CHAPTER VI.
THE SIMPLE PRAYER.
THE very next day he called again.
"It's all right," he said. "The girl is free to go where she chooses. Now I want to ask you a question. Where do you go to church?"
"I attend -Church. Dr. M- is my pastor."
"But you're not a member."
"Oh, yes! I have been for a great many years."
His countenance expressed real disappointment. "I could have sworn you didn't believe in such humbug."
"O Mr. Lambert, don't say so!" Marion'! eyes filled with tears. She had always supposed that he was a Christian and a member of some church.
"I've never seen any cant about you. In fact, I took it for granted that you were a good, common-sense girl. Why, all that nonsense about joining a church and taking an oath that you believe such and such doctrines has exploded long ago!"
"Don't you believe any doctrines?"
"I believe this: that it's the life we must look to. Why, I've seen men,—and women too,—who swallowed the whole creed, covers and all, stiff and straitlaced, thought it a sin to smile, but who wouldn't give a penny to a poor man to save his soul. I'm sick of this talk about doctrine. Give me the life,—that's what I look at."
"But how shall we know how to live unless we study God's Word? We have exact directions there,—and these are what I call doctrines. I am sure you believe that Jesus Christ came to set us an example of a perfect life."
"I'll allow that for the sake of argument."
"Did He ever sin?"
"Not that I ever heard of, but I don't know much about it."
"Can you name any other man who ever lived without sin?"
"Perhaps not. I always said the world was up side down. But what does that prove? I don't know what you are driving at."
"Then the claim of Jesus Christ himself, that He was the Son of God, in a peculiar sense,—that no man can come to the Father except through Him,—is a claim we must acknowledge."
"I don't know anything about that. You are taking too much for granted."
"Why, if any other man should claim to be divine, saying, in plain terms, 'I and my Father are one,' he would be seized and punished for blasphemy. It would be monstrous, presumptuous in the last degree. The fact that Jesus Christ claimed that he was one with the Father, the fact that he was a sinless being, and could not therefore be such a wicked impostor, that he proved his assertion by his life, his teachings, and his power to work miracles, is the great central truth on which Christianity is based. If you read your Bible prayerfully, as I earnestly hope you do, you must concede so much."
Mr. Lambert twirled his glove, looked grave, and then said, "Well, what of that?"
"How do you suppose the world came to be upside down, Mr. Lambert?"
"Can't say. Can vouch for the fact, though. Everything and everybody is helter-skelter."
"Including Mr. Regy, I suppose."
"Yes; he is as bad as any of them."
"And needs a power out of himself to put him right."
"That's true."
"This power we have in our blessed Saviour. He came to save us from sin and from all its dismal consequences."
"Well, admit that too, for the sake of argument."
"Now, my dear friend," urged Marion, seizing his arm and gazing wistfully in his face, "believing so much, as I am sure you do, you have the very root and foundation of the Christian doctrine. A good life must and will grow out of such a belief. Jesus Christ, who was rich, became poor for our sakes. He sacrificed ease, comfort, home on earth, and all that makes life dear. I say nothing of the glories of heaven, the worship of myriads of holy beings, which He willingly exchanged for disgrace, ignominy, and death. I am only speaking now of Him in His human nature. He loved us to that extent He was willing to do and bear all this for us, to make us happy here and hereafter. We must acknowledge ourselves degraded indeed, if we are not willing to do something to show our appreciation of such love. What does He ask of us? Only that we return His love, and cherish kindly feelings toward each other. Love God, and our neighbor as ourselves. This is the life you so rightly urge that we must live. It flows naturally from the doctrine. Any other motives than love to God and to our fellows fail of power to help us live this life.
"You see I have not said a word about the theories that man, in different stages of the world, has built on these fundamental truths. There always has been and always will be different ways of explaining God's truth; but speculation is outside of fundamental truth. Man a sinner, Christ a Saviour, is enough for me. Any man, woman, or child, really desirous of showing his love to Christ, can find rules in God's Word to guide him in every emergency."
"About joining a certain church, for instance." There was an ill-concealed sneer in Mr. Lambert's voice.
