QUAKER IDYLS.TWELFTH STREET MEETING.
QUAKER IDYLS.
Arethe summer mornings longer in Philadelphia than elsewhere, or is it the admirable Quaker custom of breaking the fast at the usual hour on Sunday that gives such delightful leisure before the calm walk to meeting at half past ten?
Certain it is that the Sabbath of June 11 was no exception to the general rule, and when John and Martha Wilson, with their daughter Cassy, passed beyondthe brick wall which separates the sanctuary from the street, there were groups of Friends kindly inquiring after the welfare of each other, and offering greeting to such as were unaccustomed to the place.
John passed to the right, where he extended his hand to a fellow-worshiper. Martha paused in the doorway to stroke the shining curls of a pretty child, whose gentle mother had failed in her efforts to subdue Dame Nature. And Cassy, sweet Cassy, who was no longer very young, felt the color rise, and modestly dropped her eyes, as she noticed the pleased observance of her entrance depicted on the face of George Evans, already occupying a seat on the “men’s side” of the meeting-house.
Several elderly Friends were intheir place on the floor, and in the gallery were those who held the positions of elders and accepted ministers. Their hands were folded, and one or two of the men, who held walking sticks, rested their hands on the rounded tops. But the faces of all wore a far-away look, as if the present surroundings could never disturb the sweet serenity of their souls.
Quietly the congregation gathered. There was not a large company. But few wore the garb of the past generation. There was, among the middle-aged, a disposition to grow a little plainer with increasing years, but the soft felt hat was conspicuous in the room, and the stiff bonnets were relieved by silk shirrs of brown or gray.
Cassy, this warm day, has assumed a gown of white stuff, thevery essence of simplicity; a straw bonnet of half modern date, destitute of embellishment, unless the satin ties, reaching halfway to the crown, and the blond pleating surrounding her face, could be called trimming. The dress was closed at the throat by a small gold clasp, which confined also the edges of the linen collar; drab, openwork mitts covered her well-shaped hands—hands that were never weary with good work, nor ever fearful of losing their beauty in the performance of the daily toils that fell upon them.
As the house grew silent, and more silent, a gentle prayer went up from her heart that she might keep her spirit undefiled, and when, after a little, the stillness was broken by the voice of an aged man in the upper seat, sheraised her head and paid the strictest attention to his opening words.
“Like as a father pitieth his children,” he began, his pale face reflecting the purity of his aspirations, and the trembling voice, growing in volume as he proceeded, until after a few moments it had fallen into that peculiar cadence, a sort of half melancholy rising and falling inflection, measured and monotonous, that afflicts the unaccustomed ear, and so often in these holy assemblies destroys their solemnity.
Philo Thomas was a trial to poor Cassy; she revered his patient life of tribulation, she caught the reflection of the light which glowed within his soul, but his outward manifestations were singularly unacceptable to her; she wished that so good a manmight feel called upon to keep silence in public places, and yet she half rebuked herself for the seeming disrespect.
Patiently she tried to keep pace with the thought that so slowly fell from the sing-song utterance, but gradually she drifted into a different channel. The glowing face of the man who had rejoiced at her coming was rising before her. Educated, as she had been, to the strictest truthfulness, she could not even seek to shut out from herself the knowledge that she felt and enjoyed his satisfaction at her presence there, nor, indeed, her own pleasure and comfort in this state of affairs. Her heart beat a trifle faster than it ought, and the blush burned again as she forgot the preacher and the company and only remembered the one face across the narrowline which divided the women from the men.
Suddenly the voice ceased, and the solemn silence smote her like a sword.
“What have I done!” she cried out in spirit, “I have desecrated the holy place. My thoughts are the thoughts of a worldling! Can I bear through the week the recollection that I wasted my opportunity on the first day? that any human being can have the power to turn me from my path, can destroy my self-respect, can make me forget my Creator?”
