rooms now glittering with lights, and gay with every costly luxury of
wealth and taste. Here were statues to Diana and Apollo, and to the
household Juno--not meant for worship--of course not--but simply to
conform to the general usages of good society; and so far had this
complaisance been carried, that the shrine of a peerless Venus was
adorned with garlands and votive offerings, and an exquisitely wrought
silver censer diffused its perfume on the marble altar in front. This
complaisance on the part of some of the younger members of the family
drew from the elder a gentle remonstrance, as having an unseemly
appearance for those bearing the Christian name; but they readily
answered, "Has not Paul said, 'We know that an idol is nothing'? Where
is the harm of an elegant statue, considered merely as a consummate work
of art? As for the flowers, are they not simply the most appropriate
ornament? And where is the harm of burning exquisite perfume? And is it
worse to burn it in one place than another?"
"Upon my sword," said one of the heathen guests, as he wandered through
the gay scene, "how liberal and accommodating these Christians are
becoming! Except in a few small matters in the temple, they seem to be
with us entirely."
"Ah," said another, "it was not so years back. Nothing was heard among
them, then, but prayers, and alms, and visits to the poor and sick; and
when they met together in their feasts, there was so much of their talk
of Christ, and such singing of hymns and prayer, that one of us found
himself quite out of place."
"Yes," said an old man present, "in those days I quite bethought me of
being some day a Christian; but look you, they are grown so near like us
now, it is scarce worth one's while to change. A little matter of
ceremony in the temple, and offering incense to Jesus, instead of
Jupiter, when all else is the same, can make small odds in a man."
But now, the ancient legend goes on to say, that in the midst of that
gay and brilliant evening, a stranger of remarkable appearance and
manners was noticed among the throng. None knew him, or whence he came.
He mingled not in the mirth, and seemed to recognize no one present,
though he regarded all that was passing with a peculiar air of still and
earnest attention; and wherever he moved, his calm, penetrating gaze
seemed to diffuse a singular uneasiness about him. Now his eye was fixed
with a quiet scrutiny on the idolatrous statues, with their votive
adornments--now it followed earnestly the young forms that were
wreathing in the graceful waves of the dance; and then he turned towards
the tables, loaded with every luxury and sparkling with wines, where the
devotion to Bacchus became more than poetic fiction; and as he gazed, a
high, indignant sorrow seemed to overshadow the calmness of his majestic
face. When, in thoughtless merriment, some of the gay company sought to
address him, they found themselves shrinking involuntarily from the
soft, piercing eye, and trembling at the low, sweet tones in which he
replied. What he spoke was brief; but there was a gravity and tender
wisdom in it that strangely contrasted with the frivolous scene, and
awakened unwonted ideas of heavenly purity even in thoughtless and
dissipated minds.
The only one of the company who seemed to seek his society was the
youngest, the fair little child Isa. She seemed as strangely attracted
towards him as others were repelled; and when, unsolicited, in the frank
confidence of childhood she pressed to his side, and placed her little
hand in his, the look of radiant compassion and tenderness which beamed
down from those eyes was indeed glorious to behold. Yet here and there,
as he glided among the crowd, he spoke in the ear of some Christian
words which, though soft and low, seemed to have a mysterious and
startling power; for one after another, pensive, abashed, and
confounded, they drew aside from the gay scene, and seemed lost in
thought. That stranger--who was he? Who? The inquiry passed from mouth
to mouth, and one and another, who had listened to his low, earnest
tones, looked on each other with a troubled air. Ere long he had glided
hither and thither in the crowd; he had spoken in the ear of every
Christian--and suddenly again he was gone, and they saw him no more.
Each had felt the heart thrill within--each spirit had vibrated as if
the finger of its Creator had touched it, and shrunk conscious as if an
omniscient eye were upon it. Each heart was stirred from its depths.
Vain sophistries, worldly maxims, making the false look true, all
appeared to rise and clear away like a mist; and at once each one seemed
to see, as God sees, the true state of the inner world, the true motive
and reason of action, and in the instinctive pause that passed through
the company, the banquet was broken up and deserted.
"And what if their God were present?" said one of the heathen members of
the company, next day. "Why did they all look so blank? A most favorable
omen, we should call it, to have one's patron divinity at a feast."
