University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The first puff of smoke that issued from the chimney of
Holyoke's house, on the morning following the wedding,
was noticed by a dozen watchful and waiting eyes, and immediately
reported to an indefinite number of waiting ears.
The smoke produced at the original discovery of fire could
hardly have been a subject of greater interest. Meanwhile,
the happy little household, which had thus unconsciously
telegraphed its wakefulness all over the village, was busy
in its preparations for breakfast. Holyoke, after his part of
the household duties was performed, in making the fire
and bringing in the water, found great enjoyment in watching
his wife and her brisk waiting-maid, as they bustled
about the house in the discharge of their portion of the
morning's labor.

At length the bountiful breakfast was smoking upon the
table, and the three occupants of the house, in a charmingly
merry mood, took their places at the board. In an instant,
however, Mary was silent, and awaiting reverently the
pronunciation of a petition to which she had been, from
childhood, a listener at every meal. Holyoke did not
notice the movement at once, and rattled blithely away at
his chain of small talk, but when he became conscious of
his position, his face reddened painfully. Mary detected
his embarrassment, and, divining its cause, proceeded with
the finest tact to relieve him by entering upon the courtesies
of the table.

The meal was eaten in a different spirit from that with
which it was approached. Buoyancy and mirth disappeared,

and, while both husband and wife attempted to appear
cheerful, each was aware of the shadow of a cloud, that
must feel the touch of a breeze more or less powerful
before it would restore the vision of a bright sun and a
clear sky.

As soon as the breakfast was cleared away, Holyoke
beckoned his wife to a seat at his side. Looking her calmly
and solemnly in the face, he said, “Mary, did you expect
me to ask a blessing at the table this morning?”

“You probably saw that I expected it,” replied Mary.

“Why did you expect it?” inquired Holyoke, preserving
his solemn tone and manner.

“I do not know that I have any reason better than the
fact that I have always been accustomed to the ceremony,
both at home and away, and saw no reason why any Christian
should decline its performance.”

“I shall pain you, perhaps, my dear wife,” said Holyoke,
grasping her hand earnestly, “but I have been so much
shocked and disgusted by the manner in which this service
is performed, that it seems to me to have become the popular
way of dishonoring God rather than of honoring Him.”

“You do not conclude,” replied Mary, “that because the
service is improperly performed, it is improper in itself.”

“Not that, because there is nothing like intrinsic impropriety
in it; but I do not deny that I believe that the habit
has, very generally, a bad tendency.”

“A bad tendency?” inquired Mary, with an exclamatory
accent.

“I see that you are pained and surprised, and it is what
I expected,” replied Holyoke, “but it is best for us to be
frank. You wonder how a service so intimately associated,
in your mind, with the daily duties of a Christian life, can
have an evil tendency. I think it has two evil tendencies.
The first is, by a frequent rush into the divine presence
from the distractions of the world, and as frequent and

violent a leap out, into its distractions again, or into the
grosser animal delights, to break down and destroy all
decent reverence for God. I have heard, hundreds of
times, a blessing pronounced that, in its relations, in the
points of time and place, was the sequel to a very laughable
story, or the connecting link between the laugh that
followed it and the sharpening of knives and the clatter of
trenchers. The second evil tendency is in begetting in
children and in the irreligious a disregard of religious services
of every kind, and a scepticism touching religious
character and experience. They are the most relentless
critics of inconsistency in religious matters in the world,
and a Christian can no more come into God's presence
with thoughtless abruptness, while they sit near, without
hardening them, than he can without benumbing his own
soul.”

Mary did not know what to reply to this, for, while she
was not convinced of the entire correctness of his conclusions,
she saw that they were based upon truths which she
could not deny.

Holyoke saw her hesitation, and resumed. “I have no
doubt,” said he, “that there are some men, perhaps many,
so saintly in their walk and holy in their frame that they
would be able to address the Deity many times in a day,
with no violent transition of emotion or revulsion of
thought; but these men are comparatively rare. I will
not deny that we all ought to be such, but I do not believe
that the habitual repetition of a prayer at the table,
uttered without feeling, and often mumbled into entire
indistinctness, is a legitimate means of grace for the production
of that end. I count it a great thing for man to
approach his Maker in worship and petition. It seems to
me that no one should do this without a spirit stricken
through with reverence, and profoundly impressed with
the sublime presence in which he stands; and to go

through with this form simply as a Christian duty, or to
fulfil the expectations of Christian friends, or for the sake
of the example, or for any cause less than a sincere desire
for communion with God, springing freshly with every
occasion, and clothed in a reverence which is its becoming
garb, is not only wounding religion in the house of its friends,
but is keeping the wound open and bleeding.”

Mary saw by Holyoke's earnest words and emphatic
manner that, however much she might differ with him, it
was not becoming in her to dispute his positions directly,
and therefore attacked them indirectly by stating that she
did not see why his facts and his reasoning did not apply
in a degree, at least, to the observance of daily prayers in
the family.

Holyoke's face burned with sudden color, and his heart
throbbed painfully as this new subject was introduced, for,
upon this, his convictions were inharmonious with his inclinations.
In this subject he had a fearfully practical
interest. It was one which had occupied many of his
thoughts, and one which had smitten his heart with sudden
misgiving every time he had come beneath its shadow.

