More Ways Than One.

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]     [More Ways Than One.]             I was present, one day                 Where both layman and priest             Worshipped God in a way                 That was startling, at least:             Over thirty in place                 On the stage, in a row,             As is often the case                 At a minstrelsy show;             In a uniform clad                 Was each one of them seen,             And a banjo they had,                 And a loud tambourine.             And they sung and they shouted                 Their spasmodic joys,             Just as if they ne'er doubted                 That God loved a noise.             And their phrases, though all                 Not deficient in points,             A grammarian would call                 Rather weak in the joints;             And the aspirate sound                 Was adroitly misused,             And The Language all round,                 Was assaulted and bruised;             While the tunes that they sung                 In bewildering throngs,             Had been married, when young,                 To hilarious songs;             And the folks in that place,                 Who this loud racket made,             Were not bounded by race                 Or condition or shade.                  *             *             *             *             *             Now I love my own meeting,                 My own cosy pew,             While mentally greeting                 Friends quietly true;             And the Gospel dispensed                 With a dignified grace,             Born of reason clear-sensed                 And a faith firm of place.             I love the trained voices                 That float down the aisles,             Till the whole church rejoices                 With God's sweetest smiles.             Have no sneer understood                 For the rest, when I say             I had rather get good                 In a civilized way.             So this meeting had grated                 Somewhat on my heart,             And ere long I had waited,                 I thought to depart.             But a young man arose,                 Looking sin-drenched and grim,             As if rain-storms of woes                 Had descended on him;             No such face you'd discern                 In a leisurely search,             If you took a chance turn                 Through a civilized church;             But his words, though not choice,                 To my feelings came nigh;             There was growth in his voice,                 There was hope in his eye.             And he said, "I'm a lad                 With a life full of blame;             Every step has been bad,                 Every hour was a shame.             And for drink I would pawn                 All within my control,             From the clothes I had on,                 To my heart and my soul.             I have drank the foul stuff                 In my parents' hot tears;             I have done crime enough                 For a hundred black years;             But I came to this place                 For the help that I craved;             I have seen Jesus's face,                 And I know I am saved."             Then a man rose to view,                 When this youngster was done,             And he said, "This is true;                 That young man is my son.             He was drunk every day,                 And such terror would make,             That I spurned him away                 From my house, like a snake.             We have suffered the worst                 That can come from heart-fears;             He is sober the first                 I have seen him for years.             I am full of such joy                 As I never yet knew;             And now, Robert, my boy,                 Home is open to you!             "You may go home with me -                 Or may run on before;             You've a glittering key                 That will open the door!             Your mother is there,                 Praying for you e'en now;             There is snow in her hair,                 There is pain on her brow.             And when you have kissed her                 The old-fashioned way,             There's a brother and sister                 Who've longed for this day;             And whatever can befriend you                 On earth, shall be done;             May God's blessing attend you,                 My son - oh, my son!"             Then the banjo struck in,                 And the tambourine jingled;             There rose such a din                 That my blood fairly tingled.             The vocalists screamed                 Till quite red in the face;             But somehow it all seemed                 Not at all out of place!             Now denouements immense                 Do riot somehow take hold,             Or dramatic events                 Reach my heart, as of old;             But my smiles could not hide                 The fast-gathering tears,             And I cheered, laughed, and cried,                 As I had not for years!             And I thought, "Not amiss                 Are this tumult and shout:             Folks who save men like this                 Know what they are about.             You who fight with God's sword                 For the good of your kind -             You can never afford                 To leave these men behind.             If these women I've seen,                 Should be pelted or cursed,             I would step in between -                 I would take the blow first.             They who draw souls above                 From the depths lowest down,             Will not fail of God's love                 Or to shine in His crown."