What Ailed His Congregation?
By Lephia Bryant Larson
THE congregation of the Rev. Abram Townsend's fashionable church was greatly offended. "We have not heard a decent sermon for fully six weeks," whispered Mrs. Holden to her companion, turning her face away as she caught the minister's eyes fixed earnestly upon her. How could she help the conditions of the poor people in the tenements of Boston! How she wished she had remained at home! Why didn't he talk of something else! His sermons were not half as interesting as they used to be! Mrs. Holden grew uneasy under the prolonged glance of her pastor, and began to play with the tassels on her cloak. There were others besides the elegant Mrs. Holden who were made uncomfortable by the minister's eloquence. Some felt very humble when the laden shafts struck home; others knew they had neglected Jesus and His teachings and had worshiped the richly appointed church. And still others, who found it so pleasant gazing at the artistic surroundings, the grand pipe-organ and bright carpets, heard not one word of the sermon. The young preacher told his flock that he could not and would not rest till something was done to relieve the suffering he had seen. Mrs. Sims, a prominent banker's wife, was dreamily turning the leaves of a hymnal, admiring the sparkle of the diamond ring which adorned her dimpled finger. "What more can we do?" she said to the lady at her side. "We sent food and clothing to at least fifty families a very short time ago, and it isn't possible they are suffering so soon!" "O, gracious!"—as the thrilling tones from the pulpit made her start—"O, gracious! it seems as if he were speaking directly to me!" for the pastor had said: "You—I mean each individual!—wake from the lethargy that binds you! The salvation of human souls depends upon your timely aid!" And as he ceased speaking, Abram Townsend's eyes met the eyes of Mrs. Sims. Then came singing by the choir; then notices and further remarks by the pastor—and then the benediction. "Thank goodness!" said Mrs. Sims, and with her friend she prepared to leave the edifice. She fastened her kid gloves, letting her eyes linger lovingly on the ruby bracelet that circled her plump wrist. She was a vain little body, and used her husband's money in a most extravagant manner. Before her marriage she had been a clerk in one of the leading dry-goods stores, and the pastor had expected her to feel great sympathy for the working women in the North End tenements. Nodding carelessly to a few friends, Mrs. Sims stepped out of the warm church into her sleigh. Nestling among the shining robes, she thought of the sermon, but not in the way her pastor had meant her to. "I'll have Mr. Sims take a pew in the Congregational Church, tho I suppose it will be very difficult to get his consent. He's such a strong Methodist." As the sleigh dashed over the glistening snow, the keen air sent the blood tingling in her veins, and Mrs. Sims buried her face in her feather muff. "They are so used to poverty, they could not appreciate a better condition," she mused, her thoughts on the poverty-stricken women at North End. "One might as reasonably expect an ungainly weed to bring forth a gorgeous rose, as to expect any improvement in them." Between you and me, my reader, I am inclined to think Mrs. Sims had formerly lived in the obnoxious part of Boston. It is only a surmise, however; so don't repeat it. Nestling deeper among the costly robes, Mrs. Sims took an after-church nap, while the coachman drove leisurely home. The nap was as essential to Mrs. Sims's constitution as the dinner which awaited her. Meanwhile, in the church she had just left, several ladies are conversing earnestly with each other. "I am willing to do all in my power," said one, turning her truthful eyes upon the minister; "but you must tell us what to do!" "Visit them, give them work—and pay them for their work," was his answer. "O!" said Mrs. Holden, drawing near, sighing deeply as she spoke—"O! I could not visit them! Italians have so little true refinement—I could not visit them. I will take them work, however," she added, as she saw the pastor's eyes darken. "Does it not make you sick to visit them, Brother Townsend? You are so fastidious." Abram Townsend did not reply immediately. He was reviewing a picture he had seen two weeks before. He had climbed the rickety stairs of a tenement, and knocking at the first door, was bidden enter. A little girl, not over six years old, sat on the floor over-basting trousers. She looked up on seeing a stranger, but continued her work. "Ma isn't home," she said, in a hard, unchildlike voice. "We're out of coal, and she's gone after some. Are you a dunning man?" The prematurely large head, the underfed body, the deformed foot and pinched features of the child remained so indelibly fixed in Abram Townsend's mind, that only when memory fled, would he forget them. Before his mind was the picture as he had seen it the second time, a sour, shriveled mother, two boys, and three girls, all busy upon the United States postal uniforms. When about to leave, he had stopped beside the little girl whom he had first seen, and asked her name. "Haven't any! Mother was always too busy to name me," was her reply. Those were the pictures he saw in his mind, and he closed his eyes to shut the horrid visions out. Had he been asked a question? He opened his eyes, and said in husky tones, "Yes, Mrs. Holden, it does make me sick!" Great was his surprise to hear Mrs. Holden answer from the other side of the church. "We'll talk it over some other time! I heard Ella calling, and I must not keep the child waiting." He stared about him as one in a dream as he saw Mrs. Holden and Ella leave the church. He had wounded the proud woman's feelings by his long silence, and he felt as if he had lost a powerful ally in his new scheme. The pews were soon empty. He was alone. He leaned his head upon his hands. "To think of it! To think of women and children eking out a miserable existence in the cultured Boston, making pants for nine and ten cents a pair! Three pair a day was a big day's work, the woman told me. O God, is it any wonder that crime of every kind is committed, while such starved souls exist? Give me strength, O Lord, to break the crust of selfishness that covers the hearts of my congregation—a crust that I have helped to form. Heretofore, this has not been a Christian church, but a fashionable church! And Thy servant, Lord, has been a fastidious preacher! Grant me Thy pardon!"