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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
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SCENES IN THE WEST,
OR
The Sunday-School
AND
TEMPERANCE.
[Illustration]
BY A MISSIONARY.
PHILADELPHIA:
LUTHERAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION,
42 NORTH NINTH STREET.
1873.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by the
LUTHERAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States in
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
Lancaster, Pa.:
INQUIRER PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY,
Stereotypers and Printers.
PREFACE.
The author of this volume has brought together a few incidents in
_real_ life to illustrate the power of godliness in the individual, and
the blessings of the Sunday-school, the influence of the prayer-meeting
and the cause of temperance in the church and in the community.
That the God of all our mercies may bless this little book to the
reader, is the prayer of the author.
[Illustration: CONTENTS]
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. THE MISSIONARY 13
II. MISFORTUNES 27
III. RELIEF OBTAINED 39
IV. AN APPOINTMENT 45
V. THE MISSIONARY PREACHES 56
VI. MR. STEELE’S MEETING 62
VII. MR. MASON AND MR. WILSON 69
VIII. MISSIONARY VISITS 78
IX. OPPOSITION 84
X. SUNDAY-SCHOOL ORGANIZED--LOCAL PREACHER 92
XI. MR. KERR AND HIS FAMILY 98
XII. THE TEMPERANCE CAUSE 109
XIII. MR. TRUMAN--MISSIONARY’S DEPARTURE 118
XIV. WORKINGS OF THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL AND TEMPERANCE SOCIETY 123
XV. GEORGE AND MARY 134
XVI. MR. BROWN’S FAMILY 140
XVII. MISSIONARY AGAIN VISITS THE WEST 145
XVIII. DEATH 152
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SCENES IN THE WEST.
CHAPTER I.
_THE MISSIONARY._
“The melancholy days had come,
The saddest of the year.”
All nature seemed to be resting in a quiet dreamy slumber. The bee
had well nigh laid up its winter store, and many of the birds were
preparing to leave for more genial climes in the sunny south. All these
were but the harbingers of the cold storms that were lingering behind
the snow-covered mountains of the north. Indian summer, the season of
romance, like the life of a humble Christian, leaves its loveliest
scenes to its departing hours. It was in the midst of these balmy days
that you might have seen a traveler with a worn satchel in one hand
and a staff in the other coming up a narrow lane leading to the home
of a prosperous Western settler. He walked slowly, for he had left
behind him many weary miles; his countenance, though calm, was pale and
languid; yet his eye seemed to bespeak the hope that here he might find
the much-needed rest.
Two men were standing beside the gate at the end of the lane when the
stranger came up. The one was a kindly disposed person with but little
force of character, and deficient in moral courage, whom we shall know
as Mr. Kerr. The other, whose name was Steele, was the owner of the
premises.
He was a large man, selfish and resolute, a conceited formalist,
bigoted, exceedingly headstrong, and greatly prejudiced against all
Christian zeal.
No sooner did Mr. Steele notice the approach of the stranger than he
turned to Mr. Kerr and exclaimed: “There, I’ll bet you, comes that
Sunday-school, temperance loafer I’ve heard so much of lately. I reckon
he expects to get in here; but I tell you, sir, my ‘shanty’ don’t hold
the like of him, while I’m boss here, ‘that’s said!’” This was uttered
with emphatic bitterness. To this passionate outburst Mr. Kerr ventured
a little palliation by the remark that he had heard that in the other
settlement the people seemed to like the missionary very well.
“_You_ would have nothing to do with his nonsense, would you?” retorted
Mr. Steele with a look of scorn.
“No,” feebly and insincerely muttered Mr. Kerr, “we have got along
so far without it, and I guess we can get along without it a little
further.”
“That’s my ticket,” sharply added Mr. Steele.
By this time the stranger had reached the gate. A calm, pleasant smile
lit up his pale countenance; and he accosted them with,
“Good evening, friends.”
“Good evening, sir,” responded Mr. Kerr.
“How d’ye do, sir,” thundered out Mr. Steele.
“This has been a very pleasant day,” ventured the traveler.
