“The golden sunPoured in a dusty beam,Like the celestial ladder seenBy Jacob in his dream.And ever and anon the wind,Sweet-scented with the hay,Turned o’er the hymn-book’s fluttering leavesThat in the window lay;”
“The golden sunPoured in a dusty beam,Like the celestial ladder seenBy Jacob in his dream.And ever and anon the wind,Sweet-scented with the hay,Turned o’er the hymn-book’s fluttering leavesThat in the window lay;”
“The golden sunPoured in a dusty beam,Like the celestial ladder seenBy Jacob in his dream.And ever and anon the wind,Sweet-scented with the hay,Turned o’er the hymn-book’s fluttering leavesThat in the window lay;”
“The golden sun
Poured in a dusty beam,
Like the celestial ladder seen
By Jacob in his dream.
And ever and anon the wind,
Sweet-scented with the hay,
Turned o’er the hymn-book’s fluttering leaves
That in the window lay;”
—the minister, reverend and benignant, earnest in entreaty, meek in rebuke—all these are pleasant memories. We knew these pastors better afterward, but this was often our first acquaintance. Oft have we asked for them since. Their places now know them no more. In their pulpits and by their altars, stand men who would impose religion on their fellows as a ceremonial, or inflict it as a penance.
Where, too, are the companions, the fellow-workers of these old pastors, the old-fashioned sisters of charity; those dear old ladies who, with hearts warmed and opened by the affections of their own social life, went forth from their hearths to the homes of the poor, dropping here a word of comfort, here of admonition, here an alms, here a book, and leaving ever behind them a sense of true sympathy and kindly interest? They knew not—so dark was their age—that a regular organisation, discipline, and uniform, a prescribed drill and manuals, were necessary to the perfection of their mission. Their charity was a natural feeling, not an instituted effort; their admonition a friendly appeal, not a systematised summons to reform and penitence; their kindness, an intuition unset to rule; their books, the selection of their own reading, not the licensed and revised issue of repositories and societies. They were the ducts by which many an unseen stream of benevolence flowed into poor houses. Strange to say, too, though unaided by tea-drinkings, public meetings, bazaars, societies, public lists of subscribers, and all the recognised mechanism of modern charity, they had always the wherewithal to give; and almsgiving, as they gave, brought no pain or mortification, injured no sense of self-dependence, and left no moral degradation. They did good in their time—a time when individual endeavour did the work of institutions and corporations, but have passed away now, and are superseded by a very different caste. Their successors march upon us, a stern, zealous, resolute, and to us rather a grim sisterhood—the trained-bands of morality and charity. They are an order having outward and inward forms. The outward sign seems to be sad-coloured raiment; and when we see a young lady dismiss the bows from her bonnet, and adopt a grey shawl, we know that she is about to rush on her vocation as a district visitor. They have rules and codes, an appointed task, and appointed order; and, when duly organised and drilled, advance on some benighted town or village, each cohort attacking a quarter with the stern determination to trample down and drive out poverty, vice, and uncleanliness wherever they may be found. They are a moral police, detective and repressive, each on a separate beat, rushing down courts and through alleys in pursuit of want and immorality. They may fulfil their work, these sisters, and we wish them good speed; but we believe that they must first clothe their charity with more love, and learn especially, what their predecessors knew so well, how to speak to the poor.
We loved those good old sisters and their work. One, whom we remember well—thanks be to God—still walks this earth, doing her beautiful mission of love and charity. How or when she began this mission we know not. It was no sudden adoption, no result of sudden conviction or disappointed hope. We never remember her except as engaged in this genial task. It grew with her growth, as the natural ripening of early sympathies and early feelings. Bred, as gentles often were in those barbarous times, to regard the poor as their lowly friends, and to keep up a kindly intercourse with them, she had come to know their characters and their little histories, to understand their peculiar ways, and to learn to address them in the language by which alone the poor are moved,—the language of the heart. Thus, as time went on, the kindly greetings and kindly interest expanded easily into the higher offices of comfort, instruction, and relief. The transition was natural, and the people wondered not to see one whom they had known, loved, and revered so long, moving among them as a ministering angel of good, chasing darkness from the hours of the bedridden by her pleasant converse, uplifting the soul of some stricken sufferer by her cheering presence, bringing relief to the indigent, or dropping on the ears of some blind or aged Christian the precious words of Gospel writ. Great, too, was she in the nursery and by fireside, as we knew full well, and as another generation is now experiencing. What rhymes she knew, and what stories she told, and how she told them! and how have her love and pleasantness followed us from infancy up to manhood! By the by, what story-tellers there were in those days! The art seems lost at present. People compose their talk now, and the faculty of easy telling a natural narrative is getting rare indeed. Patient and gentle, thus for many years she pursued her loving mission, without the parade of circumstances or ostentation of duty, and without a murmur; though, in later years, she became the channel of all indiscriminate benevolence, and the director of all general charities. No outward humility of garb or look distinguished this our sister. She went forth even on her errands—lady as she was—apparelled after the fashion of her order. Nay, it must be confessed that she rather loved a handsome cloak or bonnet, nor thought them unbeseeming her mission; for she could not understand, nor can we, why acts of charity should be done, like deeds of penitence, in serge and sackcloth. One of her functions was a great mystery to us. Ever and anon mention was made of a certain bag, in connection with certain women. We used to wonder, in our small way, what this could mean; and discovered at last that she was manager of a Lying-in Society, which distributed bags containing all the requisites for ladies expecting that interesting event, and that the bag in the gift of our house was in yearly requisition for a matron, whose habit it was regularly to increase an already swarming brood of white-headed, freckle-faced urchins, who, as soon as they could crawl, seized on gutter and dunghill as their natural heritage.
