LAICUS;

OR, THE EXPERIENCES OF A LAYMAN IN A COUNTRY PARISH. 

BY LYMAN ABBOTT. 

NEW YORK:

1872. 

CONTENTS. 

I. HOW I HAPPENED TO GO TO WHEATHEDGE

II. MORE DIPLOMACY

III. WE JOIN THE CHURCH

IV. THE REAL PRESENCE

V. OUR CHURCH FINANCES

VI. AM I A DRONE

VII. THE FIELD IS THE WORLD

VIII. MR. GEAR

IX. I GET MY FIRST BIBLE SCHOLAR

X. THE DEACON'S SECOND SERVICE

XI. OUR PASTOR RESIGNS

XII. THE COMMITTEE ON SUPPLY HOLD AN INFORMAL MEETING

XIII. MAURICE MAPLESON DECLINES TO SUBMIT TO A COMPETITIVEEXAMINATION

XIV. THE SUPPLY COMMITTEE HOLD THEIR FIRST FORMAL MEETING

XV. OUR CHRISTMAS AT WHEATHEDGE

XVI. MR. GEAR AGAIN

XVII. WANTED--A PASTOR

XVIII. OUR PRAYER-MEETING

XIX. WE ARE JILTED

XX. WE PROPOSE

XXI. MINISTERIAL SALARIES

XXII. ECCLESIASTICAL FINANCIERING

XXIII. OUR DONATION PARTY--BY JANE LAICUS

XXIV. MAURICE MAPLESON

XXV. OUR CHURCH-GARDEN

XXVI. OUR TEMPERANCE PRAYER-MEETING

XXVII. FATHER HYATT'S STORY

XXVIII. OUR VILLAGE LIBRARY

XXIX. MAURICE MAPLESON TRIES AN EXPERIMENT

XXX. MR. HARDCAP'S FAMILY PRAYERS

XXXI. IN DARKNESS

XXXII. GOD SAID "LET THERE BE LIGHT"

XXXIII. A RETROSPECT

PREFACE. 

This book was not made; it has grown. 

When three years ago I left the pulpit to engage in literary workand took my seat among the laity in the pews, I found that manyecclesiastical and religious subjects presented a different aspectfrom that which they had presented when I saw them from the pulpit. I commenced in the CHRISTIAN UNION, in a series of "Letters from aLayman, " to discuss from my new point of view some questions whichare generally discussed from the clerical point of view alone. Theletters were kindly received by the public. To some of thecharacters introduced I became personally attached. And the seriesof letters, commenced with the expectation that they might lastthrough six or eight weeks, extended over a period of more than ayear and a half--might perhaps have extended to the present it otherduties had not usurped my time and thoughts. 

This was the beginning. 

But after a time thoughts and characters which presented themselvesin isolated forms, and so were photographed for the columns of thenewspaper, began to gather in groups. The single threads that hadbeen spun for the weekly issue, wove themselves together in myimagination into the pattern of a simple story, true as to everysubstantial fact, yet fictitious in all its dress and form. And soout of Letters of Layman grew, I myself hardly know how, this simplestory of a layman's life in a country parish. 

I cannot dismiss this book from my table without adding that I amconscious that the deepest problem it discusses is but barelytouched upon. This has obtruded itself upon the pattern in theweaving. It was intended for a single thread; but it has given colorand character to all the rest. How shall Christian faith meet thecurrent rationalism of the day? Not by argument; this is the thoughtI hope may be taught, or at least suggested, by the story of Mr. Gear's experience, --and it is a true not a fictitious story, exceptas all here is fictitious, i. E. In the external dress in which it isclothed. The very essence of rationalism is that it assumes that thereason is the highest faculty in man and the lord of all the rest. Grant this, as too often our controversial theology does grant it, and the battle is yielded before it is begun. Whether thatrationalism leads to orthodox or heterodox conclusions, whether itissues in a Westminster Assembly's Confession of faith or aPositivist Primer is a matter of secondary importance. Religion isnot a conclusion of the reason. The reason is not the lord of thespiritual domain. There is a world which it never sees and withwhich it is wholly incompetent to deal. And Christian faith wins itsvictories only when by its own--heart life it gives some glimpse ofthis hidden world and sends the rationalist, Columbus-like, on anunknown sea to search for this unknown continent. 

I am not sure whether this preface had not better have remainedunwritten; whether the parable had not better be left without aninterpretation. But it is written and it shall stand. And so thissimple story goes from my hands, I trust to do some little good, byhinting to clerical readers how some problems concerning Christianwork appear to a layman's mind, and by quickening lay readers toshare more generously in their pastors' labors and to understandmore sympathetically their pastor's trials. 

LYMAN ABBOTT. 

The Knoll, Cornwall on the Hudson, N. Y. 

LAICUS. 

CHAPTER I. 

How I happened to go to Wheathedge. 

ABOUT sixty miles north of New York city, --not as the crow flies, forof the course of that bird I have no knowledge or informationsufficient to form a belief, but as the Mary Powell ploughs her wayup the tortuous channel of the Hudson river, --lies the little villageof Wheathedge. A more beautiful site even this most beautiful ofrivers does not possess. As I sit now in my library, I raise my eyesfrom my writing and look east to see the morning sun just rising inthe gap and pouring a long golden flood of light upon the awakingvillage below and about me, and gilding the spires of the not fardistant city of Newtown, and making even its smoke ethereal, asthough throngs of angels hung over the city unrecognized by its toobusy inhabitants. Before me the majestic river broadens out into abay where now the ice-boats play back and forth, and day after dayis repeated the merry dance of many skaters--about the only kind ofdance I thoroughly believe in. If I stand on the porch upon whichone of my library windows opens, and look to the east, I see themountain clad with its primeval forest, crowding down to the water'sedge. It looks as though one might naturally expect to come upon acamp of Indian wigwams there. Two years ago a wild-cat was shot inthose same woods and stuffed by the hunters, and it still stands inthe ante-room of the public school, the first, and last, and onlycontribution to an incipient museum of natural history which thesole scientific enthusiast of Wheathedge has founded--in imagination. Last year Harry stumbled on a whole nest of rattlesnakes, to his andtheir infinite alarm--and to ours too when afterwards he told us thestory of his adventure. If I turn and look to the other side of theriver, I see a broad and laughing valley, --grim in the beautifuldeath of winter now however, --through which the Newtown railroad, like the Star of Empire, westward takes its way. For the village ofWheathedge, scattered along the mountain side, looks down from itselevated situation on a wide expanse of country. Like Jerusalem ofold, --only, if I can judge anything from the accounts of Palestiniantravelers, a good deal more so, --it is beautiful for situation, anddeserves to be the joy of the whole earth. 

A village I have called it. It certainly is neither town nor city. There is a little centre where there is a livery stable, and acountry store with the Post Office attached, and a blacksmith shop, and two churches, a Methodist and a Presbyterian, with the promiseof a Baptist church in a lecture-room as yet unfinished. This is theold centre; there is another down under the hill where there is adock, and a railroad station, and a great hotel with a big bar andgenerally a knot of loungers who evidently do not believe in thewater-cure. And between the two there is a constant battle as towhich shall be the town. For the rest, there is a road wanderingin an aimless way along the hill-side, like a child at play who isgoing nowhere, and all along this road are scattered every varietyof dwelling, big and little, sombre and gay, humble and pretentious, which the mind of man ever conceived of, --and some of which Idevoutly trust the mind of man will never again conceive. There aresolid substantial Dutch farm-houses, built of unhewn stone, thatlook as though they were outgrowths of the mountain, which nothingshort of an earthquake could disturb; and there are fragile littleboxes that look as though they would be swept away, to be seen nomore forever, by the first winter's blast that comes tearing up thegap as though the bag of Eolus had just been opened at West Pointand the imprisoned winds were off with a whoop for a lark. There arehouses in sombre grays with trimmings of the same; and there arehouses in every variety of color, including one that is of a lightpea-green, with pink trimmings and blue blinds. There are old andvenerable houses, that look as though they might have come over withPeter Stuyvesant and been living at Wheathedge ever since; and thereare spruce little sprigs of houses that look as though they had justcome up from New York to spend a holiday, and did not rightly knowwhat to do with themselves in the country. There are staid andrespectable mansions that never move from the even tenor of theirways; and there are houses that change their fashions every season, putting on a new coat of paint every spring; and there is one thatdresses itself out in summer with so many flags and streamers thatone might imagine Fourth of July lived there. 

All nations and all eras appear also to be gathered here. There areSwiss cottages with overhanging chambers, and Italian villas withflat roofs, and Gothic structures with incipient spires that look asthough they had stopped in their childhood and never got theirgrowth, and Grecian temples with rows of wooden imitations of marblepillars of Doric architecture, and one house in which all nationsand eras combine--a Grecian porch, a Gothic roof, an Italian L, and ahalf finished tower of the Elizabethan era, capped with a Moorishdome, the whole approached through the stiffest of all stiff avenuesof evergreens, trimmed in the latest French fashion. That is Mr. Wheaton's residence, the millionaire of Wheathedge. I wish I couldsay he was as Catholic as his dwelling house. 

I never fancied the country. Its numerous attractions were noattractions to me. I cannot harness a horse. I am afraid of a cow. Ihave no fondness for chickens--unless they are tender andwell-cooked. Like the man in parable, I cannot dig. I abhor a hoe. Iam fond of flowers but not of dirt, and had rather buy them thancultivate them. Of all ambition to get the earliest crop of greenpeas and half ripe strawberries I am innocent. I like to walk in myneighbor's garden better than to work in my own. I do not drinkmilk, and I do drink coffee; and I had rather run my risk with theaverage of city milk than with the average of country coffee. Freshair is very desirable; but the air on the bleak hills of the Hudsonin March is at times a trifle too fresh. The pure snow as it lies onfield, and fence, and tree, is beautiful, I confess. But when onegoes out to walk, it is convenient to have the sidewalks shoveled. 

At least that is what I used to think five years ago. And if my wifehad endeavored to argue me out of my convictions, she would onlyhave strengthened them. But my wife:--

Stop a minute. I may as well say here that this book is written inconfidence. It is personal. It deals with the interior history of avery respectable church and some most respectable families. Itcontains a great deal that is not proper to be communicated to thepublic. The reader will please bear this in mind. Whatever I say, particularly what I am going to say now, is confidential. Don'tmention it. 

My wife is a diplomate. If ever I am president of the UnitedStates--which may Heaven forbid, --she shall be secretary of State. Shenever argues; but she always carries her point. 

She always lets me have my own way without hinting an objection. Butit always ends in her having her own. She would have made noobjection to letting Mason and Slidell go--not the least in theworld. But she would have somehow induced England to entreat us totake them back--I am sure of it. She would not have dismissedCatacazy--not she. But if she did not like Catacazy, Gortschakoffshould have recalled him, and never known why he did it. 

"John, " said my wife, "where shall we spend the summer?"

It was six years ago this spring. We were sitting in the library inour city house, Harry was a baby; and baby was not. I laid down theEvening Post, and looked up with an incipient groan. 

"The usual way I suppose, " said I. "You'll go home with the baby, and I--I shall camp out in New York. "

"Home" is Jennie's home in Michigan, where she had spent two of thethree summers of our married life, while I existed in single miseryin my empty house in 38th street. Oh, the desolateness of thosesummer experiences. Oh, the unutterable loneliness of a housewithout the smile of the dear wife, and the laugh and prattle of thebaby boy. I even missed his cry at night. 

"It's a long, long journey, " said Jennie, "and a long, long way off;and I did resolve last summer I never would put a thousand milesagain between me and my true home, John. For that is not my home--youare my home. "

And a soft hand stole gently up and toyed with my hair. 

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, saith the preacher. To which Iadd, especially husbands. No man is proof against the flatteries oflove. At least I am not, and I am glad of it. 

"You can't stay here, Jennie, " said I. 

"I am afraid not, " said she. "It is Harry's second summer, and Iwould not dare. "

"The sea shore?" said I, interrogatively. 

"Not one of those great fashionable hotels, John. It would be worsefor Harry than the city. And then think of the cost. "

"True, " said I reflectively. "I wish we could find a quiet place, not too far from the city so that I could come in and out duringterm time, and stay out altogether during the summer vacation. "

"There must be some such, many such, " said Jennie. 

"But to look for them, " said I, "would be, to use an entirely newsimile, like looking for a needle in a haystack. There must be somehonest lawyers at the New York bar, and some impartial judges on theNew York bench, but I should not like to be set to find them. "

I had been beaten in an important case that afternoon and was outwith my profession. 

"Suppose you let me try, " said Jennie--"that is to find the quietsummer retreat, not the honest lawyer. "

"By all means, my dear, " said I. "And I have great confidence thatif you are patient and assiduous, you will find a place in time forHarry to settle down in comfortably when he gets ready to bemarried. "

Jennie laughed a quiet little laugh at my incredulity, and satstraightway down to write half a dozen letters of inquiry to as manydifferent friends in the environs of New York. I resumed the EveningPost. As to anything coming of her plans I no more dreamt of it thanyour grandfather, reader, dreamt of the Atlantic cable. 

But though I had been married three years I did not know Jennie thenas well as I know her now. I have since learned that she has a habitof accomplishing what she undertakes. But this again is strictlyconfidential. 

That June saw us snugly ensconced at Mr. Lines'. Glen-Ridge is theeuphonious title he has given to his pretty but unpretending place. Jennie had written among others to Sophie Wheaton, n‚e SophieNichols, an old school-fellow, and Sophie had sent down aninvitation to her to come and spend a week and look for herself, andshe had done so; save that two days had sufficed instead of a week. Glen-Ridge had taken her fancy, Mr. Lines had met her housewifelyidea of a good house-keeper, and she had selected the rooms andagreed on terms, and left nothing for me to do except to ratify thebargain by a letter, which I did the day after her return. And so inthe early summer of 1866 the diplomate had carried her first point, and committed me to two months' probation in the country; and twovery delightful months they were. 

CHAPTER II. 

More Diplomacy. 

I now verily believe that Jennie from the first had made up her mindthat we were to settle in Wheathedge. Though I never liked thecountry, she did. And I now think that summer at Wheathedge was herfirst step toward a settlement there. But she never hinted it to me. 

Not she. On the contrary, she often went down to the city with me, and shortened the car ride by half. We kept the city house open. Sheexercised a watchful supervision over the cook. The sheets were notdamp, the coffee was not muddy, the library table was not coveredwith dust. I blessed her a hundred times a week for the love thatfound us both this Wheathedge home, and made the city home socomfortable and cosy. Yet I came to my house in the city less andless. The car ride grew shorter every week. When the courts closedand the long vacation, arrived I bade the cook an indefinitegood-bye. My clients had to conform to the new office hours, 10 to3, with Saturdays struck off the office calendar, and, in the dogdays, Mondays too. Yet I was within call, and business ran smoothly. The country looked brighter than it used to do. I learned to enjoythe glorious sunrise that New Yorkers never see. I discovered thatthere were other indications of a moonlight night than the fact thatthe street lamps were not lighted. Harry grew fat and rosy, and hislittle chuckle developed into a lusty laugh. Jennie's headaches wereblown away by the fresh air that came down from the north. I foundthe fragrance of the new mown hay from the Glen-Rridge meadow moreagreeable than the fragrant odors which the westerly winds waft overto Murray Hill from the bone boiling establishments of the Hudsonriver. Every evening Jennie met me at the train with Tom--Mr. Lines'best horse, whom I liked so well that I hired him for the season;and we took long drives and renewed the scenes of five years before, when Jennie was Jennie Malcolm, and I was just graduating fromHarvard law-school. And still the diplomate never hinted at the ideaof making a home at Wheathedge. 

But one day as we drove by Mr. Sinclair's she remarked casually, "What a pretty place!"

