The Good Time Coming

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"You did not answer my question, Agnes," said Mr. Markland, after
the children had retired for the evening, and they were again alone.

"What question?" inquired Mrs. Markland; and, as she lifted her
eyes, he saw that they were dim with tears.

"What troubles you, dear?" he asked, tenderly.

Mrs. Markland forced a smile, as she replied, "Why should I be
troubled? Have I not every good gift the heart can desire?"

"And yet, Agnes, your eyes are full of tears."

"Are they?" A light shone through their watery vail. "Only an April
shadow, Edward, that is quickly lost in April sunshine. But your
question is not so easily answered."

"I ought to be perfectly happy here; nothing seems wanting. Yet my
spirit is like a aged bird that flutters against its prison-bars."

"Oh, no, Edward; not so bad as that," replied Mrs. Markland. "You
speak in hyperbole. This lovely place, which everywhere shows the
impress of your hand, is not a prison. Call it rather, a paradise."

"A paradise I sought to make it. But I am content no longer to be an
idle lingerer among its pleasant groves; for I have ceased to feel
the inspiration of its loveliness."

Mrs. Markland made no answer. After a silence of some minutes, her
husband said, with a slight hesitation in his voice, as if uncertain
as to the effect of his words--

"I have for some time felt a strong desire to visit Europe."

The colour receded from Mrs. Markland's face; and there was a look
in her eyes that her husband did not quite understand, as they
rested steadily in his.

"I have the means and the leisure," he added, "and the tour would
not only be one of pleasure, but profit."

"True," said his wife, and, then her, face was bent down so low that
he could not see, its expression for the shadows by which it was
partially concealed.

"We would both enjoy the trip exceedingly."

"Both! You did not think of taking me?"

"Why, Aggy, dear!--as if I could dream for a moment of any pleasure
in which you had not a share!"

So earnestly and tenderly was this said, that Mrs. Markland felt a
thrill of joy tremble over her heart-strings. And yet, for all, she
could not keep back the overflowing tears, but hid her face, to
conceal them, on her husband's bosom.

Her true feelings Mr. Markland did not read: and often, as he mused
on what appeared singular in her manner that evening, he was puzzled
to comprehend its meaning. Nor had his vision ever penetrated deep
enough to see all that was in her heart.

CHAPTER IV.

THE memory of what passed between Mr. and Mrs. Markland remained
distinct enough in both their minds, on the next morning, to produce
thoughtfulness and reserve. The night to each had been restless and
wakeful; and in the snatches of sleep which came at weary intervals
were dreams that brought no tranquillizing influence.

The mother's daily duty, entered into from love to her children,
soon lifted her mind into a sunnier region, and calmed her pulse to
an even stroke. But the spirit of Markland was more disturbed, more
restless, more dissatisfied with himself and every thing around him,
than when first introduced to the reader's acquaintance. He eat
sparingly at the breakfast-table, and with only a slight relish. A
little forced conversation took place between him and his wife; but
the thoughts of both were remote from the subject introduced. After
breakfast, Mr. Markland strolled over his handsome grounds, and
endeavoured to awaken in his mind a new interest in what possessed
so much of real beauty. But the effort was fruitless; his thoughts
were away from the scenes in which he was actually present. Like a
dreamy enthusiast on the sea-shore, he saw, afar off, enchanted
Islands faintly pictured on the misty horizon, and could not
withdraw his gaze from their ideal loveliness.

A little way from the house was a grove, in the midst of which a
fountain threw upward its refreshing waters, that fell plashing into
a marble basin, and then went gurgling musically along over shining
pebbles. How often, with his gentle partner by his side, had
Markland lingered here, drinking in delight from every fair object
by which they were surrounded! Now he wandered amid its cool
recesses, or sat by the fountain, without having even a faint
picture of the scene mirrored in his thoughts. It was true, as he
had said, "Beauty had faded from the landscape; the air was no
longer balmy with odours; the birds sang for his ears no more; he
heard not, as of old, the wind-spirits whispering to each other in
the tree-tops;" and he sighed deeply as a half-consciousness of the
change disturbed his reverie. A footfall reached his ears, and,
looking up, he saw a neighbour approaching: a man somewhat past the
prime of life, who came toward him with a familiar smile, and, as he
offered his hand, said pleasantly--

"Good morning, Friend Markland."

