now he is in a strange part of the city, a place entirely new to him. A
large building attracts his attention, and the sounds of voices reach
his ear. Going to the door he sees a clergyman--a young man--talking
earnestly to a group of rough looking men, evidently working men. The
speaker does not stand aloof from them as though afraid to come in
contact with them, but is talking freely, and has succeeded in getting
their undivided attention, has won their hearts by his sympathy with
them, has shown them that he is like themselves--subject to human errors
and weakness, and these rough men are listening attentively, as they
would never do to lengthy discourses about things of which they knew
nothing. Here was a Christian--thank heaven there are such--who has not
placed himself on a lofty pedestal, while the hearers feel that he is
far from them both in heart and sympathy, but they feel that he is a
man like themselves; he has touched the human part of their natures, and
the rest will be easy. Little Ned listened, for the minister was
speaking of things with which the listeners were familiar; of sin, of
sorrow, of temptations, speaking cheerful words of comfort, leading them
step by step to something higher and holier than they had ever dreamed
of. At last, in language they could all understand, he told them of
another life, another world where sin and sorrow could not enter. The
child listened, and as he left the building hunger and fatigue were
forgotten. Only half comprehending what the clergyman had said, only
remembering in a confused way that he had spoken of a brighter world;
one wholly unlike this one, one in which there would be no more hunger
and cold, no more blows and harsh usage, the little fellow started in
search, resolved to find it. Surely it could not be very difficult to
find, and it must be some place outside this great city. Little Ned
started on his search, going towards the open country, toward the place
where the moon was rising, never doubting, never fearing, but that he
would succeed. Day after day he wandered on, eating berries which he
found by the wayside, and occasionally asking for something to eat. He
slept in the open air, for he knew no fear; his brain still weaving the
golden threads; still talking to invisible spirits; his face looking so
spiritual that one was not surprised that strange tongues spoke a
strange language to the lonely boy. He has wandered on until his feet
are sore and a feeling of weariness steals over him; he looks around
and finds that he is no nearer than when he started to the bright world
which the clergyman had talked about. So he resolves to turn, to go back
to the place where he had seen the minister, and ask him to show him the
way. Back he turns on his long journey. Step by step, slowly and wearily
he trudges along, his eyes have grown larger, his skin more transparent,
and each day finds him a little weaker, but he feels that he must go on.
Strange voices are speaking to him more frequently than ever, and his
dreams are filled with visions of the new world of which he has heard,
and now he has almost reached his journeys end, but it requires a great
effort for him to move, he is so foot-sore and weary, but the voices are
urging him on and at last the building is in sight. He drags himself
wearily to the door. It is night and the door is open--the place is
deserted, but he throws himself down on the floor with a sigh of
contentment. The next morning they found him with his hands clasped and
face upturned to the skies. The blue eyes were opened wide, the lips
parted in a happy smile, and poor little lonely Ned had found the
"bright world."
The Poet says:
So many abler tongues and pens than mine have chosen the St. Lawrence as
a theme on which they have written love songs, romances and legends,
that it would ill-become me to even attempt the subject. A writer, many
years ago, while paddling up the river and among the Islands, expressed
himself thus: "As the sun set below the islands the full moon rose in
all her beauty. The light evening breeze had subsided into a calm; not a
breath of air ruffled the glassy waters.
Impressed with the solemnity of the scene, I could not refrain from
wishing that here, at least, Nature might be permitted to reign
unmolested, but the solitary watch-fires of the recent settlers gave
proof that though his tenure was yet but frail, man! rapacious and
indefatigable man! was fast establishing usurpation." This was written
many years ago. What would be the astonishment of the writer, if he
could revisit the scene. Would he think it improvement or desecration?
On the islands cottages are built, and well kept lawns, sloping down to
the water, are brightened by the bright dresses of women and children,
and in some places the modern game of lawn tennis is being played, and
everything shows that Nature has not been allowed to reign unmolested.
Steamboats are plying from place to place; pleasure seekers lift their
voices to hear the sounds re-echoed from island to island, from shore to
shore, until the faint reverberation is lost among the murmuring pines.
Surely the crags and trees, the pines and poplars, are tempted to
return the echo as a protest against this invasion. If the sensibilities
were quickened to the sounds of nature, the words re-echoed would be
"leave us alone in our solitude."
The St. Lawrence does not speak to our hearts of deep tragedies, but
breathes into the soul a spirit of love.
"When Eve plucked death from the tree of life and brought tears of
sorrow upon earth, Adam was driven out into the world to mourn with her,
and taste from the bitter spring that we drink to-day."