It was a pretty place. A little cottage, French gray with darkertrimmings of the same; the tastiest little porch with a something orother--I know the vine by sight but not to this day by name--creepingover it, and converting it into a bower; another porch fragrant withclimbing roses and musical with the twittering of young swallows whohad made their nests in little chambers curiously constructed underthe eaves and hidden among the sheltering leaves; a green swardsweeping down to the road, with a few grand old forest treesscattered carelessly about as though nature had been the landscapegardner; and prettiest of all, a little boy and girl playing horseupon the gravel walk, and filling the air with shouts of merrylaughter--all this combined to make as pretty a picture as one wouldwish to see. The western sun poured a flood of light upon it throughcrimson clouds, and a soft glory from the dying day made this littleEden of earth more radiant by a baptism from heaven. 

I wonder now if Jennie had been waiting for a favorable opportunityand then had spoken. I do not know; and she will never tell me. Atall events the beauty so struck me, like a landscape fresh from thehand of some great artist--as it was indeed, fresh from the hand ofthe Great Artist--that I involuntarily reined in Tom to look at it. "It's for sale, too, " said I, "I wonder what such a place costs. "

The artful diplomate did not answer. The books and newspapers talkabout women's curiosity. It's nothing to a man's curiosity when itis aroused. Oh, I know the story of Bluebeard very well. But if Mrs. Bluebeard had been a strong minded woman, and had killed her sevenhusbands, I wonder if the eighth would not have taken a peep. Hewould not have waited for the key but would have broken in the doorlong before. If men are not curious why do the authorities alwaysappoint them on the detective police force?

"Mr. Lines, " said I that evening at the tea table, "you know thatpretty little cottage on the hill just opposite the church. I seethere is a sign up 'for sale. ' What is the price of it, do youknow?"

"No, " said Mr. Lines. "But you can easily find out. It belongs toCharlie Sinclair; he lives there and can tell you. "

Three days after that, as I was driving up from the station, itstruck my fancy I should like to see the inside of that prettyhouse. "Jennie, " said I, "let's go in and look at the inside of thatpretty cottage. " But I had no more idea of purchasing it than I havenow of purchasing the moon. 

"It would hardly be the thing for me to call, " said the diplomate. "Mrs. Sinclair has never called on me. "

"I don't want you to make any call, " said I. "The house is for sale. I am a New Yorker. I am looking about Wheathedge for a place. I seethis place is for sale. I should like to look at it. And of coursemy wife must look at it too. "

"Oh! that indeed, " said my wife, "that's another matter. I have noparticular objection to that. "

"Besides, " said I, "I really should like to know the price of such aplace in Wheathedge. "

"Very good, " said Jennie. 

So we drove up to the gate, fastened the horse, and inquired of Mrs. Sinclair, who came in person to the door, if we could see the house. Certainly. She would be very happy to show it to us. And a verypretty house it was--and is still. There was a cozy little parlorwith a bay window looking out on the river, there was an equallycozy little dining-room, and there was an L for a sitting-room--whichI instantly converted in my imagination into a library--which lookedwith one window on the river and with another on the mountains. There was a very convenient kitchen built out in a wing from one endof the dining-room, and three chambers over the three downstairsrooms, from the larger one of which, over the sitting-room, we couldtake in at a glance the Presbyterian church, the blacksmith's shop, and the country store, with the wandering and aimless road, and ascore or two of neighbor's homes which lay along it; for the cottagewas on the hillside, and elevated considerably above the mainroadway. It was charmingly furnished too, and was full of thefragrance of flowers within, as it was embowered in them without. 

Besides looking at the house we asked the usual house-huntingquestions. Mr. Sinclair was in the city. He wanted to sell becausehe was going to Europe in the spring to educate his children. Hewould sell his place for $10, 000 or rent it for $800. For thesummer? No! for the year. He did not care to rent it for the summer, nor to give possession before fall. Would he rent the furniture?Yes, if one wanted it. But that would be extra. How much land wasthere? About two acres. Any fruit? Pears, peaches, and the smallerfruits--strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries. Whereupon Jennieand I bowed ourselves out and went away. 

And nothing more was said about it till the next February. Thediplomate still kept her own counsel. 

Then I opened the subject. It was the evening of the first day ofFebruary. I had been in to pay my rent. "Jennie, " said I, "thelandlord raises our rent to $2, 500. 

"What are you going to do?" said she quietly; "pay it?"

"Pay it!" said I. "No. It's high at $2, 000. --We shall have to move. "

"Where to?" said Jennie. 

I shrugged my shoulders. I had not the least idea. 

"What are you going to do next summer?" said she. 

"Glen-Ridge?" said I interrogatively. 

"I am afraid I shall have to be in my own home next summer, " saidJennie. "The mother cannot leave her nest to find a home amongstrangers when God sends her a little bird to be watched and tended. And I hope, John, God is going to send another little bird to ournest this summer. "

"You shall have your own home, Jennie dear, " said I. "I will tellthe landlord to-morrow that we will keep it. But it is animposition. "

"I am so sorry to give up our summer at Wheathedge, " said she. "Wedid enjoy ourselves so much, John, and Harry grew and thrived so. "

"It can't be helped, Jennie, " said I. 

"No"--said she slowly, and as if thinking to herself; "no--unless wetook the Sinclair cottage for the summer. "

"I hadn't thought of that, " said I. 

"What was the rent?" asked the diplomate. She knew as well as I did. 

"Eight hundred dollars a year, " said I. 

"That is a clear saving of $1, 700 a year, " said Jennie. 

"That's a fact, " said I. 

"If we did not like it we could come back to the city in the fall, and get a house here; if we did we could stay later and come in toboard for three or four months. I shouldn't mind if we did not comeat all. "

"No country in the winter for me, thank you, " said I; "with the winddrawing through the open cracks in your country built house halffreezing you, and when you try to keep warm your air-tight stovehalf suffocating you; with the roads outside blocked up with greatdrifts, and the trains delayed just on the days when I have acritical case in court. "

"Very well, " said Jennie. She is too much of a diplomate to argue. "When the snow comes we can easily move back again, as easily asfind a new house now. To tell the truth, John, I have no heart forhouse-hunting now. "

"Well, " said I. "I will see Sinclair to-morrow. And if his house isin the market, Jennie, we we will move there as soon as the springfairly opens. "

It was in the market. He was anxious to be rid of it. I hired it forthe year, together with the furniture, at $800, --and he agreed thatif I bought it in the Fall the half year rent should go on thepurchase money. I did not pay him any rent. I did not move into thecity when the snow came. The diplomate had her own way as she alwaysdoes. We live in the country; and I--I am very glad of it. I canharness Katie on a pinch. I am not afraid of the cow. I am notskilful with the hoe, but I am as proud of my flower garden as anyof my neighbors. And as to the relative advantages of city andcountry, I am quite of the opinion of Harry. 

"Harry, " said his grandfather the other day, "don't you want to goback to the city and live?"

"No!" said Harry, with the utmost expression of scorn on his face. 

"Why not, Harry?"

"It smells so. "

CHAPTER III. 

We join the Church. 

"I have bought the house, Jennie, " said I. 

"Thank you, " said Jennie. She said it softly, but her eyes said itmore plainly than her voice. I had hesitated a little before Ifinally closed the purchase. But Jennie's look and her soft "Thankyou" made me sure I had been right. 

Since the baby has come we have converted the chamber over thelibrary into an upstairs sitting-room. I found her there before theopen fire, on my return from New York. The baby was sleeping in herarms; and she was gently rocking him, pressed close to her bosom. 

"I wish you would have a nurse for the baby, Jennie, " said I. "Idon't like to see you tied to her so. "

"You wouldn't take baby from me would you, John?" said sheappealingly, nestling the precious bundle closer to her heart thanbefore, as if in apprehension. No I wouldn't. I was obliged toconfess that, to myself if not to her. 

"John, " said Jennie, "Mrs Goodsole has been here this afternoon. Shewants to know if we won't take our letters to this church the nextcommunion. It is the first of September. "

"Well?" said I, for Jennie had stopped. 

"She says that if we are going to make Wheathedge our home she hopeswe can find a pleasant home in the church here. I told her I couldnot tell, we had only hired the house for the summer and might leavein the fall. But if you have bought it, John, and I am, oh! so gladyou have and thank you so much"--one hand left the baby gently, andwas laid on my arm with the softest possible pressure by way ofemphasizing the thanks again, --"perhaps we ought to consider it. "

"I have no notion of joining this church, " said I. "It's in debt, and always behind hand. I am told they owe a hundred dollars totheir minister now. "

"That's too bad, " said Jennie. 

"And we can't do much if we do join it. I have no time for churchaffairs, and you--you have all you can do to attend to your infantclass at home, Jennie. "

"That's true, " said Jennie. 

"Besides it is a Presbyterian church and we are Congregationalists. "

Jennie made no reply. 

"And I can't bear the idea of leaving the Broadway Tabernaclechurch. I was brought up in it. I have been in its Sunday-Schoolever since I can recollect. It was dear to me in its old homelyattire as a Congregationalist meeting-house. It is dear to me in itsnew aristocratic attire as a Congregationalist cathedral. And Harrywas baptized there. And there are all our dearest and best friends. It would be like pulling a tooth to uproot from it. "

"It is dear to me too, John, " said Jennie softly, "for your sake, ifnot for my own. "

"And all our friends are there, Jennie, " continued I. "Except theLines and Deacon Goodsole we hardly know anybody here. "

"Though I suppose time will cure that, " said Jennie. 

"I do not know that I care to cure it, " said I. 

Jennie made no response. 

Was it not at Bunker Hill that the soldiers were directed to reservetheir fire till the attacking party had exhausted theirs? That isthe way Jennie conducts an argument--when she argues at all, which isvery seldom. She accepted every consideration I had offered againstuniting with the Wheathedge church, and yet I knew her opinion wasnot changed; and somehow my own began to waver. I wonder how thatmethod of arguing would work in the court-room. I mean to try itsome time. 

I had exhausted my fire and Jennie was still silent. Silence theysay means consent. But I knew that it did not in her case. Itdepends so much upon the kind of silence. 

"What do you say Jennie?" said I. 

"Well, John, " said she slowly and thoughtfully, "perhaps there aretwo sides to the question. I don't like to leave the BroadwayTabernacle. But it seems to me that we have left it. We cannotattend its prayer-meetings, or go to its Sabbath-school, or worshipwith its members on the Sabbath, or even mingle much with itsmembers in social life. We have left it, and we ought to havethought of that before we left--not after. Perhaps I am to blame, John, that I did not think of it more. I did not think of what youwere giving up for me when you took this beautiful home for mysake. "

I had not taken it for her sake--that is, not wholly for her sake. And as to the giving up! Why, bless you, that little sitting-room, with the wife and baby it contained, was worth a thousandTabernacles to me; and I managed to tell Jennie so, and emphasizethe declaration with a--well no matter. But she did not need theinformation, she knew it very well before, I am sure. 

"The real question seems to me, John, to be whether we mean to bechurch members at all?" said Jennie. 

"Church members at all!" I echoed. 

"Yes, " said she. "We are not members of the Broadway Tabernacle anymore--except in name. What is a foot or an arm fifty miles away fromthe body? Can they keep loving watch and care over us; or we overthem? It is not a question between one church-home and another, John; it is a question between this church-home and none at all. "

"But, Jennie, " said I, "the finances here are in a fearful state. They are always coming down on the church for contributions, andholding fairs in summer, and tableaux and what not, in winter, andgenerally waiting for something to turn up. If I had the naming ofthis church I would call it St. Micawber's church. "

Jennie laughed. "Well, John, " said she, "I think you are readyenough with your money. " (I am not so sure of that. I am inclined tothink that is Jennie's way of making me so. ) "And I have nothing tosay about the finances. "

"Besides, Jennie, " said I--for I really had no faith in the financialargument--"this is a Presbyterian church and we areCongregationalists. "

"It is a church of Christ, John, " said Jennie soberly, "and we, Ihope, are Christians more than Congregationalists. "

That was the last that was said. But the next morning I carried downwith me, to New York, a letter addressed to the clerk of theBroadway Tabernacle, asking for letters of dismission andrecommendation to the Calvary Presbyterian church at Wheathedge. Andso commenced our parish life. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Real Presence. 

"JENNIE, " said I, "I don't believe in Mr. Work's sermon thismorning, do you?"

"I don't think I do, John; but to be candid I did not hear a greatdeal of it. "

It was Sunday evening. Harry was asleep in his room. The baby, sungto her sweet slumbers pressed against her mother's heart, had beenlain down at last in her little cradle. Jennie, her evening workfinished, had come down into the library and was sitting on thelounge beside me. 

"I was not so fortunate, " said I. "Blessed are those who having earshear not--sometimes. I listened, and took the other side. My churchwas converted into a court-room, I into an advocate. If I believedMr. Work's doctrine was sound Protestantism I should turn RomanCatholic. Its teaching is the warmer, cheerier, more helpful of thetwo. "

Then I took up the open book that lay on my library table and readfrom Father Hyacinthe's discourses the following paragraph--from anaddress delivered on the first communion of a converted Protestantto the Roman Catholic Church:

"Where (in Protestantism) is that real Presence which flows from thesacrament as from a hidden spring, like a river of peace, upon thetrue Catholic, all the day long, gladdening and fertilizing all hislife? This Immanuel--God with us--awaited you in our Church, and inthat sacrament which so powerfully attracted you, even when you buthalf believed it. In your own worship, as in the ancient synagogue, you found naught but types and shadows; they spoke to you ofreality, but did not contain it; they awakened your thirst, but didnot quench it; weak and empty rudiments which have no longer theright to rest, since the veil of the temple has been rent asunderand eternal realities been revealed. "

"Yes, Jennie, " said I. "If I thought Father Hyacinthe were right, Ishould turn Roman Catholic. And Mr. Work this morning confirmed him. He took away the substance. He left us only a type, a shadow. "

The sermon was on the words--"Do this in remembrance of me. " It was adoctrinal sermon. I am not sure that it might not have been a usefulone--in the sixteenth century. It was a sermon against Romanism andLutheranism and High Church episcopacy. The minister told us whatwere the various doctrines of the communion. He analyzed them anddismissed them one after another. He showed very conclusively, to usProtestants, that the Romanists are wrong, to us Presbyterians thatthe Episcopalians are wrong, to us who are open Communionists thatthe close Communionists are wrong. As there does not happen to beeither Romanist, Episcopalian, or close Communionist in ourcongregation, I cannot say how efficacious his arguments would havebeen if addressed to any one who was in previous doubt as to hisconclusions. Then he proceeded to expound what he termed therational and Scriptural doctrine of communion. It is, he told us, simply a memorial service. It simply commemorates the past. "As, "said he, "every year, the nation gathers to strew flowers upon thegraves of its patriot soldiers, so this day the Christian Churchgathers to strew with flowers of love and praise the grave of theCaptain of our salvation. As in the one act all differences areforgotten, and the nation is one in the sacred presence of death, soin the other, creeds and doctrines vanish, and the Church of Christappears at the foot of Calvary as one in Christ Jesus. "

Mr. Wheaton asked me, as we came out of church, if the sermon wasnot a magnificent one. I evaded the question. I was obliged toconfess to myself that it was unsatisfactory. If I were obliged tochoose between the Protestantism of Mr. Work and the Romanism ofFather Hyacinthe, I am afraid I should choose the latter. 

"But, " said Jennie, "Mr. Work's sermon was not true Protestantdoctrine, John. There is a Real Presence in the communion. Only itis in the heart, not in the head, in us, not in the symbols that weeat. Did you not feel the Real Presence when Father Hyatt in theafternoon broke and blessed the bread? Did you not see the livingChrist in his radiant face and hear the living Christ in histouching words, and his more touching silence?"

Yes! I did. Father Hyatt had disproved the morning's sermon, thoughhe said never a word about it. 

