Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she wished to marry; but having undertaken the affair, she performed it with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who insisted upon being admitted to her presence. “I told him,” said the servant, “that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore he came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep: he seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he must speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems fortified against all denial, and will speak with you, whether you will or no.” Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said she would once more hear Orsino’s embassy, not doubting but that he came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola entering, put on the most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier’s language of great men’s pages, she said to the veiled lady, “Most radiant, exquisite and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you are the lady of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my speech upon another, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to learn it.” “Whence come you, sir?” said Olivia. “I can say little more than I have studied,” replied Viola; “and that question is out of my part.” “Are you a comedian?” said Olivia. “No,” replied Viola; “and yet I am not that which I play;” meaning that she being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola, having more curiosity to see her rival’s features than haste to deliver her master’s message, said, “Good madam, let me see your face.” With this bold request Olivia was not averse to comply; for this haughty beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario.

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, “Have you any commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face?” And then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew aside her veil, saying, “But I will draw the curtain and show the picture. Is it not well done?” Viola replied, “It is beauty truly mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks are by Nature’s own cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy.” “O sir,” replied Olivia, “I will not be so cruel. The world may have an inventory of my beauty. As, _item_, two lips, indifferent red; _item_, two grey eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin, and so forth. Were you sent here to praise me?” Viola replied, “I see you what you are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves you. O such a love could but be recompensed, though you were crowned the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire.” “Your lord,” said Olivia, “knows well my mind. I can not love him; yet I doubt not he is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and valiant; yet I can not love him, he might have taken his answer long ago.” “If I did love you as my master does,” said Viola, “I would make me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name. I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the night; your name should sound among the hills, and I would make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out _Olivia_. O you should not rest between the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me.” “You might do much,” said Olivia; “what is your parentage?” Viola replied, “Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman.” Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, “Go to your master, and tell him, I can not love him. Let him send no more, unless perchance you come again to tell me how he takes it.” And Viola departed, bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, _Above my fortune, yet my state is well, I am a gentleman_. And she said aloud, “I will be sworn he is; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he is a gentleman.” And then she wished Cesario was the duke; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed herself for her sudden love; but the gentle blame which people lay upon their own faults has no deep root; and presently the noble lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which is the chief ornament of a lady’s character, that she resolved to court the love of young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under the pretence that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she should give him some intimation of her design; and truly it did make Viola suspect; for knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that Olivia’s looks and manner were expressive of admiration, and she presently guessed her master’s mistress had fallen in love with her. “Alas,” said she, “the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs for me, as I do for Orsino.”

Viola returned to Orsino’s palace, and related to her lord the ill success of her negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, that the duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to show some pity, and therefore he bade him to go to her again the next day. In the mean time, to pass away the tedious interval, he commanded a song which he loved to be sung; and he said, “My good Cesario, when I heard that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the innocence of love in the old times.”

SONG.

Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white stuck all with yew,
O prepare it;
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me oh where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there.

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, “My life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face that it loves; has it not, boy?” “A little, with your leave,” replied Viola. “And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?” said Orsino. “Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord,” said Viola: which made the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older than himself, and of a man’s dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, and not a woman like him.

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies delight to converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke’s page was shown into Olivia’s apartment with great respect; and when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in her lord’s behalf, this lady said, “I desired you never to speak of him again; but if you would undertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit than music from the spheres.” This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her love: and when she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola’s face, she said, “O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honor, and by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal my passion.” But in vain the lady wooed; Viola hastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to plead Orsino’s love: and all the reply she made to Olivia’s fond solicitations was a declaration of a resolution, _Never to love any woman_.

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her valor. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favored the duke’s messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a man-like outside, had a true woman’s heart, and feared to look on her own sword?