"Besides," said another, "these Christians hold that their God is always
every where present; so, at most, they have but had their eyes opened to
see Him who is always there!"
* * * * *
What is practically the meaning of the precept, "Be not conformed to the
world?" In its every-day results, it presents many problems difficult of
solution. There are so many shades and blendings of situation and
circumstances, so many things, innocent and graceful in themselves,
which, like flowers and incense on a heathen altar, become unchristian
only through position and circumstances, that the most honest and
well-intentioned are often perplexed.
That we must conform in some things, is conceded; yet the whole tenor of
the New Testament shows that this conformity must have its limits--that
Christians are to be _transformed_, so as to exhibit to the world a
higher and more complete style of life, and thus "_prove_ what is the
good, and acceptable, and perfect will of God."
But in many particulars as to style of living and modes of social
intercourse, there can be no definite rules laid down, and no Christian
can venture to judge another by his standard.
One Christian condemns dress adornment, and the whole application of
taste to the usages of life, as a sinful waste of time and money.
Another, perceiving in every work of God a love and appreciation of the
beautiful, believes that there is a sphere in which he is pleased to see
the same trait in his children, if the indulgence do not become
excessive, and thus interfere with higher duties.
One condemns all time and expense laid out in social visiting as so much
waste. Another remembers that Jesus, when just entering on the most vast
and absorbing work, turned aside to attend a wedding feast, and wrought
his first miracle to enhance its social enjoyment. Again, there are
others who, because _some_ indulgence of taste and some exercise for the
social powers are admissible, go all lengths in extravagance, and in
company, dress, and the externals of life.
In the same manner, with regard to style of life and social
entertainment--most of the items which go to constitute what is called
style of living, or the style of particular parties, may be in
themselves innocent, and yet they may be so interwoven and combined with
evils, that the whole effect shall be felt to be decidedly unchristian,
both by Christians and the world. How, then, shall the well-disposed
person know where to stop, and how to strike the just medium?
We know of but one safe rule: read the life of Jesus with
attention--_study_ it--inquire earnestly with yourself, "What sort of a
person, in thought, in feeling, in action, was my Savior?"--live in
constant sympathy and communion with him--and there will be within a
kind of instinctive rule by which to try all things. A young man, who
was to be exposed to the temptations of one of the most dissipated
European capitals, carried with him his father's picture, and hung it in
his apartment. Before going out to any of the numerous resorts of the
city, he was accustomed to contemplate this picture, and say to himself,
"Would my father wish to see me in the place to which I am going?" and
thus was he saved from many a temptation. In like manner the Christian,
who has always by his side the beautiful ideal of his Savior, finds it a
holy charm, by which he is gently restrained from all that is unsuitable
to his profession. He has but to inquire of any scene or employment,
"Should I be well pleased to meet my Savior there? Would the trains of
thought I should there fall into, the state of mind that would there be
induced, be such as would harmonize with an interview with him?" Thus
protected and defended, social enjoyment might be like that of Mary and
John, and the disciples, when, under the mild, approving eye of the Son
of God, they shared the festivities of Cana.
LITTLE FRED, THE CANAL BOY.
PART I.
In the outskirts of the little town of Toledo, in Ohio, might be seen a
small, one-story cottage, whose external architecture no way
distinguished it from dozens of other residences of the poor, by which
it was surrounded. But over this dwelling, a presiding air of sanctity
and neatness, of quiet and repose, marked it out as different from every
other.
The little patch before the door, instead of being a loafing ground for
swine, and a receptacle of litter and filth, was trimly set with
flowers, weeded, watered, and fenced with dainty care. The scarlet
bignonia clambered over the mouldering logs of the sides, shrouding
their roughness in its gorgeous mantle of green and crimson, and the
good old-fashioned morning glory, laced across the window, unfolded,
every day, tints whose beauty, though cheap and common, the finest
French milliner might in vain seek to rival.
When, in travelling the western country, you meet such a dwelling, do
you not instinctively know what you shall see inside of it? Do you not
seem to see the trimly-sanded floor, the well-kept furniture, the snowy
muslin curtain? Are you not sure that on a neat stand you shall see, as
on an altar, the dear old family Bible, brought, like the ancient ark of
the covenant, into the far wilderness, and ever overshadowed, as a
bright cloud, with remembered prayers and counsels of father and mother,
in a far off New England home?