Father Hyatt is an old, old man. He has long since retired fromactive service, having worn out his best days here at Wheathedge, inyears now long gone by. A little money left him by a parishioner, and a few annual gifts from old friends among his former people, arehis means of support. His hair is white as snow. His hands are thin, his body bent, his voice weak, his eyesight dim, his ears but halffulfil their office; his mind even shows signs of the weakness andwanderings of old age; but his heart is young, and I verily believehe looks forward to the hour of his release with hopes as high andexpectations as ardent as those with which, in college, heanticipated the hour of his graduation. This was the man, patriarchof the Church, who has lived to see the children he baptized growup, go forth into the world, many die and be buried; who hasbaptized the second and even the third generation, and has seenWheathedge grow from a cross-road to a flourishing village; who thisafternoon, perhaps for the last time--I could not help thinking so asI sat in church--interpreted to us the love of Christ as it isuttered to our hearts in this most sacred and hallowed of allservices. Very simply, very gently, quite unconsciously, he refutedthe cheerless doctrine of the morning sermon, and pointed us to theProtestant doctrine of the Real Presence. Do you ask me what hesaid? Nothing. It was by his silence that he spoke. 

A few tender, loving, reverential words as he broke the bread. Threeminutes of silver speech, the rest of his part of the service agolden silence. But those few words were radiant with the presenceand the love of a risen, a living Saviour. It was not of the Christthat died, but of the Christ that now lives, and intercedes, andguides, and preserves, and saves, he spoke, with voice feeble withold age, but strong with love. And as he spoke, it seemed to me, Ithink it seemed to all of us, that the Christ he loved so much andserved so faithfully was close at hand, near and ready to bless usall, not with a sacred memory only, but with a Real Presence, themore real because unseen. 

"Yes, Jennie, " said I after we had sat for a few minutes in silencerecalling that sacred hour, "Yes, Jennie, there was a Real Presencein Father Hyatt's breaking and blessing of the bread. But what doyou say of the disquisition of Mr. Work on transubstantiation whichfollowed it?"

"I didn't hear it, John. Was it really about transubstantiation?Perhaps I ought to have listened--but I could not, I did not want to. A higher, holier voice was speaking to me. I was absorbed in that. Iwas thinking how of old time Christ appeared in the breaking ofbread to the disciples whose eyes were holden. And to-night, John, as I have been rocking baby to sleep I have been reading Tennyson'sHoly Grail, and thinking how often, in our modern life, Calabad andPercivale kneel at the same shrine, and how often what is but amemorial service to the one affords a beatific vision of a livingand life-giving Lord to the other. "

And Jennie repeated in a low soft voice a verse from that strangepoem, whose meaning, I sometimes think, is but half understood evenby its admirers:

 "And at the sacring of the Mass, I saw The holy elements alone: but he 'Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine: I saw the fiery face as of a child That smote itself into the bread, and went, And hither am I come; and never yet Hath what thy sister taught me first to see This holy thing, failed from my side?'"

"Ah! yes, John, Father Hyacinthe is mistaken, and Mr. Work ismistaken too. There is more in our communion than can be explained. The reason is a great deal, a great deal, but it is not everything. And there are experiences which it can neither understand norinterpret. Baby is not only up-stairs, John; he is in my heart ofhearts. And you are never away from home, husband mine, though oftenin the city, but are always with me. And my Saviour he is not faraway, he is not in the heaven that we must bring him down, nor inthe past that we must summon him from centuries long gone by. He isin our hearts, John. Do I believe in the Real Presence? Do I notknow that there is a Real Presence? And neither priest nor pastorcan take it from me. "

"I wish you could have administered the communion this afternoon, Jennie, " said I, "instead of Mr. Work. "

"I wish some good friend of Mr. Work would advise him not to talk atthe communion, " said Jennie. 

"Write him a note, " said I. 

Jennie shook her head. "No, " said she. "It would only do harm. But Iwish ministers knew and felt that at the communion table there is aReal Presence that makes many words unfitting. When we are on themount of Transfiguration, we do not care much for Peter, James orJohn. And so, dear, I recommend you to do as I do--if the ministermust give us a doctrinal disquisition, or a learned argument, or anelaborate arabesque of fancy work, or an impassioned appeal, let himgo his way and do not heed him. I want silence that I may communewith the Real Presence. If the minister does not give it me, I takeit. "

Jennie is right, I am sure. What we laymen want at the communionservice, from our pastors, is chiefly silence. Only a few and simplewords; the fewer and simpler the better. Oh! you who are privilegedto distribute to us the emblems of Christ's love, believe me thatthe communion never reaches its highest end, save when you interpretit to us, not merely as a flower-strewn grave of a dead past, but asa Mount of Transfiguration whereon we talk with a living, anascended Saviour. Believe me too, we want at that table no othermessage than that which a voice from on high whispers in our hearts:"This is my beloved Son, hear ye him!"

CHAPTER V. 

Our Church Finances. 

I FOUND one evening last week, in coming home, a business-like-looking letter lying on my library table. I rarely receive lettersat Wheathedge; nearly all my correspondence comes to my New Yorkoffice. I tore it open in some surprise and read the note asfollows:

WHEATHEDGE, Oct. 9th. 

"Dear Sir, --A meeting of the male members of the congregation of theCalvary Presbyterian Church will be held on Thursday evening, at 8P. M. , at the house of Mr. Wheaton. You are respectfully invited tobe present. 

"Yours, Respectfully, "JAMES WHEATON, "Ch'n. B'd. Trustees. "

"Well, " said I to myself, "I wonder what this means. It can't be amale sewing society, I suppose. It can hardly be a prayer-meeting atJim Wheaton's house. Male members! eh? I thought the female memberscarried on this church. " In my perplexity, I handed the note to mywife. She read it with care. "Well, " said she, "I am glad the peopleare waking up at last. " "What does it mean?" said I. "It meansmoney, " said she. "Or rather it means the want of money. Mrs. Worktold me last week she believed her husband would have to resign. Alllast quarter's salary is overdue, and something beside. It seemsthat Mr. Wheaton has begun to act, at last. I don't see what theywant to make such men church officers for. "

My wife has not very clear ideas about the legal relations whichexist between the Church and the Society. Mr. Wheaton is an officer, not of the church but of the society; but I did not think it worthwhile to correct the mistake. 

"I do want to think kindly of every body, " said Jennie; "but itmakes me indignant to see a minister defrauded of his dues. "

"Defrauded is a pretty strong word, Jennie, " said I. 

"It is a true word, " said she. "The people promise the minister$1200 a year, and then pay him grudgingly $900, and don't finallymake up the other $300 till he threatens to resign; if that is notdefrauding, I don't know what is. If Mr. Wheaton can't make theBoard of Trustees keep their promises any better than that, he hadbetter resign. I wish he would. "

Mr. Wheaton is not a member of the church; and, to tell the truth, his reputation for success is greater than his reputation forintegrity. But he is president of the Koniwasset branch railroad, and a leading director of the Koniwasset coal mines, and a largeoperator in stocks, and lives in one of the finest houses inWheathedge, and keeps the handsomest carriage, and hires the mostexpensive pew, and it was considered quite a card, I believe, to gethim to take the presidency of the Board of Trustees. 

"Of course you'll go, John, " said Jennie. 

"I don't know about that, Jennie, " said I. "I don't want to getmixed up with our church finances in their present condition. "

"I don't know how they are ever to get in a better condition, John, "said she, "unless some men like you do get mixed up with them. "

Jennie, as usual, knew me better than I knew myself. I went. I wasdelayed just as I was starting away, and so, contrary to mycustom--for I rather pride myself on being a very punctual man--I wasa little late. The male members of the Calvary PresbyterianCongregation were already assembled in Mr. James Wheaton's librarywhen I arrived. I was a little surprised to see how few male memberswe had. To look round the congregation on Sunday morning, one wouldcertainly suppose there were more. It even seems to me there were atleast twice as many at the sewing society when it met at JamesWheaton's last winter. 

I entered just as Mr. Wheaton was explaining the object of themeeting. "Gentlemen, " said he, suavely, "the Calvary PresbyterianChurch, like most of its neighbors, has rather hard work to getalong, financially. Its income is not at all equal to itsexpenditures. The consequence is we generally stand on the debtorside of the ledger. As probably you know, there is a mortgage on thechurch of four thousand dollars. The semi-annual interest is due onthe first of next month. There is, I think, no money in the treasuryto meet it. "

Here he looked at the treasurer as if for confirmation, and thatgentleman, a bald-headed, weak-face man, smiled a mournful smile, and shook his head feebly. 

"The Board of Trustees, " continued the President, "have directed meto call this meeting and lay the matter before you. "

There was a slight pause--a sort of expectant silence. "It isn't alarge sum, " gently insinuated the President, "if divided among usall. But, in some way, gentlemen, it must be raised. It won't do forus to be insolvent, you know. A church can't take the benefit of thebankrupt act, I believe, Mr. Laicus. "

Being thus appealed to, I responded with a question. Was thismortgage interest all that the church owed? No! the Presidentthought not. He believed there was a small floating debt beside. "And to whom, " said I, "Mr. Treasurer, is this floating debt due?"The Treasurer looked to the President for an answer, and thePresident accepted his pantomimic hint. 

"Most of it, " said he, "I believe, to the minister. But I understandthat he is in no special hurry for his money. In fact, " continuedhe, blandly, "a debt that is due to the minister need never be avery serious burden to a church. Nominally it is due to him, butreally it is distributed around among the members of the church. Part is due to the grocer, part to the tailor, part to the butcher, part to the dressmaker, and part is borrowed from personal friends. I lent the parson twenty-five dollars myself last week. But mortgageinterest is another matter. That, you know, must be provided for. "

"And pray, " said I, for I happened to know the parson did need themoney, "how much is the pastor's salary? And how much of it isoverdue?"

"Well, " said the President, "I suppose his salary is about--twothousand dollars. Yes, " continued he, thoughtfully, somewhataffectionately playing with his gold watch-chain, "it must net himfully that amount. "

I was wondering what this "about" meant, and whether the ministerdid not have a fixed salary, when Deacon Goodsole broke in abruptlywith, "It's twelve hundred dollars a year!"

"Yes, " responded the President, "it is nominally fixed by the Boardat twelve hundred dollars. But then, gentlemen, the perquisites aresomething. In the course of a year they net up to a pretty largeamount. Last winter, the ladies clubbed together and made the parsona present of carpets for his parlors; the year before we gave him adonation party; almost every year, Deacon Goodsole sends him abarrel of flour from his store; in one way or another he gets a goodmany similar little presents. I always send him a free pass over theroad. And then there are the wedding fees which must amount to ahandsome item in the course of the year. It can't be less than twothousand or twenty-five hundred dollars all told. A very snug littleincome, gentlemen. "

"Double what I get, " murmured Mr. Hardcap. A very exemplarygentleman is Mr. Hardcap, the carpenter, but more known for thevirtue of economy than for any other. He lives in three rooms overhis carpenter shop down in Willow lane. If our pastor lived there hewould be dismissed very soon. 

I wondered, as the President was speaking, whether he included theprofit he made in selling Koniwasset coal to the Newtown railroadamong his perquisitis, and as part of his salary. But I did not ask. 

"Week before last, " said Deacon Goodsole, "the parson was called toattend a wedding at Compton Mills. He drove down Monday, throughthat furious storm, was gone nearly all day, paid six dollars forhis horse and buggy, and received five dollars wedding fee. I wonderhow long it would take at that rate to bring his salary up totwenty-five hundred dollars. "

There was a general laugh at the parson's mercantile venture, but noother response. 

"Well, gentlemen, " said the President, a little gruffly, I fancied, "let us get back to business. How shall we raise this mortgageinterest? I will be one of ten to pay it off. "

"Excuse me, " said I, gently, "but before we begin to pay our debts, we must find out how much they are. Can the Treasurer tell us howmuch we owe Mr. Work?"

The Treasurer looked inquiringly at the President, but getting noresponse, found his voice, and replied, "Three hundred dollars. "

"The whole of last quarter?" said I. 

The Treasurer nodded. 

"I think there is a little due on last year, " said Deacon Goodsole. 

"A hundred and seventy-five dollars, " said the Treasurer. 

"The fact is, gentlemen, " said the President, resuming his blandestmanner, "you know the Methodists have just got into their new stonechurch. The trustees thought it necessary not to be behind theirneighbors, and so we have completely upholstered our church anew, ata cost of five hundred dollars. " ("And made the parson pay thebill, " said Deacon Goodsole, soto voce. ) "We should have frescoedit, too, if we had had the money. " ("Why didn't you take his weddingfees?" said the Deacon, soto voce. )

"Well, for my part, " said I, "I am willing to do my share towardpaying off this debt. But I will not pay a cent unless the whole ispaid. The minister must be provided for. "

"I say so, too, " murmured Mr. Hardcap. I was surprised at thissudden and unexpected reinforcement. The Deacon told me afterwards, that Mr. Hardcap had been repairing the parson's roof and had notgot his pay. 

"Perhaps, " continued I, "we can fund this floating debt, make themortgage four thousand five hundred, raise the difference amongourselves, and so clear it all up. Who holds the mortgage?"

This question produced a sensation like that of opening the seventhseal in heaven. There was silence for the space of--well, somethingless than half an hour. The Treasurer looked at the President. ThePresident looked at the Treasurer. The male members of thecongregation looked at each other. The Deacon looked at me with avery significant laugh lurking in the corners of his mouth. Atlength the President spoke. 

"Well, gentlemen, " said he, "I suppose most of you know I hold thismortgage. I have not called you together because I want to press thechurch for the money. But a debt, gentlemen, is a debt, and thechurch, above all institutions, ought to remember the divineinjunction of our blessed Master (the President is not very familiarwith Scripture, and may be excused the blunder): 'Owe no mananything. ' ("Except the minister, " said Deacon Goodsole, soto voce. )The proposition of our friend here, however, looks like business tome. I think the matter can be arranged in that way. "

Arranged it was. The President got his additional security, and theparson got his salary, which was the main thing Jennie cared for. And to be perfectly frank with the reader, I should not have gonenear Jim Wheaton's that night if it had not been that I knew itwould please Jennie. I wait with some curiosity to see what willbecome of a church whose expenditures are regularly a quarter morethan its income. Meanwhile, I wonder whether the personal presentswhich friends make for affection's sake to their pastor ought to beincluded by the Board of Trustees in their estimate of his salary?and also whether it is quite the thing to expect that the pastorwill advance, out of his own pocket, whatever money is necessary tokeep his church from falling behind its neighbors in showyattractions?

CHAPTER VI. 

Am I a Drone?

DEACON Goodsole wants me to take a class in the Sabbath-school. Sodoes Mr. Work. So I think does Jennie, though she does not say much. She only says that if I did she thinks I could do a great deal ofgood. I wonder if I could. I have stoutly resisted them so far. ButI confess last Sunday's sermon has shaken me a little. 

I was kept in the city Saturday night by a legal appointment, andwent the next day to hear my old friend Thomas Lane preach. His textwas "Why stand ye here all the day idle?"

He depicted very graphically the condition of the poor in New York. He is a man of warm sympathies, of a large and generous heart. Hemingles a great deal with the poor of his own congregation. To hiscredit and that of his wife be it said, there are a good many poorin his congregation. But he does not confine his sympathies to hisown people. He told us of that immense class who live in New Yorkwithout a church-home, of the heathen that are growing up among us. 

"You need not go to Africa, " said he, "to find them. They come toyour door every morning for cold victuals. God will hold youresponsible for their souls. Are you in the Sabbath-school? Are youin the Mission-school? Are you in the neighborhood prayer-meeting?Are you a visitor? Are you distributing tracts? Are you doinganything to seek and to save that which is lost?" Then he went on tosay what should be done; and to maintain the right and duty oflaymen to preach, to teach, to visit, to do all things which belongto "fishers of men. " "There are a great many church members, " saidhe, "who seem to suppose that their whole duty consists in payingpew rent and listening to preaching. That is not Christianity. Ifyou are doing nothing you are drones. There is no room in the hivefor you. The Church has too many idle Christians already. We don'twant you. "

He did not argue. He simply asserted. But he evidently felt thetruth of all that he said. I believe I should have decided at onceto go into the Sabbath-school as soon as I came home, but for alittle incident. 

