University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
I PASS THROUGH A TERRIBLE TEMPEST INTO THE SUNLIGHT.

I had never arrived at any definite comprehension of Mrs.
Sanderson's ideas of religion. Whether she was religious in
any worthy sense I do not know, even to-day. The respect
which she entertained for the clergy was a sentiment which she
shared with New Englanders generally. She was rather generous
than otherwise in her contributions to their support, yet
the most I could make of her views and opinions was that religion
and its institutions were favorable to the public order
and security, and were, therefore, to be patronized and permanently
sustained. I never should have thought of going to her
for spiritual counsel, yet I had learned in some way that she
thought religion was a good thing for a young man, because it
would save him from dissipation and from a great many dangers
to which young men are exposed. The whole subject seemed
to be regarded by her in an economical or prudential aspect.

I met her on the morning following my visit at the Bradfords,
in the breakfast-room. She was cheery and expectant, for she
always found me talkative, and was prepared to hear the full
story of the previous evening. That I was obliged to tell her
that Henry was there with my sister, embarrassed me much,
for, beyond the fact that she disliked Henry intensely, there
was the further fact—most offensive to her—that Mr. Bradford
was socially patronizing the poor, and bringing me, her protégé,
into association with them. Here was where my chain galled
me, and made me realize my slavery. I saw the thrill of
anger that shot through her face, and recognized the effort she
made to control her words. She did not speak at first, and
not until she felt perfectly sure of self-control did she say:

“Mr. Bradford is very unwise. He inflicts a great wrong upon

young people without position or expectations, when he undertakes
to raise them to his own social level. How he could do
such a thing as he did last night is more than I can imagine,
unless he wishes either to humiliate you or offend me.”

For that one moment how I longed to pour out my love for
Henry and Claire, and to speak my sense of justice in the vindication
of Mr. Bradford! It was terrible to sit still and hold
my tongue while the ties of blood and friendship were contenned,
and the motives of my hospitable host were misconstrued
so cruelly. Yet I could not open my lips. I dreaded a
collision with her as if she had been a serpent, or a furnace of
fire, or a hedge of thorns. Ay, I was mean enough to explain
that I had no expectation of meeting either Henry or my sister
there; and she was adroit enough to reply that she was at least
sure of that without my saying so.

Then I talked fully of Mr. Grimshaw's call, and gave such
details of the conversation that occurred as I could without
making Mr. Bradford too prominent.

“So Mr. Bradford doesn't like Mr. Bedlow,” she remarked;
“but Mr. Bradford is a trifle whimsical in his likes and dislikes.
I'm sure I've always heard Mr. Bedlow well spoken of. He
has the credit of having done a great deal of good, and if he is
coming here, Arthur, I think you cannot do better than to go
and hear him for yourself.”

Like a flash of light there passed through my mind the
thought that Providence had not only thus opened the way for
me, but with an imperative finger had directed me to walk in it.
God had made the wrath of woman to praise Him, and the remainder
He had restrained. Imagining myself to be thus directed,
I should not have dared to avoid Mr. Bedlow's preaching.
The whole interview with Mr. Grimshaw, the fact that,
contrary to my wont, I had not found myself in sympathy with
my old friend, Mr. Bradford, and the strange and unlooked-for
result of my conversation with Mrs. Sanderson, shaped themselves
into a divine mandate to whose authority my spirit bowed
in ready obedience.

Mr. Bedlow made his appearance in Mr. Grimshaw's pulpit on
the following Sunday; and a great throng of excited and expectant
people, attracted by the notoriety of the preacher, and
moved by the influences of the time, were in attendance. The
hush of solemnity that pervaded the assembly when these two
men entered the desk impressed me deeply. My spirit was
thrilled with strange apprehension. My emotional nature was
in chaos; and such crystallizations of opinion, thought, and
feeling as had taken place in me during a life-long course of
religious nurture and education were broken up. Outside of
the church, and entirely lacking that dramatic experience of
conversion and regeneration which all around me regarded as
the only true beginning of a religious life, my whole soul lay
open, quick and quivering, to the influences of the hour, and
the words which soon fell upon it.

