There were
no railroads in those days. The iron horse had not yet made his
advent, and the scream of the steam whistle had never startled the
echoes that dwell among the gorges of the Green Mountain State. Oh!
Progress! Progress! I have travelled that same route often since, more
than once within the year, and I flew over in an hour what was the
work of all that cold winter day that brought us at night to that neat
little village of Salem. I thought, as I dashed with a rush over the
road I once travelled so leisurely, how change was written upon
everything; how time and progress had obliterated all the old
landmarks, leaving scarcely anything around which memory could cling.
Well! well! it is so everywhere. All over the world, change,
improvement, progress are the words. The venerable minister, for his
locks were grey, and time had ploughed deep furrows down his cheeks,
and draws palpable lines across his brow, was, as my memory paints
him, the personification of earnestness, sincerity and truth. The text
and the drift of the sermon I have forgotten, save the little fragment
that fixed itself in my memory by the singularity of the figure by
which he illustrated his meaning. He was speaking of the operation of
the Holy Spirit upon the human heart, and how gently it won men from
their sinful ways.
Pages:
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271