More Ways Than One.

[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."