"Yes, we have the example of companies of disciples gathering themselves together to recount what God had done for them. Our Saviour himself honored and showed His approbation of these gatherings by being present with them. The most affecting of all His dying messages to His disciples was that they should eat bread as a symbol of his body broken, and drink wine as a symbol of His blood shed for them. This was to be a continual reminder of what He had done. I can say from my own experience, that this communing with Christ in His sacrifice brings Him nearer to me not only as a Saviour but as a friend, or elder brother, than anything else could do."
"I don't see any Christianity in one soul de-crying another, and calling each other hard names."
"I don't see any Christianity in one man stealing his neighbor's coat, or his property of any kind. One act is as much Christian as the other. If the disciples of Christ would only live up to the example He set for us, one man would never decry or call his neighbor hard names merely because they differ on non-essentials.
"People's likes and dislikes are as wide apart as their countenances. Because one man has blue eyes, he needn't decry a man who has black. All that is required of him is that he shall use aright the eyes God has given him. One man is so constituted that in his worship of God he prefers liturgy and certain prescribed forms. This mode, which we call Episcopalian, helps his fervor, and the very forms assist him to keep his mind from wandering.
"Others find these written prayers, etc., irksome and monotonous: they like more stir and bustle; such become Methodists. God never expected or intended that we should all be patterned in the same mould. Social intercourse would be very tame if we were. Mr. Regy, for instance, has his own method of relieving the poor, and I have mine," she added, smiling.
"Mr. Regy is an old humbug," growled Mr. Lambert. "I'm always ashamed when I've been in his society. He's the most provoking man I'm acquainted with."
"And yet he is in a fair way to attain a high position: 'He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.'"
Mr. Lambert's face crimsoned, and he muttered some unintelligible words. He caught up his hat and cane in a hurry, when she said, tenderly,—
"May I say something to you, my dear friend?"
"Humph! That's cool! Here you've been driving into me with hammer and tongs, and now you ask very meekly, may I say something to you?' Well, say on; a few hits more or less won't kill me."
"It is only this, dear sir. When we accept Jesus Christ as our own personal Saviour, He will flood our souls with such peace and joy as we never before conceived. His love helps us to bear trials, to meet disappointment with true fortitude, to look forward without fear to the time when we shall walk through the dark valley. I shall pray daily that such love as this may fill your soul."
His face became so convulsed while she made this personal appeal that she was really alarmed. Putting a violent restraint on himself, he rallied and exclaimed in a light tone,—
"You were cut out for a theological professor I was not aware of this accomplishment." He would not notice the hand she held out to him, but with a gruff "Good day," left the room.
After his departure, Marion found herself so shaken that she could scarcely collect her thoughts. She went to her chamber, and with tears plead for her friend. "O God, show Thy self to him in the face of thy Son, Jesus Christ." This was the burden of her petitions.
Fortunately for her, this was the day of the week when the foreign mail came in. A letter from her dearest friend would restore her spirits. While she was waiting for it, thoughts of Mr. Lambert would intrude, and she was surprised that, knowing him so intimately as she had for some years, she was so little acquainted with his early life. "I wish I could comfort him as daughter would. Did he really disbelieve every thing, as he pretended?"
She at last put on her hat and, summoning Hepsey, went to call on Esther. She was recovering from her fright, and seemed relieved that she was freed from a bond which had proved such a burden to her.
"I advise her to go back to her old name again," explained Mrs. Cole. "Esther Sims she is to be from this time."
Miss Howard promised that Hepsey should accompany Esther to a clothing store, where suitable outfit would be provided for her, which she could pay for with her after-earnings.
"Am I to go into the cigar factory?" inquired Esther, with a shudder.
"Oh, no! You are to live with me. Hepsey has adopted you," laughing. "I can speak for her that she will be strict, but kind."
Esther looked up suddenly, as though she scarcely understood, but, seeing the bright smile on Miss Howard's face, her own grew radiant then, with a quick movement, she threw herself on her knees before the lady, while tears of joy ran down her cheeks.
"Poor child!" murmured Marion. "She has known so little the comfort of a home."
"Or having real friends to care for her," interrupted Hepsey, wiping her own eyes.