When she saw her formidable rival advancing toward her with his sword drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman; but she was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery, by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and as if he had been long known to her, and were her dearest friend, said to her opponent, “If this young gentleman has done offense, I will take the fault on me, and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy you.” Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to inquire the reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with an enemy where his bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up at that instant, apprehended the stranger in the duke’s name to answer for an offence he had committed some years before; and he said to Viola, “This comes with seeking you;” and then he asked her for a purse, saying, “Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves me much more for what I can not do for you, than for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort.” His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him not, nor had ever received a purse from him; but for the kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a small sum of money, being nearly all she possessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He said, “This youth, whom you see here, I snatched from the jaws of death, and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this danger.” But the officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, “What is that to us?” And as he was carried away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an explanation, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes that it was her brother whose life this man said he had preserved. And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which he had fastened himself in the storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him whithersoever he went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino’s court, Antonio, rather than part from him, came to Illyria, though he knew if his person should be known there, his life would be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the Duke Orsino’s nephew. This was the offence for which he was now made a prisoner.

Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before Antonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town: but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, Antonio had ventured out to look for him; and Viola being dressed the same, and in face so exactly resembling her brother, Antonio drew his sword (as he thought) in defence of the youth he had saved; and when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude.

Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight, slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone when her adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian who happened to arrive at this place, and he said, “Now, sir, I have met with you again? There’s for you;” and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no coward; he returned the blow with interest, and drew his sword.

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him) become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his face, which she had complained of when she told her love to Cesario.

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished on him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it had come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in her right senses; but perceiving she was mistress of a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him she appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well approved of the courtship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humor, and fearing he might change his mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian assented to this proposal; and when the marriage ceremony was over, he left his lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met with. In the meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia; and at the moment he arrived before Olivia’s house, the officers of justice brought their prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino, her master, and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he had rescued the youth from the perils of the sea; and after fully relating all the kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying, that for three months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth had been with him. But now the lady Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend to Antonio’s story; and he said, “Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months has this youth attended on me;” and then he ordered Antonio to be taken aside. But Orsino’s heavenly countess soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness to Cesario; and when he found his page had obtained this high place in Olivia’s favor, he threatened him with all the terrors of his just revenge: and as he was going to depart, he called Viola to follow him, saying, “Come boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief.” Though it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, and she said she would most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she cried, “Where goes my Cesario?” Viola replied, “After him I love more than my life.” Olivia, however, prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that not two hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia to this young man. In vain Viola protested she was not married to Olivia; the evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino believe that his page had robbed him of the treasure he prized above his life. But thinking that it was past recall, he was bidding farewell to his faithless mistress, and the _young dissembler_, her husband, as he called Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again, when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! for another Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia: and when their wonder had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, the same voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister began to question each other, for Viola could scarce be persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebastian knew not how to account for the sister he supposed drowned, being found in the habit of a young man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she was indeed Viola, and his sister under that disguise.

When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with a woman; and Olivia showed no dislike whatever to her exchange, when she found she had wedded the brother instead of the sister.

The hopes of Orsino were forever at an end by this marriage of Olivia, and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favorite, young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in a woman’s attire; and then he remembered how often she had said _she loved him_, which at the time seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faithful page, but now he guessed that something more was meant, for many of her pretty sayings which were like riddles to him, came now into his mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things than he resolved to make Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could not help calling her _Cesario_ and _boy_), “Boy, you have said to me a thousand times that you should never love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service you have done for me so much beneath your soft and tender breeding, and since you have called me master so long, you shall now be your master’s mistress, and Orsino’s true duchess.”

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck, which had separated them, being the means of bringing to pass their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino the Duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the Lady Olivia.

QUAINT OLD GARDEN OF OUR CHILDHOOD.

CLARA THWAITES.

Quaint old garden of our childhood,
Where we played from chime to chime,
Haunted by the mournful music
Of the belfry’s broken rhyme!

Hither came the swell of anthems,
Floating through our leafy glades,
Here the “Amen” from the cloisters
Died among our mulberry shades.

