worldly people," said Miss B.
"Yes, because, in the first place, they often have wrong ideas as to
what Christianity requires in this respect, and suppose Christians to be
violating their own principles in indulging in it. In the second place,
there are some, especially among young people, who never talk in any
other way--with whom this kind of conversation is not an amusement, but
a habit--giving the impression that they never think seriously at all.
But I think, that if persons are really possessed by the tender,
affectionate, benevolent spirit of Christianity--if they regulate their
temper and their tongue by it, and in all their actions show an evident
effort to conform to its precepts, they will not do harm by occasionally
indulging in sprightly and amusing conversation--they will not make the
impression that they are not sincerely Christians."
"Besides," said Helen, "are not people sometimes repelled from religion
by a want of cheerfulness in its professors?"
"Certainly," replied her uncle, "and the difference is just this: if a
person is habitually trifling and thoughtless, it is thought that they
have _no_ religion; if they are ascetic and gloomy, it is attributed
_to_ their religion; and you know what Miss E. Smith says--that 'to be
good and disagreeable is high treason against virtue.' The more
sincerely and earnestly religious a person is, the more important it is
that they should be agreeable."
"But, uncle," said Helen, "what does that text mean that we began with?
What are idle words?"
"My dear, if you will turn to the place where the passage is (Matt.
xii.) and read the whole page, you will see the meaning of it. Christ
was not reproving any body for trifling conversation at the time; but
for a very serious slander. The Pharisees, in their bitterness, accused
him of being in league with evil spirits. It seems, by what follows,
that this was a charge which involved an unpardonable sin. They were
not, indeed, conscious of its full guilt--they said it merely from the
impulse of excited and envious feeling--but he warns them that in the
day of judgment, God will hold them accountable for the full
consequences of all such language, however little they may have thought
of it at the time of uttering it. The sense of the passage I take to be,
'God will hold you responsible in the day of judgment for the
consequences of all you have said in your most idle and thoughtless
moments.'"
"For example," said Helen, "if one makes unguarded and unfounded
assertions about the Bible, which excite doubt and prejudice."
"There are many instances," said her uncle, "that are quite in point.
Suppose in conversation, either under the influence of envy or ill will,
or merely from love of talking, you make remarks and statements about
another person which may be true or may not,--you do not stop to
inquire,--your unguarded words set reports in motion, and unhappiness,
and hard feeling, and loss of character are the result. You spoke idly,
it is true, but nevertheless you are held responsible by God for all the
consequences of your words. So professors of religion often make
unguarded remarks about each other, which lead observers to doubt the
truth of all religion; and they are responsible for every such doubt
they excite. Parents and guardians often allow themselves to speak of
the faults and weaknesses of their ministers in the presence of children
and younger people--they do it thoughtlessly--but in so doing they
destroy an influence which might otherwise have saved the souls of their
children; they are responsible for it. People of cultivated minds and
fastidious taste often allow themselves to come home from church, and
criticize a sermon, and unfold all its weak points in the presence of
others on whom it may have made a very serious impression. While the
critic is holding up the bad arrangement, and setting in a ludicrous
point of view the lame figures, perhaps the servant behind his chair,
who was almost persuaded to be a Christian by that very discourse, gives
up his purposes, in losing his respect for the sermon; this was
thoughtless--but the evil is done, and the man who did it is responsible
for it."
"I think," said Helen, "that a great deal of evil is done to children in
this way, by our not thinking of what we are saying."
"It seems to me," said Miss B., "that this view of the subject will
reduce us to silence almost as much as the other. How is one ever to
estimate the consequences of their words, people are affected in so many
different ways by the same thing?"
"I suppose," said her uncle, "we are only responsible for such results
as by carefulness and reflection we might have foreseen. It is not for
_ill-judged_ words, but for idle words, that we are to be judged--words
uttered without any consideration at all, and producing bad results. If
a person really anxious to do right misjudges as to the probable effect
of what he is about to say on others, it is quite another thing."
"But, uncle, will not such carefulness destroy all freedom in
conversation?" said Helen.
"If you are talking with a beloved friend, Helen, do you not use an
_instinctive_ care to avoid all that might pain that friend?"
"Certainly."
"And do you find this effort a restraint on your enjoyment?"
"Certainly not."
"And you, from your own feelings, avoid what is indelicate and impure in
conversation, and yet feel it no restraint?"
"Certainly."