—Abram Townsend dropped on his knees in the aisle, and prayed as he had never prayed from the pulpit. Every pew was empty of mortal; but the unseen, immortal hosts of heaven heard the impassioned words of the young pastor. "Give me strength, O Lord, to bring to Thy fold the poor and the oppressed! Take from the hearts of my flock the seeds of pride and vanity I have helped to nurture! Make us humble in Thy sight, and grant the prayer now offered Thee from a newly awakened heart." The unseen hosts drew nearer; and when he said "Amen," they whispered in his ear, "Thou hast done well." Abram Townsend rose to his feet, and realized that, altho he had preached the Gospel for ten years, he had been converted to the true religion of Jesus within the hour. "O, ma!" said Walter Sims, rushing into the sitting-room the next Sabbath, "you missed a picnic by not going to church today. Old Abe had on a twenty-dollar suit—I'll bet a nickle it didn't cost a cent over that! And such a hat! Mrs. Holden took him for the new usher, and was greatly distressed at her mistake, but the gaffer told her he did not mind it, and he only hoped he would be as faithful a Christian as the new usher. What do you think of that?" Walter seated himself at the piano and began drumming noisily. "Hush, hush, my son; your father is taking a nap," said Mrs. Sims, raising a warning finger. "O! O!" was Walter's reply. An this juncture Eva entered. She threw herself on the sofa, exclaiming: "He brought her right into our pew, mama, and introduced her to me! He said I must love her because her father and mother were dead. She had on such horrible shoes—and she looked so hungrily at my kid boots, I tucked my feet under my petticoats! She's so black, mama," and Miss Eva smiled at her reflection in the mirror, and was so glad she was not an Italian. Abram Townsend had adopted a little Italian girl, and had taken her to church with him. He had introduced her to the Sunday-school as his dear daughter,13whom they must all love. Would this act bring forth fruit? He asked himself the question over and over again, as he walked down the street holding Lucile's little hand in his. Lo! it had brought forth fruit already! His heart gave a joyous bound, and a feeling of paternal love came over him as he met the dreamy, loving eyes of the little child at his side. Once more the hosts immortal drew near, and whispered, "Thou hast done well!" The echo of the whisper formed itself into the tones of a voice that had for a few brief months made music in his home, and his hand unconsciously tightened on Lucile's. He had made a beginning, but alone he could do very little to alleviate the suffering so apparent in North End. What he wanted was the active co-operation of his congregation. He knew there was wealth enough and kind hearts enough among them, to make the joy-bells of heaven ring. Mrs. Holden and Mrs. Sims held a lengthy debate as to the propriety of allowing their girls to call on Lucile Sanguinetti, and after a month's hesitation, decided to call on her themselves. Arriving at the parsonage, they found Mrs. Townsend surrounded by twenty or twenty-five girls from five to sixteen years old. Mr. Townsend's young sister was teaching the older ones shorthand, and she found them very apt pupils. Mrs. Sims raised her eyes in consternation at the sight of the dark faces and uncombed heads of some of the children. Mrs. Holden could not forbear a smile at the expression on her friend's face. "It is but a small beginning," said Mrs. Townsend; "but the seeds sown here may bring forth a great harvest." Mr. Townsend, in his study, heard his wife's remark, and thanked God he had made the beginning. He longed to see the time when children could be children, as sweet as the flowers of spring and as happy as songbirds, when the yoke of poverty and crime should be lifted from their blameless necks. The two visitors very shortly took their leave, hoping the scheme would succeed. A year later the fashionable church of the Rev. Abram Townsend had passed out of existence. Not that a cyclone had blown the structure away, or that the church-members had been swallowed in a sea of oblivion—nothing of the kind had happened. The same people heard the sermons, but they possessed different hearts than they had a year before. His "scheme" had succeeded beyond his highest hopes. Two hundred children had been taken from foul tenements, and almshouses, and received the same advantages as the children of the families that had taken them. Mrs. Holden and Mrs. Sims were not behind in the good work after some one else had started it. They each had three waifs in their charge. Mrs. Sims's bays and sleigh are not an uncommon sight at North End. And when the jingle of silver bells is heard, some weary woman knows that it will soon be her turn to see a glimpse of God's blue sky and hear the crisp snow as it crunches under the horses' hoofs; for it is now a part of Mrs. Sims's religion to take one or two of the overworked sisters for an hour's drive each day. And Lucile! The minister and his wife are amply repaid for the love they have lavished upon her. She is truly a "King's daughter," and the crown she wears contains the gems, faith, hope, and charity.