It was indeed a change in Esther's life, difficult for her, at least, to comprehend. For days after she went to live with her kind friends, she seemed to herself to be in a dream. Nothing made it seem so real as the prayers Mr. Mitchell offered when they all gathered around the family altar. As she told Hepsey afterward, she would go without food rather than to lose the opportunity of being present.
"Do you recollect a little prayer you taught us at the mission school, Miss Howard?"
This lady and Esther were sitting at their sewing when the child timidly asked the question. She was gradually becoming accustomed to kind words, losing the habit of starting, when suddenly addressed, as though she feared a blow.
Esther's hands trembled with eagerness as she asked the question.
"Do you mean the prayer which begins, 'Help me, dear Lord'?"
"Yes, ma'am." The child closed her eyes, bent her head forward just in the old way she had been taught, and repeated the whole prayer with a solemnity and fervor which deeply affected the hearer.
"Help me, dear Lord, this day, to be honest, faithful, and true toward my fellows, and above all to love Thee, blessed Saviour, with all my heart. Help me to remember that God sees all that I do, and hears all that I say, and that He is able to protect and guide all those who put their trust in Him. For Jesus Christ's sake, we ask this. Amen."
With a half-checked sob the child went on, gradually forgetting her timidity, and giving to her faithful teacher an insight into her poor, lonely, repressed life which was never forgotten.
"O Miss Howard! it frightens me to think how bad I was at the mission school. I used to whisper and set the girls to laughing, and waste my thread, and do so many naughty things. Miss Farnum ought to have put me out. But if she had," sighing, "I never should have learned that good prayer" (speaking with great awe) "and then what should I have done when I was in such trouble?
"I used to kneel in the corner and repeat it over and over till it seemed like I heard Jesus' voice say, 'I will, child.' Once when he"—she always alluded to her husband as he—"came home drunk, and beat me, I worried 'cause I couldn't get to my corner and kneel down. I did manage to sit up in bed and put my hands together as you told us, and I said it over and over in my heart. I thought, maybe as He knows all about us, He'd know how it hurt me to move, and wouldn't mind if I did cry and moan, 'cause I couldn't help it."
"My poor child. I am very glad you knew where to go for comfort. Did you ever try to form a prayer for yourself?"
"No, ma'am, not a prayer. I wasn't fit for it, you know; but when he was swearing and threatening to kill me,—not him, but rum,—I used to whisper, O God, pity me. Dear Jesus, take away the bad heart that makes him treat me so. Once after I had asked God to make him good and help me to be patient, he came and looked at me as I lay on the straw. He wasn't drunk then, and he said, 'I'm sorry for your sake you ever saw me, Esther.' His voice was real kind, like as though he pitied me. When he'd gone, I told Jesus about it. Was it naughty?" as she saw Miss Howard suddenly put her handkerchief to her eyes, "and I loved Jesus Christ so much that I forgot all the pain in my head and my side, so I fell asleep."
CHAPTER VII.
ESTHER'S FORGIVENESS.
NO one but a faithful Christian worker in Christ's vineyard can understand the encouragement such a revelation as that described in the last chapter is to those who have been for years sowing good seed and waiting for the harvest.
Esther, for years a member of the mission Sunday school,—light and frivolous, seemingly almost incapable of retaining any of the teachings repeated Sunday after Sunday in her hearing,—had been impressed by something in this simple prayer which the gracious spirit of God had fixed in her memory. It seemed to have been the "word in season," which had come back to her in her hours of deepest need, and proved to her in truth that God was really a loving Father watching over and pitying His sorrowing children.
Marion related the incident which had so deeply affected her to her friend in England adding, "I suppose I may learn from this a lesson of trust. We have the glorious privilege of sowing the seed in the hearts of these poor waifs. It is God's part, which He has promised to do, to help it to sink into the light soil and spring up to everlasting life.
"How many times I have heard people say, 'Such work does no good. The influences around these poor creatures are all against them. Once in seven days they repeat the command not to swear, not to steal, not to lie, and every hour of the other six days they hear the vilest oaths and are witness to a breach of every other command. If it were any truths but God's own truths, which He has promised to bless, we might well be discouraged; but in the case of Esther, when to human appearance all her surroundings were against her, one little seed of divine truth sank into her heart and bore such wonderful fruit that I take fresh courage and feel that I can labor with fresh diligence."
