Three years had elapsed since the events of the last chapter. Edward had often visited his native village, and, as the results of these visits, Emily Lawton became Mrs. Dayton; and she, with Mrs. Brandon, was removed to an elegantly furnished house in the city. Yet, with all its elegance, Mrs. Brandon, who had been accustomed to rural simplicity, did not feel happy except when in her own room, which Edward had ordered to be furnished in a style answering her own wishes.
Messrs. Dayton and Treves had been highly successful in their business operations; and, enjoying as they did the patronage of the ‚lite of the city, they, with but little stretch of their imaginative powers, could see a fortune at no great distance.
Becoming acquainted with a large number of persons of wealth, they were present at very many of the winter entertainments; and, being invited to drink, they had not courage to refuse, and did not wish to act so ungenteel and uncivil. Others drank; and some loved their rum, and would have it. Edward had taken many steps since the events of our last chapter; yet, thought he, "I drink moderately."
There was to be a great party. A musical prodigy, in the shape of a child of ten years, had arrived, and the leaders of fashion had agreed upon having a grand entertainment on the occasion.
Great was the activity and bustle displayed, and in no place more than at the store of Dayton and Treves. As ill-luck would have it, Ralph had been absent a week on one of his drunken sprees, and his employers were obliged to procure another to fill his place.
The event was to take place at the house of a distinguished city officer; and, as Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to provide refreshment, their time was fully occupied.
The papers were filled with predictions concerning it; and the editors, happy fellows, were in ecstasies of joy on account of having been invited to attend. Nor were Messrs. Dayton and Treves forgotten; but lengthy eulogies upon their abilities to perform the duty assigned them occupied prominent places, and "steamboat disasters," "horrid murders," and "dreadful accidents," were obliged to make room for these.
In the course of human events the evening came. Hacks were in demand, and the rattling of wheels and the falling of carriage-steps were heard till near midnight.
The chief object of attraction was a small boy, who had attained considerable proficiency in musical knowledge, not of any particular instrument, but anything and everything; consequently a large assortment of instruments had been collected, upon which he played. As music had called them together, it was the employment of the evening, and the hour of midnight had passed when they were summoned to the tables.
Those gentlemen who desired had an apartment to themselves, where wine and cigars circulated freely. Some, in a short time, became excited; whilst others, upon whom the same cause had a different effect, became stupid. One poor fellow, whose bloated countenance told a sad tale, lay almost senseless; another sat dreamingly over his half-filled glass, whilst another excited the risibilities of not a few by his ineffectual attempts to light his cigar.
Our hero, like his companions, was a little overcome by too frequent potations from the bottle. It was a sad sight to a reflective mind. The majority were young men, whose eyes had been blinded to the danger they were in, by adhering to a foolish and injurious custom.
As hour passed hour, they became more excited, until a high state of enthusiasm existed.
All the ladies had retired, except one, and she strove hard to conceal her rising sorrow by forced smiles; yet she could not restrain her feelings,—her heart seemed bursting with grief. In vain did officious servants seek to know the cause. To the inquiries of the lady of the house she made no reply. She dare not reveal the secret which pierced her very soul; but, burying her face in her hands, seemed resolved upon not being comforted. Finally, yielding to the persuasive influence of Mrs. Venet, she expressed her fears that Edward had tarried too long at the bowl.
Mrs. Venet tried to comfort her by saying that, if what she so much feared was true, yet it was nothing uncommon; and mentioned several men, and not a few ladies, who had been carried away in a senseless condition.
These words did not comfort her; on the contrary, they increased her fears, and led her to believe that there was more danger at such parties than there was generally thought to be; and the fact that Edward had often attended such parties increased her sorrow, for she knew not but that he had been among that number of whom Mrs. Venet spoke.
Imagination brought to her view troubles and trials as her future lot; and last, not least, the thought of Edward's temperament, and of how easily he might be led astray, rested heavily upon her heart. Mrs. Venet at length left her, and repaired to the gentleman's apartment, in order to learn the cause of his delay.
"Who in the devil's there, with that thundering racket?" inquired a loud voice.
"It is Mrs. Venet," replied the lady.