After church I walked home with Mr. Lane to dine with him. Mr. Sowerjoined and walked along with us. He is at the head of a largemanufacturing establishment. He is one of Mr. Lane's warmestfriends. Mr. Lane believes him to be a devoted Christian. "Well, parson, " said he, "I suppose after to-night's sermon there isnothing left for me to do but to take a letter from the Church--ifyou don't excommunicate me before I get it. "

"What's the matter now?" said the parson. 

"I am neither visiting, " said Mr. Sower, "nor distributing tracts, nor attending a tenement-house prayer-meeting, nor preaching, norworking in a mission, nor doing anything in the Church, but going toits service and paying my pew rent, and sometimes a little somethingover to make up a deficiency. The fact is every day in the week Ihave my breakfast an hour before you do, and am off to the factory. I never get home till six o'clock, sometimes not then. My day's workuses up my day's energies. I can't go out to a tenement-houseprayer-meeting, or to tract distribution in the evening. I canhardly keep awake in our own church prayer-meeting. If it were notfor Sunday's rest my work would kill me in a year. I sometimes thinkthat perhaps I am devoting too much of my time to money-making. Butwhat shall I do? There are four hundred workmen in the factory. Mostof them have families. All of those families are really dependent onme for their daily bread. It takes all my life's energies to keepthem employed. Shall I leave that work to take hold of tenement-house visitation and tract distribution?"

Mr. Lane replied promptly that Mr. Sower was to do no such thing. "Your factory, " said he, "is your field. That is the work God hasgiven you to do. It is your parish. Do not leave it for another--onlydo not forget that you have to give an account of your parochialcharge. You are to study, not how to get the most money out of yourfour hundred workmen, but how to do them the most good. That isChristian duty for you. But your case is very peculiar. There is notone man in a thousand situated as you are. "

Then I began to think that perhaps my law office was my field. Itgives me enough to do I am sure. We are not all drones who are notworking for the Church. There is a work for Christ outside. And I donot want to take a Sabbath-school class. I want Sunday mornings tomyself. Every other morning I have to be an early riser. I do enjoybeing lazy Sunday morning. 

But then there is that class of young men from the mill. DeaconGoodsole says they don't know anything. He has no one who can managethem. And Mr. Work thinks it's a dreadful sin, I do not doubt, thatI do not take it at once. I do not care much for that. But Jenniesays I am just the one to manage these boys if I feel likeundertaking it. And I would like to prove her good opinion of metrue. 

I was just in that perplexity when night before last a meeting onbehalf of the City Mission Society was held here. Mr. Mingins, theSuperintendent of city missions, was one of the speakers. 

He made an earnest and at times a really eloquent speech. He wouldhave made a splendid jury lawyer. He depicted in the most livelycolors the wretched condition of the outcast population of New York. With all the eloquence of a warm heart, made more attractive by hisbroad Scotch, he pled with us to take an active part in theiramelioration. "Pure religion and undefiled, before God and theFather, is this, " cried he, "to visit the fatherless and widows intheir affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. "

I resolved to take up that class of Mission boys straightways. Butas I came out I met Hattie Bridgeman. She is an old friend ofJennie's and has had a hard, hard life. Her husband is an invalid. Her children are thrown on her for support. As I met her at the doorshe pressed my hand without speaking. I could see by the tremblinglip and the tearful eye, that her heart was full. "I wish I had notcome to-night, " she said, as we walked along together. "Such storiesmake my heart bleed. It seems as though I ought to go right out tovisit the sick, comfort the afflicted, care for the neglected. Butwhat can I do? My children are dependent on me. These six weeks atWheathedge are my only vacation. The rest of the time I am teachingmusic from Monday morning till Saturday night. Sunday, when I oughtto rest, is my most exhausting day. For then I sing in church. If Iwere to leave my scholars my children would starve. How can I doanything for my Savior?"

It was very plain that she was to serve her Savior in the musiclesson as indeed she does. For she goes into every house as amissionary. She carries the spirit of Christ in her heart. His joyis radiant in her face. She preaches the Gospel in houses whereneighborhood prayer-meetings cannot be held, in households whichtract-distributors never enter. The street that needs Gospelvisitation most is Fifth avenue. That is in her district. And, nobly, though unconsciously, she fulfils her mission. More than oneperson I have heard say, "If to be a Christian is to be like Mrs. Bridgeman, I wish I were one. " Our pastor preaches no such effectivesermons as does she by her gentleness, her geniality, her patience, her long suffering with joyfulness. And when the Sabbath comes, hervoice, though it leads the service of song in a fashionable citychurch, expresses the ardor of her Christian heart, and is fraughtwith quite as true devotion as the prayers of her pastor. 

Something like this Jennie told her as we walked along from church;and she left us comforted. And I was a little comforted too. It isvery clear, is it not, that we are not all drones who are not atwork in the church. There are other fields than the Sabbath-school. 

Do I carry Christ into my law office, and into the court-room, asMrs. Bridgeman does into the parlor and the chair? That is the firstpoint to be settled. The other comes up afterward. But it doespersist in coming up. It is not settled yet. Will it hurt my Sundayto take that class for an hour? I doubt it. 

I must talk it over with Jennie and see what she really thinks aboutit. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Field is the World. 

LAST evening before I had found an opportunity to talk it over withJennie, Dr. Argure and Deacon Goodsole called. I suspect thedeacon's conscience had been quickened even more than minerespecting my duty to that mission class by Mr. Minging's address. For I have noticed that our consciences are apt to be quickened bysermons and addresses more respecting our neighbors' duties eventhan respecting our own. 

Dr. Argure had come down the day before from Newtown to attend thecity mission meeting. He is a very learned man. At least I supposehe is, for everybody says so. He is at all events a very sonorousman. He has a large vocabulary of large words, and there are a greatmany people who cannot distinguish between great words and greatthoughts. I do not mean to impugn his intellectual capital when Isay that he does a very large credit business. In sailing on lakeSuperior you can sometimes see the rocky bottom 30 or 40 feet belowthe surface--the water is so clear. You never can see the bottom ofDr. Argure's sermons. Perhaps it is because they are so deep; Isometimes think it is because they are so muddy. Still he really isan able man, and knows the books, and knows how to turn hisknowledge to a good account. Last summer he preached a sermon atWheathedge, on female education. He told us about female educationamong the Greeks, and the Romans, and the Hebrews, and the Persians, and the Egyptians--though not much about it in America of to-day. Butit was a learned discourse--at least I suppose so. Three weeks after, I met the President of the Board of Trustees of the Polltown FemaleSeminary, I mentioned incidentally that I was spending the summer atWheathedge. 

"You have got a strong man up there somewhere, " said he, "that Dr. Argure, of Newtown. He delivered an address before our seminary lastweek on female education; full of learning sir, full of learning. Weput him right on our Board of Trustees. Next year I think we shallmake him President. "

A month or so after I found in the weekly Watch Tower aneditorial, --indeed I think there were three in successive numbers--onfemale education. They had a familiar sound, and happening to meetthe editor, I spoke of them. 

"Yes, " said he "they are by Dr. Argure. A very learned man that sir. Does an immense amount of work too. He is one of our editorialcontributors as perhaps you see, and an able man, very learned sir. Those are very original and able articles sir. "

This fall I took up the Adriatic Magazine, and there what should myeye fall on but an article on female education. I did not read it;but the papers assured their readers that it was a learned andexhaustive discussion on the whole subject by that scholarly anderudite writer, Dr. Argure. And having heard this asserted so often, I began to think that it certainly must be true. And then in JanuaryI received a pamphlet on female education by Dr. Argure. It wasaddressed to the Board of Education, and demanded a higher course oftraining for woman, and was a learned and exhaustive discussion ofthe whole subject from the days of Moses down. 

"An able man that Dr. Argure, " said Mr. Wheaton to me the other dayreferring to that same pamphlet. 

"Yes, I think he is, " I could not help saying. "I think he can stirmore puddings with one pudding stick than any other man I know. "

Still he stirs them pretty well. And if he can do it I do not knowthat there is any objection. 

But if I do not believe in Dr. Argure quite as fully as some lesssceptical members of his congregation do, Deacon Goodsole believesin him most implicitly. Deacon Goodsole is a believer--not I mean inanything in particular, but generally. He likes to believe; heenjoys it; he does it, not on evidence, but on general principles. The deacons of the stories are all crabbed, gnarled, andcross-grained. They are the terrors of the little boys, and thethorn in the flesh to the minister. But Deacon Goodsole is the mostcheery, bright, and genial of men. He is like a streak of sunshine. He sensibly radiates the prayer-meeting, which would be rather coldexcept for him. The little boys always greet him with a "How do youdo Deacon, " and always get a smile, and a nod, and sometimes a stickof candy or a little book in return. His over-coat pockets arealways full of some little books or tracts, and always of the brightand cheery description. Always full, I said; but that is a mistake;when he gets home at night they are generally empty. For he goes outliterally as a sower went out to sow, I do not believe there is achild within five miles of Wheathedge that has not had one of theDeacon's little books. 

I suspected that the Deacon had come partly to talk with me aboutthat Bible class, and I resolved to give him an opportunity. So Iopened the way at once. 

Laicus. :

--Well Deacon, how are church affairs coining on; pretty smoothly;salary paid up at last?

Deacon Goodsole. :

--Yes, Mr. Laicus; and we're obliged to you for it too. I don't thinkthe parson would have got his money but for you. 

Laicus. :

--Not at all, Deacon. Thank my wife, not me. She was righteouslyindignant at the church for leaving its minister unpaid so long. IfI were the parson I would clear out that Board of Trustees and putin a new one, made up wholly of women. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--That's not a bad idea. I believe the women would make a deal betterBoard than the present one. 

Dr. Argure: [(with great solemnity). ]

--Mr. Laicus, have you considered the Scriptural teachings concerningthe true relations and sphere of women in the church of Christ. Theapostle says very distinctly that he does not suffer a woman toteach or to usurp authority over the man, and it is very clear thatto permit the female members of the church to occupy such offices asthose you have indicated would be to suffer her to usurp thatauthority which the Scripture reposes alone in the head--that is inman. 

Laicus: [(naively). ]

--Does the Scripture really say that women must not teach?

Dr. Argure. :

--Most certainly it does, sir. The apostle is very explicit on thatpoint, very explicit. And I hold, sir, that for women to preach, orto speak in public, or in the prayer-meeting of the church, is adirect violation of the plain precepts of the inspired word. 

Laicus. :

--I wonder you have any women teach in your Sabbath School? Or haveyou turned them all out?

Mrs. Laicus, : [(who evidently wishes to change the conversation). ]

--How do affairs go on in the work of your church. 

Dr. Argure, : [(who is not unwilling that it should be changed). ]

--But slowly, madam. There is not that readiness and zeal in the workof the church, which I would wish to see. There are many fruitlessbranches on the tree, Mrs. Laicus, many members of my church who donothing really to promote its interests. They are not to be found inthe Sabbath School; they cannot be induced to participate activelyin tract distribution; and they are even not to be depended on inthe devotional week-day meetings of the church. 

Deacon Goodsole, : [(who always goes straight to the point). ]

--Mr. Laicus here needs a little touching up on that point, Doctor;and I am glad you are here to do it. How as to that Bible class, Mr. Laicus, that I spoke to you about week before last? There are fouror five young men from the barrow factory in the Sabbath School now. But they have no teacher. I am sure if you could see your way clearto take that class you would very soon have as many more. There aresome thirty of them that rarely or never come to church. And as forme, I can't get at them. They are mostly unbelievers. Mr. Gearhimself, the superintendent, is a regular out and out infidel. And Inever could do anything with unbelievers. 

Laicus. :

--Deacon, I wish I could. But I am very busy all through the week, and I really don't see how I can take this work up on Sunday. Besideit would require some week-day work in addition. 

Dr. Argure. :

--No man can be too busy to serve the Lord, Mr. Laicus; certainly noprofessed disciple of the Lord. The work of the church, Mr. Laicus, is before every other work in its transcendant importance. 

Laicus. :

--I don't know about that. Seems to me, I have seen somewhere that ifa man does not provide for his own family he is worse than aninfidel. 

Dr. Argure, : [(putting this response away from him majestically). ]

--It is unfortunately too common an excuse even with professors ofreligion that they are too busy to serve in the work of the Lord. There is for example the instance of Dr. Curall. He was elected atmy suggestion last summer as an elder in our church. But he declinedthe office, which the apostle declares to be honorable, and of sucha character that if it be well used they who employ it purchase tothemselves a good degree. Alas! that it should be so frequently so--ourselves first and Christ afterwards. 

Laicus. :

--Is that quite fair Dr? Must Dr. Curall be put down as refusing tofollow the Master because he refuses to leave the duties of hisprofession which he is doing well, to take on those of a churchoffice which he might do but poorly? May not he who goes abouthealing the sick be following Christ as truly as he who preaches theGospel to the poor? Is the one to be accused of serving the worldany more because of his fees than the other because of his salary?Can an elder do any more to carry the Gospel of Christ to the sickbed and the house of mourning than a Christian physician, if he isfaithful as a Christian?

Dr. Argure shook his head but made no response. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--That may do very well in the case of a doctor, Mr. Laicus. But Idon't see how it applies in your case, or in that of farmer Faragon, or in that of Typsel the printer or in that of Sole the boot-maker, or in that of half a score of people I could name, who are doingnothing in the church except pay their pew rent. 

Laicus. :

--Suppose you pass my case for the moment, and take the others. Takefarmer Faragon for example. He has a farm of three hundred acres. Itkeeps him busy all the week. He works hard, out of doors, all day. When evening comes he gets his newspaper, sits down by the fire andpretends to read. But I have noticed that he rarely reads tenminutes before he drops asleep. When he comes to church the samephenomenon occurs. He cannot resist the soporific tendencies of thefurnaces. By the time Mr. Work gets fairly into secondly, FarmerFaragon is sound asleep. So he does not even listen to thepreaching. Is he then a drone? Suppose you make a calculation howmany mouths he feeds indirectly by the products of his farm. Icannot even guess. But I know nothing ever goes from it that is notgood. The child is happy that drinks his milk, the butcher fortunatewho buys his beef, the housewife well off who has his apples andpotatoes in her cellar. He never sends a doubtful article to market;never a short weight or a poor measure. I think that almost everyone who deals with him recognizes in him a Christian man. He doesnot work in Sunday School, it is true, but he has brought more thanone farm hand into it. Christ fed five thousand by the sea ofGalilee with five loaves and two small fishes. Was that Christian?Farmer Faragon, feeds, in his small way, by his industry, a fewscores of hungry mortals. Is he a drone?

Or take Mr. Typsel the printer. He publishes the Newtown Chronicle. He sends a weekly message to 10, 000 readers, at least twenty timesas many as Dr. Argure's congregation. I do not know how good aChristian he is; I do not know much about the Newtown Chronicle. ButI know that the press is exerting an incalculable influence over thepeople, for good or for ill and the man who devotes his energies toit, and really uses it to educate and elevate the community, isdoing as much in his sphere for Christ as the minister in his. Hehas no right to neglect the greater work God has given him to do forthe lesser work of teaching a Sabbath School class. 

Jennie. :

--That is if he cannot well do both. 

Laicus. :

--Yes--of course. If he can do both, that is very well. 

Dr. Argure. :

--That's a very dangerous doctrine Mr. Laicus. 

Laicus, : [(warmly). ]

--If it is true it is not dangerous. The truth is never dangerous. 

Dr. Argure. :

--The truth is not to be spoken at all times. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--That's a very unnecessary doctrine, Dr. , to teach to a lawyer. 

Dr. Argure, : [(indifferent alike to the sally and to the laughwhich follows it). ]

--Consider, Mr. Laicus, what would be the effect on the church ofpreaching that doctrine. It is our duty to build up the church. Itis the church which is the pillar and ground of the truth. It is thechurch which is Christ's great instrumentality for the conversion ofthe world. When the kingdoms of this world become the kingdoms ofour Lord and of his Christ, then the church will have universaldominion. Here in Wheathedge, for example, Mr. Work is laboring tobuild up and strengthen the church of Christ. And you tell hispeople and the people of hundreds of similar parishes all over theland, that it is no matter whether they do any work in the church ornot. Consider the effect of it. 