Never in all her acquaintance with Mrs. Douglass had our young friend enjoyed her visits there as now. The lady had recovered from her recent illness, and was able to take a short walk every day, supported by her daughter's arm. In Mrs. Cheriton's countenance there was an added beauty. Her eyes no longer flashed defiantly, as of old. Her head seemed to have forgotten its fashion of throwing itself back, as she haughtily refused any request which crossed her own inclinations. Upon her brow there was a sweet serenity that spoke to the observer of inward peace.
I have already spoken of the change in her treatment of her boy. Her resolutions made during that dreadful night were never forgotten. Conscience, once aroused, did not slumber again. She prayed earnestly that she might have help to command her own temper, and thus be able to teach Geenie to conquer his. The resemblance in many of her traits to her uncle Henreich, which has caused her mother hours of anxious forebodings, grew less and less every day. She saw that her daughter was making a great effort to correct her faults, and that in her government of her son she was kind but firm.
Formerly, as Marion went into their room, she was aware that her entrance had interrupted some unpleasant discussion. Mrs. Douglass would either be trembling with agitation or in tears while Mrs. Cheriton was flushed and defiant.
Now what a pleasing change! The two ladies sat at their work, regarding each other with the tender affection natural to the tie between them, while Eugene, sometimes boisterous indeed, was growing every day more willing to yield to authority.
One morning Marion called on her way to her pupils, who, by the way, were making their best efforts to show her they appreciated her self-denying efforts, as she had informed them she intended to resign her place in the school. She met Eugene, dressed for a walk, with a young companion from the house; and descending the stairs, found the ladies improving the time in reading an interesting book.
"I want you to tell Miss Howard about Geenie's prayer," remarked Mrs. Douglass to her daughter.
"I really hope," began Mrs. Cheriton, "that he understands what I have told him, that God sees us, though we can't see Him. Yesterday afternoon we were sitting here with the door open into the next room. I heard a noise like driving a nail, but supposed he was busy with his toys, and presently I heard his voice. We both listened and heard him say,—
"'God, don't look this way! Turn your eyes the other side. I'm very naughty, God. Don't see me! Look over there! I'm SO naughty, God, I don't want you to see.'"
"By this time I concluded it was best for me to see what the hammering meant. I went in and found him driving tacks into the trunk. He made no resistance when I took away the hammer, but looked ashamed when I said,—
"'O Geenie! How could you do so?'"
"You can imagine how he would have resisted once," added the boy's grandmother. "He would have kicked and screamed and tried to bite."
"I am thankful those days are past," murmured Marion, noticing the mother's flush of painful recollection caused by this allusion. "He will reward you for all the pains you take to control him."
"He has already," exclaimed the young mother, clasping her hands in her impulsive manner. "Geenie was never so affectionate as now. I do believe that he never loved me so well as when I had to punish him the other day. He hung around me, kissing me again and again. When he saw tears in my eyes, he took his own little handkerchief to wipe them away, saying repeatedly,—
"'Geenie will be good all the time, mamma. Geenie won't make mamma cry any more.'"
Marion was sometimes very curious to know whether, with the many obvious changes in Mrs. Cheriton's character, her feelings of aversion to her husband remained. She was well aware that many of the former disagreements with the mother arose from the fact that Mrs. Douglass urged Juliette to write kindly to her husband, from whom they had heard within a few months. To be sure, he had not sent them any intelligence, but in a newspaper accidentally falling under their notice, they had seen his name and knew he was then in New Orleans. If there was any return of affection on the wife's part, no one knew it, for on this subject she maintained the most rigid reserve.
Indeed, Mrs. Cheriton could never be called a frank person. It was only under the influence of very strong emotion that she gave utterance to her deepest feelings. From the first, Marion had noticed this trait, and wondered at it in one so young.
With another child-wife it was exactly the reverse. To her earliest friends—Miss Howard and Hepsey—Esther laid bare all that was in her childish and grateful heart.