“Yes, sir,” curtly replied Mr. Steele.
“I am very tired,” continued the stranger; “could I stay with you
to-night?”
“You are the fellow who goes about lecturing on temperance, and getting
up Sunday-schools, aint you?” sarcastically rejoined Mr. Steele, his
face reddening.
“That is my calling,” meekly added the man of God.
“Then you don’t stay all night in my house; I don’t harbor fellows who
are too lazy to work,” sneeringly answered the excited Mr. Steele.
“But I am very tired, and my head aches badly; I’ll pay you well.”
“Cant help it. The sooner you make tracks the better,” retorted the
unfeeling man.
“I am afraid it will storm to-night,” continued the missionary,
pointing to a dark cloud which was looming up in the west.
“You might have stayed at home and minded your own business, instead
of minding other people’s, and kept out of this trouble,” replied Mr.
Steele, with a look so severe that the poor wanderer lost all hope of
any comfort or favor from this seemingly inhospitable dwelling; so he
inquired how far it was to the next house.
“That depends entirely upon which way you go,” mockingly answered the
hard-hearted man, with a wink to Mr. Kerr, and a conceited smile at the
unfeeling wit he had displayed.
“I expect to continue my labors westward,” gently added the missionary.
His soul was grieved at the hardness of this man’s heart, and for a
moment he felt like looking upon his persecutor with anger. But he
remembered that even his Lord and Master was mocked and derided; that
“when He was reviled, He reviled not again; but as a lamb before his
shearers is dumb, so He opened not his mouth.” And the humble follower
of the Man of Sorrows in silence offered up the prayer, “Father,
forgive them, they know not what they do.”
The door of common humanity being closed against him, he made up his
mind to continue his journey, let the dangers and privations be what
they might. An angel seemed to whisper, “I will lead thee in the way in
which thou shalt go;” so he took courage.
Being thirsty, he ventured to ask for a drink of water.
“You can go to the spring,” was the abrupt answer, and the cruel man
turned upon his heel, and in company with Mr. Kerr passed on to the
barn, leaving the suffering one standing by the gate alone.
But George, a lad of about ten years, and Mary, a little flower of
seven summers, had looked on and listened with the curiosity common
to children. Their hearts were filled with pity toward the poor man;
and, when even a drink of water was denied him, the inherent kindness,
implanted in all our natures, was instantly awakened.
In a moment, as the missionary turned the corner of the yard, the two
children met him each with “a cup of cold water.” “Here is good fresh
water, please drink,” said the little ones. His heart was melted at
this unexpected exhibition of kindness; and invoking a blessing upon
the dear children, he raised the cup to his lips and was refreshed.
He then opened his satchel, and gave each child a picture card and
Sunday-school paper, also cards for the men, together with a neat
little tract for their mother. Bidding them good-by, he with a sigh
resumed his lonely journey.
The children, happy in having done a kindness, hurried to their
mother, and were soon showing and admiring the papers and cards; she,
mother-like, very naturally shared their pleasure, but thought of the
stranger with a pang of regret, for she feared that he would take the
road leading into an unsettled region, infested with wild beasts and
roving Indians. After admiring the pictures, she told the children all
she knew of the Sunday-school, for which these beautiful things were
made, at the same time hoping that her husband’s opposition to them
might be removed.
“I wish there was Sunday-school here,” said George.
“Won’t there be Sunday-school here, mother?” exclaimed both at once.
“I’m afraid not,” said their mother, sorrowfully, knowing the hostility
of many of the neighbors toward anything of the kind.
“Why not, mother?” innocently asked the children.
This was one of those questions children often ask, and which it is so
hard to answer.
“I don’t know,” she replied, evasively, adding, “go give your father
and Mr. Kerr their cards. They are at the barn.”
Hurrying out, their noisy delight soon arrested the attention of the
men.
“What in the world is up now?” wondered their father.
“See here, father, see here!” exclaimed the children, holding out the
cards.
“Who gave you these?” said he, reaching out his hand for the gifts, and
suspecting the source.