And in this cottage there was such a Bible, brought from the wild hills
of New Hampshire, and its middle page recorded the marriage of James
Sandford to Mary Irving; and alas! after it another record, traced in a
trembling hand--the death of James Sandford, at Toledo. And this fair,
thin woman, in the black dress, with soft brown hair parted over a pale
forehead, with calm, patient blue eyes, and fading cheek, is the once
energetic, buoyant, light-hearted New Hampshire girl, who has brought
with her the strongest religious faith, the active practical knowledge,
the skilful, well-trained hand and clear head, with which cold New
England portions her daughters. She had left all, and come to the
western wilds with no other capital than her husband's manly heart and
active brain--he young, strong, full of hope, prompt, energetic, and
skilled to acquire--she careful, prudent, steady, no less skilled to
save; and between the two no better firm for acquisition and prospective
success could be desired. Every body prophesied that James Sandford
would succeed, and Mary heard these praises with a quiet exultation. But
alas! that whole capital of hers--that one strong, young heart, that
ready, helpful hand--two weeks of the country's fever sufficed to lay
them cold and low forever.
And Mary yet lived, with her babe in her arms, and one bright little boy
by her side; and this boy is our little brown-eyed Fred--the hero of our
story. But few years had rolled over his curly head, when he first
looked, weeping and wondering, on the face of death. Ah, one look on
that awful face adds years at once to the age of the heart; and little
Fred felt manly thoughts aroused in him by the cold stillness of his
father, and the deep, calm anguish of his mother.
"O mamma, don't cry so, don't," said the little fellow. "I am alive, and
I can take care of you. Dear mamma, I pray for you every day." And Mary
was comforted even in her tears and thought, as she looked into those
clear, loving brown eyes, that her little intercessor would not plead in
vain; for saith Jesus, "Their angels do always behold the face of my
Father which is in heaven."
In a few days she learned to look her sorrows calmly in the face, like a
brave, true woman, as she was. She was a widow, and out of the sudden
wreck of her husband's plans but a pittance remained to her, and she
cast about, with busy hand and head, for some means to eke it out. She
took in sewing--she took in washing and ironing; and happy did the young
exquisite deem himself, whose shirts came with such faultless plaits,
such snowy freshness, from the slender hands of Mary. With that
matchless gift which old Yankee housewives call faculty, Mary kept
together all the ends of her ravelled skein of life, and began to make
them wind smoothly. Her baby was the neatest of all babies, as it was
assuredly the prettiest, and her little Fred the handiest and most
universal genius of all boys. It was Fred that could wring out all the
stockings, and hang out all the small clothes, that tended the baby by
night and by day, that made her a wagon out of an old soap box, in which
he drew her in triumph; and at their meals he stood reverently in his
father's place, and with folded hands repeated, "Bless the Lord, O my
soul, and forget not all his mercies;" and his mother's heart responded
amen to the simple prayer. Then he learned, with manifold puffing and
much haggling, to saw wood quite decently, and to swing an axe almost as
big as himself in wood splitting; and he ran of errands, and did
business with an air of bustling importance that was edifying to see; he
knew the prices of lard, butter, and dried apples, as well as any man
about, and, as the store-keeper approvingly told him, was a smart chap
at a bargain. Fred grew three inches higher the moment he heard it.
In the evenings after the baby was asleep, Fred sat by his mother with
slate and book, deep in the mysteries of reading, writing, and
ciphering; and then the mother and son talked over their little plans,
and hallowed their nightly rest by prayer; and when, before retiring,
his mother knelt with him by his little bed and prayed, the child often
sobbed with a strange emotion, for which he could give no reason.
Something there is in the voice of real prayer that thrills a child's
heart, even before he understands it; the holy tones are a kind of
heavenly music, and far off in distant years, the callous and worldly
man, often thrills to his heart's core, when some turn of life recalls
to him his mother's prayer.