Marion often came upon her, singing in a low musical voice, a refrain from the hymn sung at family prayers, and when spoken to she had a way of looking up with her large, deep-set eyes, and smiling, as she said softly,—
"I'm so happy, ma'am. Everybody is so kind to me." And this was while the great ridges on her slender body, caused by her husband's brutal beatings, were still unhealed. In regard to this husband she did not hesitate to speak, though at first with tears.
"Would it be wicked, ma'am, to let him think I belong to him now?"
She asked this one morning when she was braiding her young mistress's abundant tresses and could keep her own face concealed.
"What do you mean?" Marion was startled and spoke in a sharp voice.
"I mean, ma'am, he's shut up now and can't get rum; and he was kind, once; and wouldn't he feel better if he knew that I cared for him a little?"
"You said you did not care for him; that you never wanted to see him again. Would you go back to him? Would you submit to his ill treatment, his profanity and abuse?"
Esther was silent, and glancing in the mirror, her mistress saw that her eyes were full of tears. At last she said, in a tone of deep sorrow,—
"I'm sorry God heard me say that. I was angry at the bad rum, and I was afraid of being shut up in a cell with him. I—I asked Jesus to put my naughty feelings away. I—I found the place in your prayer-book, ma'am,—I mean the marrying place. It's solemn words, ma'am; I didn't know that marrying was such a solemn thing. I was too young, and I had no mother, and my mates thought it would be fun to be married, and I didn't remember that I should have to stay married whether I liked it or not and so when he praised me and said he loved me best of all the girls in our court, though they all wanted him, I said I'd go to the parson. I had no call, ma'am, to let him say that bad woman was my mother. She was old Nan, the worst woman among them all, but that is over now. I'd die before I'd do so naughty again, but, ma'am, the minister asked me those solemn words, and I said yes, so I've been thinking that," sighing heavily, "'for better for worse, till death us do part,' means that I do belong to him, ma'am and so I—" Her voice was stopped suddenly for she fell on her knees, and with her head hidden in her arms, sobbed without restraint.
Marion's own tears flowed. As she told the story afterward to Mrs. Mitchell and Hepsey, "When I saw her in a perfect abandonment of grief, sobbing her heart out at the recollection of the man who had so abused his trust, I resolved that, if the law could prevent it, she never should live with him again. But at the same moment I felt for her such an increase of respect that folded her in my arms and kissed her."
A few days after this Miss Howard was dressing to go out when Esther came forward, blushing painfully, and holding out an awkwardly folded paper, asked,—
"May I go out, ma'am, to put this into the box at the corner?"
The lady took the letter and glanced her eye over the address, "Joseph Cole, Sing-Sing Prison, Auburn, New York State." The writing was scarcely intelligible, but Marion was not thinking of that. She could not endure the thought that Esther in her childish trust might bind herself irrevocably to his future.
"His sister told me how to write that," murmured Esther, in a hesitating tone. "'T isn't my place, ma'am, to ask you to give your time to it; but if you'll please to read it, and say I may send it to him, I shall be very happy."
This was what Marion wished to do. She seated herself instantly and unfolded the paper, not yet sealed, Esther meanwhile ruffling the edge of her apron as though her life depended on her doing it quickly.
Marion had never perused a letter in which all the rules of grammar and spelling were so wholly set at defiance; but seldom had she read one which touched her heart more. It was very brief, but to the point, and correcting the spelling, read as follows:—
Dear Jo,—
It's a good while now since you and me see each other.
I thought, maybe, you'd like to know that a dear, kind lady, as used
to teach me in the Mission, is giving me a home. I'm happy, or I
would be if I could forget where you are. I'm learning to pray, Jo;
and when I say my prayers I never forget that God can look right into
your cell and see you, though I can't; so I tell him all about you,
and ask him to make this the best time in your life, as it may be if
you will learn to love Him. You are not yet twenty years old, and
when you come out of prison you will be young enough to begin life
again. This is what I am praying for you all the time.
Your little wife, ESTHER.
"If she had left out the words 'your little wife,'" said Marion to herself, "I would not have objected to her writing him for once." Then glancing up, she saw Esther's eyes fixed upon her with a mournfully earnest expression, and without another word went to her desk, took out an envelope, enclosed the letter in it, copied the address, and let it go. Afterward she confessed, "I believe at that moment I felt far more unforgiving toward the prisoner than the innocent victim of his brutality did."
