Walter’s good intentions and
resolutions respecting his treatment of his brother,
though sincere when he uttered them in the presence
of his aunt, were by no means strong enough to make
him curb his wit or his displeasure when Amos did
anything to annoy or thwart him. And not only
so; but there abode in his mind a feeling of mingled
jealousy and annoyance when he was constrained to
admit to himself his brother’s superiority.
If Amos had some self-imposed duty to perform, why
should he thrust this duty into other people’s
faces? Duty was a very fine thing in its way,
no doubt, but grave Mr Duty was a very sour-tempered,
troublesome old fellow when he trode on his neighbour’s
toes. And why should Amos make himself disagreeable
by adopting a course of duty which unfitted him for
cordially co-operating with his younger brother in
his schemes? There was a sort of monasticism
in this conduct in Walter’s eyes. Here
was his brother living amongst them, and yet, having
taken the vows of some self-imposed duty upon him,
he was looking down upon them all as though from some
higher standing-ground. What a pity that he
did not retire into a monastery, where he could act
out his vows and his duty without troubling the noses
of ordinary mortals like his relations with this oppressive
“odour of sanctity.” So thought Walter;
and he made no concealment of his feelings from Amos,
whom he now began to call “the Monk,”
or “Father Gengulphus.”
Amos took it all very quietly, fully
understanding that Walter was vexed with him for pursuing
a path alone, along which his brother neither could
nor would follow him at present. He was content
that it should be so, and bore the cross patiently,
being willing to bide his time, thankful to notice
in Walter a kindlier feeling towards himself on the
whole, and convinced that, in the end, his own motives
and work would be duly appreciated by that brother
whom he sincerely loved.
Miss Huntingdon saw what was going
on, and rejoiced. She knew well that the discipline
would only tend to brighten the character of her elder
nephew, and felt sure that Walter would learn by degrees
fully to understand and value his brother. Meanwhile,
she was ever ready to throw in a little oil when the
waters were more than usually troubled. She knew,
too, the strength of Amos’s religious character,
and the weakness of any higher or holier principles
in Walter’s heart; and she was sure that the
steady consistency of her elder nephew would gradually
win on the generous heart of his brother, spite of
himself.
Nothing special had occurred to spoil
the harmony of feeling between Amos and Walter for
some weeks after the unexpected absence of the former
from home; so that the hearts of the brothers were
really being drawn closer together, notwithstanding
natural dissimilarity of disposition, and the absence
in Walter of that high principle and self-discipline
which were moulding his elder brother’s character
into daily nearer conformity to Him who is the one
only perfect pattern of humanity.
It was while Walter was thus increasingly
becoming sensible of the superior beauty of his brother’s
sterling worth and consistency, and was at the same
time secretly resenting the pressure of that nobler
life’s influence upon him, being unprepared
to follow it out himself and submit to its gentle
restraints and self-denial, that a party of friends
was assembled at dinner one summer evening at the
Manor-house. Mr Huntingdon did not give dinner-parties
now as frequently as in happier days, and his friends
and neighbours understood and appreciated the cause;
but now and then he felt it to be his duty to entertain
his friends in the old way; so, on the present occasion,
some thirty guests sat down to table.
Among those present were an old Mrs
Morse, a widow lady, and her daughter. The mother
was a kind-hearted woman of the world, reasonably
well-to-do, and visited by all the good families in
the neighbourhood. She was very anxious to see
her daughter, who was her only child, and was now
passing out of her youthful days, well married, as
the world esteems it; so she was very glad of an opportunity
of drawing out Amos Huntingdon, whom she looked upon
as a worthy, weak, shy, dull young man, rather depressed
by his discouraging home surroundings, and not a likely
person to attract or seek the affections of any young
lady who might be fortunate enough to combine the
allurements of wealth and beauty. He might,
however, with a little judicious management, be led
to look with interest on her daughter, and would prove,
no doubt, an excellent husband, as he had means of
his own, the prospect of inheriting the Manor, and
was exceedingly amiable, and free from habits of extravagance.
Gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of the present
opportunity to engage Amos in conversation before dinner
was announced, expressing, at the same time, her regret
that she had so seldom the pleasure of meeting him,
and how much it would gratify herself and her daughter
if he would come over now and then and spend a quiet
afternoon or evening with them. “You know,”
she continued, “we are quiet people, and, if
report says true, Mr Amos, your own tastes and habits
are of the quiet sort. We should be so glad
to see you in our simple way; and I think we could
show you, in the beauties of our charming neighbourhood,
what would really be a pleasure to you and a refreshment
to your mind.”