Laicus. :

--It seems to me, Dr. , that you entertain a low, though a verycommon, conception of your office. The ministers are not merebuilders of churches. They are set to build men. The church whichwill have universal dominion is not this or that particularorganization, but the whole body of those who love the truth as itis in Christ Jesus. Churches, creeds, covenants, synods, assemblies, associations, will all fade; the soul alone is immortal. If you arereally building for eternity you cannot merely build churches. 

Dr. Argure. :

--Consider then, Mr. Laicus, the effect of your doctrine on thehearts and souls of men. Consider how many idle and indifferentprofessors of religion there are, who are doing nothing in thechurch, and nothing for the church. And you tell them that it isjust as well they should not; that they are just as worthy of honoras if they were active in the Lords vineyard?

Laicus. :

--It is just as well if they are really serving Christ. It does notmake any difference whether they are doing it in the church or outof the church. Christ himself served chiefly out of the church, andhad it arrayed against him. So did Paul; so did Luther. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--Do you mean that it makes no difference, Mr. Laicus, whether a manis a member of the church or not?

Laicus. :

--Not at all. That is quite another matter. I am speaking of churchwork, not of church membership; and I insist that church work andChristian work are not necessarily synonymous. I insist thatwhatever tends to make mankind better, nobler, wiser, permanentlyhappier, if it is work carried on in the spirit of Christ is workfor Christ, whether it is done in the church or out of the church. Iinsist that every layman is bound to do ten-fold more for Christ outof the church than in its appointed ways and under its supervision. I have read, Dr. , with a great deal of interest your learned andexhaustive treatise on the higher education of women, (I am afraid Itold a little lie there; but had not the Dr. Just told me that thetruth was not to be told at all times), but I declare to you, thatso far as the elevation of woman is concerned, I would rather haveinvented the sewing machine than have been the author of all thesermons, addresses, magazine articles, editorials and pamphlets onthe woman question that have been composed since Paul wrote hissecond Epistle to the Christians. 

Dr. Argure, : [(shaking his head). ]

--It is a dangerous doctrine, Mr. Laicus, a dangerous doctrine. Youdo not consider its effect on the minds of the common people. 

Laicus, : [(thoroughly aroused and thoroughly in earnest). ]

--Do you consider the influence of the opposite teaching, both on thechurch and on the individual? We are building churches, you tell us. The "outsiders, " as we call them, very soon understand that. Theysee that we are on the look-out for men who can build us up, not formen whom we can build up. If a wealthy man comes into theneighborhood, we angle for him. If a devout, active, prayingChristian moves into the neighborhood, we angle for him. If adrunken loafer drops down upon us, does anybody ever angle for him?If a poor, forlorn widow, who has to work from Monday morning tillSaturday night, comes to dwell under the shadow of our church, do weangle for her? Yes! I am glad to believe we do. But the shrewdness, the energy, the tact, is displayed in the other kind of fishing. Don't you suppose "the world" understand this? Don't you suppose ourMr. Wheaton understands what we want him in the board of trusteesfor? Such men interpret our invitation--and they are not verywrong--as, come with us and do us good; not, come with us and we willdo you good. 

Consider, too, its effect on the individual. I attended a morningprayer meeting last winter in the city. A young man told hisexperience. He started in the morning, he said, to go to the store. But it seemed as though the Lord bid him retrace his steps. A voicewithin seemed to say to him, "Your duty is at the prayer meeting. "The battle between Christ and the world was long and bitter. Christat length prevailed. He had come to the prayer meeting. He wanted totell the brethren what Christ had done for his soul. The experiencemay have been genuine. It may have been his duty to leave the storefor the church that particular morning. But what is the effect of atraining which teaches a young man to consider all the time he givesto the store as time appropriated to the world? It is that he canserve both God and mammon; that he actually does. It draws a sharpline between the sacred and secular. And most of his life isnecessarily the secular. 

I forgot to mention that Mrs. Goodsole had come over with herhusband. She and Jennie sat side by side. But she had not opened hermouth since the salutations of the evening had been interchanged. She is the meekest and mildest of women. She is also the most timed. In public she rarely speaks. But it is currently reported that sheavenges herself for her silence by the curtain lectures, shedelivers to her good husband at home. Of that, however, I cannot besure. I speak only of rumor. Now she took advantage of a pause tosay:

Mrs. Goodsole. :

--I like Mr. Laicus's doctrine. It's very comforting to a woman likeme who am so busy at home that I can hardly get out to church onSundays. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--I don't believe it's true. Yes I do too. But I don't believe it'sapplicable. That is--well what I mean to say--I can't express myselfexactly, but my idea is this, that the people that won't work in thechurch are the very ones that do nothing out of it. The busy onesare busy everywhere. There is Mr. Line, for example. He has a largefarm. He keeps a summer hotel, two houses always full; and they arecapitally kept houses. That, of itself, is enough to keep any manbusy. The whole burden of both hotel and farm rests on hisshoulders. And yet he is elder and member of the board of trustees, and on hand, in every kind of exigency, in the church. He is one ofthe public school commissioners, is active in getting new roads laidout, and public improvements introduced, is the real founder of ournew academy, and, in short, has a hand in every good work that isever undertaken in Wheathedge. And there is Dr. Curall, whose caseMr. Laicus has advocated so eloquently and who is too busy to be anelder; and I verily believe I could count all his patients on thefingers of my two hands. 

Mrs. Goodsole, : [(inclined to agree with everybody, and so to liveat peace and amity with all mankind). ]

--There is something in that. There is Mrs. Wheaton who has only onechild, a grown up boy, and who keeps three or four servants to takecare of herself and her husband and her solitary son, and she isalways too busy to do anything in the church. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--On the other hand there is not a busier person in the church thanMiss Moore. She supports herself and her widowed mother by teaching. She is in school from nine till three, and gives private lessonsthree evenings in the week, and yet she finds time to visit all thesick in the neighborhood. And when last year we held a fair to raisemoney for an organ for the Sabbath school, she was the most activeand indefatigable worker among them all. Mrs. Bisket was the onlyone who compared with her. And Mrs. Bisket keeps a summerboarding-house, and it was the height of the season, and she onlyhad one girl part of the time. 

Dr. Argure rose to go, Deacon Goodsole followed his example. Therewere a few minutes of miscellaneous conversation as the gentlemenput on their coats. As we followed them to the library door DeaconGoodsole turned to me:--

"But you have not given me your answer yet, Mr. Laicus, " said he. 

Before I could give it, Jennie had drawn her arm through mine, andlooking up into my face for assent had answered for me. "He willthink of it, Mr. Goodsole, " said she. "He never decides any questionof importance without sleeping on it. "

I have been thinking of it. I am sure that I am right in my beliefthat there are many ways of working for Christ beside working forthe church. I am sure the first thing is for us to work for Christin our daily, secular affairs. I am sure that all are not drones whoare not buzzing in the ecclesiastical hive. But I am not so surethat I have not time to take that Bible-class. I am not so sure thatthe busy ones in the church are not also the busy ones out of thechurch. I remember that when Mr. James Harper was hard at workestablishing the business of Harper & Brothers, which has grown tosuch immense proportions since, at the very time he was workingnight as well as day to expedite publications, he was a trustee andclass-leader in John Street Methodist Church, and rarely missed thesessions of the board or the meetings of the class. I remember thatMr. Hatch, the famous banker, was almost the founder of the JerseyCity Tabernacle Church, and his now President of the Howard Mission. Yet I suppose there is not a busier man in Wall street. I rememberthat Wm. E. Dodge, jr. , and Morris K. Jessup, than whom there arefew men more industrious, commercially, are yet both active in CityMissions and in the Young Men's Christian Association; the former isan elder in an up-town church, and very active in Sabbath Schoolwork. I remember Ralph Wells, bishop of all the Presbyterian SabbathSchools for miles around New York, who was, until lately, active indaily business in the city. Yes I am sure that hard work in the weekis not always a good reason for refusing to work in the church onthe Sabbath. 

"Jennie, I am going to try that Bible class, as an experiment, forthe winter. "

"I am glad of it, John. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

Mr. Gear. 

"JENNIE, " said I, "Harry and I are going out for our walk. "

It was Sunday afternoon. I had enjoyed my usual Sunday afternoonnap, and now I was going out for my usual Sunday afternoon walk. Only this afternoon I had a purpose beside that of an hour'sexercise in the fresh air. 

"I wish I could go with you John, " said Jennie, "but it's Fanny'safternoon out, and I can't leave the baby. Where are you going?"

"Up to the mill village, to see Mr. Gear, " said I. "I am going toask him to join the Bible class. "

"Why John he's an infidel I thought. "

"So they say, " I replied. "But it can't do an infidel any harm tostudy the Bible. I may not succeed; I probably shan't; but Icertainly shan't if I don't try. "

"I wish I could do something to help you John. And I think I can. Ican pray for you. Perhaps that will help you?"

Help me. With the assurance of those prayers I walked along the roadwith a new confidence of hope. Before I had dreaded my errand, now Iwas in haste for the interview. I believe in the intercession of thesaints; and Jennie is a--but I forget. The public are rarelyinterested in a man's opinion about his own wife. 

The mill village, as we call it, is a little collection of cottageswith one or two houses of a somewhat more pretentious character, which gather round the wheel-barrow factory down the river, a goodmile's walk from the church. It was a bright afternoon in October. The woods were in the glory of their radiant death, the air wascrisp and keen. Harry who now ran before, now loitered behind, andnow walked sedately by my side, was full of spirits, and there waseverything to make the soul feel hope and courage. And yet I had mymisgivings. When I had told Deacon Goodsole that I was going to callon Mr. Gear he exclaimed at my proposition. 

"Why he's a regular out and outer. He does not believe inanything--Church, Bible, Sunday, Christ, God or even his ownimmortality. "

"What do you know of him?" I asked. 

"He was born in New England, " replied the Deacon, "brought up in anorthodox family, taught to say the Westminster Assembly's Catechism(he can say it better than I can today), and listened twice everySunday till he was eighteen to good sound orthodox preaching. Thenhe left home and the church together; and he has never been toeither, to remain, since. "

"Does he ever go to church?" I asked. 

The Deacon shrugged his shoulders. "I asked him that question myselfthe other day, " said he. "You never go to church, Mr. Gear, Ibelieve?" said I. 

"Oh! yes I do, " he replied. "I go home every Christmas to spend aweek. And at home I always go to church for the sake of the oldfolks. At Wheathedge I always stay away for my own sake. "

"And what do you know of his theology?" said I. 

"Theology, " said the Deacon; "he hasn't any. His creed is theshortest and simplest one I know of. I tried to have a religiousconversation with him once but I had to give it up. I could makenothing out of him. He said he believed in the existence of a God. But he scouted the idea that we could know anything about Him. Hewas rather inclined to think there was a future life; but nobodyknew anything about it. All that we could know was that if we arevirtuous in this life we shall be happy in the next--if there is anext. "

"He does not believe that the gates are wide open there, " said I. 

"No, " said the Deacon; "nor ajar either. "

"And what does he say of Christ and Christianity, " said I. 

"Of Jesus Christ, " said the Deacon, "that--well--probably such a manlived, and was a very pure and holy man, and a very remarkableteacher, certainly for his age a very remarkable teacher. But heridicules the idea of the miracles; says he does not believe themany more than he believes in the mythical legends of Greek and Romanliterature. And as to Christianity he believes its a very goodsort of thing, better for America than any other religion; but herather thinks Buddhism is very likely better for India. "

"But I wish you would go and see him, " continued the Deacon. "Perhaps you can make something out of him. I can't. I have triedagain and again, and I always get the worst of it. He is well read, I assure you, and keen as--as, " the Deacon failed in his search for asimile and closed his sentence with--"a great deal keener than I am. He's a real good fellow, but he doesn't believe in anything. Thereis no use in quoting Scripture, because he thinks it's nothing but acollection of old legends. I once tried to argue the question ofinspiration with him. 'Deacon, ' said he to me, 'suppose a fathershould start off one fine morning to carry his son up to the top ofHuricane Hill and put him to death there, and should pretend he hada revelation from God to do it, what would you do to him?' 'Put himin the insane asylum, ' said I. 'Exactly, ' said he. 'My boys camehome from your Sabbath School the other Sunday full of the sacrificeof Isaac, and Will, who takes after his father, asked me if I didn'tthink it was cruel for God to tell a father to kill his own son. What could I say? I don't often interfere, because it troubles mywife so. But I couldn't stand that, and I told him very frankly thatI didn't believe the story, and if it was true I thought Abraham wascrazy. ' He had me there, you know, " continued the Deacon, good-naturedly, "but then I never was good for anything in discussion. Iwish you would go to see him, may be you would bring him to terms. "

And so I was going now, not without misgivings, and with no greatfaith in any capacity on my part to "bring him to terms, " as theDeacon phrased it, but buoyed up a good deal, notwithstanding, bythe remembrance of those promised prayers. 

And yet though Mr. Gear is an infidel he is not a bad man. Even Dr. Argure, and he is fearfully sound on the doctrine of totaldepravity, admits that there are some good traits about him, "natural virtues" he is careful to explain, not "saving graces. "

Of his thorough, incorruptible honesty, no man ever intimated adoubt. In every business transaction he is the soul of honor. Hisword is a great deal better than Jim Wheaton's bond. 

In every good work he is a leader. When the new school-house was tobe built, Mr. Gear was put, by an almost unanimous consent, upon theBoard, and made its treasurer. When, last Fall, rumors were rife ofthe mismanagement of the Poor-house, Mr. Gear was the one to demandan investigation, and, being put upon the Committee, to push throughagainst a good deal of opposition, till he secured the reform thatwas needed. In his shop there is not a man whose personal history hedoes not know, not one who does not count him a personal friend. That there has not been a strike for ten years is due to theworkmen's personal faith in him. When Robert Dale was caught in theshafting and killed last winter, it was Mr. Gear who paid thewidow's rent out of his own pocket, got the eldest son a place on afarm, and carried around personally a subscription to provide forthe family, after starting it handsomely himself. He is appointed toarbitrate in half the incipient quarrels of the neighborhood, andsettles more controversies, I am confident, than his neighbor, Squire Hodgson, though the latter is a Justice of the Peace. Thereis always difficulty in collecting our pew rents. Half the churchmembers are from one week to one quarter behind-hand. Mr. Gear has apew for his family, and his pew-rent is always paid before itbecomes due. The Deacon tells me confidentially, that Mr. Work doesnot think it prudent to preach against intemperance because JimWheaton always has wine on his table New Year's day. Mr. Gear is thehead of the Good Templars, and has done more to circulate the pledgeamong the workmen of the town than all the rest of us put together. He is naturally an intensely passionate man, and I am told rips outan oath now and then. But that he is vigorously laboring withhimself to control his temper is very evident, and it is equallyevident, so at least the Deacon says, that he is gaining a victoryin this life-campaign. 

"It is very clear, " said I to myself, as I walked along, "that thereare some good points in Mr. Gear's character. He must have a sidewhere Christian truth could get in, if one could only find it; whereindeed it does get in, though he thinks, and every one else thinks, it does not. Be it my task to find the place. "

CHAPTER IX. 

I get my first Bible Scholar. 

A pretty little cottage-white, with green blinds; the neatest ofneat fences; a little platform in front of the sidewalk with threesteps leading up to it, --a convenient method of access to our highcountry carriages; two posts before the gate neatly turned, atrellis over the front door with a climbing rose which has mountedhalf way to the top and stopped to rest for the season; anothertrellis fan-shaped behind which a path disappears that leads roundto the kitchen door; the tastiest of little bird houses, nowtenantless and desolate, --this is the picture that meets my eye andassures me that Mr. Gear is a man both of taste and thrift, asindeed he is. 

