"Blessed are they that dwell in Thy house, they will
be still praising Thee. For a day in Thy courts is
better than a thousand. I had rather be a door-keeper
in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents
of wickedness."--Psalm lxxxiv. 4, 10.
Dr. Wilkinson's school was too large to be entirely accommodated with
sittings in the nearest church--and, consequently, was divided into two
bodies on Sunday, one of which regularly attended one of the churches in
Bristol, where Mr. Wilkinson, the doctor's son, occasionally did duty.
It fell to Louis' lot, generally, to be of the Bristol party, and unless
the day was rainy he was not ill-pleased with his destiny, for the walk
was very pleasant, and there was something in the chorus of bells in that
many-churched city, and the sight of the gray towers and spires, very
congenial to his feelings. It happened that the Sunday after Louis had
received permission to mix as usual with his school-fellows was one
of those peculiarly sunny days that seem to call upon God's people
especially to rejoice and be glad in the Works of His hand. Louis' mind
was in a more than usually peaceful state, and his heart overflowed
with quiet happiness as he looked down from the height of Brandon Hill
upon the city below. He and his companion had walked on rather faster
than the rest of their school-fellows, and now stood waiting till they
came up.
"A penny for your thoughts, Mortimer," said his companion, a
pleasant-looking boy of fifteen or sixteen years of age; "you
are very silent to-day--what may be the subject of your profound
meditations?"
Louis hardly seemed to hear the question, for he suddenly turned his
bright face to his interrogator, and exclaimed, "What a beautiful sight
it is to see so many churches together, Meredith! I think our churches
make us such a happy country."
[Illustration: Louis and Meredith on Brandon Hill.]
"Upon my word," replied Meredith, "you are endowing those piles of
stone with considerable potency. What becomes of commerce and--"
"I mean, of course," interrupted Louis, "that it is religion that
makes us a happier country than others. I love so to look at the
churches; the sight of one sometimes, when all is fair and quiet,
brings the tears into my eyes."
"Hey-dey! quite sentimental! You'd better be a parson, I think."
"I hope I shall be a clergyman--I wish very much to be one--there is
not such another happy life. I was just thinking, Meredith, when you
spoke to me, of a verse we read yesterday morning, which quite expresses
my feelings: 'One thing have I desired of the Lord which I will seek
after, that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life,
to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in His temple.'"
Meredith looked with some surprise at Louis, and as they moved on he
said carelessly, "I suppose somebody will have the gratification of
beholding me in a long gown some day, holding forth for the edification
of my devoted flock."
"Are you going to be a clergyman?" asked Louis.
"Yes, I suppose I must. Don't you think I shall be a most
useful character?"
"Oh! surely you wish it, do you not?"
"Well, I don't much mind," replied Meredith, snatching a handful of
leaves from the hedge near him; "I shall have a nice fat living, and
it's a respectable kind of thing."
Louis was horror-struck--he had not imagined such an idea--he almost
gasped out, "Oh! Meredith, I can hardly understand you. Surely that is
not your only wish about it: that cannot be a reason--not a right one."
"Why, what's the harm?" said Meredith, laughing. "I only say outright
what hundreds think. If I could choose, perhaps I might like the army
best, but my father has a comfortable provision in the church for me,
and so I, like a dutiful son, don't demur, especially as, if I follow
the example of my predecessor, it will be vastly more easy than a
soldier's life."
"Meredith, Meredith, this is too solemn a thing to laugh about. I have
often wondered how it is there are clergymen who can take their duties
so easily as some do; but if they only undertake them for your reasons,
I cannot feel so much surprised that they should be so careless. How
can you expect any happiness from such a life! I should be afraid to
talk so."
Meredith stared contemptuously. "You are a Methodist, Louis," he said;
"I have no doubt I shall preach as good sermons as you: just put on a
grave face, and use a set of tender phrases, and wear a brilliant on
your little finger, and a curly head, and there you are a fashionable
preacher at once--and if you use your white pocket-handkerchief
occasionally, throw your arms about a little, look as if you intended
to tumble over the pulpit and embrace the congregation, and dose your
audience with a little pathos, you may draw crowds--the ladies will
idolize you."
"I should not think that such popularity would be very good,"
replied Louis, "supposing you could do as you say; but it seems
to me quite shocking to speak in such a slighting manner of so
holy a thing. Were you ever at an ordination, Meredith?"
"Not I," said Meredith.
