"You'll observe," said Uncle John, "that, when Mrs. G. goes to heaven, she'll notify the Lord, forthwith, that she has only been accustomed to the most select circles, and requests to be admitted at the front door."
"It isn't because I object to being with common people," said Anne Clayton, "that I dislike this custom of going to the altar; but it seems to me an invasion of that privacy and reserve which belong to our most sacred feelings. Besides, there are in a crowd coarse, rude, disagreeable people, with whom it isn't pleasant to come in contact."
"For my part," said Mrs. John Gordon, "I don't believe in it at all! It's a mere temporary excitement. People go and get wonderfully wrought up, come away, and are just what they were before."
"Well," said Clayton, "isn't it better to be wrought up once in a while, than never to have any religious feelings? Isn't it better to have a vivid impression of the vastness and worth of the soul,—of the power of an endless life,—for a few hours once a year, than never to feel it at all? The multitudes of those people, there, never hear or think a word of these things at any other time in their lives. For my part," he added, "I don't see why it's a thing to be ashamed of, if Mr. Gordon or I should have knelt at the altar last night, even if we do not feel like it this morning. We are too often ashamed of our better moments;—I believe Protestant Christians are the only people on earth who are ashamed of the outward recognition of their religion. The Mahometan will prostrate himself in the street, or wherever he happens to be, when his hour for prayer comes. The Roman Catholic sailor or soldier kneels down at the sound of the vesper bell. But we rather take pride in having it understood that we take our religion moderately and coolly, and that we are not going to put ourselves much out about it."
"Well, but, brother," said Anne, "I will maintain, still, that there is a reserve about these things which belongs to the best Christians. And did not our Saviour tell us that our prayers and alms should be in secret?"
"I do not deny at all what you say, Anne," said Clayton; "but I think what I said is true, notwithstanding; and, both being true, of course, in some way they must be consistent with each other."
"I think," said Nina, "the sound of the singing at these camp-meetings is really quite spirit-stirring and exciting."
"Yes," said Clayton, "these wild tunes, and the hymns with which they are associated, form a kind of forest liturgy, in which the feelings of thousands of hearts have been embodied. Some of the tunes seem to me to have been caught from the song of birds, or from the rushing of wind among the branches. They possess a peculiar rhythmical energy, well suited to express the vehement emotions of the masses. Did camp-meetings do no other good than to scatter among the people these hymns and tunes, I should consider them to be of inestimable value."
"I must say," said Anne, "I always had a prejudice against that class both of hymns and tunes."