Hither came the joy of bridals,
Clash and laughter of the bells;
Hither came the muffled sorrow,
And the sob, of last farewells.

Sombre chestnuts held their torches
White, in deep funereal gloom,
O’er the sunken, mould’ring headstones,
O’er the latest daisied tomb.

Solemn curfew of our childhood,
Closing each day with a sigh,
Ringing through our peaceful slumbers
Like a tender lullaby!

Daisied meadows of our childhood,
Once a battle-field of pain!
Ah, we never dreamed of dolor
As we weaved our daisy-chain!

Shining river of our childhood,
As I watched thee ripple by,
Still I deemed thy joy and glitter
Sweetest of life’s prophecy.

See, it widens to the ocean!
See, the river overflows!
Shining river of my childhood,
Life is fullest at its close!

* * * * *

“To find fault, some one may say, is easy, and in every man’s power; but to point out the proper course to be pursued in the present circumstances, that is the proof of a wise counselor.”—_Demosthenes._

THE W. C. T. U. BORN AT CHAUTAUQUA.

The origin of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union was prepared, and read by Mrs. W. A. Ingham, of Cleveland, Ohio, before the national convention of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, held last month at Louisville, Ky.

The handful of corn upon the tops of the mountains grew apace after its wonderful planting in Ohio during the winter and spring of 1873-4.

The fruit thereof shook like Lebanon throughout the Middle and Western States, and in August of that year, many of the seed-sowers had gathered upon the shore of Lake Chautauqua for a fortnight in the woods.

In the primitive fashion we dwelt in tents, or sat in the open air about the watchfires kindled at the first National Sunday School Assembly.

Women who had drawn near to God in saloon prayer meetings felt their hearts aflame again as they recounted the wonders of the great uprising.

It was at Chautauqua, the birth-place of grand ideas, that our Union originated.

It is time the story of its beginnings was written, and there is no more fitting place for its rehearsal than in this goodly presence—the city of Louisville, where South and North meet beneath the palm to rejoice over its achievements and consecrate anew its altars.

One bright day a very few ladies were in conversation upon the subject that filled their hearts, inspiring the thought that the temperance cause needed the united effort of all the women of the country.

The suggestion came from Mrs. Mattie McClellan Brown, of Alliance, Ohio. Mrs. G. W. Manly, leader of the praying band of Akron, accepted the idea, and it was said: “Why not take steps here toward its formation?”

Upon further consultation it was decided to call a meeting, notice of which was read from the platform of the Auditorium by Rev. Dr. Vincent.

Mrs. Jennie F. Willing, of Illinois, a guest of the Assembly, maintained that so important a movement should be controlled by women engaged in active Christian work.

In order to arrange the preliminaries of the announced meeting, Mrs. Willing invited Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Manly, Miss Emma Janes, of Oakland, California, and Mrs. Ingham, of Cleveland, to meet her in a new board shanty on Asbury Avenue.

The Woman’s National Christian Temperance Union was born, not in a manger, but on a floor of straw in an apartment into which daylight shone through holes and crevices.

In a half hour’s space every detail was prepared, including a proposed formation of a Committee of Organization, to take place that very afternoon succeeding the regular three o’clock session of the Assembly.

At the temperance prayer-meeting at 4 o’clock, p. m., under the canvas Tabernacle, were, perhaps, fifty earnest Christian women; of them were several from Ohio, Mrs. H. H. Otis, of Buffalo, Mrs. Niles, of Hornellsville, and Mrs. W. E. Knox, of Elmira, N. Y.

Mrs. Willing was leader of the prayer service, and acted as presiding officer of the business session, convened afterward. At this conference women were chosen to represent various States; an adjournment being had to the following day.

At the hour appointed, August 15, 1874, a large audience had gathered, Mrs. Jennie F. Willing in the chair, and Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller secretary.