"I should think if you had been you would be afraid to think of going
to answer the solemn questions you will be asked when you are ordained.
I was once with papa at an ordination at Norwich cathedral, and I shall
never forget how solemnly that beautiful service came upon me. I could
not help thinking how dreadful it must be to come there carelessly, and
I wondered how the gentlemen felt who were kneeling there--and the hymn
was so magnificent, Meredith. I think if you were there with your present
feelings, you would be afraid to stay. It would seem like mocking God to
come to answer all those solemn questions, and not mean what you said.
I think it is wicked."
Louis spoke rapidly, and with great emotion.
Meredith looked angry, struggling with a feeling of shame, and a wish to
laugh it off. "You are exclusively precise," he said; "others are not,
and have as much right to their opinion as you to yours. Trevannion,
for instance--he's going into the church because it is so genteel."
"I hope you are mistaken," said Louis, quickly.
"Not I; I heard him say the same thing myself."
"I am _very_ sorry," said Louis, sadly. "Oh! I would rather be a laborer
than go into the church with such a wish--and yet, I had rather be a
very poor curate than a rich duke: it is such a happy, holy life." The
last part of Louis' speech was nearly inaudible, and no more was said
until the afternoon.
It was Dr. Wilkinson's wish that the Sabbath should be passed as
blamelessly as he had the power of ordering it in his household; but
to make it a day of reverence and delight among so large a number of
boys, with different dispositions and habits of life, was an arduous
task. Mr. James Wilkinson was with the boys the whole afternoon, as
well as his father, to whose utmost endeavors he joined his own, that
the day might not be wholly unprofitable. In spite, however, of all
diligence, it could not fail of often being grossly misspent with many
of the pupils; for it is not possible for human power effectually to
influence the heart, and, until that is done, any thing else can be but
an outward form.
This afternoon the boys were scattered over the large playground. In
one corner was the doctor, with twenty or thirty boys around him, and
in other directions, the different ushers hearing Catechisms and other
lessons. Some of the parties were very dull, for no effort was made by
the instructor to impart a real delight in the Word of God to his pupils;
and religion was made merely a matter of question and answer, to remain
engraved in such heartless form on the repugnant mind of the learner.
And, alas! how can it be otherwise, where the teacher himself does not
know that religion is a real and happy thing, and not to be learned as
we teach our boys the outlines of heathen mythology?
Sitting on the ground, lolling against one of the benches under a
tree, sat Hastings Meredith and Reginald and Louis Mortimer; and one
or two more were standing or sitting near; all of whom had just finished
answering all the questions in the Church Catechism to Mr. Danby, and
had said a Psalm.
Louis was sitting on the bench, looking flushed, thinking of holidays,
and, of course, of home,--home Sabbaths, those brightest days of home
life,--when Trevannion came up with his usual air of cool, easy
confidence. Trevannion was the most gentlemanly young man in the
school; he never was in a hurry; was particularly alive to any
thing "vulgar," or "snobbish," and would have thought it especially
unbecoming in him to exhibit the smallest degree of annoyance at any
untoward event. It took a good deal to put him out of countenance, and
he esteemed it rather plebeian to go his own errands, or, indeed, to
take any unnecessary trouble.
"Were you in Bristol this morning, Meredith?" he said.
"Yes, sure, your highness," replied Meredith, yawning.
"Tired apparently," said Trevannion ironically, glancing at the
recumbent attitude of the speaker.
"Worried to death with that old bore Danby, who's been going backwards
and forwards for the last hour, with 'What is your name?' and 'My good
child,' &c. I'm as tired as--as--oh help me for a simile! as a pair of
worn-out shoes."
"A poetical simile at last," remarked Reginald, laughing.
"You would have a nice walk," said Trevannion.
"Very! and a sermon gratis to boot," replied Meredith. "It would
have done you good, Trevannion, to have heard what shocking things
you have done in being so _very genteel_."
"What do you mean?" said Trevannion, coolly.
"Louis Mortimer was giving me a taste of his Methodistical mind on the
duties of clergymen generally, and your humble servant especially."
"I presume you do not include yourself in the fraternity yet?"
said Trevannion.
"Not exactly; but having informed him of my prospects, the good child
began to upbraid me with my hypocrisy, and, bless you, such a thundering
sermon,--positively quite eloquent."
"Perhaps I may be allowed to profit by the second part of it," said
Trevannion, turning to Louis; "will you be kind enough to edify me?"