"Ah! good morning, Mr. Allison," was returned with a forced
cheerfulness; "I am happy to meet you."

"And happy always, I may be permitted to hope," said Mr. Allison, as
his mild yet intelligent eyes rested on the face of his neighbour.

"I doubt," answered Mr. Markland, in a voice slightly depressed from
the tone in which he had first spoken, "whether that state ever
comes in this life."

"Happiness?" inquired the other.

"Perpetual happiness; nay, even momentary happiness."

"If the former comes not to any," said Mr. Allison, "the latter, I
doubt not, is daily enjoyed by thousands."

Mr. Markland shook his head, as he replied--

"Take my case, for instance; I speak of myself, because my thought
has been turning to myself; there are few elements of happiness that
I do not possess, and yet I cannot look back to the time when I was
happy."

"I hardly expected this from you, Mr. Markland," said the neighbour;
"to my observation, you always seemed one of the most cheerful of
men."

"I never was a misanthrope; I never was positively unhappy. No, I
have been too earnest a worker. But there is no disguising from
myself the fact, now I reflect upon it, that I have known but little
true enjoyment as I moved along my way through life."

"I must be permitted to believe," replied Mr. Allison, "that you are
not reading aright your past history. have been something of an
observer of men and things, and my experience leads me to this
conclusion."

"He who has felt the pain, Mr. Allison, bears ever after the memory
of its existence."

"And the marks, too, if the pain has been as prolonged and severe as
your words indicate."

"But such marks, in your case, are not visible. That you have not
always found the pleasure anticipated--that you have looked
restlessly away from the present, longing for some other good than
that laid by the hand of a benignant Providence at your feet, I can
well believe; for this is my own history, as well as yours: it is
the history of all mankind."

"Now you strike the true chord, Mr. Allison. Now you state the
problem I have not skill to solve. Why is this?"

"Ah! if the world had skill to solve that problem," said the
neighbour, "it would be a wiser and happier world; but only to a few
is this given."

"What is the solution? Can you declare it?"

"I fear you would not believe the answer a true one. There is
nothing in it flattering to human nature; nothing that seems to give
the weary, selfish heart a pillow to rest upon. In most cases it has
a mocking sound."

"You have taught me more than one life-lesson, Mr. Allison. Speak
freely now. I will listen patiently, earnestly, looking for
instruction. Why are we so restless and dissatisfied in the present,
even though all of earthly good surrounds us, and ever looking far
away into the uncertain future for the good that never comes, or
that loses its brightest charms in possession?"

"Because," said the old man, speaking slowly, and with emphasis, "we
are mere self-seekers."

Mr. Markland had bent toward him, eager for the answer; but the
words fell coldly, and with scarce a ray of intelligence in them, on
his ears. He sighed faintly and leaned back in his seat, while a
look of disappointment shadowed his countenance.

"Can you understand," said Mr. Allison, "the proposition that man,
aggregated, as well as in the individual, is in the human form?"

Markland gazed inquiringly into the questioner's face. "In the human
form as to uses?" said Mr. Allison. "How as to uses?"

"Aggregate men into larger or smaller bodies, and, in the attainment
of ends proposed, you will find some directing, as the head, and
some executing, as the hands."

"True."

"Society, then, is only a man in a larger form. Now, there are
voluntary, as well as involuntary associations; the voluntary, such
as, from certain ends, individuals form one with another; the
involuntary, that of the common society in which we live. Let us
look for a moment at the voluntary association, and consider it as
man in a larger form. You see how all thought conspires to a single
end and how judgment speaks in a single voice. The very first act of
organization is to choose a head for direction, and hands to execute
the will of this larger man. And now mark well this fact: Efficient
action by this aggregated man depends wholly upon the unselfish
exercise by each part of its function for the good of the whole.
Defect and disorder arise the moment the head seeks power or
aggrandizement for itself, the hands work for their good alone, or
the feet strive to bear the body alone the paths they only wish to
tread. Disease follows, if the evil is not remedied; disease, the
sure precursor of dissolution. How disturbed and unhappy each member
of such an aggregated man must be, you can at once perceive.

"If it is so in the voluntary man of larger form, how can it be
different in the involuntary man, or the man of common society?"

