BEST THINGS.
I have a horror of “best” things, come they in the shape of shoes, garments, bonnets, or rooms. In such a harness my soul peers restlessly out, asking “if I be I.” I’m puzzled to find myself. I become stiff and formal, and artificial as my surroundings.
But of all the best things, spare me the infliction of a “best room.” Out upon a carpet too fine to tread upon, books too dainty to handle, sofas that but mock your weary limbs, and curtains that dare not face a ray of sunlight!
Had I a house, there should be no “best room” in it. No upholsterer should exorcise comfort or children from my door-sill. The free, fresh air should be welcome to play through it; the bright, glad sunshine to lighten and warm it; while fresh mantel-flowers should woo for us visits from humming-bird and drowsy bee.
For pictures, I’d look from out my windows upon a landscape painted by the Great Master—ever fresh, ever varied, and never marred by envious “cross lights;” now, wreathed in morning’s silvery mist; now, basking in noon’s broad beam; now, flushed with sunset’s golden glow; now, sleeping in dreamy moonlight.
For statuary, fill my house with children—rosy, dimpled, laughing children; now, tossing their sunny ringlets from open brows; now, veiling their merry eyes in slumbrous dreams, ‘neath snow-white lids; now, sweetly grave, on bended knee, with clasped hands, and lisped words of holy prayer.
Did I say I’d have nothing “best?” Pardon me. Sunday should be the best day of all the seven—not ushered in with ascetic form, or lengthened face, or stiff and rigid manners. Sweetly upon the still Sabbath air should float the matin hymn of happy childhood, blending with the early songs of birds, and wafted upward, with flowers’ incense, to Him whose very name isLove. It should be no day forpuzzling the half-developed brain of childhood with gloomy creeds, to shake the simple faith that prompts the innocent lips to say, “Our Father.” It should be no day to sit upright on stiff-backed chairs, till the golden sun should set. No; the birds should not be more welcome to warble, the flowers to drink in the air and sunlight, or the trees to toss their lithe limbs, free and fetterless.
“I’mso sorrythat to-morrow is Sunday!” From whence does this sad lament issue? From underyourroof, oh mistaken but well-meaning Christian parents—from the lips ofyourchild, whom you compel to listen to two or three unintelligible sermons, sandwiched between Sunday schools, and finished off at nightfall by tedious repetitions of creeds and catechisms, till sleep releases your weary victim! No wonder your childshudderswhen the minister tells him that “Heaven is one eternal Sabbath.”
Oh, mistaken parent! relax the over-strained bow—prevent the fearful rebound, and make the Sabbath what God designed it, not a weariness, but the “best” and happiest day of all the seven.