"O, it is, is it? Well, madam, Dayton the confectioner, and a dozen jovial souls, are having a rare time here. Put that down in your memorandum-book, and leave us to our meditations."
"Yes, and these to profit and loss," said another, and the breaking of glasses was heard.
"If Mr. Dayton is within, tell him his lady is waiting for him," said Mrs. Venet.
"Ed, your wife's waiting,"' said one of the party.
"Then, friends, I-I-I must go," said the inebriated man, who, though badly intoxicated, had not wholly forgotten her.
His companions endeavored to have him remain, but in vain. He unbolted the door, and, leaving, closed it upon them.
Mrs. Venet, who was standing without, laid hold of his coat, and, knowing the excited state of Mrs. Dayton, and fearing that the appearance of her husband would be too much for her to bear, endeavored to induce him not to enter the room, or, at least, to wait until he had recovered from the effects of his drinking.
He appeared rational for a while, but, suddenly breaking away, shouted, "Emily, where are you?"
The sound of his voice resounded through the building, and his drunken companions, hearing it, made the building echo with their boisterous laughter.
He ran through the entries gazing wildly around, and loudly calling for his wife.
The servants, hearing the tumult, hastened to the spot; but neither they nor Mrs. Venet could induce him to become quiet.
The latter, finding she could have no influence upon him, repaired to the room in which she left Mrs. Dayton, and found her senseless upon the floor, and to all appearances dead. She had heard his wild cries, and what she had so much feared she then knew to be true.
Mrs. Venet rang for the servants, and ordered some restoratives. These were soon obtained, and by their free use she had nearly recovered, when her husband rushed into the room.
Upon seeing his wife, the raging lion became as docile as a lamb. A sudden change came over him; he seemed to realize the truth, and it sent an arrow to his soul.
Again the injured wife fainted, and again the restoratives were faithfully applied; but it was evident that if Mr. Dayton remained in her presence it would be difficult to restore her, and the man who before would not be approached was led quietly away. In a short time Mrs. Dayton became sensible, and her first words were to inquire after Edward. Being told, she was induced to lie down, and, if possible, enjoy a little sleep; but sleep she could not. Her mind became almost delirious, and fears were entertained by her attendants that she would lose her reason.
The effects of Edward's carousal were entirely dissipated by the sudden realization of the truth.
To Mrs. Dayton this was an hour of the deepest sorrow. She looked back upon the past, and saw happiness; in the future nothing but misery seemed to await her. Yet a change came over her; she thanked God for his past mercies, and wisely trusted him for their continuance. She implored pardon for past ingratitude, and prayed that she might be more grateful in future, and that, having tasted of the cup of sorrow, she might not drink the bitter draught.
The next morning Edward repented of his crime, and in his inmost soul felt it to be such,—a crime of deepest dye.
Emily wept as she bent over him.
"Cease thy tears," said he, "and forgive; it is but that word, spoken by thee, that can send peace to my soul. Yet what peace can I expect? I have wronged thee!"-and the wretched man wept like a child.
New thoughts continually sprang into existence,—the days of his youth, the bliss of home, and his present situation. He felt disgraced;—how should he redeem his character?
"O, that the grave would hide me," continued Edward, "and that in death I might forget this crime! But no! I cannot forget it; it will cling to me through life, and the future—"
He would have said more, but the strong emotions of his soul choked his utterance.
He arose and paced the room in agony of feeling which pen cannot describe. Suddenly halting, he gazed steadfastly upon the face of his wife. It was deadly pale, and a tear dimmed the usual lustre of her eye.
"Comfort thyself," said he; "no further evil shall come upon thee. It shall never be said you are a drunkard's wife,—no, no, no, never!"
"Let us, then, forget the past," said Mrs. Dayton.
"What! forget those days when I had not tasted? O, misery indeed, ifI cannot retain their remembrance!" said Edward.
"Not so, Edward; we would remember those, but forget the evil that has befallen us,—all will be well."
"Do you-can you forgive?"
"God will forgive; and shall not I?"
"Then let this be a pledge of the future;" and, taking her hand in his, he said; "I resolve to walk in the path of right, and never more to wander, God being my witness and my strength."
