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More Ways Than One.

by William McKendree Carleton

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

[More Ways Than One.]

I was present, one day

Where both layman and priest

Worshipped God in a way

That was startling, at least:

Over thirty in place

On the stage, in a row,

As is often the case

At a minstrelsy show;

In a uniform clad

Was each one of them seen,

And a banjo they had,

And a loud tambourine.

And they sung and they shouted

Their spasmodic joys,

Just as if they ne'er doubted

That God loved a noise.

And their phrases, though all

Not deficient in points,

A grammarian would call

Rather weak in the joints;

And the aspirate sound

Was adroitly misused,

And The Language all round,

Was assaulted and bruised;

While the tunes that they sung

In bewildering throngs,

Had been married, when young,

To hilarious songs;

And the folks in that place,

Who this loud racket made,

Were not bounded by race

Or condition or shade.

* * * * *

Now I love my own meeting,

My own cosy pew,

While mentally greeting

Friends quietly true;

And the Gospel dispensed

With a dignified grace,

Born of reason clear-sensed

And a faith firm of place.

I love the trained voices

That float down the aisles,

Till the whole church rejoices

With God's sweetest smiles.

Have no sneer understood

For the rest, when I say

I had rather get good

In a civilized way.

So this meeting had grated

Somewhat on my heart,

And ere long I had waited,

I thought to depart.

But a young man arose,

Looking sin-drenched and grim,

As if rain-storms of woes

Had descended on him;

No such face you'd discern

In a leisurely search,

If you took a chance turn

Through a civilized church;

But his words, though not choice,

To my feelings came nigh;

There was growth in his voice,

There was hope in his eye.

And he said, "I'm a lad

With a life full of blame;

Every step has been bad,

Every hour was a shame.

And for drink I would pawn

All within my control,

From the clothes I had on,

To my heart and my soul.

I have drank the foul stuff

In my parents' hot tears;

I have done crime enough

For a hundred black years;

But I came to this place

For the help that I craved;

I have seen Jesus's face,

And I know I am saved."

Then a man rose to view,

When this youngster was done,

And he said, "This is true;

That young man is my son.

He was drunk every day,

And such terror would make,

That I spurned him away

From my house, like a snake.

We have suffered the worst

That can come from heart-fears;

He is sober the first

I have seen him for years.

I am full of such joy

As I never yet knew;

And now, Robert, my boy,

Home is open to you!

"You may go home with me -

Or may run on before;

You've a glittering key

That will open the door!

Your mother is there,

Praying for you e'en now;

There is snow in her hair,

There is pain on her brow.

And when you have kissed her

The old-fashioned way,

There's a brother and sister

Who've longed for this day;

And whatever can befriend you

On earth, shall be done;

May God's blessing attend you,

My son - oh, my son!"

Then the banjo struck in,

And the tambourine jingled;

There rose such a din

That my blood fairly tingled.

The vocalists screamed

Till quite red in the face;

But somehow it all seemed

Not at all out of place!

Now denouements immense

Do riot somehow take hold,

Or dramatic events

Reach my heart, as of old;

But my smiles could not hide

The fast-gathering tears,

And I cheered, laughed, and cried,

As I had not for years!

And I thought, "Not amiss

Are this tumult and shout:

Folks who save men like this

Know what they are about.

You who fight with God's sword

For the good of your kind -

You can never afford

To leave these men behind.

If these women I've seen,

Should be pelted or cursed,

I would step in between -

I would take the blow first.

They who draw souls above

From the depths lowest down,

Will not fail of God's love

Or to shine in His crown."