Laicus; Or, the Experiences of a Layman in a Country Parish Part 9

"All I ask of you," said I, "is to let me to study it with you."

He made no answer; but looked me steadily in the eye as if to try and fathom some occult design.

"No," said I, "that is not all. As I came by Joe Poole's I saw half a dozen of the men from your shop lounging about the door. They could spend the afternoon to better purpose, Mr. Gear, in studying the life and words of Jesus."

"I know they could," he said. "No man can say that any word or influence of mine helped carry them to Joe Poole's bar."

"Will you lend your word and influence with mine to summon them away?" said I.

He made no answer.

"I saw a dozen others engaged at a game of ball upon the green as I pa.s.sed by."

"A harmless sport, Mr. Laicus, and as well done on Sunday as on any other holiday."

"Perhaps," said I. "But an hour and a half from their Sunday in studying the life and words of Jesus would do them no harm, and detract nothing from their holiday. They do not study so hard throughout the week that the brain labor would be injurious."

Mr. Gear smiled.

"There is not a man in your shop, Mr. Gear, that would not be made a better workman, husband, father, citizen, for studying that life and those teachings one hour a week."

"It is true," said he.

"You organized a Shakspeare club last winter to keep them from Joe Poole's," said I. "Was it a good thing?"

"Worked capitally," said Mr. Gear.

"Won't you join me in organizing a Bible club for Sunday afternoons this winter for the same purpose?"

"There is so little in common between us," said he; and he looked me through and through with his sharp black eyes. What a lawyer he would have made; what a cross examination he could conduct.

"You believe in the literal inspiration of the New Testament Scripture. I believe it is a book half legend half history. You believe in the miracles. I believe they are mythical addition of a later date. You believe that Jesus Christ was conceived of the Holy Ghost and born of the Virgin Mary. I believe his birth was as natural as his death was cruel and untimely. You believe that--he was divine. I believe he was a man of like pa.s.sions as we ourselves are,--a Son of G.o.d only as every n.o.ble spirit is a spark struck off from the heavenly Original. You believe that he bears our sins upon a tree. I believe that every soul must bear its own burdens. What is there in common between us? What good could it do to you or to me to take Sunday afternoon for a weekly tournament, with the young men from the shop for arbitrators?"

"None," said I calmly.

"What would you have then?" said he.

"When you organized that Shakspeare club last winter," said I, "did you occupy your time in discussions of the text? Did you compare ma.n.u.scripts? Did you investigate the canonicity of Shakspeare's various plays? Did you ransack the past to know the value of the latest theory that there never was a Will. Shakspeare save as a nom de plume for Lord Bacon? Did you inquire into the origin of his several plots, and study to know how much of his work was really his own and how much was borrowed from foreign sources. Or did you leave that all to the critics, and take the Shakspeare of today, and gather what instruction you might therefrom?"

Mr. Gear nodded his head slowly, and thoughtfully, as if he partially perceived the meaning of my answer. But he made no other response.

"There is much in common between us, Mr. Gear," I continued earnestly, "though much, very much that is not. We can find plenty of subject for fruitless debate no doubt. Can we find none for agreement and mutual helpfulness? Jesus of Nazareth you honor as first among men. You revere His n.o.ble life, His sublime death, His incomparable teachings. So do I. That n.o.ble life we can read together, Mr. Gear, and together we may emulate His example without a fruitless debate whether it be divine or no. Those incomparable teachings we can study together, that together we may catch the spirit that dictated them, without a theological controversy as to their authority. And even that sublime death I should hope we might contemplate together, without contention, though in the suffering Christ you see only a martyr, and I behold my Saviour and my G.o.d."

He made no answer, still stood silent. But he no longer looked at me with his sharp eyes. They had retired beneath his s.h.a.ggy eyebrows as though he would search his own soul through and through, and read its verdict. He told me afterwards the story of his battle; I guessed it even then.

"We may not agree on the Gospel of John, Mr. Gear," said I, "but we shall not quarrel about the Golden Rule and the Sermon on the Mount."

"Mr. Laicus," said Mr. Gear at length, very slowly. "I thank you for coming to me, I thank you for speaking plainly and frankly as you have; I thank you for the respect which you have shown to my convictions. They are honest, and were not arrived at without a struggle and some self sacrifice. You are the first Christian," he added bitterly "that ever paid them the regard of a respectful hearing. I will join you in that Bible Cla.s.s for this winter, and I will prove to you, infidel that I am, that I as well as a Christian, can respect convictions widely different from my own. If we quarrel it shall not be my fault."