"Of this great body you are a member. In it you are sustained, and
live by virtue of its wonderful organization. From the blood
circulating in its veins you obtain nutrition, and as its feet move
forward, you are borne onward in the general progression. From all
its active senses you receive pleasure or intelligence; and yet this
larger man of society is diseased--all see, all feel, all lament
this--fearfully diseased. It contains not a single member that does
not suffer pain. You are not exempt, favourable as is your position.
If you enjoy the good attained by the whole, you have yet to bear a
portion of the evil suffered by the whole. Let me add, that if you
find the cause of unhappiness in this larger man, you will find it
in yourself. Think! Where does it lie?"

"You have given me the clue," replied Mr. Markland, "in your picture
of the voluntarily aggregated man. In this involuntary man of common
society, to which, as you have said, we all bear relation as
members, each seeks his own good, regardless of the good of the
whole; and there is, therefore, a constant war among the members."

"And if not war, suffering," said Mr. Allison. "This man is
sustained by a community of uses among the members. In the degree
that each member performs his part well, is the whole body served;
and in the degree that each member neglects his work, does the whole
body suffer."

"If each worked for himself, all would be served," answered Mr.
Markland. "It is because so many will not work for themselves, that
so many are in want and suffering."

"In the very converse of this lies the true philosophy; and until
the world has learned the truth, disorder and unhappiness will
prevail. The eye does not see for itself, nor the ear hearken; the
feet do not walk, nor the hands labour for themselves; but each
freely, and from an affection for the use in which it is engaged,
serves the whole body, while every organ or member of the body
conspires to sustain it. See how beautifully the eyes direct the
hands, guiding them in every minute particular, while the heart
sends blood to sustain them in their labours, and the feet bear them
to the appointed place; and the hands work not for themselves, but
that the whole body may be nourished and clothed. Where each regards
the general good, each is best served. Can you not see this, Mr.
Markland?"

"I can, to a certain extent. The theory is beautiful, as applied to
your man of common society. But, unfortunately, it will not work in
practice. We must wait for the millennium."

"The millennium?"

"Yes, that good time coming, toward which the Christian world looks
with such a pleasing interest."

"A time to be ushered in by proclamation, I suppose?"

"How, and when, and where it is to begin, I am not advised," said'
Mr. Markham, smiling. "All Christians expect it; and many have set
the beginning thereof near about this time."

"What if it have begun already?"

"Already! Where is the sign, pray? It has certainly escaped my
observation. If the Lord had actually come to reign a thousand
years, surely the world would know it. In what favoured region has
he made his second advent?"

"Is it not possible that the Christian world may be in error as to
the manner of this second coming, that is to usher in the
millennium?"

"Yes, very. I don't see, that in all prophecy, there is any thing
definite on the subject."

"Nothing more definite than there was in regard to the first
coming?"

"No."

"And yet, while in their very midst, even though miracles were
wrought for them; the Jews did not know the promised Messiah."

"True."

"They expected a king in regal state, and an assumption of visible
power. They looked for marked political changes. And when the Lord
said to them, 'My kingdom is not of this world,' they denied and
rejected him. Now, is it not a possible case, that the present
generation, on this subject, may be no wiser than the Jews?"

"Not a very flattering conclusion," said Markland. "The age is
certainly more enlightened, and the world wiser and better than it
was two thousand years ago."

"And therefore," answered Mr. Allison, "the better prepared to
understand this higher truth, which it was impossible for the Jews
to comprehend, that the kingdom of God is within us."

"Within us!--within us!" Markland repeated the words two or three
times, as if there were in them gleams of light which had never
before dawned upon his mind.

"Of one thing you may be assured," said Mr. Allison, speaking with
some earnestness; "the millennium will commence only when men begin
to observe the Golden Rule. If there are any now living who in all
sincerity strive to repress their selfish inclinations, and seek the
good of others from genuine neighbourly love, then the millennium
has begun; and it will never be fully ushered in, until that law of
unselfish, reciprocal uses that rules in our physical man becomes
the law of common society."

"Are there any such?"

"Who seek the good of others from a genuine neighbourly love?"

"Yes."

"I believe so."

"Then you think the millennium has commenced?"

"I do."

"The beginning must be very small. The light hid under a bushel. Now
I have been led to expect that this light, whenever it came, would
be placed on a candlestick, to give light unto all in the house."

