FATHER BRIGHTHOPES IN THE PULPIT.
During all the unpleasant hurry and confusion of the morning, Father Brighthopes had remained beautifully serene. He seemed to enjoy the ride on that still Sabbath—so different, in its calm and quiet loveliness, from all other days in the week—as much as if nothing inharmonious had occurred. But he was more thoughtful than usual, talking little, as if his meditations took a higher and holier range than on common occasions.
His venerable aspect attracted general attention, as he entered the aisle with the family, at the close of the prayer. His aged form was slightly bent, his calm eyes downcast, and his step very soft and light; while his countenance beamed with a meek and childlike expression of reverence and love.
The old man seated himself with his relatives, in a humble attitude; but Mr. Corlis, after reading the hymn, invited him, through Deacon Dustan, to come up into the pulpit. He could not well refuse, although he would have preferred to remain in his obscure position. He ascended the hidden stairway, which always looked so mysterious to young children, and soon his fine, noble head, with its expansive forehead, and thin, white locks of hair, appeared above the crimson cushions of the desk.
From the pulpit, he glanced his eye over the congregation, as they arose with the singers and stood during the hymn. He was very happy, looking kindly down upon so many strangers, who seemed all dear brothers and sisters to his great heart,—near relations and friends, no less than they who sat in Mr. Royden's pew, and Sarah and Chester in the choir.
The sermon was one of the best Mr. Corlis had ever preached. It was not so flowery as many of his discourses, nor so deep in doctrinal research as others, but it contained more practical Christianity than any of his previous productions. When Father Brighthopes, who was agreeably disappointed in its character, expressed his gratification to his younger brother, at its close, the latter should, perhaps, have confessed how much of its merits were owing to his influence; for, after his interview with the old clergyman, Mr. Corlis, touched to the quick by new convictions of duty, had re-written a large portion of the sermon prepared during the week, and poured into it something of the vital spirit of love and truth which had been awakened within him.
Father Brighthopes read the closing hymn in clear, musical, feeling tones of voice, while the congregation listened with unaccustomed attention and pleasure. When the services were over, a great many sought to be introduced to him, and Deacon Dustan insisted that he should go home with him and dine. But there was a Sunday-school between morning and afternoon services, and he expressed a desire to remain and witness the teachers' labors.
"Perhaps," said he, smiling, "with my experience, I can throw out some useful hints. However, as I think a breath of air will do me good," he added, turning to Mr. Corlis who had asked him to walk over to the parsonage, "I accept your kind invitation. I can return in the course of half an hour, and still have time to utter a great deal more wisdom than I shall be capable of, I fear."
Mr. Corlis had hardly expected this, and, it may be, he was not very pleasantly surprised. It had been impossible for him to foster any resentment from over-hearing the old man's remarks, two days before, touching the duties of clergymen; yet he could not feel altogether comfortable in his presence.
Even this sensation of uncongeniality could not last long. Father Brighthopes was so frank, so humble, so full of love and kindly enthusiasm, that in ten minutes his conversation had swept away the barriers between them. Mr. Corlis really began to like him, and feel that his counsel and support might be of great assistance to him in his labors.
After partaking sparingly of a tempting collation, to which he was welcomed by the bright eyes and rosy lips of Mrs. Corlis, the old man proposed to return to the Sabbath-school; and the young preacher volunteered to be his companion.
The appearance of Father Brighthopes in the school-room was a memorable event. The teachers soon closed up the business of their classes, to listen to what he had to say. All was attention, as he arose, venerable, yet simple and smiling, to address the school.
Hitherto, this had been of a rather gloomy character. Many of the teachers had fallen into a melancholy, droning manner of talking to their pupils about the horrors of sin and the awfulness of God's wrath. The old clergyman's cheerful discourse had so much the better effect, from the contrast. How happy and bright was religion, according to his faith! How glorious was truth! How unutterably sweet was the conviction of God's infinite goodness and love!
It was like the pouring down of sunshine through murky clouds,—that earnest, beautiful discourse. The children never forgot it; and, happily for them, the teachers treasured it in their hearts.
Mrs. Royden thought it did not do her much good to go to meeting. She was so nervous, during the morning service, that it had been quite impossible for her to fix her mind on the sermon, or enjoy the singing.
"I may as well give up going to meeting altogether," she said to her husband, on their way home at noon. "There is so much to be done, every morning, before we start, that it is all hurry—hurry—hurry; and if I take my time, then we are late."
He could not make her believe that she did a thousand things, on such occasions, which she might just as well leave undone; and, to "have peace," he gave over the argument.
The baby had been very cross, and Mrs. Royden concluded to stay at home in the afternoon. This was melancholy intelligence for Sam, who had enjoyed a fine season of fun in the morning, playing with the cat, cracking "but'nuts," and plaguing Hepsy. With the old lady around the house, fun was out of the question on the Sabbath.
Hepsy got ready, and returned with Mr. Royden in the afternoon. Father Brighthopes preached, and his sermon was just such a one as the poor girl needed, to cheer her hopeless, doubting heart. In listening to it, she quite forgot how many eyes regarded her deformed figure and plain face with scorn and dislike; she remembered not the pangs which had shot through and through her sensitive heart, when Chester told her of his intended marriage; the world faded, with its selfishness, pride and envy, and heaven opened, with its angels of peace and love. The old man's eloquent sermon delighted old and young; but there were few fainting, thirsty souls, who drank in its glorious thoughts with such intensity of feeling as did the afflicted Hepsy.