darning the deacon's
stockings in the other arm chair before the other window.
"Just hear this!
"'The Charles Dickens Society will hold their Annual Reunion at
Waden's Hall, on Wednesday evening, January 6. Their friends are
invited to attend. A company of amateurs will perform several popular
plays. Musicians will be in attendance, and the hall will be cleared
for dancing at an early hour. An elegant collation will also be
provided. Proceeds to be applied to the Library Fund.
"'Single Tickets, 1 dollar. Lady and Gentleman, 1 dollar, 50 cents.
"'GEORGE BARNES, DUNCAN MCNAIR,
"'JOHN PETERS, FRANK LESTER,
"'ELMER GREEN, IRA BAKER.
"'Committee.'
"There! Can you make anything out of that but conformity to the world,
unless it is worse? It seems to me like going right over to the enemy's
ranks. What are we coming to? Here are two of our young brothers, to
whom we must soon commit the gospel standard, giving their names and
their labour to this unholy thing!"
"O, father, don't say that," said the soft-voiced woman. "Maybe it
isn't so bad as you think, or as it looks at first. Sometimes things
seem worse than they really are. And you know there have been a good
many things, first and last, which you have condemned as worldly, which
have turned out to be real spiritual helps. You remember how sorry you
were that we gave Mabel Wynn a chair for the church parlour, because
you thought it was going to introduce worldliness into the church, and
you know we could hardly get along now without that room. Then remember
the time we had the convention—"
"Yes, I remember. I opposed that, and I was wrong. It proved a great
blessing, and I confessed my mistake. But, wife, you can't make this
out to be an affair that a Christian should be mixed up with. It is a
matter of worldly amusements of the most pernicious sort. Theatricals
and dancing!"
"But young folks—don't be too hard on them. You danced yourself when
you were young."
"So I did, so I did, and nearly lost my soul by it. It makes me shudder
to think of our young people getting as near the brink of the precipice
as I did. No, no, mother, these things are not for Christ's followers.
'If any man love the world the love of the Father is not in him.' One
must have wandered a long way before he reached the point where he
could engage in such an enterprise. Perhaps," he added, with a sigh,
"we older Christians have not been watchful enough over these our young
brothers. We have let the world get a hold upon them, which a little
more vigilance upon our part might have prevented."
"Duncan," said Judge McNair, as his son came into the office that
afternoon, "haven't you made a great mistake?"
"Where, and how? What do you mean?"
"Just this. Four years ago this winter you promised to live only for
Christ. You covenanted with God and with his people, accepting God's
terms, and promising to walk worthily of the Christian name; accepting
the fellowship of the Church, agreeing to avoid whatever might be a
stumbling block for others, or in any way bring reproach upon Christ's
name and people. This at least is the spirit of your vows. Strange that
you should have publicly renounced them."
"Why, father, what do you mean?"
"Why, there in that paper you range yourself with the world," replied
Judge McNair.
"I thought you approved of the object of our society. I consulted you
before I joined it."
"I do approve of it—at least I supposed that I did; but it seems that
you have objects of which I was not aware. I approve of the library
scheme, but I would sooner have given fifty dollars for the fund than
have had you engaged in an affair of this sort."
"But, father," expostulated Duncan, "aren't you a little too strict?
Don't you think that such rigid notions are apt to repel outsiders?"
"Duncan, if we who profess to be following Christ are in no wise
different from those who are walking in the ways of sin, how shall
we recommend our faith? If, through fear of repelling, we fail to
attract, what have we gained? There is a great deal of that sort of
talk nowadays, but I think it is all wrong. We are expressly enjoined
to 'come out from the world,' to 'love not the world,' to 'be not
conformed to the world.' If these words mean anything, they mean that
you and I, and all who are the disciples of Christ, have no part in
that which must come under the head of worldly dissipation. Duncan, I
am very sorry about this matter; it will be a stumbling block to many."
"But I shall not join the dancers, and my duties as one of the
committee relate to the literary part of the entertainment."
"The theatricals! Yes. Ah, my boy, it's all alike. You indorse the
whole, and it is not the dancing or the theatricals in themselves.
It is this element of worldliness that pervades the entire plan of
the entertainment. The spirit of conformity to the world has crept
into the Church at large in just this way, undermining and destroying
spirituality."