So passed the first years of the life of Fred. Meanwhile his little
sister had come to toddle about the cottage floor, full of insatiable
and immeasurable schemes of mischief. It was she that upset the clothes
basket, and pulled over the molasses pitcher on to her own astonished
head, and with incredible labor upset every pail of water that by
momentary thoughtlessness was put within reach. It was she that was
found stuffing poor, solemn old pussy head first into the water jar,
that wiped up the floor with her mother's freshly-ironed clothes, and
jabbered meanwhile, in most unexampled Babylonish dialect, her own
vindications and explanations of these misdemeanors. Every day her
mother declared that she must begin to get that child into some kind of
order; but still the merry little curly pate contemned law and order,
and laughed at all ideas of retributive justice, and Fred and his mother
laughed and deplored, in the same invariable succession, the various
direful results of her activity and enterprise.
But still, as Mary toiled on, heavy cares weighed down her heart. Her
boy grew larger and larger, and her own health grew feebler in
proportion as it needed to be stronger. Sometimes a whole week at a time
found her scarce able to crawl from her bed, shaking with ague, or
burning with fever; and when there is little or nothing with which to
replace them, how fast food seems to be consumed, and clothing to be
worn out! And so at length it came to pass that, notwithstanding the
labors of the most tireless of needles, and the cutting, clipping, and
contriving of the most ingenious of hands, the poor mother was forced to
own to herself that her darlings looked really shabby, and kind
neighbors one by one hinted and said that she must do something with her
boy--that he was old enough to earn his own living; and the same idea
occurred to the spirited little fellow himself.
He had often been along by the side of the canal, and admired the
horses; for between a horse and Fred there was a perfect magnetic
sympathy, and no lot in life looked to him so bright and desirable as to
be able to sit on a horse and drive all day long; and when Captain W.,
pleased with the boy's bright face and prompt motions, sought to enlist
him as one of his drivers, he found a delighted listener. "If he could
only persuade mother, there was nothing like it." For many nights after
the matter was proposed, Mary only cried; and all Fred's eloquence, and
his brave promises of never doing any thing wrong, and being the best of
all supposable boys, were insufficient to console her.
Every time she looked at the neat, pure little bed, beside her own, that
bed hallowed by so many prayers, and saw her boy, with his glowing
cheeks and long and dark lashes, sleeping so innocently and trustfully,
her heart died within her, as she thought of a dirty berth on the canal
boat, and rough boatmen, swearing, chewing tobacco, and drinking; and
should she take her darling from her bosom and throw him out among
these? Ah, happy mother! look at your little son of ten years, and ask
yourself, if you were obliged to do this, should you not tremble! Give
God thanks, therefore, you can hold your child to your heart till he is
old enough to breast the dark wave of life. The poor must throw them in,
to sink or swim, as happens. Not for ease--not for freedom from
care--not for commodious house and fine furniture, and all that
competence gives, should you thank God so much as for this, that you are
able to shelter, guide, restrain, and educate the helpless years of your
children.
Mary yielded at last to that master who can subdue all wills--necessity.
Sorrowfully, yet with hope in God, she made up the little package for
her boy, and communicated to him with renewed minuteness her parting
counsels and instructions. Fred was bright and full of hope. He was sure
of the great point about which his mother's anxiety clustered--he should
be a good boy, he knew he should; he never should swear; he never should
touch a drop of spirits, no matter who asked him--that he was sure of.
Then he liked horses so much: he should ride all day and never get
tired, and he would come back and bring her some money; and so the boy
and his mother parted.
Physical want or hardship is not the great thing which a mother need
dread for her child in our country. There is scarce any situation in
America where a child would not receive, as a matter of course, good
food and shelter; nor is he often overworked. In these respects a
general spirit of good nature is perceptible among employers, so that
our Fred meets none of the harrowing adventures of an Oliver Twist in
his new situation.
