Part 26 (2/2)
”Me? How so?” asked the old man.
”The truth is,” replied Chester, coloring very red, and speaking as if it was a great effort and a relief to be candid, ”I haven't been easy in my conscience since the unlucky--or rather lucky--day I met you outside the stage-coach.”
”Oh, never speak of it. It is all forgotten,” exclaimed Father Brighthopes.
”Not with me, Father. I have been heartily ashamed of my conduct. It was kind in you to rebuke me for swearing, and I should have taken it so.
What you said appealed to my reason and to my feelings. But I was too proud to acknowledge the justice of your reproof; and, as I did not know you, I thought to carry out my a.s.sumed recklessness by a dash of insolence.”
”I forgave it at the moment, my son. I understood it all.”
”I hope you will not think I have been in the habit of using profane language,” said Chester. ”It is my misfortune to be easily influenced by the kind of society I am in. You remember, I was conversing with a wild fellow, who was by no means sparing of oaths. I have lived in the atmosphere of too many such; and, somehow, I have learned to imitate their habits unconsciously.”
”Our only armor against such influences is _firm principle_,” answered the old man, encouragingly. ”No warm-blooded young person, entering the world, is safe without this.”
”It must be so, Father. But why is it that the sight of vice does not always strike us with the same disgust or horror as the mere contemplation of it?”
”We can accustom our palate to any description of vile drugs, by persisting in their use, I suppose.”
”I see,” said Chester.
”'We first endure, then pity, then embrace,'
the vices we come in contact with. But vices we witness for the first time--they do not always shock us.”
”The more pleasing the devil's coat, the more dangerous he is,” replied Father Brighthopes. ”And there is another thing to be considered.
Persons following intellectual pursuits are apt to take purely intellectual views of great as well as petty crimes. The independent MIND can a.n.a.lyze the nature of a murder, coolly as the anatomist dissects his human subject. Eugene Aram has too much intellect. Perhaps his heart is not bad,--what there is of it,--but its virtue is negative.
When we silence the conscience, in judging of right and wrong, reason is sure to lead us astray.”
”I understand now, better than ever before, why expanded minds are so p.r.o.ne to smile upon and shake hands with crime,” said Chester.
”Enlarging the intellect, to the neglect of the soul, we leave this to become shriveled, like a flower growing in the shade of a great tree.”
”A truth, my young friend, every student should bear in mind,” observed the clergyman, earnestly.
Chester walked before him, on a thick fragment of bark, and over a gra.s.sy knoll, in silence. He was wondering why it was that the gentle old man had gained such a power over him, to conquer his pride, and to call out his deepest feelings.
”I don't know why it is,” said he, as they crossed a rude bridge, thrown over the sluggish brook, ”but I feel as though I could talk with you more freely than with anybody else. Perhaps it is well that the stage-coach incident occurred. I felt that I _must_ apologize to you for my ungentlemanly conduct; and I see that what was so unpleasant to me was only the breaking of the ice. It must be your wide and genial charity that has had such an effect upon me. Clergymen are generally such grim moralists, that they make me shudder.”
”When I consider the calm benignity, the ineffably sweet wisdom, the infinite love of Him who said, 'Go, and sin no more,' what am I, that I should condemn a brother?” said Father Brighthopes, with suffused features.
Chester was deeply touched.
”I am not a wilful sinner,” he muttered, from his heart. ”I do love purity, goodness, holiness. _I hate myself_ for my bad nature!” he exclaimed, bitterly.
”Ah, that will never do,” replied the old man, softly and kindly. ”My son, I feel for you. I feel with you. But the nature G.o.d has given you in his wisdom,--hate not that. It is the soil in which your soul is planted. You must be content with it for a season. It is a suicidal thought, to wish your roots plucked up, because they reach down amid weeds and rottenness. No; cultivate the soil. Carefully, prayerfully purify it, and subdue its rankness. Then shall your spirit, grafted with the scion of holiness, flourish like a goodly tree. It shall gather wholesome sustenance from below, and at the same time it shall blossom and bloom, and put forth green leaves, struggling upward, upward,--higher, higher, still--in the golden atmosphere; its fruits shall ripen in the beautiful sunlight of heaven, and it shall be blessed forevermore.”
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