"Well, I suppose the object of Christian effort should be so to realize
the character of our Savior, and conform our tastes and sympathies to
his, that we shall _instinctively_ avoid all in our conversation that
would be displeasing to him. A person habitually indulging jealous,
angry, or revengeful feeling--a person habitually worldly in his
spirit--a person allowing himself in sceptical and unsettled habits of
thought, _cannot_ talk without doing harm. This is our Savior's account
of the matter in the verses immediately before the passage we were
speaking of--'How _can_ ye, being evil, speak good things? for out of
the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. A good man out of the
good treasure of his heart bringeth forth good things, and an evil man
out of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth evil things.' The
highest flow of animal spirits would never hurry a pure-minded person to
say any thing indelicate or gross; and in the same manner, if a person
is habitually Christian in all his habits of thought and feeling, he
will be able without irksome watchfulness to avoid what may be injurious
even in the most unrestrained conversation."
HOW DO WE KNOW?
It was a splendid room. Rich curtains swept down to the floor in
graceful folds, half excluding the light, and shedding it in soft hues
over the fine old paintings on the walls, and over the broad mirrors
that reflect all that taste can accomplish by the hand of wealth. Books,
the rarest and most costly, were around, in every form of gorgeous
binding and gilding, and among them, glittering in ornament, lay a
magnificent Bible--a Bible too beautiful in its appointments, too showy,
too ornamental, ever to have been meant to be read--a Bible which every
visitor should take up and exclaim, "What a beautiful edition! what
superb bindings!" and then lay it down again.
And the master of the house was lounging on a sofa, looking over a late
review--for he was a man of leisure, taste, and reading--but, then, as
to reading the Bible!--_that_ forms, we suppose, no part of the
pretensions of a man of letters. The Bible--certainly he considered it a
very _respectable_ book--a fine specimen of ancient literature--an
admirable book of moral precepts; but, then, as to its divine origin, he
had not exactly made up his mind: some parts appeared strange and
inconsistent to his reason--others were revolting to his taste: true, he
had never studied it very attentively, yet such was his _general
impression_ about it; but, on the whole, he thought it well enough to
keep an elegant copy of it on his drawing room table.
So much for one picture. Now for another.
Come with us into this little dark alley, and up a flight of ruinous
stairs. It is a bitter night, and the wind and snow might drive through
the crevices of the poor room, were it not that careful hands have
stopped them with paper or cloth. But for all this carefulness, the room
is bitter cold--cold even with those few decaying brands on the hearth,
which that sorrowful woman is trying to kindle with her breath. Do you
see that pale, little, thin girl, with large, bright eyes, who is
crouching so near her mother?--hark!--how she coughs! Now listen.
"Mary, my dear child," says the mother, "do keep that shawl close about
you; you are cold, I know," and the woman shivers as she speaks.
"No, mother, not _very_," replies the child, again relapsing into that
hollow, ominous cough. "I wish you wouldn't make me always wear your
shawl when it is cold, mother."
"Dear child, you need it most. How you cough to-night!" replies the
mother; "it really don't seem right for me to send you up that long,
cold street; now your shoes have grown so poor, too; I must go myself
after this."
"O mother, you must stay with the baby--what if he should have one of
those dreadful fits while you are gone! No, I can go very well; I have
got used to the cold now."
"But, mother, I'm cold," says a little voice from the scanty bed in the
corner; "mayn't I get up and come to the fire?"
"Dear child, it would not warm you; it is very cold here, and I can't
make any more fire to-night."
"Why can't you, mother? There are four whole sticks of wood in the box;
do put one on, and let's get warm once."
"No, my dear little Henry," says the mother, soothingly, "that is all
the wood mother has, and I haven't any money to get more."
And now wakens the sick baby in the cradle, and mother and daughter are
both for some time busy in attempting to supply its little wants, and
lulling it again to sleep.
And now look you well at that mother. Six months ago she had a husband,
whose earnings procured for her both the necessaries and comforts of
life; her children were clothed, fed, and schooled, without thoughts of
hers. But husband-less, friendless, and alone in the heart of a great,
busy city, with feeble health, and only the precarious resource of her
needle, she has gone down from comfort to extreme poverty. Look at her
now, as she is to-night. She knows full well that the pale, bright-eyed
girl, whose hollow cough constantly rings in her ears, is far from well.
