More Ways Than One.
by William McKendree Carleton

[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."