Amos thanked her, and listened with
due decorum to a good deal of small talk on the old
lady’s part till dinner was announced, when she
so contrived that he should take her daughter down
and sit between them.
Walter was seated just opposite his
brother, full of life and fun, as he threw off his
gay remarks now on this side and now on that.
Suddenly he looked across at Amos, and something
in the situation of his brother between the old lady
and her daughter struck him as so irresistibly funny,
that it was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained
himself from a violent outburst of laughter.
And, certainly, to one easily moved to merriment
there was something singularly quaint and almost comic
in the contrast between the subdued but courteous manner
of Amos, who was patiently endeavouring to make himself
agreeable to his two immediate neighbours, and the
excited frivolity of Miss Morse’s running fire
of worldly commonplaces, occasionally interrupted by
her mother’s more staid utterances of a similar
character.
Walter thoroughly comprehended the
situation, and the reason why such pains were being
taken to draw out his brother; and his satisfaction
and amusement were unbounded at the manifest failure
of the effort. The old lady caught Walter’s
eye, and divining somewhat of the cause of its merry
twinkle, coloured, and was silent. Her daughter
also looked uneasily across the table, and then exclaimed,
“Were you at Lady Gambit’s
garden-party last Tuesday, Mr Walter?”
“No,” he replied; “I was not there.”
“Then I can tell you that you missed a treat,”
said the other.
“Why, what was the special attraction?”
he asked.
“Oh, everything that you can imagine!”
“Well, I can imagine so many
things,” said Walter laughing, “that I
am quite sure her ladyship’s garden could never
have held them all. Pray, tell me what you yourself
thought the attraction par excellence.”
“Yes, I can do that. You
know these garden-parties are generally rather dull
affairs after all.”
“What! with those numberless attractions?”
“Yes; one gets weary of them.
You know, go where you will, it’s the same
thing over and over again.”
“But it seems that it was not so in this case.”
“No, it was not. Her ladyship,
no doubt, wished to make a little variety, and so
she was good enough to provide us with something new.”
“Dear me!” cried Walter;
“how I should have liked being there! What
was the novelty? Was it a temperance lecture,
or a Band of Hope meeting for the benefit of the old
boys and girls of sixty or seventy years of age?
That must have been very lively. Or perhaps it
was a Protestant address against nunneries and monasteries.
My brother Amos would have liked to have had a word
on that subject.”
“No, no, Mr Walter; you must not be foolish.”
“Well, do tell me. I am
all anxiety to know what this attractive novelty was.
Not a conjurer? that would have been capital fun.”
“No, not a conjurer exactly.”
“Well, then, something of the sort?”
“Yes; Lady Gambit had engaged
a celebrated mimic a man, I mean, who can
take off other people to the life.”
“Indeed,” said Walter.
“Perhaps it might have been as well if he had
taken himself off. But, excuse my nonsense; what
did he mimic?”
“Oh, all sorts of funny people.
We all gathered round him under the great sycamore
tree, and he kept us in peals of laughter for an hour.”
“Tell me, please, some of the characters he
took off.”
“I can remember two especially.
One of them was a drunkard, and the other was a hypocrite.
In taking off the drunkard he called himself `Mr
Adolphus Swillerly.’ You never heard anything
more amusing in your life.”
“And the hypocrite?” asked
Walter, but with less of amusement in his tone.
“Ah, I think that was better
still! He assumed the character of `Simon Batter-text;’
and he mimicked his preaching, and his praying, and
his sighs, and his `ahmens’ in a wonderful way.
It really was perfect. I’m so sorry you
were not there, you would have so thoroughly enjoyed
it.”
There was a pause, and a general silence,
for the attention of the rest of the company had been
drawn to the subject and the speakers.
“Surely you don’t see
any harm in a little fun like that?” asked the
young lady in some dismay, as she noticed that Walter’s
face and manner were troubled as he hesitated in his
reply.
All eyes were on him. What should
he say? He turned very red; and then, having
helped himself to a glass of wine, he said, carelessly,
and with a short, merry laugh, “Harm! oh, of
course not! The man meant no harm; he didn’t
attack individuals. All the better if he made
drunkenness and hypocrisy ridiculous. Don’t
you think so, Amos?”