As results of the deliberation, the committee of organization was formed, and the chairman and secretary of the Chautauqua meeting were authorized to issue a circular letter, asking the woman’s temperance leagues of the North to hold conventions for the purpose of electing one woman from each Congressional district as delegate to an organizing convention, to be held in Cleveland, Ohio, November 18, 19 and 20, 1874.

The call duly appeared, to which the following names were appended, preceded by those of the chairman and secretary: Mrs. Dr. Gause, Philadelphia; Mrs. E. J. Knowles, Newark, N. J.; Mrs. M. M. Brown, Alliance, O.; Mrs. W. D. Barnett, Hiawatha, Kas.; Miss Auretta Hoyt, Indianapolis, Ind.; Mrs. Ingham Stanton, LeRoy, N. Y.; Mrs. Frances Crook, Baltimore, Md.; Miss Emma Janes, Oakland, Cal.

The writer of this paper was nominated from Ohio, but withdrew her own name, substituting that of Mrs. Brown, who was known to have made the original suggestion.

The convention assembled November 18. Mrs. Willing was chosen president. Sixteen States were represented by grand women. Lovely crusaders of the city secured entertainment for three hundred persons; one of them, Sarah Knowles Bolton, looked after the baggage of delegates and visitors. The Second Presbyterian Church, Superior street, held the gathering. An address of welcome was delivered by Mrs. L. D. McCabe, of Delaware, O., President of the Ohio State Union, which had been organized at Springfield, September 27, 1874.

The daily press pronounced the executive ability of the women to be of high order, all unused as we were to deliberative assemblies. Universal comment was excited by the remarkably thorough and able administration of the presiding officer through three difficult days. The following ladies were chosen to serve during the year:

President—Mrs. Annie F. Wittenmeyer, of Pennsylvania.

Vice-Presidents—One from each State represented.

Recording Secretary—Mrs. Mary C. Johnson, New York.

Corresponding Secretary—Frances E. Willard, of Illinois.

Treasurer—Mrs. W. A. Ingham, of Ohio.

As a reward of merit our four faces appeared not long after, engraved on wood, in the _Morning_, an enterprising herald of reform.

Vicissitudes have occurred during the eight years passed, but all tend, in our onward march to the fore-front of battle, to bring nearer that which overcoming faith and labor are sure to win—victory!

An agency thereto which should here be recognized is the election, in 1879, at Indianapolis, of Frances E. Willard as President of the Woman’s National Christian Temperance Union. She leads to glorious struggle the hosts of Miriam and of Deborah in a new crusade for God and home and native land.

Our present officers are capable and faithful. Our borders are extended until now forty-four States and Territories are each represented by a Vice-President. We have within this area three thousand auxiliaries. The work is divided into thirty-three departments superintended by practical women.

The novices in parliamentary usage of the Cleveland Convention are now experienced and intelligent leaders in the grand reform.

Independent, organizations, with large membership, have multiplied on both sides of the ocean until a score are in active operation as the outgrowth of the great awakening.

More than all, better than all, the “Rock of Ages” women are proving themselves worthy of the title, and are praying to-day even more earnestly than when with sublime faith they went out into the streets and saloons of Ohio, believing that ere long our Lord will say to us, “O, woman, great is thy faith; be it unto thee even as thou wilt.”

GOD’S IDEAL OF A MAN.[E]

By Rev. B. M. ADAMS.

Before I announce the text I desire to clear the road for it a little. We are never reasoned out of that we are never reasoned into. A prejudice is an unreasoning thing, and oftentimes even the Scripture, holy as it is and much as we reverence it, excites prejudice. We say, “Well, I don’t know whether that can be or not.” The truth is, we read our Bibles small, when we ought to read them large. I ask you this morning to disabuse your minds of all prejudice against my subject, and wait until I am through. Do not wait until I am through, but if God sends a word to you, be hospitable to it, open to it your heart. If it is true, accept it; if it is not true, reject it.

The text that I shall read is in Genesis, seventeenth chapter and first verse: “And when Abram was ninety years old and nine, the Lord appeared to Abram, and said unto him, I am the Almighty God, walk before me, and be thou perfect.”