"I believe you, Mr. Gear," said I. "G.o.d helping me it shall not be mine, and there's my hand upon it."

He grasped it warmly.

"When shall we begin?" said I.

"Next Sunday."

"Where?" said I.

"As you please?" said he.

"Here, or in my house, or at the church parlors, or wherever we can gather the young men," said I.

"The mill school-house is better than either," said he. "The boys will come there. They are used to it."

"The mill school-house be it," said I. "Next Sunday afternoon at 3 o'clock. I will bring the Bibles; you will bring the boys."

"As many as I can," said he.

"Jennie," said I that evening. "Mr. Gear and I are going to take the Bible Cla.s.s together."

Tears stood in her eyes as she looked up at me with that smile I love so much. But she only said. "I knew you would succeed John."

CHAPTER X.

The Deacon's Second Service.

IT has been made the subject of some comment lately that Deacon Goodsole habitually absents himself from our Sabbath evening service. The pastor called the other day to confer with me on the subject; for he has somehow come to regard me as a convenient adviser, perhaps because I hold no office and take no very active part in the management of the Church, and so am quite free from what may be called its politics. He said he thought it quite unfortunate; not that the Deacon needed the second service himself, but that, by absenting himself from the house of G.o.d, he set a very bad example to the young people of the flock. "We cannot expect," said he, somewhat mournfully, "that the young people will come to Church, when the elders themselves stay away." At the same time he said he felt some delicacy about talking with the Deacon himself on the subject. "Of course," said he, "if he does not derive profit from my discourses I do not want to dragoon him into hearing them."

I readily promised to seek an occasion to talk with the Deacon, the more so because I really feel for our pastor. When I first came to Wheathedge he was full of enthusiasm. He has various plans for adding attractiveness and interest to our Sabbath-evening service, which has always flagged. He tried a course of sermons to young men.

He announced sermons on special topics. Occasionally a political discourse would draw a pretty full house, but generally it was quite evident that the second sermon was almost as much of a burden to the congregation as it was to the minister. Latterly he seems to have given up these attempts, and to follow the example of his brethren hereabout. He exchanges pretty often. Quite frequently we get an agent. Occasionally I fancy, the more from the pastor's manner than from my recollection, that he is preaching an old sermon. At other times we get a sort of expository lecture, the substance of which I find in my copy of Lange when I get home. Under this treatment the congregation, never very large, has dwindled away to quite diminutive proportions; and our poor pastor is quite discouraged.

Until about six weeks ago Deacon Goodsole was always in his pew. I think his falling off was the last straw.

Last Sabbath evening, on my way to church, I stopped, according to promise, to see the Deacon. As I went up the steps I heard the sound of music, and waited a moment lest I should disturb the family's evening devotions. But as the music continued, and presently the tune changed, I concluded to knock. Nettie, the Deacon's youngest daughter, who by the way is a great favorite with me, answered the knock almost instantly. The open hymn-book was in her hand, and before I could get time to ask for the Deacon, she had, in her charmingly impulsive way, dragged me in, s.n.a.t.c.hed my hat from my hand, deposited it on the table, and pushed me into the parlor. In fact, before I well knew what I was about, I found myself in the big arm-chair with Nettie in my lap, taking part in the Deacon's second service.

His family were all about him, including the stable boy, whose hair looked as sleek as the Deacon's horse. For the Deacon has some queer notions about the duties of employers to their servants, and, though the very kindest of men, is generally thought by the neighbors to be "a queer stick." The Deacon's wife, who has a very sweet soprano voice, which, however, she never could be persuaded to use in our choir, was presiding at the piano. The children all had their hymn and tune-books, and they were "singing round"--each member of the family selecting a hymn in turn. As they were limited to two verses each--except where two clubbed together to secure an entire hymn--the exercise was not prolonged, and certainly did not become tedious.

After the singing, the Deacon asked the children if they were ready with their verses. They all raised their hands. The Deacon then repeated a short piece of poetry, his wife followed, and then all the children one after another, even down to Bob--a little three-year-old, who just managed to lisp out, with a charming mixture of pride and bashfulness,

Jesus, tender Seperd, Has' thou died faw me, Make me vewy fw.a.n.kful In my heart to thee.