"Then angels on their wings, bore the silent Eden to the eternal spheres
on high, and placed it in the heavens--but in passing through space,
they dropped along the way, to mark their course, some flowers from the
garden divine. These flowers of changing hues, falling into the great
river, became the Thousand Isles--the Paradise of the St. Lawrence."
It is a study to watch the different expressions and manners of the
people whom we meet. There is the woman who, on meeting makes one feel
that they have passed through some difficult surgical operation, her
look is so hard and penetrating, like the surgeon's knife. Then another
with an expression so benevolent, so charitable, that one is inclined to
turn again to catch one more glimpse of the kindly face. A little
farther on we see a young girl, with a look so joyous and happy, so
entirely free from care, that we are impelled to search for the rosy
glasses through which she views life. Time, the dispeller of all golden
hued visions, has left her mind untouched, and she retains the joyous
dreams of youth.
There is another with a look of discontent, amounting to almost misery.
The rose-colored glasses have been broken early, and she is gazing
through the murky, cloudy atmosphere of discontent. Another young girl
is passing, and look closely! her face is a study, with its varying
expression, reflecting every passing mood, then gay, now sad. The world
either hardens or breaks the heart. Which process is her heart
undergoing? In a few years, meeting her again, the face will be the page
on which the story will be written in full, either in sombre tints or
golden gleams.
Once more look at the daintily dressed woman coming down the street. She
was made for sunshine and happiness, adversity would kill her. There are
women who give one the impression that they should have all the good
gifts which the gods provide, should be carefully looked after, tenderly
cared for, they will share your joys, but no need to tell them your
sorrows, for what can they know of sorrow? they whose feet have always
travelled in smooth places. Refinement of manner and delicacy of feeling
are essential qualities for every lady; but spare us the "dainty" woman.
In hospitals there are women, educated and refined, who witness sights
daily which cause them to sicken and shudder, but they are none the less
refined, because they look upon the suffering of some poor mortal, none
the less ladies, because they assist in alleviating the distress of
their own kind. But "dainty," they can not be, thank heaven! It is the
dainty woman who, if she sees a diseased, shabbily dressed mortal in
trouble, passes quickly to the other side for fear of contamination, if
she sees a child in distress hesitates, before offering help, to see if
it is cleanly, and then the hand she offers is so nerveless, helpless
and lifeless, so weak and vacillating that perhaps it would have been
just as well had she gone on her dainty way.
Again there are people who shut themselves in an armour of selfishness,
impervious alike to gaunt poverty and hollow-eyed sorrow. From the crown
of their heads to the soles of their feet is their world, they can
neither see nor hear beyond it. The good qualities of their neighbors
are seen through the large end of a telescope, appearing very small and
a long way off, while their own are magnified until they at last look
upon themselves as being the personification of all that is good and
holy, and it is very amusing to study such a one, to watch her manner of
addressing others. From the lofty pedestal of her own conceit, she
allows some poor mortal to approach her shrine, but her manner says, "so
far shalt thou come and no farther." Of what is she afraid? Has she fear
of contamination? Is her goodness and purity of such a perishable nature
that she fears pollution? Do not fear. If you possess innate goodness
and womanly qualities you can pass through dangers unharmed, you can
walk in the midst of sin and it will not touch you, you can take the
hand of vice and it will leave no stain. From the height of your own
purity do not look with scorn upon some less fortunate mortal, do not
turn away in disgust, but examine closely, and underlying the outer
crust of wickedness and sin, you will be astonished at the amount of
good you can find, even in the most depraved. The human heart is a
strange compound, made up of love and hate, of joy and sorrow, hope and
despair, and who is able to read it? Who is able to understand the
sorrows, struggles and temptations of others, and who is competent to
take upon himself the task of judging?
Every beat of the heart gives us a glimpse, either of heaven inspired
love, or hell-born hate, of the sun-lit river of joy, or the gloom of
sorrow, the golden gleam of hope or the stagnant pool of despair. Is it
not strange that in all the workings of nature there is complete
harmony; the whispering trees, the murmuring winds, the lowing herds,
all speak a language of their own, while man is the only animal which
makes war with his kind? The love of riches, the desire of gain, the
pride of ambition takes possession of his mind to the exclusion of all
else. In battle, soldiers walk over the dead bodies of friends and foes
alike, unmoved, the only thought, the only desire is to win; the groans
of the dying are drowned in the exultant shouts of the living as they
find themselves victorious. In the battle of life there are many who, in
their desire to win at all hazards, walk over the bodies of fallen
enemies, and heed not the groans of even their friends. In all this
worry and strife, all the weariness of body and brain, how few stop to
enquire of themselves the means they are taking to attain their aim.