The word perfect is the one that excites prejudice. Now, open the door, and if there is anything in it that is good and for your peace, take it. I most devoutly pray that God will help me to present this passage so it will do you and me good.

“And when Abram was ninety years old and nine, the Lord appeared to Abram, and said unto him, I am the Almighty God, walk before me, and be thou perfect.” It is followed by several other passages, referring to the covenant which God would make with him. You know something of the history of Abram, how God spoke to him in Ur of the Chaldees and called him out to go into a land that he knew not of. It appears that he listened to the call, and started with his family for his destination, “not knowing whither he went.” The Lord directed him. But he hesitated, so Stephen says, on the borders of the Land of Canaan, in which were located the Canaanites, the Perizites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, who were hostile, cruel, rapacious tribes. For some reason, not unlikely Abram’s love for his father, he tarried on the border of the land, and did not go over into it immediately. He hesitated, as hundreds and thousands of God’s people have hesitated on the brink of some great cross, or some great necessity. Abram was my brother, and yours.

He hesitated until his father Terah died, and then went over into the Land of Promise. After going up and down the land for some time, until two-thirds of his life was gone, this appearance came to him. I do not know how God appeared. If that poor slave-woman says the Lord spoke to her, and her hoe-handle shone with his glory, and she heard a voice, “Thy sins are forgiven,” I can not dispute it. God can speak to every heart, and he has his way of doing it. God appeared to Abram, God spoke to him. This is the record, “God appeared to Abram, and said unto him, I am the Almighty God, walk before me, and be thou perfect.”

This word “perfect” charmed Abram. He opened his heart unto it like a rose to the sun. It is a singular thing that this word perfect excites prejudice in Christian people concerning its attainment. Yet it is the word. It has been impressed upon me for one reason, perhaps, because it is in the line of the Chautauqua idea. There are three thoughts at Chautauqua, aspiration, inspiration, attainment. In other words, seeking perfection, looking after it, striving for it. The artist sets before his mind perfection, the mechanic seeks perfection, the statesman and the social economist seek perfection, the housekeeper seeks perfection, the farmer seeks perfection, all classes and kinds of people are seeking this one thing. Why should it be ruled out in religion? Can you answer? It is impossible that there should be such a thing as perfection of the artist or mechanic, for God is the only perfect artist and mechanic, but it is not impossible for men to please God; it is not impossible for them to be so perfect as to please him.

Look at the limitation of the text. It does not say, “walk before your fellow-men and be perfect.” I will defy you to do that. The Lord Jesus Christ could not walk perfect enough to please men, and they hung him between two thieves. You may not be able to please your husband, or your wife, or your employer, in all things. No one Christian ever walked so straight as to give perfect satisfaction all around. They that will walk and live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution. Our dear brother said this morning, “When you please everybody, look out, there is something wrong.”

The man that is at the bottom does not please the man at the top. He who is at the bottom of the ladder does not know how it looks at the top, but the man at the top understands the bottom, because he has been there. You have seen the boys chase a wagon, and one only is swift enough to get on, and the others, filled with envy, cry, “cut behind.” That is human nature. The unsuccessful throw stones at the successful; the people who are up are envied by those who are down. Mark the limitation of the text, not walk before your fellow-men, or even before yourselves to give satisfaction. I thank God for this part of the passage, “Walk before me and be thou perfect.”

God is not hard to please. God is not so hard to please as men; it is easier to please God than to please men. The most unselfish things you do sometimes are the things that are most misunderstood. But when God sees you with a serious intent to please him, he is pleased with it. Let me illustrate this: God calls that perfection which is our best, doing the best we know how, and trusting simply in him, is what God in this text calls perfection. I will venture in the presence of a great deal of scholarship present here this morning, to say that the word perfection means vital conviction. The margin puts it “sincere,” “sincerity.” The true thought is, being true to your best thought, and that pleases God.

