promised solemnly to live as you thought a little while ago that you
would live. And if I were to break my promise, Reuben, I know that you
would never renew yours."
"I believe you are speaking God's truth, Adele," said he.
The summer months passed by, and for Adele the little table at the
parsonage had become as bleak and cheerless as the autumn. Miss Johns
maintained the rigid severity of manner, with which she had undertaken
to treat the outcast child, with a constancy that would have done credit
to a worthier intent. Even the good Doctor was unconsciously oppressed
by it, and by the spinster's insistence upon the due proprieties was
weaned away from his old tenderness of speech; but every morning and
every evening his voice trembled with emotion as he prayed for God's
grace and mercy to descend upon all sinners and outcasts.
He had written to Maverick, advising him of the great grief which his
confession had caused him, and imploring him to make what reparation he
yet might do, by uniting in the holy bonds of matrimony with the erring
mother of his child. He had further advised him that his apprehensions
with regard to Reuben were, so far as was known, groundless. He further
wrote,--"Upon consultation with Miss Johns, who is still at the head of
our little household, I am constrained to ask that you take as early a
time as may be convenient to relieve her of the further care of your
daughter. Age is beginning to tell somewhat upon my sister; and the
embarrassment of her position with respect to Adele is a source, I
believe, of great mental distress."
All which the good Doctor honestly believed,--upon Miss Eliza's
averment,--and in his own honest way he assured his friend, that, though
his sins were as scarlet, he should still implore Heaven in his favor,
and should part from Adele--whenever the parting might come--with real
grief, and with an outpouring of his heart.
As for Reuben, a wanton levity had come over him in those latter days of
summer that galled the poor Doctor to the quick, and that strangely
perplexed the observant spinster. It was not the mischievous spirit of
his boyhood revived again, but a cold, passionless, determined levity,
such as men wear who have secret griefs to conceal. He talked in a free
and easy way about the Doctor's Sunday discourses, that fairly shocked
the old people of the parish; rumor said that he had passed some
unhallowed jokes with the stolid Deacon Tourtelot about his official
duties; and it was further reported that he had talked open infidelity
with a young physician who had recently established himself in Ashfield,
and who plumed himself--until his tardy practice taught him better--upon
certain arrogant physiological notions with regard to death and disease
that were quite unbiblical. Long ago the Doctor had given over open
expostulation; every such talk seemed to evoke a new and more airy and
more adventurous demon in the backslidden Reuben. The good man half
feared to cast his eye over the books he might be reading. If it were
Voltaire, if it were Hume, he feared lest his rebuke and anathema should
give a more appetizing zest.
But he prayed--ah, how he prayed! with the dead Rachel in his
thought--as if (and this surely cannot be Popishly wicked)--as if she,
too, in some sphere far remote, might with angel voice add tender
entreaty to the prayer, whose burden, morning after morning and night
after night, was the name and the hope of her boy.
And Adele? Well, Reuben pitied Adele,--pitied her subjection to the iron
frowns of Miss Eliza; and almost the only earnest words he spoke in
those days were little quiet words of good cheer for the French girl.
And when Miss Eliza whispered him, as she did, that the poor child's
fortune was gone, and her future insecure, Reuben, with a brave sort of
antagonism, made his words of cheer and good-feeling even more frequent
than ever. But about his passing and kindly attentions to Adele there
was that air of gay mockery which overlaid his whole life, and which
neither invited nor admitted of any profound acknowledgement. His
kindest words--and some of them, so far as mere language went, were
exuberantly tender--were met always by a half-saddened air of
thankfulness and a little restrained pressure of the hand, as if Adele
had said,--"Not in earnest yet, Reuben! Earnest in nothing!"
WIND THE CLOCK.
Warden, wind the clock again;
Mighty years are going on,
Through the shadow and the dream,
And the happy-hearted dawn.
Wind again, wind again,--
Fifty hundred years are gone.
Through the harvest and the need,
Wealthy June and dewy May,
Grew the year from the old,
Grows to-morrow from to-day.
Wind again, wind again,--
Who can keep the years at bay?
Four-and-twenty conjurers
Lie in wait on land and sea,
Plucking down the startled ship,
Bud-embroidering the tree.
Wind again, wind again,--
We have neither ship nor tree.
Four-and-twenty kings to come
Up the never-vacant stair,--
Four-and-twenty dead go down;
Follow, sacred song and prayer.
Wind again, wind again,--
Warden, why delaying there?
To his interrupted dream
Comes the long-entreated day.
What are lesser words to him?
Sweet pursuing voices say,--
"Warden, wind, wind again,
Up the ever-golden way."