Her labours were not, however, confined to the homes of the poor, but extended to a field from which most would have shrunk—the prison. Even there, amid the reprobate and the vile, she carried her teachings and her charity, and strove, by earnestness and tenderness, to reclaim and raise her fallen sisters. Many was the rebuff she met with—many the scoff from profligate lips; but still she was neither daunted nor deterred. Vice had for her no pollution, no repulsion; still she persevered; and though her words were often spoken in pain, yet may they often have brought comfort to some sin-laden heart, or awoke contrition in some first sinner. As instances of her failures and disappointments, she used often to tell, with a playful humour, slightly dashed by sorrow, how a woman, who had frequently been a tenant of the jail, and had always left in a feigned state of repentance, on her coming, for the sixteenth time, greeted her with, “Well, ma’am, I must surely be converted this time.” Perhaps the mild teachings and sweet truths, so often told, may, after many days, have been as bread cast on the waters, even to this hardened heart.
Gentle sister! loving heart! thou didst thy mission in love. There be those coming after thee who will employ threat, rebuke, and discipline, where thou wert wont to use persuasion, and strive to force or torture mankind into goodness by forms and penitential processes. They may succeed; but we believe, as thou didst, that God’s work is to be done by gentle influences; that God’s messages should fall on the heart softly as evening dew; that God’s truths should shine on the understanding like the summer sunshine; that God’s promises should be wafted on the soul with the gentleness and fragrance of a south wind. Sweetly does the memory of thy good deeds rest on many a heart, and sweetly, doubtless, has their incense risen to Heaven.
There were other old ladies, too, who had no mission save that of their gentle degree, whom we regard as goodly relics of a past—the old gentlewomen who sat and moved in a certain state and stateliness, and surrounded themselves with a dignity which won deference from those who approached them. We associate these with high-backed chairs, in wainscoted parlours, hung with dark portraits, with old folio picture-bibles; with pleasaunces and laurelled walks—with avenues and parterres—with peacocks and Blenheim spaniels—with gold-headed canes, ebony cabinets, and wondrous coiffures. We defend not those headdresses; they stand in evidence against us, in back numbers of theLadies’ Magazine. But we remember sitting with great pride at our first play, between two turbans—one yellow, one pink—and recollect regarding the large gold-faced watches which hung pendent from the girdles of our patronesses, as an almost Aladdin realisation of wealth and splendour. Lovely were these gentlewomen often, in the richness and mellowness of their decline, illustrating, by their serenity and peaceful repose, the beauty and holiness of grey hairs—not mocking old age in a caricature of youth, nor scaring young hearts by the skeleton image of their own life.
There were old women, too, whom we regret—old servants, old nurses—garrulous, chattering, snuffy old gossips! O Age! they were pleasant old women withal; told pleasant stories; had an unprofitable habit, when their functions ceased, of regarding those whom their care had brought into the world with a sort of foster affection, and had a pleasant way of bringing back, by story and anecdote, the image of our infancy. These reminiscences were not, however, always gratifying to stripling pride. We remember once, when standing six feet without our boots, and arrayed in our first London suit, being rather humbled at hearing of a period when we hadn’t a shirt to our backs, and might have been squeezed into a quart pot.
We have done with the old age of the past; let it sleep its sleep.
We could instance much more fully, O Age! the levelling tendencies of thy materialism. But if it be true—and surely there must be proof before us—that thy doctrines are shading the brightness of youth, and mumming the majesty of old age, then do we know enough to be certified that those are not all gain! Ring out the table of thy exports, exult over the lists of thy shipping, the number of thy markets, the increase of population, the multiplication of comforts and conveniences, the rapidity of thy communications, the spread of thy education! Yet still would we say, Woe to the land whose youth is not as a vision of gladness! woe to the land where old age is not reverend or revered! Such a land may know a material prosperity, a commercial greatness which shall dazzle the world—may produce men, able in counting-house and on bourse—men ready in speech and debate; but it will not, we think, possess the elements which produce the great qualities—the Heroic—the Poetic—the Moral—the Truthful—on which hitherto have been built the grand structures of the world’s glory. Nor do we think that it would retain virtue enough to continue a line of merchant princes, such as England has ever rejoiced to number among her great men.