There are a great many things, of course, that are impossible to us. We can not have absolutely perfect actions, because there is no such thing as a perfect judgment, there is no such thing as a perfect intellect, we do not see clearly. God knows all about that; he understands it. See in the 103d Psalm the wonderfully comforting words he says: “Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him. For he knoweth our frame, he remembereth that we are dust.”

Take a teacher: he has a boy that wants to learn to write. He sets him a copy of straight marks, and the little fellow is bound to do his best. Watch him as he goes through his contortions. The teacher tells him how to hold his pen, but he never holds it right; it is covered with ink; he sets his mouth and takes aim at his copy. He works slowly down the page, and there is a blot here and a blur there, and a great many crooked marks upon it, but the teacher knows he has done his best, and he says “well done.” The next time he does a little better. Finally, after a week upon straight marks, (there are none of them really straight or true) he brings in the book, and the teacher says it is perfect. It is far from perfect, but it is the best that little fellow can do.

I remember sitting in a house once when the mother said to the boys, (three of them were there), “It is time to bring in the wood.” The oldest was about sixteen, the next about twelve, and the youngest boy was five. They all went out. The big boy, perhaps to show off before the new minister, came in with an enormous load, piled it up, and turned around to me with pride in his face. The mother looked on with approval. The second came in with only half as large an armful, and the mother looked approvingly at him. The last one came in with but two sticks, and they were so crossed that he had great difficulty in holding them, and finally they slipped through his arms, and the little fellow fell down with them. His mother ran to him and kissed him, and said, “You have done better than they all.”

I thought is not that about the way our Heavenly Father does, when he sees us trying to be right and perfect, trying to keep step with the picket line of our best right, when he says, “Walk before me?” Faber says, “There is no place where earthly sorrows are so felt as up in heaven; there is no place where earthly failings have such kindly judgment given, for the love of God is broader than the measures of man’s mind, and the heart of the eternal is most wonderfully kind.” God is not severe, he is an easy master, a blessed keeper. “Walk before me,” said he to Abram, “and be thou perfect; be true to your best convictions.”

May I ask you to follow me a moment or two, to see how eminently common sensed these demands God makes upon us are, and how widely they are endorsed by our own internal consciousness?

There are two relations that we hold: one Godward, and the other manward. In our relation to God what does he ask of us? What does the sum total come to? God asks, first, a perfect consecration; second, a perfect faith, and third, a perfect love. This idea of perfect consecration is in the realm of human possibilities. Let me look at it. Does anybody doubt that a man may be perfectly consecrated to his business? Don’t we know men that are lost, that are really dying, wrecking body, soul, and spirit, all that they have, in business; business in the morning, noon, and night, so driven with business that they are not acquainted with their own children? When I was pastor in an inland city, I knew a great big boy of eighteen, who went to his mother one day, and whined out, “I wish you would ask father to get me a new coat.” “But why don’t you ask him yourself?” said she. “I am not acquainted with him.” That father had been so driven with business that his son was not acquainted enough with him to ask him to get him a new coat. Is not that true? Don’t we know men, in merchandise, in all the walks of life, that are thoroughly consecrated to business? Don’t you know some women that are so absolutely consecrated to the idea of keeping their house in order, that they do not care for their souls? In calling off their minds from this everlasting housekeeping, this C. L. S. C. is a blessing to some women. Don’t you know women, and some men, who are entirely consecrated to fashion, and run after it at the expense of body, soul, and spirit? Does anybody doubt the possibility of people being consecrated to an idea? Take the inventor, Goodyear. He lived in the city of New Haven, where I am acquainted. It is said that this idea of hard rubber took such possession of him that it took all he had. One day, when his money and credit were all gone, he took his axe and split up the bedstead, his bureau, and the chairs for his fire, and did not succeed after all, until sometime after that. If a man is capable of this kind of consecration in a merely worldly aspect, I ask, is it not possible for him to be entirely consecrated to God?