Other hands will wind the clock
While the frequent years go on,
Never noting need or name
Nor the rapture of the dawn.
Wind again, wind again,
Ere the given year be gone.
THE KINGDOM COMING.
If one looks to the individual for proof of the power of Christianity,
he will generally look in vain. Creeds differ; but of persons from the
same rank in life, one is, on the whole, apparently about as good as
another. If we are virtuous where we are not tempted, liberal in matters
concerning which we are indifferent, reticent when we have nothing to
say,--in one word, pleasant when we are pleased,--it is all that our
best friends have any reason to expect of us. What religion does for a
man may be great, and even radical, from his near point of view; but
from the world's position it is scarcely visible, and is often wholly
lost in the more palpable influences of temperament and circumstance.
But when we look at society, we can see that some silent agency is at
work, slowly, but surely, attuning our life to finer issues than the
Golden Ages knew. The hidden leaven of Christianity is working its
noiseless way through the whole lump. Christendom is on a higher plane
than Pagandom, and is still ascending. In the stress of daily life, we
are sometimes tempted to lose heart, and cry, "Who shall show us any
good for all this toil and watch and struggle?"--but in calmer moments,
looking back over the Difficult Hills, we cannot fail to see that we
have gained ground. The sacredness of humanity is gradually overtopping
the prerogatives of class. More and more clearly man asserts himself,
the end of every good, the standard by which every change is to be
judged. With many an ebb, the tide of all healthful and helpful force is
flooding our associated life; and the brotherhood of the race attests
itself by many infallible signs.
But they are not always nor only found where they are sought.
Workmanship does not show to the best advantage in workshops. The din
and whirl of machinery confuse us. We need to see the wonderful engine
in actual operation, the beautiful ornament fitly placed, before we can
decide finally upon its character. The churches have been the workshops
of Christianity. There it has been received, fused, hammered, polished,
fashioned for all human needs; but nothing less than the whole world is
the true theatre of its activity. Not what it has done for the Church,
but what it has done, is doing, and purposes to do for humanity, is the
measure of its merit. Not upon the mitre of the priest, but upon the
bells of the horses, is the millennial day to see inscribed "Holiness
unto the Lord!"
Since, then, the kingdom of God cometh not with observation, we need not
look for fearful sights and great signs in the heavens. They are but
false prophets who cry, "Lo, here!" or "Lo, there!" when the still,
small voice is whispering all the while, "The kingdom of God is within
you," Yes, within this framework of society, in the midst of this busy,
trivial, daily life, which seems so full of small cares and selfish
seeking, the Divine Spirit lives and works, and will yet raise it to the
heights of heavenly fellowship. It breathes in the thousand methods
devised by ingenuity to lighten the burdens of labor, by benevolence to
soothe away the bitterness of sorrow, by taste to beautify the homes of
poverty. The little photograph leaves that flutter down into every
household in the land are a great cloud of witnesses showing us that
science is but the handmaid of God, whose service is to bear to all the
blessings once reserved for a class. In the old time it was only the few
who could fix for future years the beloved features of a friend. Now
every fond mother may transcribe from birthday to birthday the face of
her darling, to note its beautiful changes, and every lowliest bride
preserve for her children's children the bloom of her budding youth.
The religious world has hardly learned to look for its millennium in
the horsecars. Nevertheless, its signs are there, not to be mistaken.
The poor sewing-woman feels their presence, if she does not trace them
to their source. The humble invalid knows them, the domestic drudge, the
ailing, puny child, the swart and stalwart workman, who ride their one
or ten miles as swiftly and smoothly as a millionaire, and are set down
at shop or home, or among the freshness and fragrance and song of the
beautiful country. The horsecar is the poor man's private carriage, as
carefully fashioned for his convenience, as tidy and comfortable and
comely, as if it cost him hundreds of dollars, instead of the daily
sixpence. With a lifted finger he commands his coachman, who waits
promptly on his wish. Without care, he is cared for. Without capital, he
controls capital. Free society does more for him than the richest despot
does for the enslaved people whom the instinct of self-preservation
forces him to cajole, and does it, too, without any infringement upon
his manhood. We call it energy, enterprise, modern conveniences. It _is_
the millennium.