The pastor conducted the opening services, and I had never
seen him in such a mood. Inspired by the presence of an immense
congregation and by the spirit of the time, he rose entirely
out of the mechanisms of his theology and his stereotyped
forms of expression, and poured out the burden of his soul in
a prayer that melted every heart before him. Deprecating the
judgments of the Most High on the coldness and worldliness of
the church; beseeching the Spirit of all Grace to come and
work its own great miracles upon those who loved the Master,
moving them to penitence, self-sacrifice, humility and prayer;
entreating that Spirit to plant the arrows of conviction in all
unconverted souls, and to bring a great multitude of these into
the Kingdom—a multitude so great that they should be like
doves flocking to their windows—he prayed like a man inspired.
His voice trembled and choked with emotion, and the tears
coursed down his cheeks unheeded. It seemed as if he could
not pause, or be denied.

Of Mr. Bedlow's sermon that followed I can give no fitting
idea. After a severe denunciation of the coldness of the church
that grieved and repelled the Spirit of God, he turned to those
without the fold—to the unconverted and impenitent. He told

us that God was angry with us every day, that every imagination
of the thoughts of our hearts was only evil continually, that we
were exposed every moment to death and the perdition of ungodly
men, and that it was our duty to turn, then and there, from
the error of our ways, and to seek and secure the pardon which a
pitying Christ extended to us—a pardon which could be had
for the taking. Then he painted with wonderful power the joy
and peace that follow the consciousness of sin forgiven, and the
glories of that heaven which the Saviour had gone to prepare
for those who love Him.

I went home blind, staggering, almost benumbed—with the
words ringing in my ears that it had been my duty before rising
from my seat to give myself to the Saviour, and to go out of
the door rejoicing in the possession of a hope which should be
as an anchor in all the storms of my life; yet I did not know
what the process was. I was sure I did not know. I had not
the slightest comprehension of what was required of me, yet
the fact did not save me from the impression that I had committed
a great sin. I went to my room and tried to pray, and
spent half an hour of such helpless and pitiful distress as I
cannot describe. Then there arose in me a longing for companionship.
I could not unbosom myself to Mrs. Sanderson.
Henry's calm spirit and sympathetic counsels were beyond my
reach. Mr. Bradford was not in the church, and I could only
think of my father, and determine that I would see him. I ate
but little dinner, made no conversation with Mrs. Sanderson,
and, toward night, left the house and sought my father's home.

I found the house as solemn as death. All the family save
Claire had heard Mr. Bedlow, and my mother was profoundly
dejected. A cloud rested upon my brothers and sisters. My
father apprehended at once the nature of my errand, and,
by what seemed to be a mutual impulse and understanding,
we passed into an unoccupied room and closed the door. The
moment I found myself alone with him I threw my arms around
his neck, and bursting into an uncontrollable fit of weeping,
exclaimed: “Oh, father! father! what shall I do?”

For years I had not come to him with a trouble. For years
I had not reposed in him a single heart-confidence, and for the
first time in his life he put both his arms affectionately around
me and embraced me. Minutes passed while we stood thus.
I could not see his face, for my own was bowed upon his shoulder,
but I could feel his heart-beats, and the convulsions of
emotion which shook him in every fiber. At last he gently put
me off, led me to a seat, and sat down beside me. He took
my hand, but he could not speak.

“Oh, father! what shall I do?” I exclaimed again.

“Go to God, my boy, and repeat the same words to him with
the same earnestness.”

“But he is angry with me,” I said, “and you are not. You
pity me and love me. I am your child. You cannot help being
sorry for me.”

“You are his child too, my boy, by relations a thousand
times tenderer and more significant than those which make you
mine. He loves you and pities you more than I can.”

“But I don't know how to give myself to him,” I said.

“I have had the impression and the hope,” my father responded,
“that you had already given yourself to him.”

“Oh, not in this way at all,” I said.