Take the second thought, a perfect faith. There is not a woman, if she is the woman she ought to be, that is married, who has not had a perfect faith in some man, or she would not have been married. That woman has had perfect faith in that man, and that man has had perfect faith in that woman. We show it in the use of money. We do not discover any want of faith, except now and then we find a counterfeit. We pay a debt with our money with perfect faith. We get on the railroad and check our baggage; wise people do, although once in a while people take all their luggage in the cars, a bandbox, bundles, and satchels with them, and it is a great deal of trouble to them. So people try to get to heaven. Why not check the baggage? We find it at Chautauqua, or Lakewood, or New York.

You say, “I don’t know about faith.” But you have faith in some men, and some men would trust you forever. There are some men I would trust to the end of time. So it is with friendship; you have perfect faith in men. Children have perfect faith in their fathers until they are deceived. When I used to look up to my father, I believed that he could do anything. When I went to him with my griefs, I knew, I trusted they would be right; I believed in him with all my heart. I say if men are capable of perfect faith in each other in the domestic and social relations, they are capable of perfect faith in God. I say these things are written down in common sense and in the constitution of humanity.

Third, perfect love. Suppose I go into yonder house, and I see a lady with a sweet baby in her arms, a year old it may be, just coming to the cunning stage. I see that woman kiss that child. I say, “Mother, you think a good deal of that baby.” “Yes,” she says, “I love her with all my heart.” Suppose I say, “I doubt it, madam, I don’t believe you do.” She would turn to me with supreme contempt, and say, “There is the orifice left by the carpenter in the side of the room for such as you.” I am dismissed. It is a slander upon her. I see her at night, when that babe is sick. I see her on her knees praying, with tears running down her cheeks, “God, spare my babe!” Day after day, night after night, she does not sleep. You say it is not a perfect love. I say it is a perfect love, as perfect a love as she can have for the child.

Do you say men can not have a perfect love for a profession, so that they can take all and risk all, that they have so poor an ideal that they can not face the responsibility? Do you say there is no such a thing as perfect patriotism, perfect love for one’s country? I believe there is no greater thing than this on earth, that a man lay down his life for his friends. A few years ago, how many men laid down their lives for their country. We know there is such a thing as a perfect love. When that man to-day stands by the side of that woman and gives her himself, and she gives him herself, it is a slander to say that he and she do not love each other perfectly. You may say it is imperfect, to be sure; it is limited by human weakness (we are all earthly and of the earth), but, as far as human ability goes, it is perfect. Can not we have a perfect love toward God? We are capable of it on the human plane; we are capable of it on the divine plane. I think you have laid aside prejudice against my doctrine, and I speak with frankness, I think that God demands a perfect consecration, a perfect faith, and a perfect love, and we are capable of each.

Let us examine the manward relation. It may be stated thus: I think it embraces three things. First, perfect truth; second, perfect honesty; third, perfect consecration. The thing we can not abide is a lie. When a man tells a lie, he is like a horse that slips his halter once, you buckle it up two or three holes tighter next time, so he shall not slip it again. If he tells a barefaced lie once, you fail to trust him again; he loses your respect. God desires truth in the inward parts, God asks that we shall be true to him, that when we know what is right, we shall try to do according to our best ability.

The second thing we require is honesty in dealing and words. Let me tell you, friends, the thing the world does not forget, is the sin of not paying your debts. I do not care, though your profession may be like a great four-story brownstone front house, and you may have a cupola on the top, if you do not pay one hundred cents on a dollar, your profession is not worth the paper on which it is written. You may be a fornicator, or an adulterer, if you pay one hundred cents on a dollar, the world will give you a free pass. One of the crying sins that the world does not forget, is that some Christians do not pay their debts. A preacher may preach like an angel, and if anybody says, “He owes me so and so, and I can’t get my money,” his sermons do not amount to a great deal. Perfect honesty, this is one of the things that the Christian Church needs to look at. I remember a farmer in Dutchess County, when I was pastor there, who had a fashion of throwing an extra bag of oats on every load of oats sold, especially when sinners came. A wild young sinner said to him one day, “What do you do that for?” “Well,” said he, “I may have made a mistake in measuring up those oats, and as I am going to a country that I shall never return from, and I shall meet you at the Judgment Day, where I am afraid you will be on the left side, I want things to be perfectly square with you and your kind.”