"There is another thing," continued Judge McNair. "It is to be upon
Wednesday evening. Five or six years ago, I knew a boy who thought
it a very inconsistent thing when the church decided to omit a
prayer-meeting on account of a scientific lecture at the hall. Where is
your consistency now?"
"But would you cut us off from recreations?" asked Duncan, ignoring the
judge's last remark.
"Not at all," was replied; "but I would discriminate between
recreations and amusements. The propriety of one who professes to do
all to the glory of God engaging in anything, simply as amusement, may
be doubted. There is a wide range from which a Christian may choose
his recreations; and when used as a needed rest, relief or exercise of
body or mind, are right and proper; but when we carry them so far that
they become dissipations, we may conclude that we have gone beyond our
limit."
Just at that moment Mr. Earle looked in. He only asked—
"Duncan, did you ask God what you'd better do about it?"
Ah! Duncan had not been living very near to God lately. Here was the
trouble; this was how he had become entangled in this affair, which had
in it not a single element of spirituality. Talk about carrying one's
religion with them through the week-days as well as the Sundays! One
may carry his Christian faith and practice into his palatial store, or
into his dingy, dark grocery-store, keep it with him in shop or stall,
but do people ever carry it with them into scenes of frivolity and
dissipation? What place has the Christian faith in the ball-room?
The family at the Golden mansion were at dinner. Clarence Golden,
Duncan McNair's old crony, was at home for the holidays. It was he who
said—
"Well, I suppose all you good people are going to the hall tonight? I
suppose it is the best thing a fellow can do up here in this stupid
town. Amateur acting! That will be something to see, I imagine. You'll
go, I presume?" addressing the question to his sister-in-law, whom we
have known as Louise Loring.
"I think not."
"Why not? Will it be any more stupid than staying at home?"
"I shall not stay at home."
"Where—oh, yes, I remember, it is Wednesday evening. That's your
evening out," he said, laughing. "Well, there'll be time to go after.
I presume the entertainment will last through the night. I'll wait for
you. Or do you expect your husband will be home in time?"
"I do not expect him, and I should not go in any case. I never attend
entertainments of that sort."
"Oh, but, Louise, this must be all right; at least two of your saintly
sort are among the managers."
"I am sorry for that, Clarence, but it does not change my opinion."
As the rest of the family left the table, these two lingered, and
Clarence said—
"Well, Louise, I'll tell you frankly I had begun to think there was
something in this religion of yours, and to wish I had a little of it
about me; but this upsets it all. I cannot feel any great confidence
in a faith that makes so little difference in its disciples. I used
to think I saw a great change in Duncan, and ever since that winter
when he was converted, I have had a sort of wish that I had gone over
to that side then. But nowadays, he seems very like the rest of us
sinners."
Mrs. Golden's heart was very sad. She liked her young brother-in-law,
and earnestly desired to see him numbered with Christ's friends, and
it seemed very discouraging that he should be turned back by the
inconsistency of one who professed to love the Saviour. The sadness was
in her voice as she spoke.
"Clarence, do you think the error lies in the faith itself, or in the
mistaken lives of those who profess it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. It appears to me that there should be in it a
power that would prevent such mistakes and inconsistencies."
"You are right. I can assure you that there is a strength and wisdom
that comes through faith in Christ, which will be given to us in
measure according to our love and obedience. I cannot explain how your
friend Duncan has made what I feel, with you, is a great mistake; but,
Clarence, this world, the things seen and of to-day, are very alluring."
As the young man rose to go, she added—"The Christian faith is worth
having, Clarence, if you only would look away from human frailties and
take Christ into your heart and life!"
He shook his head.
"There are enough half-way Christians already; and I don't suppose that
I should be any more in earnest than the rest of them."
He went half-way down the hall thinking of Louise's sad face. Turning
back, he said—
"See here, sister, I'd just as lief go to church with you tonight, if
you want me."
"I do want you," she said, with a meaning smile.
A copy of the Westville "News" found its way into the little room where
Herbert and Lewie were spending the last year of their college course.
Lewie having undertaken to read the news items for Herbert's benefit as
well as his own, lighted upon the announcement which was causing such a
commotion at home. A long discussion followed, but I will only repeat
the conclusion.
"Well, you see, Herbert, that Duncan's religion is not so very
different from mine, after all. He professes something more, but his
practice does not agree. I think I'll wait until I see more consistency
upon the part of others, before I get dissatisfied with my own way of
thinking."