“The Lord is in his holy temple, blessed be the name of the Lord,” passed through her heart, and formed on her trembling lips. Hot tears filled her eyes and fell unheeded on her handkerchief, tears of shame and humiliation.
A faint rustle aroused her. Inthe gallery a slight pale woman arose, untied the strings of her stiff bonnet, and laid it on the bench beside her. Stepping forward until her hand rested on the rail in front, she spoke softly, distinctly, and the happy change from the droning tones of the earlier speaker riveted the attention of the wandering.
She spoke of the pure in heart; defining her terms, dwelling on the growth of sin if permitted to linger, emphasizing the truth that we must be ever on the alert to discern the shadow of transgression, until poor Cassy—who had at once entered into the spirit of the sermon—poor Cassy felt that this was being spoken directly to her.
Then as the sweet voice paused, a new measure filled it. She turned from admonition to adoration,depicting the joy there is in heaven over one sinner who returns from his ways, and as if carrying out the thought of the aged man who had preceded her, and which he had so sorely missed in his illustration, she urged the tenderness of an earthly parent to an erring child, and the abounding love and beneficence of our Heavenly Father.
“Dear children,” she cried, “do not fear to approach him. Open your hearts! Search out the hidden places! Let the light stream in and your sins shall be wiped away. Fear not man; that which it is impressed upon you to reveal, dare not to keep secret.”
She resumed her seat and her bonnet, but the seed she had sown took deep root in Cassy’s heart. All through the remaininghour she revolved its teaching in her soul. It was clear the meaning for her was a stronger and heartier purification of her thoughts. Not that George Evans was an unholy object, nor that his affection was to be despised, but that the meeting-house was not the place for human admiration. And oh! what did these words mean, “Not to keep silent?” Was she bidden to unfold this page to George, to tell him that the lesson was for him also?
What pain it cost her to dream of such a task! yet was not this one of those hidden places that should be flooded with light? What if he did deemherunwomanly who could speak on such a matter without having been spoken to? Were not the commands of the Lord to be preferred to any earthly comfort? Sheshould perhaps lose her lover—see herself dethroned, for never a word had he vouchsafed her but of the plainest courtesy, but she should gain the respect of her own conscience. The fires that purify, also blister and burn. How could she refuse? Perhaps George Evans’ soul was in peril too, for well she knew that upon his ear had fallen unheeded the words of the first preacher.
Solemnly the two men friends at the head of the gallery clasped hands, and immediately a little hum of neighborly inquiry went round.
Cassy dreaded to move. She felt, rather than saw, her lover waiting for her outside the door, and silently asking help in her time of trouble, she walked down the aisle. She did not omit any of the customary greetings; shepromised to meet with the sewing committee the next day, to carry jelly to an aged friend, and turned and shook the hand which George Evans held out to her.
There was nothing strange that he walked beside her down Arch Street, but he gave her little opportunity to open her heart. They had passed but a short distance when he broke the silence by saying:
“Cassy, does thee know I almost felt that Mary Elwood’s sermon was intended for me? And perhaps for thee, too. I have thought for some time that the Lord had designed thy path and mine to run side by side. Thee knows that this morning was the first opportunity I have had to attend meeting for several weeks, but when I saw thy face it was so pleasant to me that I fell into aworldly train of thought—how I might tell thee of my great hope, that thee would respond to my affection for thee. Mary Elwood’s voice broke my reverie, and showed me where my way led. I resolved then to speak to thee at once, for something in thy look betrayed thy feeling, and I feared I had led thee into evil; that my glance, as I entered meeting, had possessed the power of withdrawing thy meditation from the Lord, and the voice of his servant warned me to repent, and hesitate not to reveal to thee the source of my inquietude.”
Gravely she laid her hand upon his arm, and with but one shy upward glance at his earnest face, she said solemnly:
“Blessed be the name of the Lord. This lesson was also revealed unto me. Had thee notfelt called upon to warn me against such temptation, I should have dwelt upon it to thee at the first opportunity, but our Heavenly Father hath spared me the trial.”