"'T is well thou hast pledged thyself," said she; "but know thou the tempter is on every side. Should the wine-cup touch thy lips, dash it aside, and proclaim yourself a pledged man."
"I will!" was the response, and, taking a pen, he boldly placed his name to the following pledge:
"PLEDGE.-We pledge ourselves to abstain from the use of all intoxicating drinks, except the moderate use of wine, beer and cider."
Such was the pledge to which he affixed his name, and such the pledge by which men of those days endeavored to stay the tide of intemperance. Did not every man who signed that pledge himself to become a moderate drinker; and is not every moderate drinker pledged to become a drunkard? What a pledge! Yet we should not blame the men of former years for pursuing a course which they conscientiously thought to be right. That was the first step. It was well as far as it led; but it paused at the threshold of the ark of safety, and there its disciples fell. They had not seen, as have men of late years, the ruinous tendency of such a course; and knew not, as we now do, that total abstinence is the only sure course.
The pledge Edward had signed was no preventive in his case. He had tasted; in fact, he had become a lover of strong drink; and the temptation of having it constantly beside him, and daily dealing it out to others, was too strong for him to resist. When he drank, he did think, as Emily had bade him, that he was a pledged man; but that pledge permitted him to drink wine. The remedy such a pledge applied was of no avail. It failed to reach the fountain-head, and strove to stop the stream by placing slight resistances in its way.
A long time must elapse before a man can know the heart of his fellow-man, if, indeed, it can ever be known; and it was not until Edward had become addicted to habits of intemperance that he discovered the professed friendship of Mr. Treves to be insincere. Words of warning seldom came from his lips. What cared he if Edward did fall? Such being the case, the business would come into his own hands; and such "a consummation devoutly to be wished" it was very evident that if Edward did not soon reform was not far distant.
Now Emily Dayton began to experience anxious days and sleepless nights, and Mrs. Brandon begged of Edward to reform. Often he would do so. He would sign that pledge; but it was like an attempt to stay a torrent with a straw. That pledge! 'twas nothing! yea, worse than nothing!
Six months of sorrowing passed, and what a change we behold! Experience has shown to Edward that the use of brandy is dangerous, and good dame Brandon has been led to believe that there are temptations in the city which she little thought of.
Edward, driven from his business, revels in bar-rooms, and riots at midnight; whilst the patient, uncomplaining, enduring Emily, forced by creditors from her former home, finds shelter from the storm in a small tenement; where, by the aid of her needle, she is enabled to support herself and aged aunt, whilst a prattling infant plays at her side, and, laughing in its childish sports, thinks not of the sorrows it was born to encounter, and knows not the sad feelings of its mother's wounded heart.
In a low, damp, dark cellar, behold a man washing the glasses of a groggery. His ragged dress and uncombed hair, his shabby and dirty appearance, do not prevent us from seeing indications of his once having been in better circumstances, and that nature never designed that he should be where he now is.
Having rinsed a few cracked tumblers, he sat down beside a red-hot cylinder stove, and, bending over till his head rested upon his hands, he, in a half-audible voice, talked to himself.
"Here 't is, eighteen forty-some years since I saw that Dayton cove; eh, gone by the board? The daily papers say he was up for a common drunkard; but, being first time, was lectured and sent home. Plaguy poor home his, I reckon! Wonder if the lecture did him as much good as Old Batter's did me. Ah! he liked that brandy, and said I should bear the blame if he was ruined; but he an't that yet. Here I am, ten times worse off than he is, and I an't ruined. No! Mr. Dago Pump is a man yet. Well, well! what shall I say?-business awful dull, and it's damp and dark here; I feel cold 'side of this red-faced stove."
Mr. Onendago Pump poked the fire, and continued to do so till a ragged little boy, without shoes, stockings or cap, came down the slippery steps, and asked for "two cents' worth of rum, and one cent's worth of crackers."
The proprietor of this subterraneous establishment threw aside an old wire that served as a poker, and demanded payment in advance. The child handed him the three cents, received his rum and crackers, and left.
Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, could do so no longer; for, persisting in his opinion that brandy could not hurt him, he drank so much that bad soon supplanted good appearances, and his company was soon discarded.
