Father Brighthopes Part 36

"Those men who do bear that cross are martyrs of the n.o.blest sort,"

returns Father Brighthopes. "They are not only men of true courage, but men of fort.i.tude, which is a sort of enduring and perpetual courage. To them the truth, and the few who see and love that truth,--if only a handful of poor fishermen and three or four pious women,--will be more precious than all the kingdoms of the earth. If the devil of ambition whispers that by forsaking the former the latter may be gained, they can resist the temptation; for they know the value of internal convictions of right, and the worthlessness of external shows and shadows and happiness.

"Great truths, when first revealed to mankind, need such martyrs.

Opposition a.s.sists in the development of principles, as alternate frosts and heats in spring heave and loosen the soil. New truths, like sheaves of grain, must be well threshed by the flail of persecution, and winnowed by the wind of criticism, to separate the pure wheat from the straw and chaff.

"But to none of us, I am confident, will be given the crown of martyrdom. Mankind is too enlightened to make many martyrs now-a-days.

We gravitate to truth, and we crucify no more the prophet who reveals it to our sight. This is an age in which principles may be demonstrated, and will always be respected. Then let us embrace them, and have that ballast to steady us in the stormy voyage of life."

"Men of principle, even to-day," Chester replies, "are accused of fickleness and inconsistency, and all sorts of unworthy motives, by those who do not understand them."

"Very well; I can bear to be misunderstood for a little while," says the old man. "Those who are not established on the same ground of truth imagine that I waver, while it is themselves who are continually shifting. It took the earth a great while to learn that the sun and stars did not revolve around it every twenty-four hours. What cared the eternal sun? A ledge upreared in the midst of a swift river seems to be swimming up-stream; but it is only the water moving. Look up at the moon on a windy night when a storm is breaking away, and she appears to be flying wildly across the floor of heaven. It is the clouds that hurry, and the moon feels nothing of the optical delusion. Let us take example of the stars, the sun, the moon and the planets, in order that the true astronomers of the heart may know how to measure our distances and compute our orbits."

"That's my idea, well expressed," says Job, who rubs his hands, feeling that the right kind of friends have finally come around to him; "and that's what I've always told my good woman."

The old man pats Job on the shoulder, and says some pleasant word, which makes everybody laugh. He then proceeds with his speech. He goes from the great principle of integrity to the exercise of the minor domestic virtues. He dwells upon the happiness of the home in which love and contentment dwell, contrasting it with the raw atmosphere which pervades houses of the opposite stamp. How plainly his philosophy demonstrates the necessity of an even temper and a sweet disposition!

"You can keep house without silver spoons, but not without these," he says. "Charity and kindness are the soft music which regulates the march of life, and cheers the hearts of the soldiers."

This allusion to his old profession reminds Job of his wooden leg, which he pats affectionately whistling _Yankee Doodle_ very softly.

The old clergyman goes on. He has a good deal to say to the young folks about the active life upon which they are just entering,--its perils and temptations. He warns them against selfishness, and tells them how it narrows and shrivels the soul. But his favorite theme is LOVE; and he dwells much upon the beauty of its offspring, kindness, contentment, cheerfulness. His language is so simple that even Willie can understand all he says.

"Well," he remarks, in conclusion, "I am talking too long."

"Not a bit of it! I defy you!" cries Job Bowen.

"Go on! go on!" exclaim a dozen voices.

"I must take leave of you soon; and we can spend the little time that remains to us more pleasantly than in speechifying, or listening to a speech. It is doubtful if I ever meet you again. I am growing old," says Father Brighthopes, with a serene smile. "I have but a little while to stay here on earth. I am going home. Our Father has given me my work to do, and it is almost done. Oh, would I could tell you how joyfully I shall put off corruption for incorruption, and exchange mortality for immortality!

"But I shall see you all again, even though we meet here no more. Let us hope so. Let us so live that it shall be so. The Saviour's loving arms are outstretched to receive us all in his embrace."