For a moment his brother hesitated,
for every eye was directed towards him. No one
spoke; not a knife nor fork clattered.
“Well, my boy,” said his
father, “let us have your opinion.”
Thus appealed to, Amos no longer hesitated,
but said calmly, and in a low distinct voice, heard
by every one at the table, “I had rather not
have given my opinion; but, when I am thus openly appealed
to, I must not shrink from expressing it. I
think it wrong, utterly wrong, to ridicule sin in
any shape or form. To put sin in a funny light
is not the way to make us hate it as we ought to do.
Our Saviour never made light or a jest of sin; and
I believe that the man who mimicked a drunkard and
a hypocritical preacher had no love for either sobriety
or holiness.”
The profoundest silence reigned while
Amos uttered these words. At first his voice
had trembled, but it immediately became perfectly firm,
and a quiet peace rested on his sweet face as he finished.
A sudden chill seemed to have fallen on most of the
party. Some shrugged their shoulders, some smiled,
others looked annoyed. Mrs Morse and her daughter
exchanged looks of bewilderment behind Amos’s
back. Walter, with feelings of mingled shame
and vexation, glanced at the bright face of his aunt,
whose eyes swam with grateful tears. Then he
glanced down: her hands were crossed; yes, he
knew that it would be so. And how felt Mr Huntingdon?
To the surprise of all, and of none more than Amos
himself, he exclaimed, “That’s right, Amos;
you’ve spoken out like a man, and I believe
you are right.”
For a while there was silence; then
a gentleman near the squire’s end of the table
asked his next neighbour, “What sort of a looking
man was this same mimic? I believe you were
at Lady Gambit’s.”
“Yes, I was there,” replied
the other. “I can’t say much in his
favour. He was not a bad-looking fellow, black
hair, if it was his own, black piercing eyes, and
a black beard. I can’t imagine where her
ladyship picked him up.”
“But I can,” said
a gentleman opposite. “He is some strolling
player. He got, it would seem, access to Lady
Gambit’s ear in some underhand way; and he has
done now what our young friend Walter suggested a little
while ago that he might as well have done sooner.
Having taken other people off, he has taken himself
off also, and has contrived to carry some twenty pounds
of her ladyship’s money with him, which he managed
to swindle her out of; and the police are on the look-out
for him. I heard that only this morning from
the sergeant himself.”
Poor Amos! how terribly his heart
sank within him when he heard these words! Yes;
he could have little doubt about it. This mimic
and swindler, he felt assured, was none other than
his own brother-in-law. Happily, however, he
was pretty sure to be now out of the neighbourhood,
and was not likely to show himself soon again.
But what of his unhappy wife? Alas! Amos
dreaded to think what the unprincipled man might do
with or against her.
Glad, heartily glad, were both the
brothers when the dinner was over, and the rest of
the evening, after “dragging its slow length
along,” had at last come to an end. Walter,
indeed, rattled away in the drawing-room to every
one’s content but his own. Still, a chill
had fallen on more than one of the party; and as for
poor Mrs Morse and her daughter, after endeavouring
to make themselves agreeable by gusts which were followed
by portentous lulls, they were glad to order their
carriage and take their departure at the earliest
hour consistent with politeness.
And now, when all the guests had taken
leave, and Miss Huntingdon had retired to her room,
happy in the prospect of coming rest, she heard a
sort of half scuffle at her door, followed by a knock.
Then in came Walter, dragging in some one after him
who was evidently reluctant to be thus introduced.
“Can you, oh, can you, dear aunt, spare me ay,
spare us, that means me and Amos,
or, rather, it ought to be Amos and me,
just a few minutes? Amos doesn’t want to
come, just like his unselfish self, but I do.
No, I don’t want to tire you after all your
fatigues, but I can’t go to sleep till I have
had a word from you. If you don’t let
me stop, if you don’t say that word, I shall
lie awake all night, thinking of those hands not
cross, for their owner is never cross, but
crossed those crossed hands.
Or if I do go to sleep, I shall do nothing but dream
of them. So pray let me stop; and Amos must stop
too.”
The permission to remain having been
cheerfully granted, Walter hauled his brother into
a chair, and then, stooping over him, kissed his forehead.
Then he flung himself on his knees and looked up wistfully
into Miss Huntingdon’s face. Oh, how entirely
did she forget all weariness, as she marked the effect
that Walter’s kiss had on his brother; how it
brought tears from those eyes which had long known
little of weeping except for sorrow.
