Rutledge

by Miriam Coles Harris

"Odd, but very nice, Kitty," I answered, with a grimace that made her laugh; and as the carriage drove to the door, we ran down the stairs, Kitty putting on her bonnet and shawl as we went. I am sure it would have eased for a moment Mr. Rutledge's pain, if he could have known the extent of the pleasure he had conferred on the two children who so delightedly occupied his carriage that morning. All Kitty's knowledge of it, I suspect, had hitherto been speculative, and I think one of the dearest wishes of her heart was gratified when she tried experimentally the softness of its new dark green cushions, and in her own proper person occupied the front seat, an honor whereof she had only dreamed before.

It was a perfect autumn day; the air was exhilarating, the sunshine brilliant, the scenery picturesque, and a great deal less than that would have sufficed to make me happy in those days; and before we reëntered the park gate, three hours had slipped away in the most unsuspected manner. Kitty having gathered, at my request, an armful of the few gay autumn leaves remaining after yesterday's storm, I entertained myself, during the drive home, with arranging them in a bouquet. The glossy dark laurel leaves, and the varied and bright hues of the maple and sumac, with some vivid red berries, name unknown, made quite a pretty and attractive combination. As we reached home, I was seized with an audacious intention, which I put into execution before allowing myself time to "think better of it."

"Kitty," I said, "take this to Mr. Rutledge's door, and give it to Thomas for him, and say I hope he is better, and I am very much obliged to him for sending me to drive, and that I enjoyed it very much."

I was rather alarmed when Kitty had accomplished her errand, but it was too late to retract. That evening was a very long one; I went upstairs at nine o'clock, wondering at its interminable length.

The next day was Sunday. Mr. Rutledge was no better, and I went to church alone in the carriage, with only Kitty to attend me, Mrs. Roberts, she said, not being able to leave "the master." It was a beautiful little church, Gothic, and built of stone, with nothing wanting to render it church-like and solemn. When I looked at the tablets on the wall, that recorded, one after another, the deaths of Warren Rutledge, and Maria, his wife, and Richard, their son, I could not help thinking it must be sad for him to come here, Sunday after Sunday, and see that; but then it's easier to think of such things in church than anywhere else; somehow, quick and dead do not seem so far separated there.

Why, I could not tell, but there I remembered a great deal more thoughtfully and thankfully than I had done before, the evening, not a week ago, when I had lain, living and unhurt, among the dead and dying. It was strange, in the humored nervousness of the first day or two, and the returning health and spirits of the following, how little I had thought of it. And when Mr. Shenstone read his text: "Were there not ten cleansed? But where are the nine? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger," my heart smote me. I indeed had forgotten, and had taken carelessly, and without much thought, my preservation from a terrible death. I indeed had gone on without giving glory to God, without acknowledging the mercy by which I yet lived.

Mr. Shenstone's sermon was one that those who recognize only as eloquence, pathos and fire and passion, would have pronounced very far from eloquent. His manner was quiet, and not particularly impressive, his language simple and unostentatious. But he possessed the true kind of sermon eloquence—keen perception of spiritual things, and the clearest knowledge of the Christian life. He had learning and talents; but it was not by them alone that he gained so deep a reverence from his humble parishioners, so strong an influence over them. It was because his own hope was high, that he could elevate theirs. It was because learning and talents and fame were things indifferent to him, save as aids in the service he had entered, that he could descend to their level, to raise them more nearly to his own. They could grasp what he taught them, for it was "a reasonable religious and holy hope," a rule of life, sober, practical, and simple, that led to high things, but began with low. It was because his heart was in his work, that his work prospered; because the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, were his sworn and baffled enemies, and not his half encouraged and secret allies, that in his little flock he made such headway against them; because "through faith and prayer" he kept his own heart and life pure, he could see more clearly to guide them.

Thus it was, that though Mr. Shenstone hardly took his eyes from his notes, and used very few gestures, and those few awkward ones—though he preached quietly and unenthusiastically—though there were no ornaments of rhetoric, no efforts at oratory, it was a sermon that, to this day, I distinctly remember, and never, I fancy, shall forget. Keen, pithy, conclusive, no one could help acknowledging its power; kind, earnest, sincere, no one could doubt its spirit; full of a devotion the purest, a faith that pierced to heaven itself, a love that cast out all fear and slothfulness, no one could listen and not be better for the listening. He put old truths in new lights, and gave to the familiar Gospel story a vivid interest, that often reading had made tame and unimpressive. He brought distinctly before the imagination the Samaritan village, through which the Saviour was passing on his way to Jerusalem; the sad company of leprous men, cut off from the sympathy and society of their fellows, who attracted his notice. That they "stood afar off," not daring to approach him, was no obstacle to him; no distance could put them beyond the pity of that watchful eye, beyond the attention of that ear, ever open to the prayers of his people. They were marked, miserable, suffering men, and as such they cried with all their hearts and humbly, "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!"

It was their one chance for restoration to home and kindred, no doubt they cried with all their hearts. They were considered beyond the reach of human aid; no doubt they cried humbly. And He "who hath never failed them that seek Him," had mercy on them and heard their cry and helped them. Sending them simply and unostentatiously to the ordained means of cure and cleansing, they, obeying eagerly and unquestioningly, were cured and cleansed. On their way to the priests, the hated disease left the bodies it had so long degraded and afflicted, and with the glow of returning health, they felt they were men once more, men without a curse and a reproach upon them. And with returning health came the pride, the self reliance that had been only slumbering, not dead, under the weight of the punishment laid on them. Without a thought of Him to whom they owed the power to do it, they hurried forward, one perhaps to his farm, another to his merchandise, long denied, absent, but unforgotten idols. Among the crowd, but one remembered to be thankful, but one returned to give glory to God. And he was a Samaritan, but another name to Jewish ears, for infamy and contempt. No doubt he had been in a good school to learn humility among these proud Jews, who, even in their degradation, had probably never forgotten to revile and to persecute. And on him alone, of all the ten, rested the blessing and commendation, beside which the bodily cure was but a paltry gift. These things were written for our admonition; they had called for mercy in their extremity, they had been heard and their prayer granted, and they had forgotten whence came the mercy, and had used it only to harden themselves in worldliness and sin. Had this case no parallel in Christian times? Was Jewish ingratitude the last that had been offered to Divine love? Were there none, among the Congregation of Christ's flock, who in time of peril and temptation, had with all their hearts and humbly cried for mercy, which when sent they had forgotten to be thankful for? The vows made in a time of terror and despair, fade in the sunshine of returning prosperity, the blessing is used, the Giver is forgotten. Must not such a sin look black to Him who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity? Will it not provoke Him more surely than any other, to leave the ingrate forever to the idols of his choice, to let him see, when next comes peril and perplexity, how worthless and how frail they are, and how fearful a thing it is, to forfeit forever the protection of a God that can save.

If any such there were, let them repent while there was yet time, let them wash out the ingratitude that stained their souls, with penitential tears, and purify themselves with prayer and fast, and daily self-denial. Let them remember that mercy was not yet withdrawn, that a period was not yet put to His forgiveness; but how near the time might be, how short the term of their probation, none could tell, not even the angels in heaven.