MRS. BROOKS’S CHANGE OF HEART

MRS. HANNAH BROOKS, “Aunt Hannah,” as she was commonly known, had been a consistent member of the Methodist Episcopal Church from the time she was eleven years old, and she was now sixty-two. For over fifty years she had walked in the strait and narrow path and had never failed to observe the ordinances of the church, or to rebuke sin wherever she detected it. Many people, even church members, felt that Mrs. Brooks’s standard of behavior was a little too exacting and severe for nineteenth century use. She was quite as austere in her views as if she had been a direct descendant of a Puritan father and had lived all her life on stony New England soil instead of having been born in Indiana of parents who had come from the “old country.” The Puritan influence affects all American character more or less, and it is a mistake to suppose that the stern and rigid code of conduct commonly ascribed to that influence is confined to one locality or is accepted only by Americans whose family trees were planted in this soil before the Revolution.

Mrs. Brooks had early been taught to believe that dancing was a device of the enemy of mankind to ensnare the souls of youth. Card playing was an abomination that none could tamper with without danger of missing heaven; while as for the theater, that was simply an open door to the place of everlasting torment. All through her life she had frequently found it necessary to warn and reprove young people of her acquaintance who showed an inclination to indulge in the two first-named frivolities, but the theater evil was one she had encountered only in recent years. Aunt Hannah had never lived in the city, her home having been first upon a farm, and, later, and for many years now, in the little town of Cicero, which has no opera house and whose dramas are not played upon the stage. With increasing frequency the rumor came to her that some young man or maiden had visited the theater in Indianapolis to see a performance by graceless play-actors—a “show” they called it—and if these erring young persons were in the church she invariably took pains to make a personal remonstrance and to urge them to turn again to the strait and narrow path.

Among themselves these young people, feeling a little guilty and conscience-stricken over their conduct, nevertheless, said sometimes that Aunt Hannah was hard and unsympathetic, and that she would not talk so if she were not so old-fashioned and understood how harmless theaters really were. But Mrs. Brooks was not unsympathetic. She believed firmly that all these things were wicked. She had been taught so, and had seen no reason to change her opinion. Believing thus, and being very direct, outspoken and fearless in her methods, she hesitated not to free her mind when occasion seemed to require.

She was an uncommonly intelligent and well-informed woman for one of her limited opportunities, being a close reader of such literature as came in her way—the range extending from the Bible and the life of John Wesley to Roe’s novels and the weekly newspaper. But reading must be supplemented by experience and observation before it gives breadth of view and liberality of judgment. She realized vaguely that a change of sentiment had taken place in recent years concerning card playing, dancing and kindred amusements, but she felt that this was merely a symptom of the degeneracy of the times and was strongly to be combated. Even the ministry was being tainted with moral weakness, for had not Presiding Elder Daniels—and he one of the most influential men in the conference, too!—said to her one day when she was discoursing on this subject—had he not used these almost incendiary words:

“People must have amusements, Sister Brooks, and perhaps it is better to let them enjoy their pleasures under the sanction of the church. In old times they danced before the Lord, you know.”

This was heresy that horrified the good lady, but she resolved, let come what might, that she would abate not a jot or tittle of her efforts against sin. Whatever others might do she would obey the spirit of the rules and regulations laid down in the Methodist Book of Discipline, and one of these rules charged that no entertainment be entered into on which the blessing of the Lord could not be asked, or words to that effect. And to the best of her ability she did. She neglected none of the accepted means of grace. She was a regular attendant at prayer-meeting, where her voice was frequently raised in exhortation and prayer, as is the custom with devout and elderly sisters in that fold. She was faithful at class-meeting, and there confessed her shortcomings with such reservations as seemed expedient in view of the fact that the listening ears were those of a dozen or so neighbors instead of a single father confessor vowed to silence. For instance, she saw no necessity for relating in detail that she lost her temper and thought a dreadful thought, which if put in print would have contained a dash, when her clothesline broke on Monday and let her week’s “wash” into the mud. All she considered essential was to acknowledge, in a general way, that she was a weak and sinful creature, and to ask the prayers of her brethren and sisters that she might overcome the old Adam and lay hold more firmly on divine grace. If any of her friends and neighbors had dared to arise in the same meeting and to speak of her as weak and sinful it would have been a very different affair. But none of them did. They only sighed heavily, looked dismal and said “Amen!” or “Lord bless!” after the relation of each “experience.”

Of late, as it happened, Mrs. Brooks’s attention had been especially attracted to matters of a theatrical drift. A son living in Chicago occasionally sent her a Sunday paper, and those papers, as everybody knows, devote a considerable share of their space to the drama in its various phases. She had serious doubts as to the propriety of reading these newspapers because they were labeled “Sunday,” but, reflecting that it was along in the middle of the week before they reached her, she decided, through some obscure train of logic, that there was no moral delinquency in finding out just what had been going on in the world three or four days before.

