Kitabı oku: «In the Midst of Alarms», sayfa 8
“Yes; I get a lot of help from you while there’s a stick to whittle,” replied the smith.
“Then there’s the protracted meeting to-night at the schoolhouse,” put in another, anxious that all the attractions of the place should be brought forward.
“That’s so,” said the whittler; “I had forgotten about that. It’s the first night, so we must all be there to encourage old Benderson. You’ll be on hand to-night, won’t you, Macdonald?”
The blacksmith made no answer, but turned to Sandy and asked him savagely what in – and –nation he was standing gawking there for. Why didn’t he go outside and get things ready for the tire setting? What in thunder was he paying him for, anyhow? Wasn’t there enough loafers round, without him joining the ranks?
Sandy took this rating with equanimity, and, when the smith’s back was turned, he shrugged his shoulders, took a fresh bite of tobacco from the plug which he drew from his hip pocket, winking at the others as he did so. He leisurely followed Macdonald out of the shop, saying in a whisper as he passed the whittler:
“I wouldn’t rile the old man, if I were you.”
The club then adjourned to the outside, all except those who sat on the bench. Yates asked:
“What’s the matter with Macdonald? Doesn’t he like protracted meetings? And, by the way, what are protracted meetings?”
“They’re revival meetings—religious meetings, you know, for converting sinners.”
“Really?” said Yates. “But why protracted? Are they kept on for a week or two?”
“Yes; I suppose that’s why, although, to tell the truth, I never knew the reason for the name. Protracted meetings always stood for just the same thing ever since I was a boy, and we took it as meaning that one thing, without thinking why.”
“And doesn’t Macdonald like them?”
“Well, you see, it’s like this: He never wants to go to a protracted meeting, yet he can’t keep away. He’s like a drunkard and the corner tavern. He can’t pass it, and he knows if he goes in he will fall. Macdonald’s always the first one to go up to the penitent bench. They rake him in every time. He has religion real bad for a couple of weeks, and then he backslides. He doesn’t seem able to stand either the converting or the backsliding. I suppose some time they will gather him in finally, and he will stick and become a class leader, but he hasn’t stuck up to date.”
“Then he doesn’t like to hear the subject spoken of?”
“You bet he don’t. It isn’t safe to twit him about it either. To tell the truth, I was pleased when I heard him swear at Sandy; then I knew it was all right, and Sandy can stand it. Macdonald is a bad man to tackle when he’s mad. There’s nobody in this district can handle him. I’d sooner get a blow from a sledge hammer than meet Mac’s fist when his dander is up. But so long as he swears it’s all right. Say, you’ll stay down for the meeting, won’t you?”
“I think I will. I’ll see what young Bartlett intends to do. It isn’t very far to walk, in any case.”
“There will be lots of nice girls going your way to-night after the meeting. I don’t know but I’ll jog along in that direction myself when it’s over. That’s the principal use I have for the meetings, anyhow.”
The whittler and Yates got down from the bench, and joined the crowd outside. Young Bartlett sat on one of the horses, loath to leave while the tire setting was going on.
“Are you coming, Yates?” he shouted, as his comrade appeared.
“I think I’ll stay for the meeting,” said Yates, approaching him and patting the horse. He had no desire for mounting and riding away in the presence of that critical assemblage.
“All right,” said young Bartlett. “I guess I’ll be down at the meeting, too; then I can show you the way home.”
“Thanks,” said Yates; “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”
Young Bartlett galloped away, and was soon lost to sight in a cloud of dust. The others had also departed with their shod horses; but there were several new arrivals, and the company was augmented rather than diminished. They sat around on the fence, or on the logs dumped down by the wayside.
Few smoked, but many chewed tobacco. It was a convenient way of using the weed, and required no matches, besides being safer for men who had to frequent inflammable barns.