Mr. Blinge would not have him about his premises, although the one drank as much as the other, and a great similarity existed between them.
He was turned out of the tavern, and, having purchased four shillings' worth of brandy, commenced business in the cellar we have alluded to, replenishing his stock by daily applying to a neighboring pump; and, for every gill of brandy he drew from the tap, poured a gill of water in at the bung, and thus kept up a stock in trade.
In a short time, a collection of drinking loafers met daily at his place, and Dago Pump could see no difference between his respectability as proprietor of a bar-room, and his who, being owner of thousands, fitted up "oyster saloons," which places had suddenly sprung up in all large cities.
Edward had fallen; he had become what was termed a "common drunkard." His wife wept tears of anguish; she entreated; she begged him to reform. She prayed to Heaven for its aid; yet week passed week, month followed month, on Time's unending course, and she was a drunkard's wife still. All friends had forsaken her. Friends! shall we call them such? No; they did not deserve the name. Their friendship only had an existence when fortune smiled; when a frown mantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they fled. Yet God was raising up friends for her, and from a class of society from whom she little expected aid. God was working, in his mysterious way, a deliverance. He had heard the prayers that for many long years had gone up to his throne from thousands of wretched families; and, moved to pity, he was to show them that he was a God of mercy.
Othro Treves-where is he? Not in that elegant store; it long since passed into other hands. Has he made his fortune, and retired? Such we might suppose to be the case, did we not know that he trusted to moderate drinking. Man might as well trust a leaky vessel to bear him across the ocean, as to trust that.
The clock struck twelve.
"'T is midnight," said a female voice, "and he has not come. God send repentance to his heart! Hope has almost failed me; yet I will hope on."
"Another glass of brandy for me," said a man, addressing Mr. DagoPump.
"And rum for me," said another.
"Gin with a hot poker in it for me," said the third; and Mr. Pump poured out the poisons.
Half a dozen men stood in front of some rough boards that served as a "bar."
One of these-a tall, well-formed man-gazed fixedly upon the glasses, seemingly in deep thought.
"Stop!" he suddenly exclaimed. Mr. Pump nearly dropped the bottle. It was as an electric shock to him: an ashy paleness came over his face. "Stop!" he again exclaimed. All eyes were fixed upon him. Some tried to laugh, but could not. Dago set down the bottle, and the glasses, half filled, stood upon the bench before him.
"I have been thinking," said he who had caused this strange effect, "is it right for us to drink that? It does us no good; it brings upon us much evil; that's what I've been a-thinking while 'twas being poured out."
"So have I," exclaimed another.
"And I," said a third. "I would have been worth fifty thousand dollars, this day, had I never touched stuff like that. I tell you what, coveys, let's come out."
"Hurra!" shouted yet another; "I've spent a good fortune in rum-shops. That's what I say; let's come out."
"Yes," said the first speaker, "let us come out. We have been in long enough;—in the gutter, in the grog-shop, in misery, in disgrace, in poverty, in jail, and in ruin. I say, let us come out, out of all these."
"Amen!" responded all.
"Let us come out," he continued; "but what can temperance folks do? I have signed the pledge, and signed, and signed, but I cannot keep it. I had no friends; temperance folks never came to me. I have often thought that, if a friend would reach forth his hand, and help me from the gutter when I have lain there, I would do anything for such a friend. But when I am drunk they laugh at and jeer me. Boys stone and cuff me, and men stand by and laugh at their hellish sport. Yes, those calling themselves 'friends of temperance' would laugh at me, and say, 'Miserable fool, nothing can save him! When such are dead, we can train up a generation of temperate people.' I am kicked and cuffed about like a dog, and not a hand is extended to relieve me. When I first tasted, I told him who gave it me the blame should rest on him if I fell. Where he is now, I know not; but, wherever he is, I know his is a miserable existence. Years have passed since then, and here I am, a miserable drunkard. My wife-where is she? and my good old aunt-where is she? At home in that comfortless room, weeping over my fall, and praying for my reform. Brothers, let us arise; let us determine to be men-free men!"