“The man at the gate; we gave him a drink, and he gave us these
(showing their cards) and a little book for mother, and this one for
you and that one for Mr. Kerr.”
Looking for a moment at the engraving, he read, “For I was an
hungered, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I
was a stranger, and ye took me in.”
Instantly the terrible reproof, associated with these words, awakened
the man’s slumbering conscience. Writhing under its force he tried to
construe the innocent gift into an insult; then flinging it to the
ground he stamped his foot upon it.
At this exhibition of anger all the joy of the children vanished.
Mary began to cry, and George wondered what there was about the card to
offend his father.
In the meantime, Mr. Kerr had read his card. The words were, “And
_these_ shall go away into everlasting punishment, but the righteous
into life eternal.”
“What have you got?” sneeringly asked Mr. Steele, of his companion. Mr.
Kerr read the text with some emotion.
“Just what I expected! he thought to give us a cut,” said the angry
man, at the same time adding many abusive words.
Mr. Kerr tried to assent to the remarks, but the words upon the card
had touched his heart; and he felt like hating himself for having
yielded, against his convictions, to the unreasonableness of his
neighbor toward an unoffending stranger. Putting the card in his
pocket, he was compelled to be an unwilling listener to the tirade of
a would-be Christian (for Mr. Steele was a member of church) against
prayer-meetings, temperance societies and Sunday-schools.
As soon as practicable, Mr. Kerr left for home; his conscience still at
work, accusing him of cowardice, and partaking of another’s sin. “And
these shall go away into everlasting punishment,” like a poisoned arrow
was festering in his heart, until his guilty imagination conceived that
the card contained his eternal doom.
Meeting his wife at the door of his house, he handed her the fatal
card.
“Oh, the kind stranger gave you this!” she exclaimed with animation.
“He was here this afternoon, and gave each of us one of the same kind,
and left one for you. And then he prayed with us. I wish he would
settle here and get up a Sunday-school, of which he talked so much. I
believe he is one of the best of men.”
“I wish so too;” involuntarily broke from the full heart of the
stricken man; “I believe he is a good man. He came to Mr. Steele’s a
few hours ago, but was turned off.”
“Why didn’t you bring him home with you?” she asked.
“Well, I know I ought to have done so; but I was afraid of Mr. Steele,
who you know hates all such people.” To avoid any more questions on
the subject, he asked to see what the man had left for him. The card
was soon handed him, and he read: “Fear not them which kill the body,
but are not able to kill the soul; but rather fear Him who is able to
destroy both soul and body in Hell.”
This was another arrow from the quiver of the Almighty. His wife
soon detected the change that had come over him, and with becoming
solicitude endeavored to find out the cause; but in this her efforts
were evaded.
“I was afraid of Mr. Steele,” thought he, “who would not even dare
to kill my body--whilst I did not fear Him who is able to destroy my
soul.” Leaving him in his sorrow, we will return to Mr. Steele.
The children, mortified and discouraged, had left the barn, and gone to
their mother for consolation in their disappointment. This was always
afforded them; for never was a mother more kind to her little ones, and
yet more decided in her endeavors to train them in the right way.
Mr. Steele, being conscious of having done wrong, tried to rid himself
of his unpleasant feelings, by bustling about, doing first this, then
that, for relief. It was late before he entered the house, and lest he
should be suspected of regretting what he had done, he confronted his
wife with, “I wonder what kind of trash that loafer left here with you
and the children to-day? I guess he wants to set up an agency here.”
“They are in the bureau drawer, there,” said his wife, “shall I get
them for you?”
“No, I don’t want to see any more of the trash;” and, going into
another room, he sat down to read a political speech. But it failed
to interest him. The coming darkness, the looming up of heavy clouds
in the distance, the stranger out in the pathless wilds, the abused
privilege of doing good to--perhaps, after all--one of the followers
of the Redeemer; the text on the card with its indirect reproof, were
thoughts which crowded themselves upon his mind. For a moment he wished
that he had given the stranger shelter; but prejudice had too long held
sway to be thus easily set aside. He had taken a stand, and he would
maintain it, let the consequences be what they would.
[Illustration]