And yet Duncan feared that stricter living would repel others!
So many had expressed their sorrow and disapprobation that Duncan
wondered at Dr. Myers's silence. Though he met him every day, he did
not refer to the matter; and much as the young man desired to hear his
views, he dared not ask a question. He was just leaving the office on
Tuesday evening when he met the doctor.
"Ah! Here you are!" said the gentleman. "I'm glad to find you. It
saves me a walk up to the house. You remember Dr. Grovesner, to whom I
introduced you once in Now York?"
"Yes, indeed I do! I should not be likely to forget one who impressed
me in the way he did. Wasn't he a grand man?
"I tell you," he added, laughing, "he is one of the few men I could
reverence."
"Well, I remembered your enthusiasm, and this is what I came for. Dr.
Grovesner has been making a tour in the West, and I have just received
a telegram which says he will stop here to-morrow, from noon until the
leaving of the night express. Now, will you meet him at tea to-morrow?
He is the man who has done more for me than anybody else in the world,
and I would like to have you get the benefit of his society, even for a
short time."
What would Duncan McNair not have given to have been free to accept
that invitation? He heartily wished the reunion had been in South
Africa or some remote region, else that he had a less important part in
the carrying out of the programme. It would never do to desert now, he
thought. Every minute would be occupied; there was no chance to slip in
at the doctor's, and if there were, what pleasure would it be with his
mind in such a whirl of excitement? He understood his friend too well
to suspect that it was a scheme contrived in order to punish him. He
must make some reply, and he stammered out—
"I'd like to meet your friend, but—I—you know there's doings at the
hall. I shall have to be there."
"I know, but I thought perhaps you could get off. Are you so very much
needed there?"
"I suppose there is no one who could take my place now. I wish I could,
but I can't. You'll have to excuse me. Thank you very much for thinking
of me."
"I'm sorry, very sorry, Duncan. Good night."
In the doctor's tones there was more than a passing regret that he
could not have his young friend's company to tea, and Duncan heard all
they expressed.
Duncan McNair was not the sort of person to keep a journal. Generally,
he kept his inmost thoughts to himself, except when he talked to the
pavement or the window curtains, or some other inanimate thing without
the power of revealing secrets. If he had made a true record of his
spiritual life at that time, and we had been privileged with a peep at
the pages, we might have found records like these:—
"Spent this day without prayer.
"Haven't had time for a single verse.
"Went to prayer-meeting tonight for the sake of appearance; found it
dull; wonder what the reason is?
"A prayerless day. I spend a great many such.
"It is a fact that if I am following Christ at all, it is afar off.
How did I ever get so nearly out of sight of the Leader? I hardly ever
read or pray in my closet nowadays.
"Worldly duties and pleasures give me no time for spiritual growth."
How soon a prayerless Christian finds he has lost his hold upon Jesus!
I have written a prayerless Christian! The words sound very strangely.
If you call yourself a Christian, and yet are living without prayer,
would it not be well to stop and inquire what right you have to the
name? And this was the question that was presently brought home to
Duncan's conscience. Just now he was too busy, too much engrossed with
pleasure seeking, to give place to the duty of self-examination.
The next morning after the reunion, he met Mr. Earle.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, sir."
"Well, Duncan, did it pay?"
"I can't tell, sir," replied Duncan lightly. "We haven't reckoned up
the accounts yet."
"Just so! Perhaps you'll find it a little troublesome getting in all
the loss and gain, eh?"
Duncan was disturbed and annoyed. "What a fuss people do make about a
small matter," he said, talking to the pavement now, for Mr. Earle had
not lingered for any further conversation.
And when the next Sabbath evening, the pastor took for his text the old
and awfully solemn words—
"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his
own soul?"
He recalled Mr. Earle's suggestion of a difficult reckoning; and,
listening to the fearful truths presented, the conviction came over him
that, after all, it was hardly worth the while to risk the loss of the
Saviour's friendship for miserable and unsatisfying worldly pleasures.
Duncan McNair might have appropriated the words of the Psalmist,—
"As for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well nigh slipped."
But the loving Saviour with pitying eye was watching for the wanderer's
return; not only watching, but calling.