She knows that cold, and hunger, and exposure of every kind, are daily
and surely wearing away her life. And yet what can she do? Poor soul!
how many times has she calculated all her little resources, to see if
she could pay a doctor and get medicine for Mary--yet all in vain. She
knows that timely medicine, ease, fresh air, and warmth might save her;
but she knows that all these things are out of the question for her. She
feels, too, as a mother would feel, when she sees her once rosy, happy
little boy becoming pale, and anxious, and fretful; and even when he
teases her most, she only stops her work a moment, and strokes his
little thin cheeks, and thinks what a laughing, happy little fellow he
once was, till she has not a heart to reprove him. And all this day she
has toiled with a sick and fretful baby in her lap, and her little
shivering, hungry boy at her side, whom Mary's patient artifices cannot
always keep quiet; she has toiled over the last piece of work which she
can procure from the shop, for the man has told her that after this he
can furnish no more; and the little money that is to come from this is
already portioned out in her own mind, and after that she has no human
prospect of support.
But yet that woman's face is patient, quiet, firm. Nay, you may even see
in her suffering eye something like peace. And whence comes it? I will
tell you.
There is a Bible in that room, as well as in the rich man's apartment.
Not splendidly bound, to be sure, but faithfully read--a plain, homely,
much-worn book.
Hearken now while she says to her children, "Listen to me, dear
children, and I will read you something out of this book. 'Let not your
heart be troubled; in my Father's house are many mansions.' So you see,
my children, we shall not always live in this little, cold, dark room.
Jesus Christ has promised to take us to a better home."
"Shall we be warm there all day?" says the little boy, earnestly; "and
shall we have enough to eat?"
"Yes, dear child," says the mother; "listen to what the Bible says:
'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; for the Lamb which
is in the midst of the throne shall feed them; and God shall wipe away
all tears from their eyes.'"
"I am glad of that," said little Mary, "for, mother, I never can bear to
see you cry."
"But, mother," says little Henry, "won't God send us something to eat
to-morrow?"
"See," says the mother, "what the Bible says: 'Seek ye not what ye shall
eat, nor what ye shall drink, neither be of anxious mind. For your
Father knoweth that ye have need of these things.'"
"But, mother," says little Mary, "if God is our Father, and loves us,
what does he let us be so poor for?"
"Nay," says the mother, "our dear Lord Jesus Christ was as poor as we
are, and God certainly loved him."
"Was he, mother?"
"Yes, children; you remember how he said, 'The Son of man hath not where
to lay his head.' And it tells us more than once that Jesus was hungry
when there was none to give him food."
"O mother, what should we do without the Bible?" says Mary.
Now, if the rich man, who had not yet made up his mind what to think of
the Bible, should visit this poor woman, and ask her on what she
grounded her belief of its truth, what could she answer? Could she give
the arguments from miracles and prophecy? Could she account for all the
changes which might have taken place in it through translators and
copyists, and prove that we have a genuine and uncorrupted version? Not
she! But how, then, does she know that it is true? How, say you? How
does she know that she has warm life blood in her heart? How does she
know that there is such a thing as air and sunshine? She does not
_believe_ these things--she _knows_ them; and in like manner, with a
deep heart consciousness, she is certain that the words of her Bible are
truth and life. Is it by reasoning that the frightened child, bewildered
in the dark, knows its mother's voice? No! Nor is it only by reasoning
that the forlorn and distressed human heart knows the voice of its
Savior, and is still.
WHICH IS THE LIBERAL MAN?
It was a beaming and beautiful summer morning, and the little town of V.
was alive with all the hurry and motion of a college commencement. Rows
of carriages lined the rural streets, and groups of well-dressed
auditors were thronging to the hall of exhibition. All was gayety and
animation.
And among them all what heart beat higher with hope and gratified
ambition than that of James Stanton? Young, buoyant, prepossessing in
person and manners, he was this day, in the presence of all the world,
to carry off the highest palm of scholarship in his institution, and to
receive, on the threshold of the great world, the utmost that youthful
ambition can ask before it enters the arena of actual life. Did not his
pulse flutter, and his heart beat thick, when he heard himself announced
in the crowded house as the valedictorian of the day? when he saw aged
men, and fair, youthful faces, ruddy childhood, and sober, calculating
manhood alike bending in hushed and eager curiosity, to listen to his
words? Nay, did not his heart rise in his throat as he caught the gleam
of his father's eye, while, bending forward on his staff, with white,
reverend locks falling about his face, he listened to the voice of his
pride--his first born? And did he not see the glistening tears in his
mother's eye, as with rapt ear she hung upon his every word? Ah, the
young man's first triumph! When, full of confidence and hope, he enters
the field of life, all his white glistening as yet unsoiled by the dust
of the combat, the unproved world turning towards him with flatteries
and promises in both hands, what other triumph does life give so fresh,
so full, so replete with hope and joy? So felt James Stanton this day,
when he heard his father congratulated on having a son of such promise;
when old men, revered for talents and worth, shook hands with him, and
bade him warmly God speed in the course of life; when bright eyes cast
glances of favor, and from among the fairest were overheard whispers of
admiration.