Louis did not reply, and Trevannion's lips curled slightly as he
remarked, "There is an old proverb about those who live in glass
houses--'Physician, cure thyself.'"
Poor Louis turned away, and Meredith, stretching himself and yawning
terrifically, continued, "You must know, Trevannion, that it is very
wicked to be any thing but a Methodist, very wicked for a clergyman
to be genteel, or to wish to make himself comfortable."
"Hastings, I did not say so," said Louis, turning his head.
"And so," continued Meredith, without noticing Louis, "if we dare
to follow up our own or our fathers' wishes, we must listen to
Louis Mortimer, and he will tell us what to do."
"Much obliged to him, I am sure," said Trevannion.
"Yes, so am I," rejoined Meredith, "though I forgot to tender my
thanks before; and hereby give notice, that when I am in orders,
I will not hunt more than convenient, nor play cards on Good Friday,
nor go to dancing parties on Saturday evening."
"Pshaw, Meredith," said Trevannion: "it is very unbecoming to talk
in this manner of so sacred a profession. A hunting and card-playing
clergyman ought to be stripped of his gown without hesitation. Any
right-minded person would recoil with horror at such a character. It
is a great disgrace to the profession; no clergyman ought to enter
into any kind of improper dissipation. Your ideas are very light
and indelicate."
"Will you be kind enough to define that term, _improper dissipation_,"
said Meredith, carelessly. "I presume you have no objection to a quiet
dance now and then, only they must not call it a ball."
"A clergyman ought not to dance," replied Trevannion, in precisely the
same cool, dictatorial manner.
"He may look on them, may he not?" said Meredith.
"A clergyman has many serious duties to perform, and he should be
very careful that he does not degrade his office," replied Trevannion.
"He has to uphold the dignity of the church, and should take care that
his conduct is such that no reproach can fall on that church from his
inconsistency."
"Well, for my part," said Meredith, lightly, "I think the church
too important to miss the weight of my example. I mean to have a
most exemplary curate."
Near these speakers sat Mr. James Wilkinson, with a few little boys,
whom at this moment he hastily dismissed, for the sound of the light
conversation reached him, and he arose quickly and introduced himself
to the little coterie just as Reginald exclaimed, "For shame, Meredith!"
"Ay, for shame," said Mr. James: "I have heard a little of what has been
going on among you, and am really very sorry to hear such expressions on
a subject so solemn and important. Meredith, you cannot be aware of what
you are saying. I should like to have a little talk about this matter;
and, Mr. Trevannion, if you will give me your attention for a few
minutes, I shall be obliged to you."
Trevannion seated himself on the bench, and folding his arms,
remained in an attitude of passive attention.
"Lend me your prayer-book, Mortimer," said Mr. James, and he quickly
turned to the service for the ordering of deacons. "The first question
here put to the candidate for holy orders is, 'Do you trust that you
are inwardly moved by the Holy Ghost, to take upon you this office
and ministration, to serve God for the promoting of His glory and the
edifying of His people?' Now, Meredith, I ask you to think, whether,
with such sentiments as you have just expressed, you can dare to answer,
'_I trust so?_'"
"I never thought very seriously about it," said Meredith,
rather abruptly.
"But you know these things must be thought of seriously and prayerfully.
It is required of a man in every station of life, that he be faithful
and diligent, serving the Lord, and whoever does not remember this,
must answer for his neglect of such duty to his Maker. It will not do
to say that our individual example can be of no importance; the command,
'Occupy till I come,' is laid upon each one of us; but what must be said
of him who, in a careless, light frame of mind, takes these holy vows
upon him, knowing in his own mind that he intends to break them; that
his sole desire to be put into the priest's office is to eat a morsel
of bread? What shall be said of him who goes into the house of God, and
in the presence of His people declares that it is his intention, 'to
search gladly and willingly for the sick and poor of his parish,
to relieve their necessities; to frame his own life and the lives
of his family according to the doctrine of Christ; to be diligent in
prayers and in reading of the Holy Scriptures, laying aside the study
of the world and the flesh,' and yet knows that he intends to enjoy
himself in the things of this world--a very hireling who forgets that
his master's eye is upon him. It is a fearful thing. It is coming before
the Almighty with a lie. Nay, hear me a little longer. The clergyman's
is a glorious and exalted path, the happiest I know of on earth. It is
his especially to bear the message of salvation from a tender Saviour.