Some have taken a step higher by walking over the body of a brother who
has fallen by the wayside, wearied and heart sore, and if he succeeds in
reaching the top-most rung of the ladder, envious tongues and slanderous
epithets will reach him there, while if he falls he will carry with him
the sneers and taunts of his fellow men. In this vast universe there is
room for all, no need to jostle and crowd your neighbor. If he succeeds,
while you fail, it will not better your condition to slander and vilify;
if he fails while you win you will never regret having offered the hand
in good will and fellowship. Many a heart has been softened, many a
burden made lighter, by a few kind, cheerful words. There are none so
low, none so degraded, as to be beneath consideration. To take the hand
of the hardest criminal will not contaminate--vice is not contagious.
* * * * *
Joaquin Miller says:
Is it worth while that we jostle a brother,
Bearing his load on the rough road of life?
Is it worth while that we jeer at each other,
In blackness of heart that we war to the knife?
God pity us all in our pitiful strife.
God pity us all as we jostle each other,
God pardon us all for the triumph we feel,
When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather,
Pierced to the heart by words keener than steel
And mightier far for woe than for weal.
Were it not well, in his brief little journey,
On over the isthmus, down into the tide,
We give him a fish instead of a serpent,
Ere folding the hands to be and abide
Forever, and aye, in dust at his side?
Look at the roses saluting each other;
Look at the herds all in peace on the plain,
Man, and man only, makes war on his brother
And laughs in his heart at his perils and pain,
Shamed by the beasts that go down on the plain.
It is worth while that we battle to humble
Some poor fellow down into the dust?
God pity us all! Time too soon will tumble
All of us together, likes leaves in the gust,
Humbled, indeed, down into the dust.
A woman was speaking who was dressed in soft white which clung to her
slight form, and gave one the idea of a statue; a Galatea without a
soul.
Fatalism had wound its slimy folds about her and she was unable to free
herself from its chilling embrace. There is an old German legend which
runs thus, "Vineta was an old fortified place by the sea and the capital
of an ancient nation. Her dominion extended over the neighboring coasts
and over the waves where she ruled supreme. Unparallelled in splendor
and greatness, countless treasures flowed in to her from other lands,
but pride presumption and the sins of her inhabitants brought down the
chastisement of Heaven upon her and she sank, swallowed up by the
waves." The sailors still affirm that the fortress of Vineta lies
uninjured at the bottom of the sea. They say that deep down in the
water, they catch a glimpse of towers and cupolas, hear the bells ring,
and at enchanted hours, the whole fairy city rises out of the depths and
shows itself to a favored few. The old legend tells us that the one who
has once looked on the lost Vineta, has once heard the sounds of her
bells, is pursued all his life by a longing which bears him no rest
until the enchanted city rises before him once more--or draws him down
below unto the depths. The unfortunate person who has once gazed upon
the ghastly ruins of Fatalism, knows no peace, but like the legend of
Vineta, it will drag him down to misery and destruction.
The lady was saying:
We are but clay in the hands of the potter. Nothing we do can change the
current of our lives. The hand of Fate is over all, leading us on,
whether it be for good or for ill. From the cradle to the grave, from
birth to death, there is a power ruling our destinies. In infancy our
cradles are rocked by the invisible hand of fate, in middle age we are
driven by it, in old age we are led by the same hand. I see before me a
vessel starting out under full sail. The sky is clear; the air soft and
balmy, and everything speaks of a favorable voyage, but when in
mid-ocean, the sky grows dark, the wind arises, the waves roll higher
and higher; soon the vessel gets beyond control, and the sailors find
themselves drifting towards the breakers. Efforts are redoubled, all
that human energy can do is done, but of no avail. Fate is beckoning
them onward to their doom. We see a boy starting out in life full of
youthful hopes and buoyant in health, happiness and strength. He sees in
his mind's eye a thousand chances of success. Life is before him and
there is one haven he must reach before his ambition is gratified. About
midway in his career he stops. Clouds gather and he finds he has been
driven from his course by adverse winds and tides--struggle as he may
his efforts are futile for fate has intervened. The hand of destiny has
led him, perhaps to misery, perchance to happiness, but which-ever it
proves to be, he finds there is a hand, shaping, ruling, guiding, and
that is the hand of Fate.