CHAPTER VIII.
GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENTS.
ALL this time the building committee in Grantbury were pressing on the work most vigorously. The edifice was unlike any other in the town. It was of Gothic architecture. The walls were, as I have mentioned of native stone, the windows high, narrow, with stained glass. "They will have a cross on the spire," said one, "I'm sure of it, and I'll tell you what it will end in, they'll all go to Rome together."
The work proceeded so well, notwithstanding these prophecies, that it was hoped it would be ready for occupation by Christmas. Mr. Angus's taste was consulted during the entire progress.
The plan had been copied and sent to him for approval. All the committee agreed that some suggestions made by him were a great improvement on the original plan. In his last letter he had told them he expected to sail for home the 17th of September, and this the committee said would be in time to decide about frescoing and other interior decorations. No member of the parish, outside of Mr. Asbury's family, was aware that a new tie had been formed which would strengthen his affection to the country and home of his adoption. A few persons knew that a cellar was being dug on a house-lot not two hundred feet from the new church, but these few supposed Mr. Asbury was going to erect a house to rent, as he was often seen directing the workmen. The fact was that "our church," with its rafters exposed to view, its spire towering every day nearer to heaven, its ample porch of solid stone, absorbed all the interest of the congregation.
Every week a letter came to the church or the Sunday school in which the pastor spoke most hopefully of what they might together accomplish for the cause of Christ. He told them what he had seen in England and Scotland, among congregations he had visited, of united effort. He reminded them, that if they so labored and prayed, God would surely add His blessing, until there was not one in the limits of the town who did not love Christ and try to serve Him.
To the Sunday-school children he wrote of schools in London and Edinburgh, where all were wide awake with interest to gather in the poor waifs who knew nothing of Jesus except His name, which they heard mingled with the most dreadful oaths. He spoke of the reward these workers received in their own hearts, and urged them to follow so worthy an example. He mentioned at the close of this letter that he had subscribed for one of the best English Sunday-school papers, and offered it for a reward to the child who would bring into their own Sunday school the greatest number of scholars. These must be from families not connected with any other church.
For the first time in her life dear little Ethel had a secret, and it was her own Marion who told her of it.
By and by, when the new house was done, she knew that her dear Mr. Angus would bring Marion from the city and go there to live. She knew that a beautiful conservatory was to be built on the south side of the new house, and that Marion's flowers and birds would be brought there. She knew that Hepsey and Esther and James would all be in the pretty home at the new Ingleside, and that she could go to see them as often as she pleased. She knew why it was that Marion came from New York so often, and why papa spent so much time talking with her about some large charts spread out on the dining-room table, about an oriel window here, and a balcony there, and why they always waited till she was in bed before they walked over to the spot where the new house was being built.
One thing more connected with this wonderful secret she had been told later, and this came near letting the whole thing out, which would indeed have set the congregation connected with the First Church into a blaze of excitement. Marion had promised that on a certain occasion, not very far distant, she should go to New York with her papa and mamma and Annie and Gardner, and stand up with Marion as bridesmaid, while she promised to love Mr. Angus and take good can of him as long as she lived.
It was something to be remembered, the wonder and delight of the child as she came to understand all this. Her eyes grew darker, and her whole face radiant, as she glanced slowly from one to another, and her mamma added,—
"Yes, darling, cousin Marion is going to live in Grantbury and be Mr. Angus's wife."
"And I'll be his wife, too," she exclaimed, with a little hop of delight. "I'll promise to love him and take care of him. He can be the broom to both of us."
"The broom!"
"Yes, mamma, you said that she would be the bride and he the broom."
"Groom, you mean, you precious pet," said Marion, catching the child in her arms and hiding her burning cheeks in Ethel's neck.
Mamma thought this too good to keep from papa, and even threatened Marion that she would acquaint Mr. Angus with the double honor that awaited him; but the young lady's entreaties prevailed, and the letter went off without the joke.