My father had his own convictions, but he was almost morbidly
conscientious in all his dealings with the souls around
him. Fearful of meddling with that which the Gracious Spirit
had in charge and under influence, and modest in the assertion
of views which might possibly weaken the hold of conviction
upon me; feeling, too, that he did not know me well enough
to direct me, and fearful that he might arrest a process which,
perfected, might redeem me, he simply said: “I am not wise;
let us pray together, that we may be led aright.”

Then he kneeled and prayed for me. Ah! how the blessed
words of that prayer have lingered in my memory! Though
not immediately fruitful in my experience, they came to me
long years after, loaded with the balm of healing. “Oh,
Father in Heaven!” he said, “this is our boy,—thy child and

mine. Thou lovest and pitiest him more than I can. Help
him to go to Thee as he has come to me, and to say in perfect
submission, `Oh, Father, what shall I do!”'

I went home at last somewhat calmed, because I had had
sympathy, and, for a few moments, had leaned upon another
nature and rested. I ate little, and, as soon as the hour arrived,
departed to attend the evening service, previously having
asked old Jenks to attend the meeting and walk home with
me, for I was afraid to return alone.

A strange and gloomy change had come over the sky; and
the weather, which had been extremely cold for a week, had
grown warm. The snow under my feet was soft and yielding,
and already little rivulets were coursing along the ruts worn by
the sleighs. The nerves which had been braced by the tonic
of the cold, clear air were relaxed, and with the uncertain footing
of the streets I went staggering to the church.

In the endeavor now to analyze my feelings I find it impossible
to believe that I was convinced that my life had been one
of bold and intentional sin. A considerable part of my pain,
I know, arose from the fact that I could not realize my own
sinfulness as it had been represented to me. I despaired because
I could not despair. I was distressed because I could
not be sufficiently distressed. There was one sin, however, of
which I had a terrified consciousness, viz., that of rejecting
the offer of mercy which had been made to me in the morning,
and of so rejecting it as to be in danger of forever grieving
away the Spirit of God which I believed was at work upon my
heart. This was something definite and dreadful, though I felt
perfectly ignorant of the exact thing required of me and impotent
to perform it. If I could have known the precise nature
of the surrender demanded of me, and could have comprehended
the effort I was called upon to make, I believe I should
have been ready for both; but in truth I had been so mystified
by the preacher, so puzzled by his representation of the miracle
of conversion, which he made to appear to be dependent
on God's sovereign grace entirely, and yet so entirely dependent

on me that the whole guilt of remaining unconverted would
rest with me; I was so expectant of some mighty, overwhelming
influence that would bear me to a point where I could see
through the darkness and the discord—an influence which did
not come—that I was paralyzed and helpless.

I was early in the church, and saw the solemn groups as
they entered and gradually filled the pews. The preachers,
too, were early in the desk. Mr. Bedlow sat where he could
see me and read my face. I knew that his searching, magnetic
eyes were upon me, and in the exalted condition of my sensibilities
I felt them. In the great hush that followed the entrance
of the crowd and preceded the beginning of the exercises
I saw him slowly rise and walk down the pulpit stairs. I
had never known anything of his methods, and was entirely
unprepared for what followed. Reaching the aisle, he walked
directly to where I sat, and raising his finger, pointed it at me
and said: “Young man, are you a Christian?”

“I suppose not,” I answered.

“Do you ever expect to become one?”

“I do,” I replied.

At this he left me, and went to one and another in the congregation,
putting his question and making some remark. Sensitive
men and women hung their heads, and tried to evade his
inquiries by refusing to look at him.

At length he went back to his desk, and said that the church
could do no better than to hold for a few minutes a season of
prayer, preparatory to the services of the evening; and then
he added: “Will some brother pray for a young man who
expects to become a Christian, and pray that that expectation
may be taken away from him.”

Thereupon a young man, full of zeal, kneeled before the
congregation and poured out his heart for me, and prayed as
he had been asked to pray: that my expectation to become a
Christian might be taken away from me. He was, however,
considerate and kind enough so far to modify the petition as to
Beg that I might lose my expectation in the immediate realization

of a Christian experience—that my hope to become a
Christian might be swallowed up in my hope of a Christian's
reward.