A pause; silence and tears. Mrs. Royden endeavors to conceal emotion by arranging Hepsy's cape. Others resort to their handkerchiefs. The speaker's voice is choked, and there are shining drops gliding down his aged cheeks. To fill up the pause, he lifts Willie in his arms, as that young gentleman is tying long gra.s.s around his feet, and murmuring something about keeping him always; kisses him, and presses him to his heart.

"What are you crying for?" asks the boy, breaking the silence.

With his little brown hand he touches a straw to one of the crystal drops on the old man's face, and strings it off upon it like a bead.

"Thus may all our tears become bright gems!" says Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly upon the child. "But you cannot realize this, my darling. You teach us a lesson quite unconsciously to your young heart.

You show us how hope is born of affliction, and how joy springs from the dark soil of distress. My friends, let us look up. Never look down.

Remember what an eternity opens above us, beyond all the clouds of this life. And may the good G.o.d bless you all!"

x.x.xI.

THE DEPARTURE.

It was evening when the company dispersed. Father Brighthopes took affectionate leave of each individual, and had a kind and hopeful word for every one. They seemed to be bidding farewell to some beloved old patriarch, who had lived all his days amongst them.

The clergyman was left alone with his friends, the Roydens. The evening was spent in sober, sweet communion. In the morning the family was up early; for the old man was to be off at eight o'clock.

"Oh, we cannot express how much we owe to you, good Father!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with tears of thankfulness in her eyes, on meeting him in the parlor. "My husband seems a different man since you have been with us. And you have taught me a lesson I shall endeavor to profit by. It is hard to overcome fixed habits, and I know I shall often and often--as I do now every day--yield to the dictates of my harsh temper; but I trust I shall come off conqueror in the end!"

"We are all weak, of ourselves," said the old man, affectionately. "But there is One who giveth strength."

Father Brighthopes found an opportunity to have a farewell talk with poor Hepsy. She could not bear the thought of his going away. This was now her only sorrow; for he had filled her soul with immortal hopes, and taught her to endure patiently all the ills of life. But she feared lest she might go back into the dark, when he was no longer near to reflect the light from above upon her spirit. Had he not promised to write to her, she would hardly have been consoled for his loss; as it was, it seemed as if the sun was going into a dense, cold mist.

At length the breakfast was out of the way; the old man had offered up his morning prayer in presence of the family, as, by request of the parents, he had been accustomed to do, of late; his trunks were packed and ready, and the time had come to say the last farewells.

James brought the horse to the door, at sight of which Willie just began to comprehend that the old man was really going.

"I want to go too!" he cried, clinging to his knees.

Father Brighthopes stooped to kiss his plump brown cheek.

"Oh, let me go!" exclaimed Georgie, who had not thought of such an arrangement before.

"Would you go and leave your father and mother, and Chester and James, and all?" asked the clergyman.

"You show me how to do my sums better than they do; and you give me story-books," replied Georgie, bashfully.

"And they do a thousand times more for you," said the old man, embracing the boy. "They give you clothes, and food, and send you to school, and do more things for you than anybody can think of."

"Oh, you will come again next summer, won't you, Father?" cried Lizzie, kissing him impulsively, when his head was down.

"I am too old and feeble to make any promise for another year," replied Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly. "But I shall come and see you all again, if Providence grant me that indulgence. Be this as it may, I shall always remember you and love you."

How gently then he kissed the affectionate girl! He turned and gave his hand to Sarah, whose eyes filled with tears as she received his blessing.

Mr. Royden took the old man's arm, and led him to the wagon.

"But where is Samuel? I must not neglect him," said Father Brighthopes.

At that moment a groaning was heard behind the shed, under the tree where the grindstone stood.

"Is that Sam?" asked Mr. Royden.

"Yes, sir," replied James. "Something is the matter with him; I don't know what it is. He was taken sick when we were harnessing."

"What is the matter, my son?" asked the old man, cheerily, looking over the gate.

Sam lay upon the turf, with his head on his arm, for a pillow.

"Nothing," he muttered, in a ghastly tone, without looking up.

"Come, I am going away. I want to bid you good-bye."