It is his to go forth with the balm of heavenly comfort, to bind up the
wounds sin and grief have made. It is his indeed pre-eminently to dwell
in the house of his God, to be hid away from the world and its many
allurements; but as every great blessing brings with it a great
responsibility, so the responsibility of the minister of Christ is
very great, and if he turn from the commandment delivered to him, his
condemnation is fearful. I should be much obliged to you, Meredith,
if you would read me these verses."
Meredith took the open Bible from Mr. Wilkinson's hand, and read aloud
the first ten verses of the 34th of Ezekiel.
"In this holy word, which must be the standard for all our conduct,
we do not find that the Almighty looks upon this office as a light
thing. In the thirty-third chapter there is so solemn a warning to
the careless watchman, that I wonder any one who does not steadfastly
intend to give himself to his sacred duties, can read it and not
tremble. 'If the watchman see the sword come, and blow not the trumpet,
and the people be not warned; if the sword come, and take away any
person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but HIS
BLOOD WILL I REQUIRE AT THE WATCHMAN'S HAND. So thou, O son of man,
I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou
shalt hear the word at my mouth, and warn them from me. When I say
unto the wicked, Oh wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost
not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die
in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand.' This is
the second solemn warning to the same purport given to Ezekiel; for,
in the third chapter, we find the same thing; and these are awful
truths engraved in God's everlasting word, by which we are to be
judged at the last day. You must excuse me," continued Mr. Wilkinson,
and his eyes glistened with emotion; "but I am a watchman, and I must
warn you of the fearful sin you are contemplating."
Meredith was silent. He was impressed with the earnestness displayed by
Mr. Wilkinson, and the solemn truths he had brought before him--truths
it would be well if all those who are looking forward to entering the
sacred ministry would seriously and prayerfully consider.
The tea bell ringing at this moment, the conversation was necessarily
concluded; but that evening after prayers, Mr. Wilkinson put into
Meredith's hand a piece of paper, on which were written the following
references: Num. xvi. 9; Isaiah lii. 7, 8; lxii. 6, 7; Jer. xxiii. 1-4;
Ezek. iii. 17-21; xxxiii. 1-9; xxxiv. 1-10; John xxi. 15-17;
1 Cor. ix. 16, 17, 19; and both the Epistles to Timothy; and underneath
the references was the Apostle's injunction, "Meditate upon these things;
give thyself wholly to them, that thy profiting may appear unto all."
When Louis was fairly in bed that night, he was called on for a story.
"Tell us the end of the princess Rosetta, Louis," cried Frank;
"I want to know how the fair animal got out of her watery bedroom,
and whether the green dog ever got his nose nipped by the oysters
he was so fond of snapping up."
"Yes, Rosetta!" cried several voices. "Did she ever get to the king
of the peacocks, Louis?"
"No, no," cried Reginald; "it is not fit for Sunday."
"I am sure we have been doing heaps of good things to-day,"
replied Frank, lightly; "come, Louis."
"I must not," said Louis, gently. "I do not like telling stories at
night at all, because I think we ought not to fill our heads with such
things when we are going to sleep; but I must not tell you Rosetta
to-night, Frank."
"Get along," said Frank, contemptuously; "you are not worth the snap
of a finger. All you are ever worth is to tell stories, and now you
must needs set up for a good, pious boy--you, forsooth of all others!"
"Indeed, Frank, you will not understand me."
"If you dare to say any more to Louis," cried Reginald, "I'll make you--"
Louis' hand was upon Reginald's mouth.
Frank replied, tauntingly, "Ay, finish your work this time, that's
right. Come boys, never mind, I'll tell you a wonderful tale."
"I think we'd better not have one to-night," said one; "perhaps
Mortimer's right."
"Don't have one, don't!" said Louis, starting up; "do not let us
forget that all this day is God's day, and that we must not even
speak our own words."
"None of your cant," cried one.
"Well, I propose that we go to sleep, and then we shan't hear what
he says," said Meredith. "They talk of his not having pluck enough
to speak, but he can do it when he pleases," he remarked in a low
tone to his next companion, Frank Digby, who rejoined,
"More shame for him, the little hypocrite. I like real religious
people, but I can't bear cant."
What Frank's idea of real religion was, may be rather a difficult
matter to settle. Probably it was an obscure idea to himself,--an
idea of certain sentiment and no vitality.