"May it not be shining? Nay, may there not be light in all the seven
golden candlesticks, without your eyes being attracted thereby?"

"I will not question your inference. It may all be possible. But
your words awaken in my mind but vague conceptions."

"The history of the world, as well as your own observation, will
tell you that all advances toward perfection are made with slow
steps. And further, that all changes in the character of a whole
people simply indicate the changes that have taken place in the
individuals who compose that people. The national character is but
its aggregated personal character. If the world is better now than
it was fifty years ago, it is because individual men and women are
becoming better--that is, less selfish, for in self-love lies the
germ of all evil. The Millennium must, therefore, begin with the
individual. And so, as it comes not by observation--or with a 'lo!
here, and lo! there'--men are not conscious of its presence. Yet be
assured, my friend, that the time is at hand; and that every one who
represses, through the higher power given to all who ask for it, the
promptings of self-love, and strives to act from a purified love of
the neighbour, is doing his part, in the only way he can do it,
toward hastening the time when the 'wolf also shall dwell with the
lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf, and the
young lion, and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead
them.'"

"Have we not wandered," said Mr. Markland, after a few moments of
thoughtful silence, "from the subject at first proposed?"

"I have said more than I intended," was answered, "but not, I think,
irrelevantly. If you are not happy, it is because, like an inflamed
organ in the human body, you are receiving more blood than is
applied to nutrition. As a part of the larger social man, you are
not using the skill you possess for the good of the whole. You are
looking for the millennium, but not doing your part toward hastening
its general advent. And now, Mr. Markland, if what I have said be
true, can you wonder at being the restless, dissatisfied man you
represent yourself to be?"

"If your premises be sound, your conclusions are true enough"
answered Markland, with some coldness and abstraction of manner. The
doctrine was neither flattering to his reason, nor agreeable to his
feelings. He was too confirmed a lover of himself to receive
willingly teaching like this. A type of the mass around him, he was
content to look down the dim future for signs of the approaching
millennium, instead of into his own heart. He could give hundreds of
dollars in aid of missions to convert the heathen, and to bring in
the islands of the sea, as means of hastening the expected time; but
was not ready, as a surer means to this end, to repress a single
selfish impulse of his nature.

The conversation was still further prolonged, with but slight change
in the subject. At parting with his neighbour, Markland found
himself more disturbed than before. A sun ray had streamed suddenly
into the darkened chambers of his mind, disturbing the night birds
there, and dimly revealing an inner world of disorder, from which
his eyes vainly sought to turn themselves. If the mental disease
from which he was suffering had its origin in the causes indicated
by Mr. Allison, there seemed little hope of a cure in his case. How
was he, who all his life long had regarded himself, and those who
were of his own flesh and blood, as only to be thought of and cared
for, to forget himself, and seek, as the higher end of his
existence, the good of others? The thought created no quicker
heart-beat--threw no warmer tint on the ideal future toward which
his eyes of late had so fondly turned themselves. To live for others
and not for himself--this was to extinguish his very life. What were
others to him? All of his world was centred in his little
home-circle. Alas! that its power to fill the measure of his desires
was gone--its brightness dimmed--its attraction a binding-spell no
longer!

And so Markland strove to shut out from his mind the light shining
in through the little window opened by Mr. Allison; but the effort
was in vain. Steadily the light came in, disturbing the owls and
bats, and revealing dust, cankering mould, and spider-web
obstructions. All on the outside was fair to the world; and as fair,
he had believed, within. To be suddenly shown his error, smote him
with a painful sense of humiliation.

"What is the highest and noblest attribute of manhood?" Mr. Allison
had asked of him during their conversation.

Markland did not answer the question.

"The highest excellence--the greatest glory--the truest honour must
be in God," said the old man.

"All will admit that," returned Markland.

"Those, then, who are most like him, are most excellent--most
honourable."

"Yes."

"Love," continued Mr. Allison, "is the very essential nature of
God--not love of self, but love of creating and blessing others, out
of himself. Love of self is a monster; but love of others the
essential spirit of true manhood, and therefore its noblest
attribute."

