TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left thepleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this periodhad I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacredby memory. hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until thelapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered. bydisappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of earlydays.
I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father'sfamily removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I hadnot returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in anotherplace. But the desire to go back revived, after a season ofaffliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. Thememory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such anearnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained toturn my face towards my early home.
It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close ofthe week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where Istopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not theold village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and largerbuilding stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why hadI expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age.His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It wasbut natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade ofdisappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place wasunknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenancewas presented.
But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when myeyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The oldhomestead, with its garden and clambering vines--a picture which hadgrown more vivid in my thoughts every year--how earnest was mydesire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, inwhich, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirroredface; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so manytimes. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, andthink of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuringwheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bankI had gathered wild flowers and raspberries?
I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and whenmorning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient tosee the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory.
"Am I in Brookdale? No--it cannot be. There is some strange error.Yes--yes--it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannotmistake that. Hark! Yes--yes--it is the early bell! I would know itssound amid a thousand!"
On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had longsince been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose wallsand spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the oldhomestead. The mill lay between--or, once it did. Only a shapelessruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and emptyforebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly tomark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrownwith elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood outsharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built andthither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, ordropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silenceand decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts ingiving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space Istood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painfulpresentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as Ihad left, it in the white cottage I was seeking. The two great elmsthat stood bending together, as if instinct with a sense ofprotection, above that dear home--where were they? My eyes searchedfor them in vain.
"Where is the spring? Surely it welled up here, and this is the waythe clear stream flowed!"
Alas! the spring was dried, and scarcely a trace of its formerexistence remained. The broad flat stone was broken. The shadyalcove beneath which the waters came up so cool and clear, had beenremoved. All was naked and barren. Near by stood an old desertedhouse. The door was half open, the windows were broken out, thechimney had fallen, and great patches of the roof had been tornaway. Around, all was in keeping with this. The little garden wascovered with weeds, the fence that once enclosed it was broken down,the old apple-tree that I had loved almost as tenderly as if it hadbeen a human creature, was no more to be seen, and in the placewhere the grape-vine grew was a deep pool of green and stagnantwater.
My first impulse was to turn and flee from the place, under apainful revulsion of feeling. But I could not leave the spot thus.For some minutes I stood mournfully leaning on the broken gardengate, and then forced myself to enter beneath the roof where I wasborn, and where I grew up with loving and happy children, under thesunlight of a mother's smile. If there was ruin without, there wasdesolation added to ruin within, but neither ruin nor desolationcould entirely obliterate the forms so well remembered. I passedfrom room to room, now pausing to recall an incident, and nowhurrying on under a sense of pain at seeing a place, hallowed in mythoughts by the tenderest associations of my life, thus abandoned tothe gnawing tooth of decay, and destined to certain and speedydestruction. When I came to my mother's room, emotion grew toopowerful, and a gush of tears relieved the oppressive weight thatlay upon my bosom. There I lingered long, with a kind of mournfulpleasure in this scene of my days of innocence, and lived over yearsof the bygone times.
At last I turned with sad feelings from a spot which memory had heldsacred for twenty years; but which, in its change, could be sacredno longer. Material things are called substantial; but it is not so.Change and decay are ever at work upon them; they are unsubstantial.A real substance is the mind, with its thoughts and affections.Forms built there do not decay. How perfectly had I retained inmemory the home of my childhood! Not a leaf had withered, not aflower had faded; nothing had fallen under the scythe of time. Thegreenness and perfection of all were as the mind had received themtwenty years before. But the material things themselves had, in thatbrief space, passed almost wholly away. Yes; it is in the mind thatwe must seek for real substance.
Slowly and sadly I turned from the hallowed place, and went backtowards the village inn. No interest for anything in Brookdaleremained, and no surprise was created at the almost totalobliteration of the old landmarks apparent on every hand. My purposewas to leave the place by the early stage that morning, and seek toforget that I had ever returned to the home of my childhood.
My way was past the old village church where, Sabbath after Sabbath,for nearly fifteen years, I had met with the worshippers; and as Idrew nearer and nearer the sacred place, I was more and moreimpressed with the fact that, if change had been working busily allaround, his hand had spared the holy edifice. That change had beenthere was plainly to be seen, but he had lingered only a moment,laying his hand gently, as he paused, on the ancient pile. New andtenderer feelings came over me. I could not pass the village church,and so I entered it once more, although it was yet too early for theworshippers to assemble. How familiar all! A year seemed not to haveintervened since I had stood beneath that roof. The deep, archedwindows, the antique pulpit and chancel, the old gallery and organ,the lofty roof, but most of all the broad tablet above the pulpit,and the words "Reverence my Sanctuary: I am the Lord," were asfamiliar as the face of a dear friend. There was change all around,but no change here in the house of God.
Seating myself in the old family pew, I gave my mind up to a floodof crowding associations; and there I sat, scarcely conscious of thepassing time, until the bell sounded clear above me its weeklysummons to the worshippers. And soon they began to assemble, oneafter another coming in, and silently taking their places. Consciousthat I was intruding, I yet remained in the old family pew. Itseemed as if I could not leave it--as if I must sit there andhearken once more to the words of life. And I was there when therightful owners came. I arose to retire, but was beckoned to remain.So I resumed my seat, thankful for the privilege. Group after groupentered, but faces of strangers were all around me. Presently awhite-haired old man came slowly along the aisle, and, entering thechancel, ascended to the pulpit. I had not expected this. Ourminister was far advanced in years when we left the village, yethere he was! How breathlessly did I lean forward to catch the soundof his voice when he arose to read the service! It was the sameimpressive voice, yet lower and somewhat broken. My heart trembled,and tears dimmed my eyes as the sound went echoing through the room.For a time I was a child again. I closed my eyes, and felt that mymother, my sister, and my brothers were with me.
I can never forget that morning. When the service closed, and thepeople moved away, I looked from countenance to countenance, but allwere strange, except those of a few old men and women. Stilllingering, I met the minister as he came slowly down the aisletowards the door. He did not know me, for his eyes were dim withage, and I had changed in twenty years. But, when I extended my handand gave my name, he seized it with a quick energy, while a vividlight irradiated his countenance.
I will not weary the reader with a detail of the long interview heldthat day with the old minister in his own house. It was good for methat I met him ere leaving Brookdale under the pressure of a firstdisappointment. His words of wisdom were yet in my ears.
"As you have found the old church the same," said he, while holdingmy hand in parting, "amid ruin and change everywhere around, so willyou find the truths which are given for our salvation everimmutable, though mere human inventions of thought are set aside byevery coming generation for new philosophies, and the finer fanciesof more brilliant intellects. Religion is built upon a rock, and thestorms and floods of time cannot move it from its firm foundation."
THE END.
* * * * * * * * * * * *