A circular fire burned in front of the shop, oak bark being the main fuel used. Iron wagon tires lay hidden in this burning circle. Macdonald and Sandy bustled about making preparations, their faces, more hideous in the bright sunlight than in the comparative obscurity of the shop, giving them the appearance of two evil spirits about to attend some incantation scene of which the circular fire was the visible indication. Crosstrees, of four pieces of squared timber, lay near the fire, with a tireless wheel placed flat upon them, the hub in the square hole at the center. Shiftless farmers always resisted having tires set until they would no longer stay on the wheel. The inevitable day was postponed, time and again, by a soaking of the wheels overnight in some convenient puddle of water; but as the warmer and dryer weather approached this device, supplemented by wooden wedges, no longer sufficed, and the tires had to be set for summer work. Frequently the tire rolled off on the sandy highway, and the farmer was reluctantly compelled to borrow a rail from the nearest fence, and place it so as to support the axle; he then put the denuded wheel and its tire on the wagon, and drove slowly to the nearest blacksmith’s shop, his vehicle “trailing like a wounded duck,” the rail leaving a snake’s track behind it on the dusty road.
The blacksmith had previously cut and welded the tire, reducing its circumference, and when it was hot enough, he and Sandy, each with a pair of tongs, lifted it from the red-hot circle of fire. It was pressed and hammered down on the blazing rim of the wheel, and instantly Sandy and Macdonald, with two pails of water that stood handy, poured the cold liquid around the red-hot zone, enveloping themselves in clouds of steam, the quick contraction clamping the iron on the wood until the joints cracked together. There could be no loitering; quick work was necessary, or a spoiled wheel was the result. Macdonald, alternately spluttering through fire and steam, was in his element. Even Sandy had to be on the keen jump, without a moment to call his plug of tobacco his own. Macdonald fussed and fussed, but got through an immense amount of work in an incredibly short space of time, cursing Sandy pretty much all the while; yet that useful man never replied in kind, contenting himself with a wink at the crowd when he got the chance, and saying under his breath:
“The old man’s in great fettle to-day.”
Thus everybody enjoyed himself: Macdonald, because he was the center figure in a saturnalia of work; Sandy, because no matter how hard a man has to work he can chew tobacco all the time; the crowd, because the spectacle of fire, water, and steam was fine, and they didn’t have to do anything but sit around and look on. The sun got lower and lower as, one by one, the spectators departed to do their chores, and prepare for the evening meeting. Yates at the invitation of the whittler went home with him, and thoroughly relished his evening meal.
CHAPTER XII
Margaret had never met any man but her father who was so fond of books as Professor Renmark. The young fellows of her acquaintance read scarcely anything but the weekly papers; they went with some care through the yellow almanac that was given away free, with the grocer’s name printed on the back. The marvelous cures the almanac recorded were of little interest, and were chiefly read by the older folk, but the young men reveled in the jokes to be found at the bottom of every page, their only drawback being that one could never tell the stories at a paring-bee or other social gathering, because everyone in the company had read them. A few of the young men came sheepishly round to get a book out of the library, but it was evident that their interest was not so much in the volume as in the librarian, and when that fact became apparent to the girl, she resented it. Margaret was thought to be cold and proud by the youth of the neighborhood, or “stuck-up,” as they expressed it.
To such a girl a man like Renmark was a revelation. He could talk of other things than the weather, live stock, and the prospects for the crops. The conversation at first did not include Margaret, but she listened to every word of it with interest. Her father and mother were anxious to hear about their boy; and from that engrossing subject the talk soon drifted to university life, and the differences between city and country. At last the farmer, with a sigh, arose to go. There is little time for pleasant talk on a farm while daylight lasts. Margaret, remembering her duties as librarian, began to take in the books from the wagon to the front room. Renmark, slow in most things, was quick enough to offer his assistance on this occasion; but he reddened somewhat as he did so, for he was unused to being a squire of dames.
“I wish you would let me do the porterage,” he said. “I would like to earn the right to look at these books sometimes, even though I may not have the privilege of borrowing, not being a taxable resident of the township.”
“The librarian,” answered Margaret, with a smile, “seems to be at liberty to use her own discretion in the matter of lending. No one has authority to look over her accounts, or to censure her if she lends recklessly. So, if you wish to borrow books, all you have to do is to ask for them.”