This kindness of the young man, however, to whose zeal and
good-will I give hearty honor, could not efface the sore sense
of wrong I had suffered at the hand of Mr. Bedlow. Why he
should have singled me out in the throng for such an awful
infliction I did not know, and why he should have asked anybody
to pray that all expectation of becoming a Christian
should be taken away from me I could not imagine. I felt
that I was misunderstood and outraged, at first, and as my
anger died away, or was quenched by other emotions, I found
that I was still more deeply puzzled than before. Was I not
carefully and prayerfully seeking? And was not this expectation
the one thing which made my life endurable? Would I
not give all the world to find my feet upon the sure foundation?
Had I not in my heart of hearts determined to find what there
was to be found if I could, or die?

No: Mr. Bedlow, meaning well no doubt, and desiring to
lead me nearer to spiritual rest, had thrust me into deeper and
wilder darkness; and in that darkness, haunted by forms of torment
and terror, I sat through one of the most impressive sermons
and exhortations I had ever heard. I went out of the
church at last as utterly hopeless and wretched as I could be.
There was a God of wrath above me, because there was the
guilt of unfulfilled duty gnawing at my conscience. It seemed
as if the great tragedy of the universe were being performed in
my soul. Sun, moon, stars, the kingdoms and glory of the
world—what were all these, either in themselves or to me, compared
with the interests of a soul on which rested the burden of
a decision for its own heaven or hell?

As I emerged into the open air, I met Jenks at the door,
waiting for me, and as I lifted my hot face I felt the cold rain
falling upon it. Pitchy darkness, unrelieved save by the dim
lights around the town and the blotched and rapidly melting
snow, had settled upon the world. I clutched the old servant's

arm, and struck off in silence towards home. We had hardly
walked the distance of a block before there came a flash of
blinding lightning, and we were in the midst of that impressive
anomaly, a January thunder-storm. It was strange how harmoniously
this storm supplemented the influences of the services
at the church, from which I had just retired. To me it
was the crowning terror of the night. I had no question that
it was directed by the same unseen power which had been
struggling with me all day, and that it was expressive of His infinite
anger. As we hurried along, unprotected in the pouring
rain, flash after flash illuminated the darkness, and peal after
peal of thunder hurtled over the city, rolled along the heavens,
and echoed among the distant hills. I walked in constant
fear of being struck dead, and of passing to the judgment unreconciled
and unredeemed. I felt that my soul was dealing
directly with the great God, and under the play of his awful enginery
of destruction I realized my helplessness. I could only
pray to him, with gasps of agony, and in whispers: “Oh, do
not crush me! Spare me, and I will do anything! Save my
life, and it shall be thine!”

When I arrived at the house I did not dare to go in, for then
I should be left alone. Without a word I led Jenks to the
stable, and, dripping with the rain, we passed in.

“Oh, Jenks,” I said, “I must pray, and you must stay with
me. I cannot be left alone.”

I knelt upon the stable-floor, and the old man, touched with
sympathy, and awed by the passion which possessed me, knelt
at my side. Oh, what pledges and promises I gave in that
prayer, if God would spare my life! How wildly I asked for
pardon, and how earnestly did I beseech the Spirit of all Grace
to stay with me, and never to be grieved away, until his work
was perfected in me!

The poor old man, with his childish mind, could not understand
my abandonment to grief and terror; but while I knelt
I felt his trembling arm steal around me, and knew that he was
sobbing. His heart was deeply moved by pity, but the case

was beyond his comprehension. He could say nothing, but
the sympathy was very grateful to me.