“Well, dear boy,” she
said, “and what would you have with me now?”
“Ah! auntie, I want those hands
to talk to me, and I want Amos to hear them talk.
I want you to tell us both some of your moral courage
anecdotes; they will strengthen him and be a lesson
to me; for I don’t want you to tell me this
time that I was wrong. There sits the brave
man, here kneels the coward.”
“Dear, dear boy,” was
Miss Huntingdon’s reply, with a warm embrace,
“yes; what you say is true. It did
require true moral courage to speak up as Amos did,
at such a time and before so many; and we have some
noble instances on record of such a courage under somewhat
similar circumstances, and these show us that conduct
like this will force respect, let the world say and
think what it pleases. I have two or three heroes
to bring forward on this topic, but I must be brief,
as the hour is late.
“You remember Frederick the
Great, as he was called. Alas! he was great
in infidelity as well as in war; and he delighted to
gather round him those who shared in the same unbelieving
views. God and his truth were subjects of ridicule
with them; and a bold man indeed would he be who would
venture to say in their presence a word in favour of
the gospel or of respect for its divine Author.
But there was such a one amongst those who had the
privilege of sitting at the king’s table; an
old grey-headed man of rank, who had fought his country’s
battles nobly, and whose wise counsels in state affairs
were highly prized by his sovereign. He was
dining one day at the palace, and saw all round him
none but those who made a mock of sin and religion.
The conversation flowed freely, and the smart jests
of Frederick called forth similar flashes of wit from
his different guests. The subject of Christianity
soon came up, and was immediately handled in the most
profane and bitter style by the king and those around
him. No wit is so cheap as profane wit; for
the devil seems to give a special facility of sarcasm
to those who attack God’s truth; and, besides
that, there seems nothing which ungodly men relish
so much, for giving point to their blasphemies, as
Scripture facts or words misquoted, misapplied, or
parodied. So the gospel and its Founder were
bandied from tongue to tongue as a theme for unholy
mirth. But presently there was a pause and a
dead silence; for the grey-headed old soldier, who
had sat perfectly silent and deeply pained, as he
listened to the unhallowed talk of his companions,
rose to his feet, his face flushed, and his hoary
head bowed down. What was coming now?
“`May it please your majesty,’
the old man began, while the tears ran down his cheeks,
and his voice was troubled, `I have always, as I am
sure you will acknowledge, behaved with due respect
to your majesty whenever in your majesty’s presence;
nor can any one here say that he has ever heard me
speak evil of your majesty behind your back.
Your majesty knows, also, that I have endeavoured
to serve you faithfully on the field and in the council-chamber.
You must therefore bear with me while I say that
I cannot sit patiently by and hear your majesty join
with your friends in speaking evil of the dearest friend
I have, one dearer to me than my life, and whom I
must hold in greater honour than even your majesty.
I mean my Saviour and heavenly King, the Lord Jesus
Christ. Pardon me, therefore, your majesty, if
I ask leave to withdraw at once.’
“Just imagine, dear boys, such
a speech in such a company, for to such effect were
the words spoken by that noble old soldier of the Cross.
Ah! it is comparatively easy to stand up for the truth
in our day and country, because religion is now universally
respected by all people of good sense and refinement,
even by those who do not follow it; and anything like
an open attack upon Christianity, in a mixed company,
would be frowned upon by society as being ungentlemanly
and in bad taste. But it was not so in Frederick’s
court, where a profession of infidel opinions was
almost held to be an essential in one who would make
any pretension to intellectual acuteness. And
the old officer knew this well. He knew the
scorn which would glare upon him from the eyes of
the other guests. He expected nothing but sneering
pity, where such sentiments as his own could not be
visited with a severer penalty. But he did not
hang back through fear of man. He could say,
as David says in the Psalms, `I will speak of thy
testimonies even before kings, and will not be ashamed.’
Was he not a true moral hero, dear Walter?”
“An out-and-out one, dear aunt,”
was his reply. “But what did the king
say to this?”
“The king behaved on this occasion
like a king and a man. Poor king, he was not
without a heart that could, at times, feel as it ought
to do. He at once turned to the faithful old
servant of the great Master, and, checking all attempts
at ridicule or retort in the other guests, assured
him that he thoroughly respected and appreciated his
feelings and motives and his present conduct, and
that never again would he himself say anything against
the old man’s faith nor his Saviour while he
was by, nor would he suffer any who might be with
him to do so.”