“You may be sure I shall avail myself of the permission. But my conscience will be easier if I am allowed to carry them in.”
“You will be permitted to help. I like carrying them. There is no more delicious armful than books.”
As Renmark looked at the lovely girl, her face radiant with enthusiasm, the disconcerting thought came suddenly that perhaps her statement might not be accurate. No such thought had ever suggested itself to him before, and it now filled him with guilty confusion. He met the clear, honest gaze of her eyes for a moment, then he stammered lamely:
“I—I too am very fond of books.”
Together they carried in the several hundred volumes, and then began to arrange them.
“Have you no catalogue?” he asked.
“No. We never seem to need one. People come and look over the library, and take out whatever book they fancy.”
“Yes, but still every library ought to be catalogued. Cataloguing is an art in itself. I have paid a good deal of attention to it, and will show you how it is done, if you care to know.”
“Oh, I wish you would.”
“How do you keep a record of the volumes that are out?”
“I just write the name of the person, the title, and the date in this blank book. When the volume is returned, I score out the record.”
“I see,” said Renmark dubiously.
“That isn’t right, is it? Is there a better way?”
“Well, for a small library, that ought to do; but if you were handling many books, I think confusion might result.”
“Do tell me the right way. I should like to know, even if it is a small library.”
“There are several methods, but I am by no means sure your way is not the simplest, and therefore the best in this instance.”
“I’m not going to be put off like that,” said Margaret, laughing. “A collection of books is a collection of books, whether large or small, and deserves respect and the best of treatment. Now, what method is used in large libraries?”
“Well, I should suggest a system of cards, though slips of paper would do. When any person wants to take out a book, let him make out a card, giving the date and the name or number of the book; he then must sign the card, and there you are. He cannot deny having had the book, for you have his own signature to prove it. The slips are arranged in a box according to dates, and when a book is returned, you tear up the recording paper.”
“I think that is a very good way, and I will adopt it.”
“Then let me send to Toronto and get you a few hundred cards. We’ll have them here in a day or two.”
“Oh, I don’t want to put you to that trouble.”
“It is no trouble at all. Now, that is settled, let us attack the catalogue. Have you a blank book anywhere about? We will first make an alphabetical list; then we will arrange them under the heads of history, biography, fiction, and so on.”
Simple as it appeared, the making of a catalogue took a long time. Both were absorbed in their occupation. Cataloguing in itself is a straight and narrow path, but in this instance there were so many delightful side excursions that rapid progress could not be expected. To a reader the mere mention of a book brings up recollections. Margaret was reading out the names; Renmark, on slips of paper, each with a letter on it, was writing them down.
“Oh, have you that book?” he would say, looking up as a title was mentioned. “Have you ever read it?”
“No; for, you see, this part of the library is all new to me. Why, here is one of which the leaves are not even cut. No one has read it. Is it good?”
“One of the best,” Renmark would say, taking the volume. “Yes, I know this edition. Let me read you one passage.”
And Margaret would sit in the rocking while he cut the leaves and found the place. One extract was sure to suggest another, and time passed before the title of the book found its way to the proper slip of paper. These excursions into literature were most interesting to both excursionists, but they interfered with cataloguing. Renmark read and read, ever and anon stopping to explain some point, or quote what someone else had said on the same subject, marking the place in the book, as he paused, with inserted fore finger. Margaret swayed back and forth in the comfortable rocking chair, and listened intently, her large dark eyes fixed upon him so earnestly that now and then, when he met them, he seemed disconcerted for a moment. But the girl did not notice this. At the end of one of his dissertations she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, with her cheek resting against her hand, and said:
“How very clear you make everything, Mr. Renmark.”
“Do you think so?” he said with a smile. “It’s my business, you know.”
“I think it’s a shame that girls are not allowed to go to the university; don’t you?”
“Really, I never gave any thought to the subject, and I am not quite prepared to say.”