The rise of ground on which the new church was being built was in a part of the town not yet much occupied by families. The road from the old church, school-house, etc., to the depot wound gracefully around the foot of the hill, and had been widened and improved within a short time. It was about one quarter of a mile to the railroad station, and an equal distance from the village, which had grown up in what was once the centre. Prior to the existence of the railroad, it was Mr. Asbury's most profitable grass land, and he now owned as far as the depot on one side, and quite down to Shawsheen Lake on the other. The elevated situation of the land, together with the picturesque views it commanded, rendered it peculiarly eligible for building lots. Speculators from the city had already made favorable offers to the owner for the whole field, but, with the exception of one hundred feet front by one hundred and fifty deep, donated to the church, and a house-lot nearly four times the size, next adjoining, Mr. Asbury refused to sell.
Mr. Angus's letters to Marion kept her informed of his visits to London, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, where he was studying into the best-approved methods of church work in reference to his own labors among his chosen people. He told her of sewing schools, not only for children, but for mothers, where they were taught to cut and make garments for boys and girls, given simple recipes for cooking, and taught in general how to make home happy. He narrated cases where, in consequence of these teachings, the husband had been won from the alehouse to the pleasures of his own fireside, where the savory soups the wives had learned to make had weaned them from liquor: and made them into peace-abiding citizens.
He wrote of libraries and reading-rooms established for the poor, and also of societies for social pleasures, amusement, etc., to which all were invited to contribute their share.
"I accompanied a friend," he wrote, "to one of these gatherings,
which reminded me of a description Annie Asbury gave me of one of
yours. The ball accommodated about five hundred, and was as full
as was comfortable. Fathers and mothers, and not a few grandparents,
were there, with youth not under fourteen. Entertainments for the
little ones are provided on separate occasions. I cannot describe
to you vividly enough the inspiration I derived from the scene,—
the smiling faces, the merry voices, the ring of real, healthy
enjoyment of the whole company. Surely I thought, to provide
healthful and innocent amusement for young and old is an important
part of church work. To stand still a moment and listen to the hum
and buzz of cheerful voices, with now and then a burst of laughter,
sent a glow of kindly interest for every one present through my whole
being.
"There were games and puzzles and comic readings with an occasional
tragedy, and singing from boys in chorus, and boys or girls in solos,
and a couple of street boys with bagpipes, until the allotted hour
to close arrived. Then I as a stranger from the far-off America,
was requested to make a brief address and close with prayer. When the
bell calling to order was rung, I was surprised to see how quickly
every one found a seat, waiting to hear what was said.
"I had just commenced to tell them about my home across the water,
when a small hand near me was raised, and a boy asked timidly,—
"'Tell us about the bears and Indians, mister.'"
"I had some difficulty in convincing them that in the United States
we had cities and towns, as they had, and that our bears were kept
in cages or pits, as theirs were. I told them I was very glad to be
with them when they were having such a merry time; and that I wanted
to join my thanks with theirs to the kind Christian ladies and
gentlemen who had provided such an entertainment for us.
"To the loving Father who watches over us all, to the sympathizing
Saviour who endured temptation and want that He might know how to
help us, to the gracious Spirit, who is ready to lead us into every
good way, I then committed them, and we separated.
"I forgot to tell you that I was persuaded in the course of the
evening to sing a comic song, which I learned while in New York.
Of course this 'brought down the house.' How would my dear little
Ethel have looked could she have seen me?"
In another letter he said:—
"I have conversed with many clergymen and other Christians of ripe
experience on this same subject of amusement. All classes of persons,
with rare exception of peculiar individuals, agree that some
relaxation is necessary to a healthful state of body and mind. If no
innocent and proper amusements are provided, young and old, rich and
poor, will seek entertainments for themselves, and too often these
will be the lowest class of theatres, shows, etc.
"Let Christian parents and teachers make it a part of the business
of education to provide suitably for this want of our nature, and
these objectionable, immoral places would have to be closed for want
of patronage. In the neighborhood of the church where was the
entertainment I have described, a low theatre of the worst
description had been abandoned, simply because the ground was
occupied in a worthier way. I am looking forward to inaugurating
some plan of this kind, and I confidently expect help from a merry
girl from whom I purchased my first pair of gloves in Grantbury."