It might have been a week later that Duncan was one morning hurrying
down Elm Street upon a rather unusual errand. Mrs. McNair had the
headache, and, being unable to fulfil a promise previously made, had
chosen Duncan as her deputy.
Having no reasonable excuse to offer, he accepted the appointment
graciously, but as he walked rapidly down the street, as if to have the
business over with, he thought, "This is a queer thing to ask me to do.
I sha'n't know a word to say. I wonder if a fellow ought to look very
sober and solemn? Wonder if the boy is very sick?"
Halting at the door of a small house, he rapped. A sad-faced woman came
to the door, to whom he said—
"Mother, Mrs. McNair, is sick this morning, and I came to inquire after
the sick boy, and to bring this—" handing a small parcel.
"Thank you. Walk in."
As Duncan entered and sat down, he heard a feeble voice in the next
room say, "Has she come?"
"No, Davy," the sad-faced woman replied. "She is sick, but she sent you
this jelly and some oranges."
"They are very nice; she is very good, but I wanted to see her," was
the reply of the sick boy. "Won't she come at all?"
"Please, sir," said the mother to Duncan, "will you walk in and see my
poor boy? He is disappointed at not seeing the lady. Maybe you could
say a word to comfort him."
"Are you her son?" asked the invalid.
"Yes," replied Duncan, smiling.
"Then maybe you know Jesus?"
"Yes," a little doubtfully this time.
"The lady your mother has told me about Him, and she always prays to
Him, and I thought maybe you had learned how. I pray a little when I am
alone, but I don't know how very well, and I am so weak it tires me to
think of the words. I guess He hears me, though; but when she prays, it
seems as if Jesus came and stood right by us, and that's the reason I
wanted her. Call you pray?"
"Not like her," answered Duncan.
"I'm sorry," said the boy, so sadly that his visitor grew sad and
sorrowful likewise.
"I should think you'd learn," continued Davy. "I have learned a little
myself, but I want some one that knows Him better than I do to ask
Jesus to receive me when I go."
"But my mother will probably be able to come and see you in a day or
two."
"I don't think I shall be here. The doctor says I may die suddenly. It
will be all right, I suppose. I can trust Him. But—don't you think you
could speak to Him?"
Duncan's thoughts were in a perfect tumult. What could he do? Whatever
possessed him to come here? He might have known better. Could he resist
the pleading voice and eyes of the sufferer? But should he dare to pray
now and here, when he had not prayed in his closet for weeks! Only last
Thursday evening, at the young people's meeting, he had declined to
lead in prayer, saying to the leader, "I can't tonight;" and saying to
himself, "I'm a miserable hypocrite: I call myself a Christian, and yet
I don't dare to pray."
But Davy waited, watching him with those great eager eyes.
He must say something, but he could not pray.
"Don't you want me to sing for you?" he asked.
"Oh, yea, I'd like that, it you can't pray."
So Duncan sang a sweet little hymn, and when it was ended, acting upon
a new idea, he slid down upon his knees beside the dying child, and
said—
"Jesus, friend of sinners, I would speak to Thee for this sick boy.
Wilt Thou come and stand very near to him, and support him as he goes
from this life into the next? He loves and trusts Thee. Do not let his
faith falter; do not withdraw thyself from him until he goes to be
where he shall ever dwell in Thy presence."
The words were few, but the longing heart was satisfied, and the feeble
voice just whispered,—
"He heard—he came."
Duncan hurried away, the tumult in his soul in no degree stilled. He
had fought many hard battles with that fiery temper and headstrong will
of his, but never had he passed through such a struggle as that day
witnessed. In the evening, he went again to the young people's meeting.
Without waiting to be asked this time, he said, "Last Thursday evening,
I refused to pray. The truth is, I dared not pray as a Christian, and
I was not prepared to humble myself and confess my sin. Tonight I am
ready to acknowledge that I have wandered far from the white line which
I have so long professed to follow, but I am glad to say that I think
I have found the true path again. I will tell you how I got astray.
Worldly pleasures enticed me, and I set aside the apostolic command,
'Be not conformed to the world.' Let us pray."
But Clarence Golden was not there to hear the confession of error, and
years after, the thought of Duncan would bring a curl to his lip, and
the bitter reflection, "I was nearer to being a Christian that winter
than ever before or since, and if Duncan had been true, I might have
been saved three years of doubt and scepticism."