“Well, I think it most unfair. The university is supported by the Government, is it not? Then why should half of the population be shut out from its advantages?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do, you know.”
“Why?”
“There are many reasons,” he replied evasively.
“What are they? Do you think girls could not learn, or are not as capable of hard study as well as–”
“It isn’t that,” he interrupted; “there are plenty of girls’ schools in the country, you know. Some very good ones in Toronto itself, for that matter.”
“Yes; but why shouldn’t I go to the university with my brother? There are plenty of boys’ schools, too, but the university is the university. I suppose my father helps to support it. Why, then, should one child be allowed to attend and the other not? It isn’t at all just.”
“It wouldn’t do,” said the professor more firmly, the more he thought about it.
“Would you take that as a satisfying reason from one or your students?”
“What?”
“The phrase, ‘It wouldn’t do.’”
Renmark laughed.
“I’m afraid not,” he said; “but, then, I’m very exacting in class. Now, if you want to know, why do you not ask your father?”
“Father and I have discussed the question, often, and he quite agrees with me in thinking it unfair.”
“Oh, does he?” said Renmark, taken aback; although, when he reflected, he realized that the father doubtless knew as little about the dangers of the city as the daughter did.
“And what does your mother say?”
“Oh, mother thinks if a girl is a good housekeeper it is all that is required. So you will have to give me a good reason, if there is one, for nobody else in this house argues on your side of the question.”
“Well,” said Renmark in an embarrassed manner, “if you don’t know by the time you are twenty-five, I’ll promise to discuss the whole subject with you.”
Margaret sighed as she leaned back in her chair.
“Twenty-five?” she cried, adding with the unconscious veracity of youth: “That will be seven years to wait. Thank you, but I think I’ll find out before that time.”
“I think you will,” Renmark answered.
They were interrupted by the sudden and unannounced entrance of her brother.
“Hello, you two!” he shouted with the rude familiarity of a boy. “It seems the library takes a longer time to arrange than usual.”
Margaret rose with dignity.
“We are cataloguing,” she said severely.
“Oh, that’s what you call it, is it? Can I be of any assistance, or is two company when they’re cataloguing? Have you any idea what time it is?”
“I’m afraid I must be off,” said the professor, rising. “My companion in camp won’t know what has become of me.”
“Oh, he’s all right!” said Henry. “He’s down at the Corners, and is going to stay there for the meeting to-night. Young Bartlett passed a while ago; he was getting the horses shod, and your friend went with him. I guess Yates can take care of himself, Mr. Renmark. Say, sis, will you go to the meeting? I’m going. Young Bartlett’s going, and so is Kitty. Won’t you come, too, Mr. Renmark? It’s great fun.”
“Don’t talk like that about a religious gathering, Henry,” said his sister, frowning.
“Well, that’s what it is, anyhow.”
“Is it a prayer meeting?” asked the professor, looking at the girl.
“You bet it is!” cried Henry enthusiastically, giving no one a chance to speak but himself. “It’s a prayer meeting, and every other kind of meeting all rolled into one. It’s a revival meeting; a protracted meeting, that’s what it is. You had better come with us, Mr. Renmark, and then you can see what it is like. You can walk home with Yates.”
This attractive dénouement did not seem to appeal so strongly to the professor as the boy expected, for he made no answer.
“You will come, sis; won’t you?” urged the boy.
“Are you sure Kitty is going?”
“Of course she is. You don’t think she’d miss it, do you? They’ll soon be here, too; better go and get ready.”
“I’ll see what mother says,” replied Margaret as she left the room. She shortly returned, dressed ready for the meeting, and the professor concluded he would go also.
