Bohemian Society | Page 5

humanity says, "the boy was hungry and we will feed him." Phariseeism says to the poor shivering outcast, "the Lord chastiseth those whom he loveth." The religion of humanity takes her in and clothes, feeds and warms her. To the poor woman who is struggling for daily bread, each day sadder than the last, Phariseeism says, "bear thy burdens meekly." The religion of humanity says, "we will do something to lighten her sorrow."
Phariseeism sees nothing to condemn in itself, forgetful that the sins they are committing may be greater in the sight of God than the sins which they are condemning in others.
I have often thought if a magician would wave his magic wand over a pool of water so that, not only the features but the mind, the motives, the passions were reflected, what consternation it would produce in the minds of the Pharisee.
O be charitable even as Christ was to the sins of humanity, be sympathetic even as He was to the sufferings of mankind; be kind even as He was to the poor; be merciful even as He was to erring women, speak comforting words even as He did to the weak hearted; speak cheerful words even as He did to the weary and sad.
Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.
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Again the voice of the dreamer is heard. Let us, from a slight elevation, watch the busy life of a large city. At early morning can be heard the rattling of the carts and the merry whistle of the drivers--the red-faced market woman is arranging fruit temptingly in front of her stall; the shopman in a small street is lowering shutters from his windows; the little old wizened woman has seated herself on the curb stone with a small supply of apples and candy; the one armed beggar has taken his accustomed place; the shop girls are hurrying to their places behind the counters, the brawny workman with muscles of iron, strides along to his days labor, and all the work-a-day world is alert. A little later on the business portion of the city is abroad, the banker is being driven to his counting house, the wealthy shop keeper hurries to his place of business, and farther on the little flower girl with fresh violets, still wet with dew, can be seen with her basket, offering to the passers by the sweet contents. Now the great city is thoroughly awake. The miser and the beggar jostle each other on the crowded pavement, the little children are taken out for their morning airing by the white-capped nurse, a black robed nun glides along on some errand of mercy, with a face like a medi?val saint, jostling her as he passes can be seen the excited face of the gambler who has staked his all and lost, and again another flower-girl bearing her bright burden, now seen and again lost sight of, looks like a bright humming bird as she flits along, moving hither and thither in this strange medley of human beings. A group has gathered around some Italian street musicians; little ragged urchins are dancing in time to a merry waltz, and now the tune changes from gay to grave. Watch the expression of the dark-eyed harpist while he plays, surely his thoughts have flown to his sunny Italy, so sad, so dreamy is his look. Even this picturesque looking street musician may have a romance and may be dreaming at this moment of some sweet voiced Italian maiden.
Later in the day all the fashionable world is astir. Elegant carriages with gaily dressed occupants are dashing along. There is a carriage with the paint scarcely yet dry and seated within is a red-faced vulgar looking woman, the carriage, the horses, the woman, all painfully--new. At the same time hurrying along in shabby dress and mean attire is a fragile delicate woman whose garb shows evidences of much mending and patient darning, but the shabby dress cannot hide the fact that here is a lady, as with easy grace she moves down the street.
The afternoon is somewhat advanced and the occasional glimpses which we get of the flower girl show that her basket has been replenished but she does not move quite so quickly as in the morning. Her limbs are getting weary, and there is a pathetic little note in her voice now as she offers her flowers for sale.
But see! on the bridge is the figure of a woman. No need to hear her history, the face tells its own story of sin and misery. She is looking down at the river which flows sluggishly on; down perhaps at