"It is done," said one and all; and the keeper of the cellar dashed bottle after bottle against the wall.
"Yes, let us renounce these habits; they are hard to renounce; temptation is hard to resist."
"The present pledge is not safe for us," said the keeper of the cellar, as he took a demijohn of liquor up the steps, and emptied it in the gutter.
"Then let us have one of our own," said the first speaker. "Let it be called 'The Hope of the Fallen;' for we are indeed fallen, and this, our last refuge from more fearful evils, is our only hope. May it not disappoint us! May we cling to it as the drowning man grasps the rope thrown out for his rescue! And not for us alone shall this hope exist. Let us go to every unfortunate in our land, and speak kindly to him. Al, my friends, we know the value of a kind word. Let us lift him from the gutter, place him upon his feet, and say, 'Stand up! I myself also am a man.'"
Having said this, he sent out for pen, ink and paper, and a pledge was carefully drawn up, of which the following is a copy:
"We, whose names are hereunto affixed, knowing by sad experience that the use of wine, beer, cider, rum, brandy, gin, and all kinds of intoxicating drinks, is hurtful to man, beast and reptile, do hereby pledge ourselves most solemnly to abstain now, henceforth, and forever, from the use of them in whatever shape they may be presented; to neither eat, drink, touch, taste, nor handle them; and in every place, and on every occasion, to use our influence in inducing others to do the same."
The speaker was the first to place his name to this document; and the keeper of the cellar started when he read the name of "Edward Dayton."
"Is it possible!" said he, and, grasping his hand, he shook it most heartily.
Edward was as much astonished as he. Such a change had taken place that they could not at first recognize each other.
"Yes," said Edward, "you tempted me to drink. I forgive. I now tempt you to sign this pledge."
No words were required to induce all present to sign.
They all spake of their past lives, related the sorrows they had felt, the misery they had endured; and such was the interest manifested by each in listening to these plain, unvarnished tales, that they resolved upon meeting in that same place the next night.
The next day, the report spread like wild-fire about the city that drunkards themselves were reforming. Many doubted, and would not believe such to be the case.
"They are past reforming," said public opinion; "let them die; let us take care of the young."
They met in the same place the next night, but the next they did not. Their numbers had so increased that the cellar would not contain them; and they engaged a large hall, and gave public notice that a meeting would be held at which reformed drunkards would speak. Those who before doubted did so no more; yet from many the sneering, cold-hearted remark was heard, "They will not hold on."
At the hour appointed, hundreds thronged to the place, and hundreds departed, being unable to gain admittance. That night, nearly five hundred signed the new pledge, and new additions were made daily.
It had a power which no previous pledge had possessed; a power, with God's, aid, to bring man from the lowest depths of woe, place him on his feet, and tell him, "Sin no more."
The new society increased in numbers. In other cities the same feeling arose, and societies of the same kind were formed. The papers were filled with accounts of their meetings, and the cause spread, to the astonishment and grateful admiration of all.
Days of prosperity gladdened the heart of Edward. Joy took the place of sorrow in his family. He, like his thousands of brethren, had been snatched as a brand from the burning, and stood forth a living monument to the truth that there was a hope for the fallen.
Twelve years have passed since that ever-memorable night. Millions have become better men, and yet the pledge remains to exert its influence, and who can doubt that God directs its course?
'T is sending joy to the mourning, and many a wounded heart it heals. Is there a power that can exceed this? Is there another pledge that has effected as much good?
Let us, then, push on the car. Let our influence be such as will advance, and not retard, its progress. Let us do this, and ere long we may rejoice together, and earth hold a grand jubilee, and all men shall testify that the Pledge is the "hope of the fallen."