CHAPTER XIII
Anyone passing the Corners that evening would have quickly seen that something important was on. Vehicles of all kinds lined the roadway, drawn in toward the fence, to the rails of which the horses were tied. Some had evidently come from afar, for the fame of the revivalist was widespread. The women, when they arrived, entered the schoolhouse, which was brilliantly lighted with oil lamps. The men stood around outside in groups, while many sat in rows on the fences, all conversing about every conceivable topic except religion. They apparently acted on the theory that there would be enough religion to satisfy the most exacting when they went inside. Yates sat on the top rail of the fence with the whittler, whose guest he had been. It was getting too dark for satisfactory whittling, so the man with the jack-knife improved the time by cutting notches in the rail on which he sat. Even when this failed, there was always a satisfaction in opening and shutting a knife that had a powerful spring at the back of it, added to which was the pleasurable danger of cutting his fingers. They were discussing the Fenian question, which at that time was occupying the minds of Canadians to some extent. Yates was telling them what he knew of the brotherhood in New York, and the strength of it, which his auditors seemed inclined to underestimate. Nobody believed that the Fenians would be so foolhardy as to attempt an invasion of Canada; but Yates held that if they did they would give the Canadians more trouble than was expected.
“Oh, we’ll turn old Bartlett on them, if they come over here. They’ll be glad enough to get back if he tackles them.”
“With his tongue,” added another.
“By the way,” said the whittler, “did young Bartlett say he was coming to-night? I hope he’ll bring his sister if he does. Didn’t any of you fellows ask him to bring her? He’d never think of it if he wasn’t told. He has no consideration for the rest of us.”
“Why didn’t you ask him? I hear you have taken to going in that direction yourself.”
“Who? Me?” asked the whittler, quite unconcerned. “I have no chance in that quarter, especially when the old man’s around.”
There was a sound of singing from the schoolhouse. The double doors were wide open, and as the light streamed out the people began to stream in.
“Where’s Macdonald?” asked Yates.
“Oh, I guess he’s taken to the woods. He washes his face, and then he hides. He has the sense to wash his face first, for he knows he will have to come. You’ll see him back before they start the second hymn.”
“Well, boys!” said one, getting down from the fence and stretching his arms above his head with a yawn, “I guess, if we’re going in, it’s about time.”
One after another they got down from the fence, the whittler shutting his knife with a reluctant snap, and putting it in his pocket with evident regret. The schoolhouse, large as it was, was filled to its utmost capacity—women on one side of the room, and men on the other; although near the door there was no such division, all the occupants of the back benches being men and boys. The congregation was standing, singing a hymn, when Yates and his comrades entered, so their quiet incoming was not noticed. The teacher’s desk had been moved from the platform on which it usually stood, and now occupied a corner on the men’s side of the house. It was used as a seat by two or three, who wished to be near the front, and at the same time keep an eye on the rest of the assemblage. The local preacher stood on the edge of the platform, beating time gently with his hymn book, but not singing, as he had neither voice nor ear for music, and happily recognized the fact. The singing was led by a man in the middle of the room.
At the back of the platform, near the wall, were two chairs, on one of which sat the Rev. Mr. Benderson, who was to conduct the revival. He was a stout, powerful-looking man, but Yates could not see his face, for it was buried in his hands, his head being bowed in silent prayer. It was generally understood that he had spent a youth of fearful wickedness, and he always referred to himself as a brand snatched from the burning. It was even hinted that at one time he had been a card player, but no one knew this for a fact. Many of the local preachers had not the power of exhortation, therefore a man like the Rev. Mr. Benderson, who had that gift abnormally developed, was too valuable to be localized; so he spent the year going from place to place, sweeping, driving, coaxing, or frightening into the fold those stray sheep that hovered on the outskirts; once they were within the religious ring-fence the local minister was supposed to keep them there. The latter, who had given out the hymn, was a man of very different caliber. He was tall, pale, and thin, and his long black coat hung on him as if it were on a post. When the hymn was finished; and everyone sat down, Yates, and those with him, found seats as best they could at the end near the door. This was the portion of the hall where the scoffers assembled, but it was also the portion which yielded most fruit, if the revival happened to be a successful one. Yates, seeing the place so full, and noticing two empty benches up at the front, asked the whittler why they were not occupied.
“They’ll be occupied pretty soon.”
“Who are they being kept for?”
“Perhaps you, perhaps me, perhaps both of us. You never can tell. That’s the penitents’ bench.”