But these matters are under full headway. Science and self-interest have
taken them in hand, and there is no danger that they will not be carried
out to their farthest beneficial limits. There is another measure just
struggling into uncertain life,--a measure which may be helped by
attention, and hindered by neglect,--a measure that appeals less
directly to self-advantage, but which is yet so fraught with good or
evil, according as it is carefully studied, clearly understood, and
wisely managed, or suffered to fail through inattention, or to lead an
irregular, riotous life for a few years and then to be abated as a
nuisance, that we cannot safely pass it by. I refer to the movement
making itself felt in various ways, but aiming always to give more
leisure to the working classes. In one phase, it is seeking to reduce
the hours of daily labor; in another, it is trying to close the shops on
Saturday afternoons. In both, it is a step so radically in the right
direction, that we can but give thanks for the opportunity, while we
tremble lest it may not be firmly and wisely laid hold of. In planning
for human weal, one is met on every side by the want of leisure. Every
day and every hour comes so burdened with its material necessities, that
the wants of heart and mind and spirit can find no adequate
gratification. The work goes on satisfactorily; wealth accumulates;
farms are well tilled; mechanism becomes more and more exquisite; but
drunkenness, profligacy, stupidity, insanity, and crime undermine the
man, for whom all these things are and were created, and to whom they
ought to bring wisdom and power and peace. Thus our boasted improvements
become our folly. All labor-saving machinery that does not save labor in
the sense of giving leisure, that merely increases the quantity or
improves the quality of that which is produced, but does not redound to
the improvement of the producer, rather contributes to his degradation,
has somewhere a fatal flaw. Mind may legitimately fashion matter into a
machine; but when it would reduce mind also to the same level, it steps
beyond its province. When it fails to continue through the sphere of
mind the impulse it communicates to matter,--when its benefit stops with
fabric, falling short of the man who stands over it,--it lags behind its
mission, and is so far unsuccessful.
The movement for diminishing the number of laboring hours has already
been brought before the notice of the Massachusetts Legislature,--has
been made the subject of careful and extensive inquiry by a special
committee, who have returned a report so able, eloquent, and convincing
as to leave little to be said in that direction,--and is now, for closer
and more exhaustive investigation, in the hands of a committee whose
names are a guaranty that nothing will be left undone to secure a just
and righteous decision, for which let all Christian people devoutly
pray. In the intelligence and virtue of its workingmen lies the hope of
the Republic. If the proposed change shall tend to promote that
intelligence and virtue, it will be the part of true patriotism to
effect it. Whether this particular means be or be not the wisest for the
end in view, the path of the higher life unquestionably lies in this
direction. The accomplishment of the greatest results with the least
outlay of time and toil is the problem in physical science. With the
leisure and strength thus redeemed from lower needs, to build up a royal
manhood is the problem of moral science.
The Saturday half-holiday is less an affair of law and legislature,
depends more upon private men and women, but is of scarcely less
importance. It is not to be disguised that there are difficulties and
dangers attending the plan. It is as yet probably regarded only as an
experiment, though certain classes of mercantile men have been trying it
for years, with what satisfaction their persistence in it indicates.
Undoubtedly there are many young men who misspend their holiday, and
many more who do not know what to do with it, and who will finally fall
into mischief through sheer idleness. The hours drag so heavily, that
they half conclude they would about as soon be at work as at liberty
with nothing to do. Possibly there are more who abuse their holiday than
use it advantageously. But just as far as this trouble extends, so far
it shows, not the harm of leisure, but the sore straits we have been
brought to for lack of it. There is no sadder result of the disuse of a
faculty than the decadence of that faculty. Time is the essential gift
of God to man,--essential not merely to providing for his physical
wants, but to forming his character, to developing his powers, to
cultivating his taste, to elevating his life. Is it, then, that he has
devoted so disproportionate a share of that time to one of its uses, and
that not the noblest, that he has lost the desire and the ability to
devote any of it to its higher uses? Have young men given themselves to
buying and selling till they have no interest in books, in Nature, in
Art, in manly sport and exercise? Then surely it behooves us at once to
change all this. No man can have a well-balanced mind, a good judgment,
who is interested in nothing but his business. If, when released from
that for a half-day each week, he is listless, aimless, discontented, it
is a sure sign that undue devotion to it has corroded his powers, and is
making havoc of his finer organization.
It is to be feared that many of our young men do not know what
recreation means. They confound it with riot. Fierce driving, hard
drinking, violence, and vice they understand; but with quiet, refining,
soothing, and strengthening diversions they have small acquaintance.
This is very largely the fault of the community in which they live. Do
Christian families in our large cities feel the obligations which they
are under towards the young men who come among them? I believe that a
very large part of the immorality, the irreligion, the skepticism and
crime into which young men fall is due to their being so coldly and
cruelly let alone by Christian families. A boy comes up from the
country, where every one knows him and greets him, into the solitude of
the great city. He has left home behind him, and finds no new home to
receive him. When he is released from his work in shop or counting-room,
nothing more inviting awaits him than the silent room in the dreary
boarding-house. He misses suddenly, and at a most sensitive age, the
graces and unthinking kindnesses of home, the thousand little teasings
and pettings, the common interests, and tendernesses, that he never
thought of till he lost them. He is surrounded by men and boys all bent
on their several ways. He must have amusement. It is as necessary to him
as daily food. What wonder, then, if he accepts the first that offers?