THERE are moments in our lifeWhen are hushed its sounds of strife;When, from busy toil set free,Mind goes back the past to see:Memory, with its mighty powers,Brings to view our childhood hours;Once again we romp and play,As we did in youth's bright day;And, with never-ceasing flow,Come the hours of Long Ago.Oft, when passions round us throng,And our steps incline to wrong,Memory brings a friend to view,In each line and feature true;Though he long hath left us here,Then his presence seemeth near,And with sweet, persuasive voice,Leads us from an evil choice;—Thus, when we astray would go,Come restraints from Long Ago.Oft, when troubled and perplexed,Worn in heart and sorely vexed;Almost sinking 'neath our load,Famishing on life's high road,—Darkness, doubt, and dark despairLeading us we know not where,—How hath sweet remembrance caughtFrom the past some happy thought!And, refreshed, we on would go,Cheered with hopes from Long Ago.What a store-house, filled with gemsOf more worth than diadems,Each hath 'neath his own control,From which to refresh his soul!Let us, then, each action weigh,Some good deed perform each day,That in future we may findHappy thoughts to bring to mind;For, with ever ceaseless flow,Thoughts will come from Long Ago.
RISE up early, sit up late,Be thou unto Avarice sold;Watch thou well at Mammon's gate,Just to gain a little gold.Crush thy brother neath thy feet,Till each manly thought is flown;Hear not, though he loud entreat,Be thou deaf to every moan.Wield the lash, and hush the cry,Let thy conscience now be seared;Pile thy glittering gems on high,Till thy golden god is reared.Then before its sparkling shrineBend the neck and bow the knee;Victor thou, all wealth is thine,Yet, what doth it profit thee?
PURE as an infant's heart that sin ne'er touched,That guilt had ne'er polluted; and she seemedMost like an angel that had missed its wayOn some kind mission Heaven had bade it go.Her eye beamed bright with beauty; and innocence,Its dulcet notes breathed forth in every word,Was seen in every motion that she made.Her form was faultless, and her golden hairIn long luxuriant tresses floated o'erHer shoulders, that as alabaster shone.Her very look seemed to impart a senseOf matchless purity to all it met.I saw her in the crowd, yet none were thereThat seemed so pure as she; and every eyeThat met her eye's mild glance shrank back abashed,It spake such innocence.One day she slept,—How calm and motionless! I watched her sleepTill evening; then, until the sun arose;And then, would have awakened her,—but friendsWhispered in my ear she would not wakeWithin that body more, for it was dead,And she, now clothed in immortality,Would know no more of change, nor know a care.And when I felt that truth, methought I sawA bright angelic throng, in robes of white,Bear forth her spirit to the throne of God;And I heard music, such as comes to usOft in our dreams, as from some unseen life,And holy voices chanting heavenly songs,And harps and voices blending in one hymn,Eternal hymn of highest praise to GodFor all the good the Heaven-sent one had doneSince first it left the heavenly fold of souls,To live on earth, and show to lower manHow pure and holy, joyous and serene,They may and shall assuredly becomeWhen all the laws that God through Nature speaksAre kept unbroken! * * ** * * She had now returned,And heaven resounded with angelic songs.Before me lay the cold, unmoving form;Above me lived the joyous, happy one!And who should sorrow? Sure, not I; not she;Not any one! For death,—there was no death,—But that which men called death was life more realThan heart had o'er conceived or words expressed!
FLOWERS from the wild-wood,Flowers, bright flowers!Springing in desert spot,Where man dwelleth not,—Flowers, bright flowers,Cheering the traveller's lot.Given to one and all,Flowers, bright flowers!When man neglecteth thee,When he rejecteth thee,Flowers, bright flowers,God's hand protecteth thee!Remnants of paradise,Flowers, bright flowers!Tinged with a heavenly hue,Reflecting its azure blue,Flowers, bright flowers,Brightest earth ever knew!Cheering the desolate,Flowers, bright flowers!Coming with fragrance fraught,From Heaven's own breezes caught,Flowers, bright flowers,Teachers of holy thought!Borne to the curtained room,Flowers, bright flowers!Where the sick longs for light,Then, for the shades of night,Flowers, bright flowers,Gladdening the wearied sight!High on the mountain-top,Flowers, bright flowers!Low in sequestered vale,On cliff, mid rock, in dale,Flowers, bright flowers,Ye do prevail!
FORGET me not when other lipsShall whisper love to thee;Forget me not when others twineTheir chaplets for thy brow;Forget me not, for I am thine,Forever onward true as now,As long as time shall be.There may be words thou mayest doubt,But when I tell thee "I am thine,"Believe the heart's assurance true,In sorrow and in mirthForever it doth turn to you,Confiding, trusting in thy worth.Thou wilt, I know, be mine.