Mrs. Gear who comes to the door in answer to my knock and who is acheerful little body with yet a tinge of sadness in her countenance, as one who knows some secret sorrow which her blithe heart cannotwholly sing away, is very glad to see me. She calls me by my nameand introduces herself with a grace that is as much more gracefulas it is more natural than the polished and stately manners whichMrs. Wheaton has brought with her from fashionable society toWheathedge. Mr. Gear is out, he has gone down to the shop, --will Iwalk in, --he will be back directly. I am very happy to walk in, andMrs. Gear introducing me to a cozy little sitting-room with alibrary table in the centre, and a book-case on one side, wellfilled too, takes Harry by the hand, and leads him out to introducehim to the great Newfoundland dog whom we saw basking in thesunshine on the steps of the side door, as we came up the road. 

I am accustomed to judge of men by their companions, and books arecompanions. So whenever I am in a parlor alone I always examine thebook-case, or the centre table--if there is one. In Mrs. Wheaton'sparlor I find no book-case, but a large centre table on which thereare several annuals with a great deal of gilt binding and verylittle reading, and a volume or two of plates, sometimes handsome, more often showy. In the library, which opens out of the parlor, Ifind sets of the classic authors in library bindings, but when Itake one down it betrays the fact that no other hand has touched itto open it before. And I know that Jim Wheaton buys books to furnishhis house, just as he buys wall paper and carpets. At Mr. Hardcap'sI find a big family Bible, and half a dozen of those made up volumesfat with thick paper and large type, and showy with poor pictures, which constitute the common literature of two thirds of our countryhomes. And I know that poor Mr. Hardcap is the unfortunate victim ofbook agents. At Deacon Goodsole's I always see some school bookslying in admirable confusion on the sitting-room table. And I knowthat Deacon Goodsole has children, and that they bring their bookshome at night to do some real studying, and that they do it in thefamily sitting-room and get help now and then from father and frommother. And so while I am waiting for Mr. Gear I take a furtiveglance at his well filled shelves. I am rather surprized to find inhis little library so large a religious element, though nearly allof it heterodox. There is a complete edition of Theodore Parker'sworks, Channing's works, a volume or two of Robertson, one ofFurness, the English translation of Strauss' Life of Christ, Renan'sJesus, and half a dozen more similar books, intermingled withvolumes of history, biography, science, travels, and the NewAmerican Cyclopedia. The Radical and the Atlantic Monthly are on thetable. The only orthodox book is Beecher's Sermons, --and I believeDr. Argure says they are not orthodox; the only approach to fictionis one of Oliver Wendell Holmes' books, I do not now remember whichone. "Well, " said I to myself, "whatever this man is, he is notirreligious. "

I had just arrived at this conclusion when Mr. Gear entered. A tall, thin, nervous man, with a high forehead, piercing black eyes, and arestless uneasiness that forbids him from ever being for a momentstill. Now he runs his hand through his hair pushing it stillfurther back from his dome of a head, now he drums the table withhis uneasy fingers, now he crosses and uncrosses his long legs, andonce, as our conversation grows animated, he rises from his seat inthe vehemence of his earnestness, and leans against the mantelpiece. A clear-eyed, frank faced, fine looking man, who would compelyour heed if you met him anywhere, unknown, by chance, on the publicstreet. "An infidel you may be, " I say to myself, "but not a badman; on the contrary a man with much that is true and noble, or I amno physiognomist or phrenologist either. " And I rather pride myselfon being both. 

We lawyers learn to study the faces of our witnesses, to form quickjudgments, and to act upon them. If I did not mistake my man thedirectest method was the best, and I employed it. 

"Mr. Gear, " said I, "I have come to ask you to join my Bible class. "

"Me!" said Mr. Gear unmistakeably surprised. "I don't believe in theBible. "

"So I have heard, " I said quietly. "And that's the reason I came toyou first. In fact I do not want you to join my Bible class. I havenot got any Bible class as yet, I want you to join me in getting oneup. "

Mr. Gear smiled incredulously. "You had better get Deacon Goodsole, "said he, --"or, " and the smile changed from a goodnatured to asarcastic one, "or Mr. Hardcap. "

"I have no doubt they would either of them join me, " said I. "Butthey believe substantially as I have been taught to believe aboutthe Bible. They have learned to look at it through creeds, andcatechisms, and orthodox preaching. I want to get a fresh look atit. I want to come to it as I would come to any other book, and tofind out what it means, not what it seems to mean to a man who hasbeen bred to believe that it is only the flesh and blood of whichthe dry bones are the Westminster Assembly's Catechism. "

"Mr. Laicus, " said Mr. Gear, "I thank you for the honor you do me. But I don't believe in the Bible. I don't believe it's the word ofGod any more than Homer or Tacitus. I don't believe those oldHebrews knew any more than we do--nor half so much. It says the worldwas made in six days. I think it more likely it was six millions ofyears in making. "

"So do I, " said I. 

"It says God rested on the Sabbath day. I believe He always works, day and night, summer and winter, in every blazing fire, in everygathering storm, in every rushing river, in every growing flower, inevery falling leaf. "

He rose as he spoke and stood, now leaning against the mantel piece, now standing erect, his dark eyes flashing, his great foreheadseeming to expand with great thoughts, his soul all enkindled withhis own eloquence: for eloquent he really was, and all unconsciousof it. 

"Your Bible, " said he "shuts God up in a Temple, and in an ark inthat, and hides him behind curtains where the High priest can findhim but once a year. My God is every where. There is no church thatcan hold him. The heavens are his home; the earth is his footstool. All this bright and beautiful world is his temple. He is in everymountain, in every cloud, in every winter wind and every summerbreeze. "

He looked so handsome in his earnest eloquence that I had no heartto interrupt him. And yet I waited and watched for any opening hemight give me, and thought of Jennie, and her prayers at home, anddeclared to myself by God's help I would not let this man go till Ihad caught him and brought him to know the love that now he knewnot. 

"Your Bible, Mr. Laicus, " said he, "sets apart one day for the Lordand gives all the rest to the world, the flesh, and the devil. Ibelieve all days are divine, all days are the Lord's, all hours aresacred hours and all ground is holy ground. "

I wanted to tell him that my Bible did no such thing. But I hadfully considered what I would do before I had sought this interview. I had resolved that nothing should tempt me into a contradiction oran argument. I had studied Jennie's method, and I reserved my fire. 

"Your Bible tells me, " said he, "that God wrote his laws with hisfinger on two tables of stone; that he tried to preserve them fromdestruction by bidding them be kept in a sacred ark; and thatdespite his care they were broken in pieces before Moses got downfrom the mountain top. I believe he writes them impartially innature and in our hearts, that science interprets them, and that noMoses astonished out of his presence of mind can harm them or breakthe tablets on which they are engraven. "

So true, yet oh so false. Oh God! help me to teach him what my Biblereally is and what its glorious teachings are. 

"I don't believe the Bible is the Word of God. I can't believe it. Idon't believe the laws of Moses are any more inspired than the lawsof Solon, or the books of Samuel and Kings than the history ofTacitus, or the Psalms of David than the Paradise Lost of Milton, or--you'll think me bold indeed to say so Mr. Laicus, " (he was coolernow and spoke more slowly), "the words of Jesus, than the preceptsof Confucius or the dialogues of Plato. "

In that sentence he gave to me my clue. I seized it instantly, andnever lost it from that moment. Never case in court so thrilled mewith excitement as I too arose and leaned against the mantel-piece. And never was I, in tone and manner, calmer. 

"As much so?" I asked carelessly. 

"Yes. . . . . " said he, hesitatingly, "yes. . . . . As much so I suppose. "

"The ten commandments have been before the world for over threethousand years, " said I. "The number that have learned them andaccepted them as a guide, and found in them a practical help is tobe counted by millions. There is hardly a child in Wheathedge thatdoes not know something of them, and has not been made better forthem; and hardly a man who knows Solon even by name. We can hardlydoubt that the one is as well worth studying as the other, Mr. Gear. "

"No, " said Mr. Gear. "I don't deny that they are worth studying. ButI do deny that they are inspired. "

"The Psalms of David have supplied the Christian church with itsbest psalmody for nearly three thousand years, " continued I. "Theyconstitute the reservoir from which Luther, and Watts, and Wesley, and Doddridge, and a host of other singers have drawn theirinspiration, and in which myriads untold have found the expressionof their highest and holiest experiences, myriads who never heard ofHomer. They are surely as well worth studying as his noble epics. "

"I don't deny, they are worth studying, " said Mr. Gear. "I onlyassert that they ought to be studied as any other books of noblethoughts, intermingled with grossest errors, should be studied. "

"The words of Jesus, " I continued more slowly than before "havechanged the life and character of more than half the world, thathalf which alone possesses modern civilization, that half with whichyou and I, Mr. Gear, are most concerned. There was wonderful powerin the doctrines of Buddha. But Buddhism has relapsed everywhereinto the grossest of idolatries. There is a wonderful wealth ofmoral truth in the ethics of Confucius. But the ethics of Confuciushave not saved the Chinese nation from stagnation and death. Thereis wonderful life-awaking power in the writings of Plato. But theyare hid from the common people in a dead language, and when a Prof. Jowett gives them glorious resurrection in our vernacular, they arestill hid from the common people by their subtlety. Everyphilosopher ought to study Plato. Every scholar may profitably studyBuddha and Confucius. But every intelligent American ought to studythe life and words of Jesus of Nazareth. "

"I do, " said Mr. Gear. "I do not disesteem Jesus of Nazareth. Ihonor him as first among men. I revere his noble life, his sublimedeath, and his incomparable teachings. I have read his life in theGospels; I have read it as Strauss gives it; and as Renan gives it;and now I am devoting my Sunday afternoons to reading it asPressense gives it. You see I am an impartial student. I read allsides. "

"You think Christ's life and teaching worth your study then?" I saidinquiringly. 

"Worth my study? Of course I do, " said he. "I am an infidel, Mr. Laicus; at least people commonly call me so, and think it verydreadful. But I do not mean to be ignorant of the Bible or ofChristianity as Jesus Christ gave it to us. It needs winnowing. Wehave grown wiser and know better about many things since then. Butit is well worth the studying and will be for many years to come. "

"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 tryand fathom some occult design. 

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

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

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

He made no answer. 

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

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

"Perhaps, " said I. "But an hour and a half from their Sunday instudying the life and words of Jesus would do them no harm, anddetract nothing from their holiday. They do not study so hardthroughout 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 abetter workman, husband, father, citizen, for studying that life andthose teachings one hour a week. "

"It is true, " said he. 

"You organized a Shakspeare club last winter to keep them from JoePoole'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 afternoonsthis winter for the same purpose?"

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

"You believe in the literal inspiration of the New TestamentScripture. I believe it is a book half legend half history. Youbelieve in the miracles. I believe they are mythical addition of alater date. You believe that Jesus Christ was conceived of the HolyGhost and born of the Virgin Mary. I believe his birth was asnatural as his death was cruel and untimely. You believe that--hewas divine. I believe he was a man of like passions as we ourselvesare, --a Son of God only as every noble spirit is a spark struck offfrom the heavenly Original. You believe that he bears our sins upona tree. I believe that every soul must bear its own burdens. What isthere in common between us? What good could it do to you or to me totake Sunday afternoon for a weekly tournament, with the young menfrom 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, "didyou occupy your time in discussions of the text? Did you comparemanuscripts? Did you investigate the canonicity of Shakspeare'svarious plays? Did you ransack the past to know the value of thelatest theory that there never was a Will. Shakspeare save as a nomde plume for Lord Bacon? Did you inquire into the origin of hisseveral plots, and study to know how much of his work was really hisown and how much was borrowed from foreign sources. Or did you leavethat all to the critics, and take the Shakspeare of today, andgather what instruction you might therefrom?"

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

"There is much in common between us, Mr. Gear, " I continuedearnestly, "though much, very much that is not. We can find plentyof subject for fruitless debate no doubt. Can we find none foragreement and mutual helpfulness? Jesus of Nazareth you honor asfirst among men. You revere His noble life, His sublime death, Hisincomparable teachings. So do I. That noble life we can readtogether, Mr. Gear, and together we may emulate His example withouta fruitless debate whether it be divine or no. Those incomparableteachings we can study together, that together we may catch thespirit that dictated them, without a theological controversy as totheir authority. And even that sublime death I should hope we mightcontemplate together, without contention, though in the sufferingChrist you see only a martyr, and I behold my Saviour and my God. "

He made no answer, still stood silent. But he no longer looked at mewith his sharp eyes. They had retired beneath his shaggy eyebrows asthough he would search his own soul through and through, and readits verdict. He told me afterwards the story of his battle; Iguessed it even then. 

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

"Mr. Laicus, " said Mr. Gear at length, very slowly. "I thank you forcoming to me, I thank you for speaking plainly and frankly as youhave; I thank you for the respect which you have shown to myconvictions. They are honest, and were not arrived at without astruggle and some self sacrifice. You are the first Christian, " headded bitterly "that ever paid them the regard of a respectfulhearing. I will join you in that Bible Class for this winter, and Iwill prove to you, infidel that I am, that I as well as a Christian, can respect convictions widely different from my own. If we quarrelit shall not be my fault. "

"I believe you, Mr. Gear, " said I. "God helping me it shall not bemine, 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 cangather the young men, " said I. 

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

"The mill school-house be it, " said I. "Next Sunday afternoon at 3o'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 theBible Class together. "

Tears stood in her eyes as she looked up at me with that smile Ilove 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 DeaconGoodsole habitually absents himself from our Sabbath eveningservice. The pastor called the other day to confer with me on thesubject; for he has somehow come to regard me as a convenientadviser, perhaps because I hold no office and take no very activepart in the management of the Church, and so am quite free from whatmay be called its politics. He said he thought it quite unfortunate;not that the Deacon needed the second service himself, but that, byabsenting himself from the house of God, he set a very bad exampleto 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 hefelt some delicacy about talking with the Deacon himself on thesubject. "Of course, " said he, "if he does not derive profit from mydiscourses I do not want to dragoon him into hearing them. "

I readily promised to seek an occasion to talk with the Deacon, themore so because I really feel for our pastor. When I first came toWheathedge he was full of enthusiasm. He has various plans foradding 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 politicaldiscourse would draw a pretty full house, but generally it was quiteevident that the second sermon was almost as much of a burden to thecongregation as it was to the minister. Latterly he seems to havegiven up these attempts, and to follow the example of his brethrenhereabout. He exchanges pretty often. Quite frequently we get anagent. Occasionally I fancy, the more from the pastor's manner thanfrom my recollection, that he is preaching an old sermon. At othertimes we get a sort of expository lecture, the substance of which Ifind in my copy of Lange when I get home. Under this treatment thecongregation, never very large, has dwindled away to quitediminutive proportions; and our poor pastor is quite discouraged. Until about six weeks ago Deacon Goodsole was always in his pew. Ithink his falling off was the last straw. 

Last Sabbath evening, on my way to church, I stopped, according topromise, to see the Deacon. As I went up the steps I heard the soundof music, and waited a moment lest I should disturb the family'sevening devotions. But as the music continued, and presently thetune changed, I concluded to knock. Nettie, the Deacon's youngestdaughter, who by the way is a great favorite with me, answered theknock almost instantly. The open hymn-book was in her hand, andbefore I could get time to ask for the Deacon, she had, in hercharmingly impulsive way, dragged me in, snatched my hat from myhand, deposited it on the table, and pushed me into the parlor. Infact, before I well knew what I was about, I found myself in the bigarm-chair with Nettie in my lap, taking part in the Deacon's secondservice. 