Markland bowed his head, convicted in his own heart of having, all
his life long, been a self-worshipper; of having turned his eyes
away from the true type of all that was noble and excellent, and
striven to create something of his own that was excellent and
beautiful. But, alas! there was no life in the image; and already
its decaying elements were an offence in his nostrils,

"In the human body," said Mr. Allison, "as in the human soul when it
came pure from the hands of God, there is a likeness of the Creator.
Every organ and member, from the largest to the most hidden and
minute, bears this likeness, in its unselfish regard for the good of
the whole body. For, as we have seen, each, in its activity, has no
respect primarily to its own life. And it is because the human soul
has lost this likeness of its loving Creator, that it is so weak,
depraved, and unhappy. There must be the restored image. and
likeness, before there be the restored Eden."

The noblest type of manhood! Never in all his after life was Edward
Markland able to shut out this light of truth from his
understanding. It streamed through the little window, shining very
dimly at times; but always strong enough to show him that unselfish
love was man's highest attribute, and self-love a human monster.

CHAPTER V.

WHILE Mr. Markland was brooding over his own unhappy state, and
seeking to shut out the light shining too strongly in upon his real
quality of mind, Mrs. Markland was living, in some degree, the very
life that seemed so unattractive to him, and receiving her measure
of reward. While he wandered, with an unquiet spirit, over his
fields, or sat in cool retreats by plashing fountains, his thoughts
reaching forward to embrace the coming future, she was active in
works of love. Her chief desire was the good of her beloved ones,
and she devoted herself to this object with an almost entire
forgetfulness of self. Home was therefore the centre of her thoughts
and affections, but not the selfish centre: beyond that happy circle
often went out her thoughts, laden with kind wishes that died not
fruitless.

The family of Mr. Markland consisted of his wife, four children, and
a maiden sister--Grace Markland,--the latter by no means one of the
worst specimens of her class. With Agnes, in her seventh year, the
reader has already a slight acquaintance. Francis, the baby, was two
years old, and the pet of every one but Aunt Grace, who never did
like children. But he was so sweet a little fellow, that even the
stiff maiden would bend toward him now and then, conscious of a
warmer heart-beat. George, who boasted of being ten--quite an
advanced age, in his estimation--might almost be called a thorn in
the flesh to Aunt Grace, whose nice sense of propriety and decorum
he daily outraged by rudeness and want of order. George was boy all
over, and a strongly-marked specimen of his class--"as like his
father, when at his age, as one pea to another," Aunt Grace would
say, as certain memories of childhood presented themselves with more
than usual vividness. The boy was generally too much absorbed in his
own purposes to think about the peculiar claims to respect of age,
sex, or condition. Almost from the time he could toddle about the
carpeted floor, had Aunt Grace been trying to teach him what she
called manners. But he was never an apt scholar in her school. If he
mastered the A B C to-day, most probably on her attempt to advance
him to-morrow into his a-b ab's, he had wholly forgotten the
previous lesson. Poor Aunt Grace! She saw no hope for the boy. All
her labour was lost on him.

Fanny, the oldest child, just completing her seventeenth year, was
of fair complexion and delicate frame; strikingly beautiful, and as
pure in mind as she was lovely in person. All the higher traits of
womanhood that gave such a beauty to the mother's character were as
the unfolding bud in her. Every one loved Fanny, not even excepting
Aunt Grace, who rarely saw any thing in her niece that violated her
strict sense of propriety. Since the removal of the family to
Woodbine Lodge, the education of Fanny had been under the direction
of a highly accomplished governess. In consequence, she was quite
withdrawn from intercourse with young ladies of her own age. If,
from this cause, she was ignorant of many things transpiring in city
life, the purer atmosphere she daily breathed gave a higher moral
tone to her character. In all the sounder accomplishments Fanny
would bear favourable comparison with any; and as for grace of
person and refinement of manners, these were but the expression of
an inward sense of beauty.

As Fanny unfolded toward womanhood, putting forth, like an opening
blossom, some newer charms each day, the deep love of her parents
began to assume the character of jealous fear. They could not long
hide from other's eyes the treasure they possessed, and their hearts
grew faint at the thought of having it pass into other hands. But
very few years would glide away ere wooers would come, and seek to
charm her ears with songs sweeter than ever thrilled them in her own
happy home. And there would be a spell upon her spirit, so that she
could not help but listen. And, mayhap, the song that charmed her
most might come from unworthy lips. Such things had been, alas!

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