LONG, long ago, one whose life had been one of goodness-whose every act had been that of charity and good will-was persecuted, hated and maligned! He came with new hopes. He held up a light, whose rays penetrated far into the future, and disclosed a full and glorious immortality to the long doubting, troubled soul of man.
He professed to commune with angels! He had healed the sick; he had given sight to the blind; caused the lame to walk; opened prison-doors, and had preached the Gospel to the poor. Those he chose for his companions were from humble rank. Their minds had not become enslaved to any creed; not wedded to any of the fashionable and popular forms of the day, nor immovably fixed to any of the dogmas of the schools. He chose such because their minds were free and natural; "and they forsook all and followed him."
Among the rulers, the wealthy and the powerful, but few believed in him, or in the works he performed. To them he was an impostor. In speaking of his labors some cant phrase fell from their wise lips, synonymous with the "it is all a humbug" of our day. His healing of the sick was denied; or, if admitted, was said to be some lucky circumstance of fate. His opening of the eyes of the blind was to them a mere illusion; the supposed cure, only an operation of the imagination.
All his good deeds were underrated; and those who, having seen with their own eyes, and heard with their own ears, were honest enough to believe and openly declare their belief; were looked upon by the influential and those in high places as most egregiously deceived and imposed upon.
But, notwithstanding the opposition, men did believe; and in one day three thousand acknowledged their belief in the sincerity of the teacher, and in the doctrines which he taught.
Impressed deeply with the reality and divinity of his mission,—looking to God as his father, and to all mankind as his brethren,—Jesus continued his way. To the scoffs and jeers of the rabble, he replied in meekness and love; and amid the proud and lofty he walked humbly, ever conscious of the presence of an angelic power, which would silence the loudest, and render powerless the might of human strength.
He spoke as one having authority. He condemned the formalism of their worship; declared a faith that went deeper than exterior rites and ceremonies; and spoke with an independence and fearlessness such deep and soul-searching truths, that the people took up stones to stone him, and the priests and the rulers held council together against him.
At length the excited populace, beholding their cherished faith undermined, and the new teacher day by day inculcating doctrines opposed to those of Moses and the prophets, determined to take his life, and thus terminate his labors and put a stop to his heresies.
They watched his every movement. They stood by and caught the words as they fell from his lips, hoping thus to get something by which to form an accusation against him. In this they failed. Though what he said was contrary to their time-worn dogmas, yet nothing came from his lips but sentiments of the purest love, the injunctions of reason and justice, and the language of humanity. Failing in this plan to ensnare him, justice was set abide, and force called in to their aid.
See him now before a great tribunal, and Pilate, troubled in soul, compelled to say, "I find no fault in this man."
Urged to action by the mad crowd around him, balancing his decision between justice, the prisoner's release, and injustice, the call to crucify him, he knows not what to do. In an agony of thought, which pen cannot describe or human words portray, he delays his irrevocable doom.
In the mean time, the persecutors grow impatient; and louder than ever, from the chief priests and the supporters of royalty, goes up the infamous shout, "Crucify him, crucify him!" At this moment, the undecided, fearful Pilate casts a searching glance about him. As he beholds the passionate people, eager for the blood of one man, and he innocent, and sees, standing in their midst, the meek and lowly Jesus, calm as an evening zephyr over Judea's plains, from whose eye flows the gentle love of an infinite divinity,—his face beaming in sympathy with every attribute of goodness, faith and humanity,—all this, too, before his mad, unjust accusers, from whose eyes flash in mingled rays the venom of scorn and hate,—his mind grows strong with a sense of right. His feelings will not longer be restrained, and, unconscious of his position, forgetting for the moment the dignity of his office, he exclaims, with the most emphatic earnestness, "WHAT IS TRUTH?"
Eighteen hundred years have intervened between that day and this; and now the same inquiry is heard, and often with the same earnestness as then. Men ask, and often ask in vain, "what is truth?" and yet the great problem to millions remains unsolved.