“I do not think the cases are parallel,” said he, quietly,
and with evident disinclination to continue the discussion.

“Please tell me why,” gently insisted Mary.

“In one case,” replied Holyoke, “we approach God
without preparation, and ask him, three times in a day, to
bless our food, as if that were the great, and, in fact, the
only gift of his providence that deserves a recognition; in
the other, we come with offerings as well as prayers, and
with such preparation as the contemplation of divine truth
is well calculated to bestow upon those who peruse it. We
come to God in the latter case with worship, with confession,
with penitence, with thanksgiving, with fervent
aspirations for a stronger faith, a higher life, and a broader
Christian experience; we come in the fresh hours of the

morning and in the hush of evening, before care has put on
its fetters, and after it has laid them aside; and all these
exercises and conditions of heart form the basis, if they do
not the very essence of a communion with God, as honorable
to him as it is full of nourishment and strength to the
soul.”

While Holyoke was speaking he had grown earnest and
eloquent, but the instant he concluded he involuntarily put
his hand to his heart, while his lips grew pale and thin with
a trembling compression, for there came up again the
practical question that had given him so many anxious
thoughts. His embarrassment was not relieved as Mary
took down the family Bible—a fresh present from her
father—and bidding Mary Woodcock to be seated, commenced
reading a chapter from the New Testament. Alas!
his preparation for prayer that morning, so far as it was
drawn from a consideration of Bible truth, was very small,
for he sat as if in a dream while the reading was in progress,
his mind confused and his heart in a strange tumult of
emotion.

At length, the dreaded conclusion of the chapter came.
The voice of the reader was hushed, the holy book was
closed and replaced upon the shelf; but Holyoke still sat
in silence, his features rigidly contracted, and his heart
beating so heavily that it jarred his frame. Silence soon
became more painful than speech, and he burst out with,
“Mary, I can't pray this morning.”

“Can't pray?” and the words came forth from Mary's
lips so slowly, so charged with astonishment, and so full of a
kind of solemn wonder, that Holyoke involuntarily lifted
his eyes to her's, and saw them springing with tears.

He took her hand, and bowing his face upon it murmured,
“My God forgive me!”

Still unmarried! Wedded, but unwed! Loving, but
not made perfect in love! United, and yet separate! Thus

it is with multitudes of hearts, and those not the worst in
this world. The heart that has communed with God most
intimately in secret often shrinks most sensitively from giving
utterance to the words of prayer where other ears than
God's can hear. Nay, it is not unfrequently the case that
those who have the most intimate relationship in life exercise
towards each other a most rigid reserve upon all matters
which touch their relations to God and religion, while
each preserves a spirit of devotion, and leads, so far as an
individual may without coming within the circle of social
influence, a religious life. There is in every soul possessing
nice sensibilities an indisposition to place before other eyes
a revelation of its wants, its wishes, and its aspirations; but
until a husband and a wife can kneel together and realize
the sweetness of communing like children, lovingly and
without restraint, with their common Father, marriage,
though it may be to them a band around a golden sheaf of
happiness, has the weakness of the straw, and is neither perfect
nor secure.

Holyoke's eyes were hidden for a minute, and then looking
up convulsively, he exclaimed—

“Must I try?”

“You will never have a better time,” replied Mary.

“It does not seem possible.”

“What do you fear?” inquired his wife.

“I fear myself—I fear you—I fear God—and (bending
his face down to her ear) I fear that child. I cannot help
it. I fear my own pride—that my speech will be awkward
to your ears, and thus mortify me, or elegant and make me
vain. I fear that I shall think more of my language than
the spirit from which it should spring. I fear the sound of
my own voice in this room.”

Mary sympathized very deeply with her husband in this
trial, but she knew that the time for the struggle and the
triumph was then. So she gave him sweet words of counsel

and encouragement, and taking his hand rose upon her
feet.

At that day, in all the Puritan churches and families, the
standing posture was always assumed in prayer. Kneeling,
to them, was what the beautiful symbol of the cross is to
many of their descendants—something that belonged to
and was characteristic of Popery—something which had
been tainted and had the power to taint again.

As Holyoke saw his wife rise, his determination was
made, and, rising, and folding his arms upon his breast, he
uttered tremblingly and with deliberate distinctness, the
words, “Our Father which art in Heaven.” The spell was
broken, and with all the simplicity and earnestness of a child
he went on, and poured out his heart,—its penitence, its
love, its trust, and its many wants, and when he uttered his
fervent “Amen,” his eyes, as well as those of his wife, were
wet with tears. And when those eyes met, they shone with
a new beauty, and beamed with a more perfect trust. Both
felt that their hearts had been attuned to a new and more
exquisite harmony.

With hearts full, they turned to the window, hand in
hand, that even a child might not be the witness of a joy
that brimmed their cup with grateful fulness, and trembled
to run over in appropriate expression. Holyoke felt a
strength and buoyancy of spirit which he had never experienced
before. There was, then, perfection of communion
between him and the being he loved best; and he felt how
holy and beautiful a thing was marriage when it united those
whose steps lead heavenwards, and whose highest love was
already there.