And if Satan, as usual, is beforehand with his invitations, what shall
hinder him from following Satan? The saloon, warmed and lighted, and
enlivened with music or merry talk, is more attractive than the dingy,
solitary room; and if his feet do slip now and then, who is the worse
for it? He will never write it home, and there is nobody in the city who
will discover it; provided he is prompt at his business, no one will
meddle with his leisure hours. And if full-grown men are found to need
the restraining influences of wife and child and neighbor, and to plunge
into brutality whenever they form a community by themselves, what can
prevent boys, when cast adrift, from drifting into sin? Genius is
supreme, but genius is the heritage of but few; while passion and
appetite, love of society and amusement, need of watchfulness and
susceptibility to temptation, belong to all. "I don't like wine," said a
young man,--"I hate the taste of it; but what am I to do? A lot of
fellows carousing isn't the best thing in the world; but I can't stay
moping in my room alone all the time. There's my violin. Well, I took it
out once or twice, but it was no go. When I could go into the parlor
after supper, and mother round, and Bess to sing, it was worth while;
but there is no fun in fiddling to yourself by wholesale. Besides, I
suppose it bores the rest to have a fellow sawing away." And this was a
fine, handsome, healthy young man, all ready to be made a warm friend, a
patriotic citizen, a pure and happy man, and just as ready to become a
reckless, dissipated, sorrow-bringing failure. And, alas! where were the
hands that should have helped him? Alas! alas! what are the hands that
will _not_ be backward to lay hold on him?
If any holiday is to be made useful, if young men are to be saved from
ruin, saved to their mothers and sisters and wives, saved to themselves,
to their country, and to God, Christian people must bestir themselves.
Young Men's Christian Associations may be ever so efficient, but they
cannot do everything. The work that is to be done cannot be wrought by
associations alone, nor by young men, nor by any men. It needs fathers
and mothers and sons and daughters and firesides. The only way to keep
boys from the haunts of vice is to open to them the haunts of virtue.
Give them access to loving families, to happy homes. Nothing can supply
this want. No attendance at any church is to be for a moment compared to
attendance at the sacred shrine of an affectionate family. But when, a
little while ago, a young man, who had been for years a clerk in Boston,
was asked in how many families he was acquainted, he replied quickly,
"Not one." Yet he was a member of an Orthodox Congregational Church,
which, I take it, is to be as good as anybody can be in this world, and
a regular attendant upon religious services in one of the most
influential Orthodox churches in Boston. Sunday after Sunday he occupied
his seat, yet neither pastor nor people--not one of all that great
congregation--ever took him by the hand and constrained him to sit by
their hearthstones, ever welcomed him to the warmth and gladness and
gentle endearments of their homes. What is the communion of saints? If
that young man had brought a letter of introduction from some
distinguished person, would they have thus let him go in and out among
them unnoticed and uncared for? But to church-members, surely, a
certificate of church-membership ought to be as weighty as a letter of
introduction. A Christian church should be so managed that it should be
impossible for any attendant upon its services to escape observation;
and it should be so trained to its social duties that every person who
takes shelter in its sanctuary should at least have the opportunity to
find shelter in its homes. I think it would be well, even, that those
who are present at a single church service should be courteously noticed
and encouraged to repeat the visit. If the church is indeed God's house,
let the servants of the Master dispense His hospitalities in such a
manner as befits His divine character, remembering that the world judges
of Him through them. Let fathers and mothers be on the watch to speak
kindly words to such homeless wanderers as may roam within the circle of
their influence. If a stranger is introduced into the family pew, let
him be no longer a stranger, but a guest. Let him not remain during the
service and pass out at its close without some brotherly or fatherly
recognition, without some assurance by word or look or little attention
that his presence there gave pleasure. This is a beginning of home
feeling.
It would be a fit thing, if every country pastor should give to every
boy who leaves his parish a letter of introduction to some clergyman in
the city whither he is going, so that there should be no
interregnum,--no time when the boy should be utterly unfriended, loosed
from restraint, and a prey to unclean and hateful things. But this is
not done, and we should not wait for it. The Prince of Evil never stands
upon etiquette. He is instant in season and out of season; and those who
would circumvent him must be equally prompt and vigilant. The Church
should weave its meshes of watchful care and love and friendship so
close that nobody can slip through unseen.