Generations pass on, and leave to others the great question for them to ask, and they, in turn, to leave unanswered. The child, ere it can speak in words, looks from its wistful eye, "What is truth?" Youth comes, and all the emotions of the soul are awakened. It arises from the playfulness of childhood, forgets its little games, and, finding itself an actor in the drama of life, looks over the long programme of parts from which it is to choose its own, and anxiously inquires "What is truth?" Manhood feels the importance of the question; and Age, though conscious of its near approach to the world of revealed truth, repeats it.
The present is an era of thought. Men begin to assume a spirit of independence, and to look less upon human authority, and more upon that light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. And it is well that it is so. It is well that we begin to look upon liberty in another light than a mere absence of iron bonds upon our hands and feet; that we begin to discern that "He is a freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside." We are pressing on to know the truth. We have grown weary of darkness, and are seeking the light. We should remember, in our researches, that, to find out truth, we must not be pledged to any form, any opinion, or any creed, however old or dearly cherished such limitations may have been with ourselves or others. We must come to the task like little children, ready to learn. We must leave our beliefs behind us. We must not bring them, and attempt to adapt our discoveries in the realms of eternal truth to them; but we must build up the structure with the material we find in the universe of God; and then, when reared, if we find that in doing so we have a stone from our old temple nicely adjusted in the new, very well;—let it remain, and thank God for it.
Men have trusted too much in the views of past ages, and taken for truth many an error, because some one back in by-gone ages introduced it as such, and it has been believed in and held most sacred.
Let our course be our own course, and not that of others. Let us seek for truth as truth. Let us be honest and press on, trusting in God the rewarder of all, who will bless all our efforts to ascertain his truths, and our duty to him, to our fellow-men, and to ourselves.
He had wandered far and long, and when, on his return to the scenes of his early life, he came in full view of the old house, in which and around which those scenes were clustered, he throw down his oaken staff, raised his hands, and clapped them like a child. Then a tear would roll down his face; then a smile illumine it; then he would dance with joy. As he approached the building, he observed that the door was open; and the large, hospitable-looking room was so inviting, and there being no one present, he entered, and indulged in thoughts like these:
I STAND where I have stood before:The same roof is above me,But they who were are here no more,For me to love, or love me.I listen, and I seem to hearA favorite voice to greet me;But yet I know that none are near,Save stranger forms, to meet me.I'll sit me down,—for I have notSat here since first I startedTo run life's race,—and on this spotWill muse of the departed.Then I was young, and on my browThe rays of hope were shining;But Time hath there his imprint now,That tells of life's declining.How great the change!-though I can seeFull many a thing I cherished-Yet, since beneath yon old oak treeI stood, how much hath perished.Here is the same old oaken floor,And there the same rough ceilingEach telling of the scenes of yore,Each former joys revealing.But, friends of youth-they all have fled;Some yet on earth do love us;While others, passed beyond the dead,Live guardian ones above us.Yet, o'er us all one powerful handIs raised to guard forever,And all, ere long, one happy bandBe joined, no more to sever.I've trimmed my sail on every seaWhere crested waves are swelling;Yet oft my heart turned back to thee,My childhood's humble dwelling.I've not forgot my youthful days,The home that was my mother's,When listening to the words of praiseThat were bestowed on others.See, yonder, through the window-pane,The rock on which I rested;And on that green how oft I've lain-What memories there are vested!The place where once a sister's handI held-none loved I fonder;But she's now with an angel band,Whilst I a pilgrim wander.There was a pretty, blue-eyed girl,A good old farmer's daughter;We used the little stones to hurl,And watch them skip the water.We'd range among the forest trees,To gather woodland flowers;And then each other's fancy pleaseIn building floral bowers.Within this room, how many a timeI've listened to a story,And heard grandfather sing his rhyme'Bout Continental glory!And oft I'd shoulder his old staff,And march as proud as any,Till the old gentleman would laugh,And bless me with a penny.Hark! 't is a footstep that I hear;A stranger is approaching;I must away-were I found hereI should be thought encroaching.One last, last look-my old, old home!One memory more of childhood!I'll not forget, where'er I roam,This homestead and the wild-wood.