To be sure he soon found it was not as good fun to ride a horse hour
after hour, and day after day, as it was to prance and caper about for
the first few minutes. At first his back ached, and his little hands
grew stiff, and he wished his turn were out, hours before the time; but
time mended all this. He grew healthy and strong, and though
occasionally kicked and tumbled about rather unceremoniously by the
rough men among whom he had been cast, yet, as they said, "he was a chap
that always came down on his feet, throw him which way you would;" and
for this reason he was rather a favorite among them. The fat, black
cook, who piqued himself particularly on making corn cake and singing
Methodist hymns in a style of unsurpassed excellence, took Fred into
particular favor, and being equally at home in kitchen and camp meeting
lore, not only put by for him various dainty scraps and fragments, but
also undertook to further his moral education by occasional luminous
exhortations and expositions of Scripture, which somewhat puzzled poor
Fred, and greatly amused the deck hands.
Often, after driving all day, Fred sat on deck beside his fat friend,
while the boat glided on through miles and miles of solemn, unbroken old
woods, and heard him sing about "de New Jerusalem," about "good old
Moses, and Paul, and Silas," with a kind of dreamy, wild pleasure. To be
sure it was not like his mother's singing; but then it had a sort of
good sound, although he never could very precisely make out the meaning.
As to being a good boy, Fred, to do him justice, certainly tried to very
considerable purpose. He did not swear as yet, although he heard so much
of it daily that it seemed the most natural thing in the world; and
although one and another of the hands often offered him tempting
portions of their potations, as they said, "to make a man of him," yet
Fred faithfully kept his little temperance pledge to his mother. Many a
weary hour, as he rode, and rode, and rode through hundreds of miles of
unvarying forest, he strengthened his good resolutions by thoughts of
home and its scenes.
There sat his mother; there stood his own little bed; there his baby
sister, toddling about in her night gown; and he repeated the prayers
and sung the hymns his mother taught him, and thus the good seed still
grew within him. In fact, with no very distinguished adventures, Fred
achieved the journey to Cincinnati and back, and proud of his laurels,
and with his wages in his pocket, found himself again at the familiar
door.
Poor Fred! a sad surprise awaited him. The elfin shadow that was once
ever flitting about the dwelling was gone; the little pattering
footsteps, the tireless, busy fingers, all gone! and his mother, paler,
sicker, sadder than before, clasped him to her bosom, and called him her
only comfort. Fred had brought a pocket full of sugar plums, and the
brightest of yellow oranges to his little pet; alas! how mournfully he
regarded them now!
How little do we realize, when we hear that such and such a poor woman
has lost her baby, how much is implied to her in the loss! She is poor;
she must work hard; the child was a great addition to her cares; and
even pitying neighbors say, "It was better for her, poor thing! and for
the child too." But perhaps this very child was the only flower of a
life else wholly barren and desolate. There is often, even in the
humblest and most uncultured nature, an undefined longing and pining for
the beautiful. It expresses itself sometimes in the love of birds and of
flowers, and one sees the rosebush or the canary bird in a dwelling from
which is banished every trace of luxury. But the little child, with its
sweet, spiritual eyes, its thousand bird-like tones, its prattling,
endearing ways, its guileless, loving heart, is a full and perfect
answer to the most ardent craving of the soul. It is a whole little Eden
of itself; and the poor woman whose whole life else is one dreary waste
of toil, clasps her babe to her bosom, and feels proud, and rich, and
happy. Truly said the Son of God, "Of such are the kingdom of heaven."
Poor Mary! how glad she was to see her boy again--most of all, that they
could talk together of their lost one! How they discoursed for hours
about her! How they cried together over the little faded bonnet, that
once could scarce be kept for a moment on the busy, curly head! How they
treasured, as relics, the small finger marks on the doors, and
consecrated with sacred care even the traces of her merry mischief about
the cottage, and never tired of telling over to each other, with smiles
and tears, the record of the past gleesome pranks!
But the fact was, that Mary herself was fast wearing away. She had borne
up bravely against life; but she had but a gentle nature, and gradually
she sank from day to day. Fred was her patient, unwearied nurse, and
neighbors--never wanting in such kindnesses as they can
understand--supplied her few wants. The child never wanted for food, and
the mantle shelf was filled with infallible specifics, each one of which
was able, according to the showing, to insure perfect recovery in every
case whatever; and yet, strange to tell, she still declined. At last,
one still autumn morning, Fred awoke, and started at the icy coldness of
the hand clasped in his own. He looked in his mother's face; it was
sweet and calm as that of a sleeping infant, but he knew in his heart
that she was dead.
PART II.