And all this time there was another arm around me, whose
touch I was too benumbed to feel; there was another heart
beside me, tender with sympathy, whose beatings I was too
much agitated to apprehend; there was a voice calling to the
tempest within me, “Peace! be still!” but I could not hear it.
Oh, infinite Father! Oh, loving and pitying Christ! Why
could I not have seen thee, as thou didst look down upon and
pity thy terror-stricken child? Why could I not have seen thy
arms extended toward me, and thy eyes beaming with ineffable
love, calling me to thy forgiving embrace? How could I have
done thee the dishonor to suppose that the simple old servant
kneeling at my side was tenderer and more pitiful than thou?

We both grew chilly at last, and passed quietly into the house.
Mrs. Sanderson had retired, but had left a bright fire upon the
hearth, at which both of us warmed and dried ourselves. The
storm, meantime, had died away, though the lightning still
flapped its red wings against the windows, and the dull reverberations
of the thunder came to me from the distance. With
the relief from what seemed to be the danger of imminent death,
I had the strength to mount to my room alone, and, after another
prayer which failed to lift my burden, I consigned myself
to my bed. The one thought that possessed me as I lay down
was that I might never wake if I should go to sleep. My nervous
exhaustion was such that when sinking into sleep I started
many times from my pillow, tossing the clothes from me, and
gasping as if I had been sinking into an abyss. Sleep came at
last, however, and I awoke on the morrow, conscious that I
had rested, and rejoicing at least in the fact that my day of probation
was not yet past. My heart kindled for a moment as I
looked from my window into the face of the glorious sun, and
the deep blue heaven, but sank within me when I remembered
my promises, and felt that the struggle of the previous day was
to be renewed.

This struggle I do not propose to dwell upon further in extended

detail. If the record of it thus far is as painful to read
as it is to write, the reader will have tired of it already. It
lasted for weeks, and I never rationally saw my way out of that
blindness. There were literally hundreds in the city who professed
to have found a great and superlatively joyous peace,
but I did not find it, nor did it come to me in any way by
which I dreamed it might come.

The vital point with me was to find some influence so powerful
that I could not resist it. I felt myself tossing upon a
dangerous sea, just outside the harbor, between which and me
there stretched an impassable bar. So, wretched and worn
with anxious waiting, I looked for the coming in of some
mighty wave which would lift my sinking bark over the forbidding
obstacle, into the calm waters that mirrored upon their
banks the domes and dwellings of the city of the Great King.

Sometimes I tired of Mr. Bedlow, and went to other churches,
longing always to hear some sermon or find some influence
that would do for me that which I could not do for myself. I
visited my father many times, but he could not help me, beyond
what he had already done. One of the causes of my perplexity
was the fact that Henry attended the prayer-meetings, and
publicly participated in the exercises. I heard, too, that, in a
quiet way, he was very influential in his school, and that many
of his pupils had begun a religious life. Why was he different
from myself? Why was it necessary that I should go through this
experience of fear and torment, while he escaped it altogether?
All our previous experience had been nearly identical. For
years we had been subjected to the same influences, had
struggled for the same self-mastery, had kneeled at the same
bed in daily devotion; yet here he was, busy in Christian service,
steadily rejoicing in Christian hope, into which he had
grown through processes as natural as those by which the rose-tree
rises to the grace of inflorescence. I see it all now, but
then it not only perplexed me, but filled me with weak complaining
at my harder lot.

During these eventful weeks I often met Millie Bradford on

her way to and from school. I have no doubt that, from her
window, she had made herself familiar with my habits of going
and coming, and had timed her own so as to fall in with me.

In communities not familiar with the character and history of
a New England revival, it would be impossible to conceive of
the universality of the influence which they exert during the
time of their highest activity. Multitudes of men neglect their
business. Meetings are held during every evening of the
week, and sometimes during all the days of the week. Children,
gathered in their own little chambers, hold prayer-meetings.
Religion is the all-absorbing topic, with old and
young.