We demand this of our fellow-men, and God demands it of us toward our fellow-men. Look at this man Abram. The Lord had given him the land, but he took pains particularly to buy a burying place, and have the money carefully weighed. When he had a battle with the confederated kings and brought Lot and his family back again, and the king of Sodom wanted to give him all the spoil, he stood up in all his manly integrity and refused to take it. Walking alone with God, he could do without it. I tell you the man who walks in this ideal, walking before God in his perfect truth and honesty, need not fear the forces of the world; he need not fear to be burned at the stake; he can afford to have his name pitched out of the world as an enthusiast; he can afford to be despised.

The third thing is perfect magnanimity, which is nothing more or less than true gentlemanliness. I love to read the Bible because it introduces me to so many gentlemen. As a celebrated infidel writer says about Christ, “he was the first gentleman of the age.” What is it? It is a gentlemanliness, a true magnanimity to our fellow-men, making arrangements for the good of other people rather than ourselves, living not for ourselves but for those about us, being polite and careful in all the arrangements of our lives, loving our neighbors as ourselves.

See that man sitting in the cars, who has paid for but one seat. He occupies one seat with his feet and the other two with his baggage. People come in and say, “Is this seat taken?” He says, “Yes.” I heard a man ask one of these fellows not a long time ago, “Is this seat taken?” “Yes.” “Whom is it taken by?” “A person.” “Who is the person? Have you paid for more than one seat?” I was glad to see the man have to take up his baggage. Did you ever see a man carve a beefsteak who cuts off the tough pieces for his wife and children and keeps the tenderloin for himself? A gentleman will see that all the rest are taken care of, and he generally comes out about as good as the rest; he may lose sometimes, but he wins in many things. Emerson says a man can not afford to lose his self-respect. I often think what even some Christian men must think when they look into the looking-glass and contemplate themselves; if they would have any recollection of themselves and their meanness they would not consult the looking-glass.

With these two points—first of all, godward, a perfect consecration, a perfect faith, a perfect love, which we must admit, in our inner consciousness, is possible to us; in our manward relation, perfect truth, perfect honesty, perfect magnanimity. I believe this covers the ideal. We can understand the meaning when God says to every man, “Walk before me, and be thou perfect.” But some one says: “Mr. Adams, you don’t make any allowance for the weakness of human nature.” I do. Weak human nature! It is God that recognizes it in us, and it is God that requires these things as belonging to it, belonging to weak human nature. “But you don’t know about our surroundings,” you say. I may not; yet even in your surroundings you admit that this is an ideal that is in the reach of every one. “But you don’t make any theological distinctions.” I often think of what Dr. Hitchcock said before the Union Theological Seminary: “Young gentlemen, study theology, yes, study theology, but preach the Gospel.” I study theology, but I try to preach the Gospel, theology or no theology. You say: “This will not stand the straight-edged, extreme sanctification view.” I don’t care about the extreme sanctification view. There are two kinds of spurious sanctification, one so high that no one can get to it, and the other so low nobody wants it. This kind of the text is in reach of every one and what every one ought to want.

I propose to show how you may all reach it. (May the Lord help me!) I think I find it in one single expression in this text, “Walk before me, and be thou perfect. I am the Almighty God.” That is, “I am the Almighty God, to help you walk before me.” If you please God, you can take the risk about the rest. Do you say, “I am weak.” God answers it with his omnipotence. Do you say, “I am poor.” God answers it with his riches. Do you say, “I am without any useful gift, or I have peculiar surroundings.” God answers it with that one expression, “I am the Almighty God, walk before me, and be thou perfect.”