His family were all about him, including the stable boy, whose hairlooked as sleek as the Deacon's horse. For the Deacon has some queernotions about the duties of employers to their servants, and, thoughthe very kindest of men, is generally thought by the neighbors to be"a queer stick. " The Deacon's wife, who has a very sweet sopranovoice, which, however, she never could be persuaded to use in ourchoir, was presiding at the piano. The children all had their hymnand tune-books, and they were "singing round"--each member of thefamily selecting a hymn in turn. As they were limited to two verseseach--except where two clubbed together to secure an entire hymn--theexercise was not prolonged, and certainly did not become tedious. After the singing, the Deacon asked the children if they were readywith their verses. They all raised their hands. The Deacon thenrepeated a short piece of poetry, his wife followed, and then allthe children one after another, even down to Bob--a littlethree-year-old, who just managed to lisp out, with a charmingmixture of pride and bashfulness, Jesus, tender Seperd, Has' thou died faw me, Make me vewy fwankful In my heart to thee. 

Then the Deacon took down the family bible and opened it to thestory of Joseph. He asked the children how far he had got. Theyanswered him very sagely, and their responses to a few questionswhich he put to them showed that they understood what had gonebefore. Then he read part of one chapter, that which describes thebeginning of the famine, and, asking Joe to bring him the fullvolume of Stanley's Jewish Church, he read the admirable descriptionof an Egyptian famine which it contains. By this time Bob was fastasleep in his mother's arms. But all the rest of us kneeled down andrepeated the Lord's prayer with the Deacon--another of his queernotions. The neighbors think he is inclined to be an Episcopalian, because he wants it introduced into the church service, but he sayshe does not really think that the Lord was an Episcopalian, and ifhe was it would not be any good reason for not using his prayer. Then the children kissed good-night, all round, and went to bed. Mrs. Goodsole took Bob off to his crib, and the Deacon and I wereleft alone. It was long past time for church service to begin, so Iabandoned all idea of going to church, and opened to the Deacon atonce the object of my errand. I told him very frankly that we notonly missed him from the church, but that the pastor felt that hisexample was an unfortunate one, and that the church generally wereafraid he was growing luke-warm in the Master's service, and Igently reminded him of the apostle's direction not to forget theassembling of ourselves together. 

"Well, " said he--though in trying to give his answer in his ownlanguage, I am obliged to condense the conversation of half-an-hourinto a single paragraph--"Well, I will tell you how it is. You know Iused to be pretty regular in attendance on church, and in fact apretty busy man on Sundays. We had breakfast early. Right afterbreakfast I sat down to look over my Sunday-school lesson for thelast time. At nine o'clock I went to Sunday-school, where I had aBible-class. At half-past ten came church. After service I hadbarely time to get a lunch, and then had to hurry away to ourMission. We almost always had some sort of a teachers' meeting afterthe regular session, so that it was generally tea-time before I gothome. After tea I was off to church again. I almost always woke upMonday morning tired, and a little cross. My children are prettygood ones, I think, but they had a queer distaste for Sunday, whichI put down to total depravity. And, strangest of all, my wife, whoonly went to church Sunday morning, and would not even sing in thechoir, seemed to be as tired Monday morning as I was, only as it waswashing-day she could not sleep as late. About two months ago I waslaid up with a boil, and could not go to church. Of course I did nothave my Sunday-school lesson to learn, and I was surprised tonotice, for the first time, how hard my wife had to work to get thechildren off to Sunday-school. They stayed at church--as they alwaysdo--and for an hour after dinner they got along very well, readingtheir library books, but then began the labors of the day. First Iheard Joe out in the yard frolicking with the dog, and rousing allthe neighborhood with his racket. Of course I called him in. Next Iheard my wife calling Lucy and Nettie to come down out of the swing. The next thing Bob was playing horse with the chairs in the parlor. So it went all the afternoon. The children had nothing to do. Theycould not read Sunday-school books all day. I am heterodox enough towonder how they can read them at all--and of course they got into allsorts of mischief. And when at last poor Bobby came to me in utterdespair, and lisped out, "Papa, what did God make Sunday for?" Ibroke down. I gathered the children about me, and proposed to themthis evening service. I told them that if they would learn a hymnevery Sunday I would stay at home in the evening with them. Theycaught at the idea enthusiastically. There is no law about it. Theyneed not learn if they do not want to. But even Bobby has caught theenthusiasm, and gets a book and goes to his mamma every Sundayafternoon to teach him a verse. I have given up my class in theMission, and made one of my Sunday-school Bible-class take it. I liedown and take a little nap after dinner. Then I learn my own hymn, and make my preparation for our evening service. About an hourbefore tea the children gather about me in the arbor and I read tothem. I have just got Dr. Newton's "Bible Wonders, " and am readingit chapter by chapter. My wife takes that opportunity to rest. Theconsequence is that we both really get refreshed, instead of jadedout by our Sunday, and I think the children really look forward withanticipations of delight to its coming. "My Bible, " continued theDeacon good naturedly, "says something about resting on Sunday. Iwish our pastor would tell us what that means sometime. "

I told the Deacon I thought he ought to tell his brethren, at someprayer-meeting, the reason why he stayed away from church; that itwas due both to himself and to them. He agreed to do so. As formyself I am somewhat puzzled. I do not want our pastor left topreach to empty pews. But I am greatly enamored of the Deacon'ssecond service. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Our Pastor Resigns. 

ALL Wheathedge is in a fever of excitement. "Blessings brighten asthey take their flight. " We have just learned that we have enjoyedfor these several years the ministry of one of the most energetic, faithful, assiduous, eloquent, and devoted "sons of thunder, " in theState. We never appreciated our dominie aright till now. But now noone can praise him too highly. The cause of this his sudden rise inpublic estimation is a very simple one. He has been called to a NewYork City parish. And he has accepted the call. 

This is a curious world, and the most curious part of it is theChurch. While he stayed we grumbled at him. Now he leaves we grumblebecause he is going. 

I first heard of this matter a couple of weeks ago. No. Some rumorsof what was threatened were in the air last summer. One Sabbath, inour congregation, were three gentlemen, in one of whom I recognisedmy friend, Mr. Eccles, of the--street Presbyterian Church of NewYork City. He was there again the second Sabbath. It was rumoredthen that he was on a tour of inspection. But I paid littleattention to the rumor. In October, our pastor takes his vacation. Ithought it a little strange that he should spend half of it in NewYork, and seek rest from preaching in his own pulpit by repeatinghis sermons in a metropolitan church. But I knew the state of hispurse. I therefore gave very little heed to the gossip which my wiferepeated to me, and which she had picked up in the open market. ForSunday is market day, and the church is the market for villagegossip in Wheathedge. And Jennie, who is constitutionally averse tochange, was afraid we were going to lose our pastor, and said asmuch. But I laughed at her fears. 

However, the result proved that the gossips were, for once, right. About two weeks ago, Mr. And Mrs. Work came into my house in a highstate of subdued excitement. Mr. Work handed me a letter. It was acall to the--street Presbyterian Church in New York--salary $4000 ayear. It was accompanied by a glowing portraiture of the present andprospective usefulness which this field opened. The church wassituated in a part of the city where there were few or no churches. The ward had a population of over fifty thousand, a large majorityof whom attended no church. More than half were Protestants. Therewas a grand field for Sabbath-school labor. The church wasthoroughly united. Its financial condition was satisfactory, and itsprospects encouraging. And the hearts of the people had been led tounite as one man upon Mr. Work. 

"I cannot but think, " said Mr. Work, "that it is Providential. Theposition is entirely unsought. Yet I do not really feel equal to aplace of such importance. I am sensible how much wider is the sphereof usefulness. But am I able to fill it? That is the question. "

"Well, for my part, " said Mrs. Work, "I confess that I am mercenary. There is a great deal of difference between $1, 200 and $4, 000 ayear. It will put us at our ease at once. And just think whatadvantages for the children. "

They wanted my advice. At least they said so. It is my privateopinion that they wanted me to advise them to go. I told them Iwould think about it and tell them the result the next week. Theyagreed meanwhile to wait. 

There were two considerations which operated on their minds, oneusefulness, the other salary. I undertook to measure those twoconsiderations. 

The very next day gave me an opportunity to investigate the former. I met my friend Mr. Eccles at Delmonico's. We talked over theaffairs of his church at the table. 

"You are trying to get our minister away from us, " said I. 

"Yes, " said he. "And I think we shall get him. He is a soundman--just the man to build us up. "

"And how are you prospering?" said I. 

"Capitally, " said he. And then he proceeded, in answer to across-examination, to interpret his reply. The Church had almost amonopoly of the ward. Its debt was but $10, 000, which was in amortgage on the property. There was also a small floating debt whichwould be easily provided for. It paid its former pastor $4, 000, justwhat it offered Mr. Work. Its pew rents were about $3, 500. Thedeficiency was considerable, and had to be made up every year bysubscription. "But our minister, " said M. Eccles, confidentially, "was a dull preacher. I liked him--my wife liked him. All the churchfolks liked him. But he did not draw. And it is not enough in NewYork city, Mr. Laicus, for a minister to be a good man, or even agood preacher. He must draw. That's it; he must draw. I expect thefirst year, that we shall have a deficit to make up, but if nextspring we don't let all our pews, why I am mistaken in my man, that's all. Besides they say he is a capital man to get money out ofpeople, and we must pay off our debt or we will never succeed, andthat's a fact. "

I got some figures from Mr. Eccles, and put them down. They give thefollowing result:

Income. 200 pews at present average-$30 a pew$6, 000

Expenses. Salary$4, 000Interest700Music1, 200Sexton, fuel, light, &c. 1, 200Total$7, 100

When I showed the footing to Mr. Eccles he shrugged his shoulders. "We shall have to raise our pew rents, " said he. "They areunconscionably low, and we must pay off our debt. Then we are allright. And if we get the right man, one that can draw, he will putour heads above water. "

With that we separated. 

Not, however, till I got some further information from him. Heremarked casually that he had a notion of moving out of town, andasked me about prices at Wheathedge. "It costs a fortune to livehere, " said he. "My wife has an allowance of $300 a month forhousehold and personal expenses. My clothing and extras cost meanother $500. And the "sundries" are awful. You can't go out of yourhouse for less than a dollar. I have no doubt my incidentals areanother $500. It is awful--awful. "

I advised him to move up to Wheathedge, the more cordially because Ihave a lot I would like to sell him for about a thousand dollars. Ireally believe he is thinking seriously of it. 

The next day I went into the office of my friend Mr. Rental, thebroker. I told him I was looking for a house for a friend, and askedthe prices. He showed me a list-rents $2, 000, $2, 500, $3, 000. Theywere too high. Would property in Brooklyn or Jersey City do? No. Itmust be in New York. It must be in the -- ward. It must be a good, comfortable, plain house, without any show or pretension. 

"There are none such to let in the city, " said Mr. Rental. "Landcosts too much. The few plain houses are all occupied by theirowners. " The very best he could do was one house, half a mile fromthe church, for $1, 800. He had one other for $1, 500, but it wasopposite an immense stable, and had neither cellar nor furnace, andcroton only on the first floor. I thanked him and said I would lookin again if either of them suited. 

Last week, according to appointment, our pastor and his wife came infor a second consultation. 

"There are, " said I, "two considerations which might lead you toaccept this call-increased usefulness and increased salary. I do notdeny the importance of a New York city parish, nor fail to recognizethe good work the city ministers are doing. But you must not fail torecognize the difficulties of the situation. New York issensation-mad. The competition in churches is as great as inbusiness. There are perhaps half a dozen men of genius who filltheir churches with ease, or whose churches are filled because theyare the resort of "good society. " The rest of the ministers arecompelled to devote three-quarters of their energies to keeping acongregation together, the other quarter to doing them good. Theyaccomplish the first, sometimes by patient, persistent, assiduous, unwearying pastoral labor, sometimes by achieving a publicreputation, sometimes by the doubtful expedient of sensationaladvertisements of paradoxical topics. But in whatever way they do itthe hardest part of their work, a part, country parsons know next tonothing of, is to get and keep a congregation. What you are wantedfor at the--street Presbyterian Church is to 'build it up. ' The onequality for which you are commended is the capacity to 'draw. 'Doubtless there are devout praying men and women who will measureyour work by its spiritual results, by the conversion of sinners andthe growth in grace of Christians. But what the financial managerswant is one who will fill up their empty pews, enable them to addfifty per cent. To the rentals, and in some way pay off their debt. That will be their measure of your usefulness. "

It was quite evident that my good pastor and his wife thought meuncharitable. Was I?

"As to salary, " said I, "you country clergymen are greatly mistakenin supposing that city salaries are prizes to be coveted. Sixthousand dollars is only a moderately fair support for a New Yorkclergyman, and there are comparatively few who get it. You must payat least $1, 800 rent. You must dress as well as the average of yourbest families. You must neither be ashamed for yourselves nor foryour children in the best society. You must keep open house. Youmust set a good table. You must be "given to hospitality. " You musttake a lead in organizing the missionary and charitable movements ofyour Church, which you cannot do without some money. You must beready to co-operate in great public, church, and philanthropicmovements. You must take a vacation of six weeks every summer, whichof itself, at the lowest estimate, will cost you $150 or $200 ayear. I have made some inquiries of three or four economical friendsin New York. Here is the result of my inquiries. You may reduce thefigures a little. But it will require quite as much economy to livein New York on $4, 000 a year as in Wheathedge on $1, 200. "

With that I showed them the following memorandum:

Rent$1, 800Household expenses (a low estimate)1, 800Dress for Mrs. Work and the two children600Dress and personal expenses of Mr. Work500Summer vacation150Incidentals500

$5, 350

Mr. And Mrs. Work thanked me for my advice, and took my memorandumhome with them. But it was quite evident that Mrs. Work was notsatisfied that $4, 000 was not a great advance on $1, 200. And I wasnot at all surprised when Mr. Work read his resignation from thepulpit last Sabbath. Next Sabbath he preaches his farewell sermon. 

I hope I may prove a false prophet. But I think Mrs. Work will findher arithmetical powers taxed in New York as they never were inWheathedge, and I shall be more pleased than I can tell if in fiveyears Mr. Work does not retire from his post a disappointed man, orfind that he has purchased success at the price of his health, ifnot his life. 

Meanwhile we are beginning already to look about for his successor. 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Committee on Supply hold an informal Meeting. 

MR. Work has preached his last sermon. A committee has beenappointed to supply the pulpit, and secure a candidate for thepastorate. I believe this sort of business is generally left to thesession; but on Deacon Goodsole's motion a special committee wasappointed partly out of respect to the congregational element whichis considerable in this church, and partly, I suspect, as acompliment to Mr. Wheaton. It consists of Mr. Wheaton and Mr. Gear, on behalf of the society, and Deacon Goodsole, Mr. Hardcap andmyself on behalf of the church. I forgot to mention that since ourBible-class was commenced, Mr. Gear has begun to attend church, though not very regularly. Mr. Goodsole nominated Mr. Gear on thecommittee, and of course he was elected. I was rather sorry for Iwould have preferred that he did not know about the internalworkings of this church. I do not think it will enhance his respectfor religious institutions. Still I could make no objection. I didmake objections to taking a place on the committee myself, butJennie persuaded me to relinquish them. She has often heard mearguing that politics is a duty, that citizens are bound to take andadminister public office for the benefit of the State. By a neatlittle turn she set all these arguments against me, and as I couldnot answer them I was obliged to yield. Our wives' memories aresometimes dreadfully inconvenient. 

Our committee held a sort of informal meeting last night, at thePost-Office, where we all met by chance, the usual way. In thePost-Office is the news exchange of Wheathedge, where we are veryapt to meet about the time of the arrival of the evening mail. Deacon Goodsole had been delegated to get a supply for the next twoSabbaths till we could discuss the merits of candidates. He reportedthat he had engaged the Rev. Mr. Elder, of Wheatensville. "He hasthe merest pittance of a salary, " said the Deacon, "and I knew thetwenty dollars would be acceptable to him. Besides which he is notonly an excellent man but a sound preacher. "

"Why wouldn't he be the man for us?" said I. 

Mr. Wheaton exclaimed against me, "Too old, " said he. 

"Besides he's got five children, " said Mr. Hardcap. 