Millie was like the rest of us; and, forbidden to hear Mr.
Bedlow preach, she had determined to win her experience at
home. It touches me now even to tears to remember how she
used to meet me in the street, and ask me how I was getting
along, how I liked Mr. Bedlow, and whether he had helped me.
She told me that she and her mother were holding little prayer-meetings
together, but that Aunt Flick was away pretty much
all the time. She was seeking to become a Christian, and at
last she told me that she thought she had become one. I was
rational enough to see that it was not necessary for an innocent
child like her to share my graver experiences. Indeed, I
listened eagerly to her expressions of simple faith and trust, and
to her recital of the purposes of life to which she had committed
herself. One revelation which she made in confidence,
but which I am sure was uttered because she wanted me to
think well of her father, interested me much. She said her
father prayed very much alone, though he did not attend the
meetings. The thought of my old friend toiling in secret over
the problem which absorbed us all was very impressive.

Thus weeks passed away, and the tide which rose to its flood
began to ebb. I could see that the meetings grew less frequent,
and that the old habits of business and pleasure were
reasserting themselves. Conversions were rarer, and the
blazing fervor of action and devotion cooled. As I realized

this, and, in realizing it, found that I was just as far from the
point at which I had aimed as I was at the beginning, a strange,
desperate despair seized me. I could hope for no influences in
the future more powerful than those to which I had been subjected.
The stimulus to resolution and endeavor was nearly
expended. Yet I had many times vowed to the Most High
that before that season had passed away I would find Him, and,
with him, peace, if He and it were to be found. What was I
to do?

At last there came a day of in-gathering. The harvest was to
be garnered. A great number of men, women, and youth were
to be received into the church. I went early, and took a seat
in the gallery, where I could see the throng as they presented
themselves in the aisles to make their profession of faith and
unite in their covenant. When called upon they took their
places, coming forward from all parts of the audience in front of
the Communion table. Among them were both Henry and
Claire. At sight of them I grew sick. Passage after passage
of Scripture that seemed applicable to my condition, crowded
into my mind. They came from the North and the South and
the East and the West, and sat down in the Kingdom of God,
and I, a child of the Kingdom, baptized into the name of the
Ineffable, was cast out. The harvest was past, the summer
was ended, and my soul was not saved! I witnessed the ceremonies
with feelings mingled of despair, bitterness, and desperation.
On the faces of these converts, thus coming into the
fold, there was impressed the seal of a great and solemn joy.
Within my bosom there burned the feeling that I had honestly
tried to do my duty, and that my endeavors had been spurned.
In a moment, to which I had been led by processes whose end
I could not see, my will gave way, and I said, “I will try no
longer. This is the end.” Every resolution and purpose within
me was shivered by the fall.

To what depth of perdition I might be hurled—under what
judgment I might be crushed—I could not tell, and hardly cared
to imagine. Quite to my amazement, I found myself at perfect

peace. What did it mean? Not only was the burden gone,
but there thrilled through my soul a quick, strong joy. My
spirit was like a broad sea, alive all over with sunlit ripples,
with one broad track of glory that stretched across into the unfathomable
heaven! I felt the smile of God upon me. I felt
the love of God within me. Was I insane? Had satan appeared
to me as an angel of light and deceived me? Was this
conversion? I was so much in doubt in regard to the real nature
of this experience, that when I left the house I spoke to
no one of it. Emerging into the open air, I found myself in a
new world. I walked the streets as lightly as if wings had been
upon my shoulders, lifting me from point to point through all
the passage homeward. Ah, how blue the heavens were, and
how broad and beautiful the world! What a blessed thing it
was to live! How sweet were the faces not only of friends,
but even of those whom I did not know! How gladly would I
have embraced every one of them! It was as if I had been unclothed
of my mortality, and clothed upon with the immortal.
I was sure that heaven could hold no joy superior to that.

When passing Mr. Bradford's, I saw Millie at the window.
She beckoned to me, and I went to her door. “How is it
now?” she said.

“I don't know, Millie,” I replied, “but I think it is all right.
I never felt before as I do now.”

“Oh, I was getting so tired!” said she. “I've been praying
for you for days, and days, and days! and hoping and hoping
you'd get through.”

I could only thank her, and press her little hand; and then I
hurried to my home, mounted to my room, shut and locked the
door, and sat down to think.