It was something of a task to read a twenty, thirty or forty-page Chicago paper through from beginning to end with the religious care that she did her county weekly, but in the two or three weeks that each copy lay around before another arrived she accomplished the task. Consequently she read a good deal about the theaters, much of it not to edification, because she had never seen a play nor read one, and failed to comprehend many allusions. There was something about these columns that attracted her, however, and she continued to peruse them with interest. One day she found something within her comprehension. In response to popular demand, Joseph Jefferson had reproduced his “Rip Van Winkle” that season after its semi-retirement for some years, and Chicago papers had a great deal to say about it and about him—all in the way of praise. Now, Mrs. Brooks knew all about “Rip Van Winkle” and all about Jefferson. The daughter of her next-door neighbor on the east was a school-teacher in the city—said city meaning Indianapolis, of course—and subscribed for the Century Magazine, sending each copy home after she had read it. When the family was through with it, it was passed around the neighborhood, beginning with Mrs. Brooks. Among other things she found in it was Jefferson’s autobiography. She began reading this under the vague impression that Joseph Jefferson was a statesman of the Thomas Jefferson type; or, if not, perhaps a great writer, though she did not remember to have heard of him. At any rate, he must be a distinguished man, for only that kind wrote biographies of themselves and got them printed. When she learned that he was only an actor she felt something of a shock, but by that time she was interested in his career and pleased with the good principles he seemed to possess and the excellent moral sentiments he enunciated incidentally. It did seem strange, though, that such a man should engage in so reprehensible a calling.

When she came to the account of his appearance as Rip Van Winkle she was again surprised and pleased, for had she not read Irving’s story of that good-for-nothing but winsome idler? Her next-door neighbor on the west had received a copy of the “Sketch Book” as a prize for subscribing for the Weekly Bugle, and, like most other books in the village, it had eventually gravitated into her hands.

Altogether, she was fairly well posted in regard to this particular bit of drama, and was startled one day by the discovery that she was actually wishing to see the play and to see Jefferson. The idea was really shocking. She, a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church, in good standing, to think of going to the theater of all places in the world. Satan himself must have put the suggestion into her mind. Did not the church Discipline enjoin members to engage in no pastimes which could not be performed to the glory of God? Certainly no one could praise God at the theater; and yet—and yet, there was nothing especially objectionable about “Rip Van Winkle,” while Mr. Jefferson seemed a good sort of man according to his light. However, perhaps the theatrical columns of the Sunday papers were just as well left alone, and she would have no more of them.

The truth was that Mrs. Brooks had, without suspecting it, a liking for the dramatic and for the spectacular. She patronized all the entertainments given under church auspices, and was pleased with them in proportion as they were picturesque or exciting. She liked elocutionary performances, and was partial to the more dramatic recitations. She never missed charades or tableaux arranged by the young people, and made no criticisms, though the representations were scenes from profane history or heathen gods and goddesses arranged in white cotton drapery, such as gods never wore before. She liked lively music—dance music, if she only knew it—revival meetings of the stirring, fervid sort, and temperance meetings where the emotions were played upon by skillful speakers.

A week or so after this twinge of worldly temptation Mrs. Brooks went to spend a few days with her married daughter in Indianapolis to help that young matron with her winter sewing. The very evening of her arrival her son-in-law remarked to his wife at the supper table:

“Maria, Joe Jefferson is to play ‘Rip Van Winkle’ to-morrow night. You know we have been waiting to see him again, and I have bought tickets.”

Now, Mrs. Brooks knew that since her marriage her daughter had departed from the strict ways of her youth, and now and then indulged in that perilous frivolity, progressive euchre, and attended the theater. She had made vigorous remonstrance, as in duty bound, but, finding her protests of no use, had abandoned the fight, at least till an opportune season. Out of respect to her mother’s feelings, Maria tacitly ignored the subject, and now endeavored to signal her husband to silence, but he went placidly on and invited his mother-in-law to go with them, saying he would secure another seat. Much to his surprise, and more to that of his wife, Mrs. Brooks did not manifest that animosity toward theaters which a mention of them in her presence had been wont to arouse, and which the artful son-in-law had hoped to excite on this occasion for his own delectation. On the contrary, she took up the subject with a show of interest more eager than she knew, and displayed so much familiarity with Jefferson and his play that the two younger people looked at each other in wonder. But when urged to say whether or not she would go she suddenly stiffened and responded coldly:

“George Henry, you know my principles in regard to such places. To-morrow night I shall go to hear Francis Murphy. I know the way to the hall, and am not afraid to go and come alone.”

Next evening came, but Maria had a headache and could not go. George proposed to escort his mother-in-law to the Murphy meeting and leave her there while he went to the theater for an act or two—“for it was really a pity to miss it when we had the tickets and the time. You know, Mother Brooks,” he said solemnly, winking at his wife over his mother-in-law’s head, “you know going to see Jefferson is not like going to see other actors. He plays such nice, clean, moral plays and is such a high-toned, moral man—church member, and all that—that it is almost as good as going to a religious meeting to hear him.”