"Your son is designed for the bar, I trust," said the venerable Judge L.
to the father of James, at the commencement dinner. "I have seldom seen
a turn of mind better fitted for success in the legal profession. And
then his voice! his manner! let him go to the bar, sir, and I prophesy
that he will yet outdo us all."
And this was said in James's hearing, and by one whose commendation was
not often so warmly called forth. It was not in any young heart not to
beat quicker at such prospects. Honor, station, wealth, political
ambition, all seemed to offer themselves to his grasp; but long ere
this, in the solitude of retirement, in the stillness of prayer and
self-examination, the young graduate had vowed himself to a different
destiny; and if we may listen to a conversation, a few evenings after
commencement, with a classmate, we shall learn more of the secret
workings of his mind.
"And so, Stanton," said George Lennox to him, as they sat by their
evening fireside, "you have not yet decided whether to accept Judge L.'s
offer or not."
"I have decided that matter long ago," said James.
"So, then, you choose the ministry."
"Yes."
"Well, for my part," replied George Lennox, "I choose the law. There
must be Christians, you know, in every vocation; the law seems to suit
my turn of mind. I trust it will be my effort to live as becomes a
Christian, whatever be my calling."
"I trust so," replied James.
"But really, Stanton," added the other, after some thought, "it seems a
pity to cast away such prospects as open before you. You know your
tuition is offered gratis; and then the patronage of Judge L., and such
influences as he can command to secure your success--pray, do not these
things seem to you like a providential indication that the law is to be
your profession? Besides, here in these New England States, the ministry
is overflowed already--ministers enough, and too many, if one may judge
by the number of applicants for every unoccupied place."
"Nay," replied James, "my place is not here. I know, if all accounts are
true, that my profession is not overflowed in our Western States, and
there I mean to go."
"And is it possible that you can contemplate such an entire sacrifice of
your talents, your manners, your literary and scientific tastes, your
capabilities for refined society, as to bury yourself in a log cabin in
one of our new states? You will never be appreciated there; your
privations and sacrifices will be entirely disregarded, and you placed
on a level with the coarsest and most uneducated sectaries. I really do
not think you are called to this."
"Who, then, is called?" replied James.
"Why, men with much less of all these good things--men with real coarse,
substantial, backwoods furniture in their minds, who will not
appreciate, and of course not feel, the want of all the refinements and
comforts which you must sacrifice."
"And are there enough such men ready to meet the emergencies in our
western world, so that no others need be called upon?" replied James.
"Men of the class you speak of may do better than I; but, if after all
their efforts I still am needed, and can work well, ought I not to go?
Must those only be drafted for religious enterprises to whom they
involve no sacrifice?"
"Well, for my part," replied the other, "I trust I am willing to do any
thing that is my duty; yet I never could feel it to be my duty to bury
myself in a new state, among stumps and log cabins. My mind would rust
itself out; and, missing the stimulus of such society as I have been
accustomed to, I should run down completely, and be useless in body and
in mind."
"If you feel so, it would be so," replied James. "If the work there to
be done would not be stimulus and excitement enough to compensate for
the absence of all other stimulus,--if the business of the ministry, the
_saving of human souls_, is not the one all-absorbing purpose, and
desire, and impulse of the whole being,--then woe to the man who goes to
preach the gospel where there is nothing but human souls to be gained by
it."
"Well, Stanton," replied the other, after a pause of some seriousness,
"I cannot say that I have attained to this yet. I don't know but I might
be brought to it; but at present I must confess it is not so. We ought
not to rush into a state and employment which we have not the moral
fortitude to sustain well. In short, for myself, I may make a
respectable, and, I trust, not useless man in the law, when I could do
nothing in the circumstances which you choose. However, I respect your
feelings, and heartily wish that I could share them myself."
A few days after this conversation the young friends parted for their
several destinations--the one to a law school, the other to a
theological seminary.
* * * * *