The local preacher knelt on the platform, and offered up a prayer. He asked the Lord to bless the efforts of the brother who was with them there that night, and to crown his labors with success; through his instrumentality to call many wandering sinners home. There were cries of “Amen” and “Bless the Lord” from different parts of the hall as the prayer was being made. On rising, another hymn was given out:
“Joy to the world, the Lord is come.
Let earth receive her King.”
The leader of the singing started it too low. The tune began high, and ran down to the bottom of the scale by the time it reached the end of the first line. When the congregation had got two-thirds of the way down, they found they could go no farther, not even those who sang bass. The leader, in some confusion, had to pitch the tune higher, and his miscalculation was looked upon as exceedingly funny by the reckless spirits at the back of the hall. The door opened quietly; and they all turned expecting to see Macdonald, but it was only Sandy. He had washed his face with but indifferent success, and the bulge in his cheek, like a wen, showed that he had not abandoned tobacco on entering the schoolhouse. He tiptoed to a place beside his friends.
“The old man’s outside,” he whispered to the youth who sat nearest him, holding his hand to the side of his mouth so that the sound would not travel. Catching sight of Yates, he winked at him in a friendly sort of way.
The hymn gathered volume and spirit as it went on, gradually recovering from the misadventure at starting. When it was finished, the preacher sat down beside the revivalist. His part of the work was done, as there was no formal introduction of speaker to audience to be gone through. The other remained as he was with bowed head, for what appeared to be a long time.
A deep silence fell on all present. Even the whisperings among the scoffers ceased.
At last Mr. Benderson slowly raised his head, arose, and came to the front of the platform. He had a strong, masterful, clean-shaven face, with the heavy jaw of a stubborn man—a man not easily beaten. “Open the door,” he said in a quiet voice.
In the last few meetings he had held he had found this an effective beginning. It was new to his present audience. Usually a knot of people stood outside, and if they were there, he made an appeal to them, through the open door, to enter. If no one was there, he had a lesson to impart, based on the silence and the darkness. In this instance it was hard to say which was the more surprised, the revivalist or the congregation. Sandy, being on his feet, stepped to the door, and threw it open. He was so astonished at what he saw that he slid behind the open door out of sight. Macdonald stood there, against the darkness beyond, in a crouching attitude, as if about to spring. He had evidently been trying to see what was going on through the keyhole; and, being taken unawares by the sudden opening of the door, had not had time to recover himself. No retreat was now possible. He stood up with haggard face, like a man who has been on a spree, and, without a word, walked in. Those on the bench in front of Yates moved together a little closer, and the blacksmith sat down on the vacant space left at the outside. In his confusion he drew his hand across his brow, and snapped his fingers loudly in the silence. A few faces at the back wore a grin, and would have laughed had not Sandy, closing the door quietly, given them one menacing look which quelled their merriment. He was not going to have the “old man” made fun of in his extremity; and they all had respect enough for Sandy’s fist not to run the risk of encountering it after the meeting was over. Macdonald himself was more to be dreaded in a fight; but the chances were that for the next two or three weeks, if the revival were a success, there would be no danger from that quarter. Sandy, however, was permanently among the unconverted, and therefore to be feared, as being always ready to stand up for his employer, either with voice or blow. The unexpected incident Mr. Benderson had witnessed suggested no remarks at the time, so, being a wise man, he said nothing. The congregation wondered how he had known Macdonald was at the door, and none more than Macdonald himself. It seemed to many that the revivalist had a gift of divination denied to themselves, and this belief left them in a frame of mind more than ever ready to profit by the discourse they were about to hear.