“Church member, is he?” was Mrs. Brooks’s only response, but the acute George Henry detected an expression in her eye that led him to whisper to his wife, as he kissed her good-night: “If we are not home till late you may know that I have inveigled your esteemed parent into a wild orgy at the theater.”

It was a fair night, and they walked down. The Grand Opera House was on the way to Tomlinson Hall, and as they drew near its portals the orchestra could be heard discoursing some very lively music preliminary to the raising of the curtain. When they reached the entrance George Henry turned toward it.

“Come, Mother Brooks, let’s hear Jefferson. You may never have another chance. He beats Francis Murphy all hollow. It’s all right. You’ll find lots of good people there who wouldn’t go to any other play nor to see any other actor for the world.”

There was a faint remonstrance—where were Mrs. Brooks’s accustomed vim and decision? There was a feeble holding back of her steps, but her eyes were fixed on the distant drop curtain, visible through the open doors—and in she went.

It was an event in her life. The stage with its setting, was as novel to her as to a child. There it all was, just as she had read about it, but so much more real—the village green, the old Dutch burghers, the vixenish Gretchen, little Katrina and the happy-go-lucky, lazy, but lovable Rip. As played, the story had some points she did not recall in the book, but what mattered! There was Rip doing the best he could. Suppose he was lazy and shiftless and did get tipsy sometimes, such a wife was enough to drive a man to drink. Mrs. Brooks forgot time and place in following his fortunes. She leaned forward, filled with visible wrath when Gretchen scolded, and when, at last, the wife drove him from home with his dog, and Rip turned and bade her and his child a touching farewell, tears ran down her cheeks unheeded.

Then, how she thrilled at the thunder of the mysterious ninepins rolled in the hollows of the Catskills by Hendrick Hudson’s men; how weird those old Dutchmen were; how wonderful was the red fire that flashed over them, making them look like creatures from the infernal regions! How her heart and her throat ached for the poor, pitiful old man when he woke from his twenty years’ sleep and wandered back to his home to find the world changed! What a wonderful thing it was altogether that one man—for the others in the play did not matter much—that one man could make a mere story, an impossible legend, seem so true, such a thing of actual life! And what a delightful creature he was, that Rip, that Jefferson, with his airy wave of the hand and his confidential, infectious smile.

She was glad she had seen him; glad, glad.

And this statement she adhered to. George Henry was discreet enough to say very little about this escapade of his mother-in-law, but she knew that she would meet no such consideration at home, for in coming out of the opera house she had jostled against young Hiram Jones, of Cicero, whom she had often rebuked for his theater-going, and whose father was her class leader. But she was not cast down. She had no intention of concealing her act. Next Sunday she went to church as usual, serene in the consciousness of looking well in a brand new, though properly plain, bonnet bought in the city. As usual, she appeared in class-meeting when the hour came. Her keen eye detected a movement of interest and curiosity on the part of others present, which convinced her that young Hiram had told his story.

Brother Minshall, being called on after the opening prayer and hymn, arose and repeated with nasal emphasis the formula of forty years, beginning: “Brethren and sisters, I feel to rejoice that I am spared to be with you another Sunday, that I may tell you of the wondrous work of grace in my heart.”

Sister Angeline Martin told her hearers in droning phrase that she was a weak and sinful worm of the dust, but that she had fixed her trust in the Lord and knew that He would lift her up.

Uncle Ezra Hinshaw was glad to add his testimony and to say that he was on the Lord’s side, and had been for nigh on to forty year. An hour spent here, he said, was worth all the fleeting joys the world could give.

And so it went on until Mrs. Brooks arose. She wasted no time in preliminaries.

“I take it for granted, brethren and sisters,” she said, “that you know I attended the theater when I was in the city last week, and that you want to know how I reconcile it with my professions. I did go; I got no harm, but very much enjoyment, and, I think, some good. I learned that whatever some theater plays may be, some others are as good as the best sermons. I have found out that it doesn’t do to abuse all theaters because some are bad. I don’t feel that I did anything wrong. I don’t advise anybody else to go, and I don’t advise them not. It is a matter with their own conscience. Mine is clear. I expect never to go again, but I am glad I went, and glad I learned what I learned, and glad I saw Joe Jefferson. Praise the Lord!”

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” said the leader with solemn intonation, but with a faint twinkle in his eye. He was a discreet man, and had been to the theater in his time, too. So the class sang the doxology and was dismissed.

Going out, Aunt Hannah met young Hiram Jones, looking a little sheepish, and shook hands with him.

“Wasn’t it beautiful?” said she. “Ain’t you glad you went, and ain’t Joseph Jefferson great? May he live long and prosper.”