“Hip, hip, hurrah!” said
Walter. “The old man got the best of it
after all; and so will my brother Amos here, spite
of his having such an unworthy coward of a brother
as poor Walter. But you have another example
for us, auntie; nothing like knocking the nail on the
head. I feel better already, and mean to be
a perfect moral lion for bravery in future; at least
I hope so.”
“I hope so too, Walter,”
said his aunt with a smile. “I will give
you, then, one other instance of the same sort of
moral courage, but taken from quite a different country,
and occurring in our own days; and then I think we
shall have had lessons enough for to-night. My
hero this time is an American, and a young man too.
“You will have heard of the
remarkable revival which took place in that country,
I mean in the United States, some few years since.
Of course, at such seasons there will be a mixture
of good and evil. Not all who make a profession
will stand firm; while those who have been merely
carried along by the current of excitement will return
at last to the world, from which they have never really
separated themselves, when the excitement has passed
away. But, indeed, a great and lasting work for
God was accomplished in that revival, and the young
man I am speaking about was one of the fruits of it.
“He had been living a very gay
and thoughtless life. I am not sure that he
had been indulging in any openly sinful practices;
but, at any rate, he had been giving himself up wholly
to the pursuit of this world. He was in a good
social position, and possessed of abundant means.
Moreover, he had received a good education, so far
as mere learning went, and was of pleasing and popular
manners. The last thing he would have thought
of would have been turning a Christian. But God,
whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, had better
things in store for him. The revival wave swept
over the neighbourhood where he was, and carried him
along with it. His heart, his views, his aims
were all really changed; he was, indeed and in truth,
a new creature. And now he felt that he must
not hide his colours, he must nail them to the mast,
or, rather, he must wrap them round him that, go where
he might, every one might see them. His was
that thorough-going, energetic, outspeaking disposition
which has accomplished such marvellous earthly things
through so many of his fellow-countrymen. He
was not the person to do anything by halves.
“Before his conversion, himself
and several other young men, of like tastes and habits,
used to meet weekly at one another’s houses,
in turn, for card-playing and carousing; and at these
meetings he used to be the very life of the party,
the gayest of the gay. But what should he do
now? It would be no easy matter to confess to
his young associates the change that had taken place
in his heart. What would they think and say?
Perhaps he might let it get known by degrees, and
then he could just absent himself from the old gatherings,
and merely drop out of a society no longer congenial
to him. This would save him a great deal of
shame and reproach. Would not this be as much
as could be reasonably expected of him, and sufficient
to show his sincerity and consistency? It might
have satisfied ordinary characters, but it did not
satisfy him. He wanted to be doing something
at once for the Master, and to begin with those very
young men who had been his companions in sin.
So he sent round his printed invitations to every
one of them to a gathering in his own house.
Such had been the custom with all the members of
their fraternity. But this time the invitation
was no longer to `Tea and Cards,’ but to `Tea
and Prayer.’ It was, indeed, a bold stroke,
but it was not the act of the moment from mere impulse
or excitement.
“The day of meeting came.
A few of his old acquaintances arrived, some, it
may be, out of curiosity, or supposing that the `Prayer’
was only a joke. But none were left in doubt.
Plainly, lovingly, faithfully, he set before them
how the change had been wrought in himself, and how
happy it had made him; and then he affectionately urged
them all to take the same course as he had done.
And I believe that his noble and courageous dealing
was not in vain. Am I wrong, Walter, in classing
that young American gentleman among my moral heroes?”
“No, dear aunt, certainly not,”
replied her nephew thoughtfully. “I think
he deserves a foremost place; don’t
you, Amos?”
“Yes,” replied his brother;
“he reminds me of the greatest, perhaps, of
all moral heroes I mean, of course, among
beings like ourselves. I am thinking of the
apostle Paul, who changed at once from the persecutor
to the preacher; gave up every earthly honour and
advantage; braved the bitter scorn of his old friends;
and, without hesitation, began immediately publicly
to proclaim the gospel which he had before been mad
to destroy.”
Walter held out his hand to his brother,
and the clasp was a close and mutual one; and then,
hand in hand, they left their aunt, who laid her head
on her pillow that night with deep thankfulness in
her heart, for she saw that, spite of all drawbacks,
there was a good work making progress in Walter, and
that the high and holy character of the true and tried
disciple of the Saviour was gaining strength and beauty
in the once despised and misunderstood Amos.