Mr. Benderson began in a low monotone, that nevertheless penetrated to every part of the room. He had a voice of peculiar quality, as sweet as the tones of a tenor, and as pleasant to hear as music; now and then there was a manly ring in it which thrilled his listeners. “A week ago to-night,” he said, “at this very hour, I stood by the deathbed of one who is now among the blessed. It is four years since he found salvation, by the mercy of God, through the humble instrumentality of the least of his servants. It was my blessed privilege to see that young man—that boy almost—pledge his soul to Jesus. He was less than twenty when he gave himself to Christ, and his hopes of a long life were as strong as the hopes of the youngest here to-night. Yet he was struck down in the early flush of manhood—struck down almost without warning. When I heard of his brief illness, although knowing nothing of its seriousness, something urged me to go to him, and at once. When I reached the house, they told me that he had asked to see me, and that they had just sent a messenger to the telegraph office with a dispatch for me. I said: ‘God telegraphed to me.’ They took me to the bedside of my young friend, whom I had last seen as hearty and strong as anyone here.”
Mr. Benderson then, in a voice quivering with emotion, told the story of the deathbed scene. His language was simple and touching, and it was evident to the most callous auditor that he spoke from the heart, describing in pathetic words the scene he had witnessed. His unadorned eloquence went straight home to every listener, and many an eye dimmed as he put before them a graphic picture of the serenity attending the end of a well-spent life.
“As I came through among you to-night,” he continued, “as you stood together in groups outside this building, I caught a chance expression that one of you uttered. A man was speaking of some neighbor who, at this busy season of the year, had been unable to get help. I think the one to whom this man was speaking had asked if the busy man were here, and the answer was: ‘No; he has not a minute to call his own.’ The phrase has haunted me since I heard it, less than an hour ago. ‘Not a minute to call his own!’ I thought of it as I sat before you. I thought of it as I rose to address you. I think of it now. Who has a minute to call his own?” The soft tones of the preacher’s voice had given place to a ringing cry that echoed from the roof down on their heads. “Have you? Have I? Has any king, any prince, any president, any ruler over men, a minute or a moment he can call his own? Not one. Not one of all the teeming millions on this earth. The minutes that are past are yours. What use have you made of them? All your efforts, all your prayers, will not change the deeds done in any one of those minutes that are past, and those only are yours. The chiseled stone is not more fixed than are the deeds of the minutes that are past. Their record is for you or against you. But where now are those minutes of the future—those minutes that, from this time onward, you will be able to call your own when they are spent? They are in the hand of God—in his hand to give or to withhold. And who can count them in the hand of God? Not you, not I, not the wisest man upon the earth. Man may number the miles from here to the farthest visible star; but he cannot tell you,—you; I don’t mean your neighbor, I mean you,—he cannot tell YOU whether your minutes are to be one or a thousand. They are doled out to you, and you are responsible for them. But there will come a moment,—it may be to-night, it may be a year hence,—when the hand of God will close, and you will have had your sum. Then time will end for you, and eternity begin. Are you prepared for that awful moment—that moment when the last is given you, and the next withheld? What if it came now? Are you prepared for it? Are you ready to welcome it, as did our brother who died at this hour one short week ago? His was not the only deathbed I have attended. Some scenes have been so seared into my brain that I can never forget them. A year ago I was called to the bedside of a dying man, old in years and old in sin. Often had he been called, but he put Christ away from him, saying: ‘At a more convenient season.’ He knew the path, but he walked not therein. And when at last God’s patience ended, and this man was stricken down, he, foolish to the last, called for me, the servant, instead of to God, the Master. When I reached his side, the stamp of death was on his face. The biting finger of agony had drawn lines upon his haggard brow. A great fear was upon him, and he gripped my hand with the cold grasp of death itself. In that darkened room it seemed to me I saw the angel of peace standing by the bed, but it stood aloof, as one often offended. It seemed to me at the head of the bed the demon of eternal darkness bent over, whispering to him: ‘It is too late! it is too late!’ The dying man looked at me—oh, such a look! May you never be called upon to witness its like. He gasped: ‘I have lived—I have lived a sinful life. Is it too late?’ ‘No,’ I said, trembling. ‘Say you believe.’ His lips moved, but no sound came. He died as he had lived. The one necessary minute was withheld. Do you hear? It—was—withheld! He had not the minute to call his own. Not that minute in which to turn from everlasting damnation. He—went—down—into—hell, dying as he had lived.”