"What's that got to do with it?" said I. "So has Deacon Goodsole;but he's none the worse for that. "

"We can't afford to support a man with a large family, " said Mr. Hardcap. "We must get a young man. We can't possibly afford to payover $1, 200 a year, and we ought not to pay over $1, 000. "

"Oh!" said I; "do we grade the ministers' salaries by the number ofthe minister's children?"

"Well we have to consider that, of course, " said Mr. Hardcap. 

"Solomon wasn't so wise as he is generally thought to be, " said Mr. Gear sarcastically, "or he never would have written that sentenceabout blessed is he whose quiver is full of them!"

"Well, " said Mr. Hardcap, "all I've got to say is, if you get a manhere with five children you can pay his salary, that's all. "

"When you take a job Mr. Hardcap, " said I, "do you expect to be paidaccording to the value of the work or according to the size of yourfamily?"

"Oh! that's a very different thing, " said Mr. Hardcap, "verydifferent. "

"Any way, " said Mr. Wheaton, "Mr. Elder is entirely out of thequestion--entirely so. Mr. Laicus can hardly have proposed himseriously. "

"Why out of the question, gentlemen?" said I. "He is a goodpreacher. Our congregation know him. He is a faithful, devotedpastor. We shall do Wheatensville no injustice, for it cannot givehim a support. As to age, he is certainly not infirm. I do notbelieve he is a year over forty-five. "

"No! no!" said Mr. Wheaton, decidedly. "It is utterly out of thequestion. We must have a young man, one who is fresh, up with thespirit of the age; one who can draw in the young men. The Methodistsare getting them all. "

"And the young girls too, " said Mr. Gear dryly. 

I wish Mr. Gear were not on this committee. The Deacon meant well. But he made a blunder. 

"Very well, then, gentlemen, " said I; "if we want a fresh man let usgo right to the theological seminary and get the best man we canfind there. "

"The seminary!" said Mr. Wheaton. He received this suggestion evenmore disdainfully than the previous one. "We must have a man ofexperience, Mr. Laicus. A theological student would never do. "

"Experience without age!" said I; "that's a hard problem to solve. For the life of me I do not see how we are going to do it. "

"Well you must consider, Mr. Laicus, " said Mr. Wheaton, adding forceto his words by a gentle and impressive gesture with his forefinger, "that this is a very important and a very peculiar field-a verypeculiar field indeed, Mr. Laicus. And it requires a man of verypeculiar qualifications. It is really a city field, " he continued. "To all intents and purposes Wheathedge is a suburb of New YorkCity. In the summer our congregation is very largely composed ofcity people. They are used to good preaching. They won't come tohear a commonplace preacher. And at the same time we have a verypeculiar native population. And then, apart from our own people, there is the Mill village which really belongs to our parish, andwhich our pastor ought to cultivate. All these various elementscombine to make up a diverse and conflicting population. And it willrequire a man of great energy, and great prudence, and no littleknowledge of human nature, and practical skill in managing men, toget along here at all. I know more about Wheathedge than you do, Mr. Laicus, and I assure you that it is a very peculiar field. "

I believe that in the estimation of supply committees all fields arevery peculiar fields. But I did not say anything. 

"And we need a very peculiar man?" said Mr. Gear inquiringly. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Wheaton, decidedly; "a man of peculiar abilities andqualifications. "

"Well then, " said Mr. Gear, "I hope you are prepared to pay apeculiar salary. I don't know much about church matters gentlemen. Idon't know what you put me on the committee for. But in my shop if Iwant a peculiar man I have to pay a peculiar salary. "

There was a little laugh at this sally, but Mr. Gear evidently meantno joke, and as evidently Mr. Wheaton did not take any. 

"Well, " said I, "so far as salary goes I am prepared to vote for anincrease to $1, 500 and a parsonage. I don't live on less than twicethat. "

Mr. Hardcap struck his hands down resolutely into his pockets andgroaned audibly. 

"I am afraid we can't get it, Mr. Laicus, " said Mr. Wheaton. "Ibelieve a minister ought to have it, but I don't see where itscoming from. We musn't burden the parish. "

"And I believe, " I retorted, "that the laborer is worthy of hishire; and we must not burden the pastor. "

"For my part, " said Mr. Hardcap, "I won't give my consent to adollar over $1, 200 a year. I ain't goin' to encourage ministerialluxury nohow. "

"Well, for my part, " said Mr. Wheaton, "I don't care so much aboutthat. But we must have a first rate man. He has to preach here inthe summer time to city congregations. They are critical sir, critical. And we have got to have just as good a man as the BroadwayTabernacle. But as to paying a city salary, that you know is absurd, Mr. Laicus. We can't be expected to do that. "

"Bricks without straw, " murmured Mr. Gear. 

Just then the Post-Office window opened, and we made a rush for ourmail. But before we separated we agreed to hold a formal meeting atmy house a week from the following Thursday evening for a furthercanvass of the whole matter. 

Meanwhile I am perplexed by the double problem that our informalmeeting has suggested. I have been sitting for half an hourpondering it. The children have long since gone to bed. I havefinished my evening paper, and written my evening letters. The firehas burned low, and been replenished. Jennie sits by my side engagedin that modern imitation of Penelope's task, the darning ofstockings. And for half an hour, only the ticking of the clock andthe sighing of the wind outside have disturbed the silence of theroom. 

"Jennie, " said I, at length, "when I told you to-night of our talkat the Post-Office you said you hoped we would get a young man. Why?"

"Why?" said Jennie. 

"Yes, " said I. "I can understand why Mr. Hardcap wants a young man. It is for the same reason that he employs half taught apprentices inhis shop. They are cheap. Of course our good friend MauriceMapleson, with neither wife nor children, can more easily lay upmoney on $1, 000 a year than Mr. Elder, with his five children can on$1, 500 or $2, 000. But I don't think you and I, Jennie, want toeconomize on our minister. "

"I am sure we don't John, " said Jennie. 

"And I can understand why Mr. Wheaton wants a young minister. Youngministers do draw better, at least at first. There is a certainfreshness and attractiveness in youth. Curiosity is set agog inwatching the young minister, and still more in watching his youngbride. A ministerial honey-moon is a godsend to a parish. Whether weought to hire our pastors to set curiosity agog and serve the parishas a nine-day's wonder may be a question. But I suspect that we veryoften do. But, Jennie, I hope you and I don't want a minister toserve us as food for gossip. "

"I am sure not, John, ' said Jennie earnestly. 

"Why is it then, Jennie, " said I, "that you and I want youth in ourminister? Young lawyers and young doctors are not in requisition. Age generally brings confidence even when it does not endow withwisdom. I believe that Judge Ball's principal qualification for hisoffice was his bald head and grey beard. When you discovered acouple of grey hairs on my head a little while ago, I was delighted. I should like to multiply them. Every grey hair is worth a dollar. Dr. Curall has hard work to get on in his profession because he isso young and looks still younger than he is. If there was such athing as grey dye it would pay him to employ it. Lawyers and doctorsmust be old-ministers must be young. Why, Jennie?"

"Perhaps, " said Jennie, "we want in our ministers enthusiasm morethan wisdom. "

"Enthusiasm, " said I. "That might do for the Methodists. But it doesnot apply to the Congregationalists, and the Episcopalians, and thestaid and sober Presbyterians. "

"I don't know about that, " said Jennie. "What we want of ourpreachers is not so much instruction as inspiration. We want somebody not to think for us but to set us to thinking. Our souls getsluggish, and they want to be stirred up. I do not want some one toprove the authority of the ten commandments, John, but some one tomake me more earnest to obey them. I do not care much about Dr. Argure's learned expositions of the doctrine of atonement. But I dowant some one who shall make me realize more and more that Jesusdied for me. "

"And what has that to do with youth, Jennie?" said I. 

"I don't know, " said Jennie, thoughtfully; "unless it is that thetruth seems somehow new and fresh to the young minister. Besides itis not youth, John, altogether. It is freshness, and warmth, andenthusiasm, and spiritual life. Mr. Beecher is not young nor isSpurgeon, nor Dr. Hall, nor Dr. Tyng, nor John B. Gough. But theyare all popular. Father Hyatt isn't young, John, but I had ratherhear him than Dr. Argure any day. "

I rather think Jennie is right. It is not youth we want atWheathedge, but spiritual life and earnestness. At least it is to bethought of. 

But as to salary-how we are to get a first class man at a thirdclass salary puzzles me. I shall have to refer that to Mr. Wheaton. He is the financier of our church I believe. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Maurice Mapleson declines to submit to a competitive examination. 

"I have a letter from Maurice Mapleson, " said I to Jennie. 

"What does he say? Will he come?" said she eagerly. 

"No!" said I. "He won't come. "

"I am sorry, " said she. "It's too bad of him. "

"You won't think so, my dear, " said I, "when you hear his letter. You'll be more sorry; but you'll think better of him than you didbefore. "

We were at the tea-table. It is the rule of our meal hour to havethe conversation one in which the children can engage-in which atall events they can take an interest. So the topic was suffered todrop till they were in bed, and we were alone in the library. 

Maurice Mapleson was a young minister that I thought a good deal of. So when two Sundays before, Mr. Wheaton suggested him to me as asuccessor to our retiring pastor, I welcomed the suggestion. 

"You know that young Mapleson, don't you Mr. Laicus, " said he, "whopreached for us two Sundays last summer. I think he stopped at yourhouse. "

I assented. 

"I wish you would write him, quite informally you know, to come downand preach for us a Sunday or two. The folks at our house were quitetaken with him, and I think the people were generally. I shouldn'twonder if he were the 'coming man, ' Mr. Laicus. "

So that evening I stayed at home from church and wrote to him. Iremembered what Mr. Wheaton had said about this being a peculiarparish, and our people a peculiar people, and I waxed eloquent as Iwrote. I reminded Mr. Mapleson of our glorious scenery. I told himwe were but a suburb of New York and he would have a citycongregation, and I did not tell him that he would have to pay verynearly city prices for everything, and would not have anything thatwould approximate a city salary. I told him of the Mill village andthe opportunities of Christian labor it opened before him. Iassured him that he would find the people remembering him kindly, and ready to welcome him warmly. In short I considered myselfretained as advocate In re the Calvary Presbyterian Church, and Irather laid myself out to produce an impression. 

And I rather flatter myself that I did produce an impression. But Idid not get a verdict. Here is his answer as I read it to Jenniethat evening. KONIWASSET CORNERS, Tuesday. JOHN LAICUS, ESQ. , Dear Sir, --I thank you very warmly for your kind letter of the 6thinstant. Kind it certainly is, and though I must decline theinvitation it presents so cordially to me, I am none the lessgrateful for it, notwithstanding the fact that it has been a strongand not easily resisted temptation to violate my settled convictionsof duty. 

If I were writing formally to the committee it would be enough todecline your invitation without entering into any explanation. Butthe remembrance of the pleasant week I spent at your house lastsummer, and the tone of your letter, makes me feel as though I werewriting to a personal friend. This is my excuse (if one is needed)for giving you more fully than I otherwise should, my reasons fordeclining. Those reasons are not in any way connected with theparish at Wheathedge. I am not insensible to the attractions whichthe place possesses as a residence, nor to that which the parishpossesses as a field of labor. But I resolved when I first enteredthe ministry that I would never preach as a candidate. I never have, and I never will. I began my work in a mission school in New YorkCity, while I was yet in the Seminary. When I left the Seminary, Mr. Marcus who is one of the trustees of the mission asked me to come upto this church. It is a sort of mission among the miners, being halfsupported by Mr. Marcus who is one of the directors of theKoniwasset Coal Co. I came for six months. The congregation asked meto remain, and I remained. And here I purpose to remain till Godshall call me to another field. Another field I will not seek, though I should live and die here. I pretend to believe that Christis my Bishop; and I shall not move without orders from him. 

So long as I am pastor here I cannot preach with honor as acandidate in other parishes. I know other ministers do it-and I donot judge them. But I cannot. Suppose my people were to takeadvantage of my absence for a week to try a candidate. I wonder whatI should say to that. And I cannot see that settled ministers haveany more right to try other parishes with reference to a change ofplace, than parishes with settled ministers have to try otherministers with reference to a change of pastors. In a word I do notbelieve in free-love as applied to churches. 

But apart from that I cannot preach as a candidate. The minister isordained to preach to convert impenitent sinners and to build up andstrengthen Christians. Do you suppose I should do either if I cameto Wheathedge on your invitation to preach as a candidate? Not atall. The people would come to criticise, and I should go to becriticised. They would be judges and would expect to put me throughmy ministerial faces to try me. Come, the congregation says ineffect to me in such an invitation, let us see how you can preach, exhibit your proficiency in the doctrines, try your skill inarousing sinners, see what you can do in interesting the saints, read us a hymn or two, as a test of your elocution, and display tous your "gifts in prayer;" and then when the service is over, spenda week and take tea with two or three of our principal families andshow us what your social qualifications are, and give our childrenan opportunity to quiz you. That it is in effect Mr. Laicus, thoughit may seem somewhat presumptuous in me to say it. And to such aquizzing I am not at all inclined to submit. I never preached butone trial sermon-that was when I was licensed and I never mean topreach another. 

Imagine Paul preaching as a candidate to the people of Athens orCorinth, and submitting his claims as an apostle to the popularverdict!

Or imagine, Mr. Laicus, a client coming to you and saying I have animportant case to be tried sir, and I think of placing it in yourhands. Will you oblige me by making a neat little speech for me. Iwant to see what kind of a speech you can make. 

Since I wrote that last sentence I have read this letter over, andhave been on the point, two or three times, of tearing it up andsending in its place a simple declination. But I feel as though Iwere writing to a friend, and it shall go. I am sorry it must be so. I should like to go to Wheathedge. That it is a beautiful place, andhas pleasant people, and is a far more important field of labor thanthis I recognize fully; and then, what possibly influences me quiteas much, Helen, whom your wife knows very well, is waiting patientlyfor me, and I am waiting impatiently for her, and I never can marryon the little pittance I receive here. But she is of one mind withme in this matter, I know, for we have often talked it overtogether, and she holds me nobly to my resolution. She, I am sure, would not have me write other than I do. 

My kind regards to Mrs. Laicus and my sincere thanks to yourself. Akiss to Harry too, if you please, if he is not too old to take one. The baby I have never seen. Yours sincerely, MAURICE MAPLESON. 

"Well, " said Jennie after I had finished reading the letter, "Ibelieve he is right; but I am sorry John; sorrier than I wasbefore. "

"Sorry that he won't come, Jennie?"

"Sorry that he is right, " said Jennie. "That is, if he is right. "

"Do you doubt it, Jennie?" said I. 

"Well I don't know, John. I go with him. I like him better for hisletter. I cannot gainsay it. And yet it seems to me that it puts theministers in a rather hard position. "

"Yes?" said I interrogatively. 

"Yes, " said Jennie. "You know perfectly well John that our churchhere wouldn't call a man that isn't settled somewhere. The very factthat he was out of a parish, , would be almost conclusive againsthim. And they won't call a man without trying him. Must MauriceMapleson live and die in that little out of the way corner? And ifhe is ever going to get out of it, how is it to come about? How doesa minister have any chance for a change if he takes such a ground asthat? It's high and noble John, and I honor him for it; but I amafraid it isn't practicable. "

"Little woman, " said I, "whatever is truly high and noble ispracticable, and you would be the first to tell me so another time. Don't let our wanting Maurice Mapleson here blind us to that. "

Jennie smiled her assent. "Well John, " said she, "what you are goingto do about it?"

"Do?" said I. "Nothing. There is nothing to be done, except to readMr. Mapleson's letter to the committee, to-morrow night at our firstmeeting. And I am curious to see what they'll say to it. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Supply Committee hold their first formal Meeting. 

PLACE: James Wheaton's library. --Hour: seven and a half o'clock inthe evening. --Present: James Wheaton, Thomas Gear, James Goodsole, Solomon Hardcap, and John Laicus. --John Laicus in the chair. 

Laicus. :

--Gentlemen the first business in order is to appoint a secretary. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--Oh, you can keep the minutes. We don't want much of a record. 

Laicus. :

--Very good, if that is agreed to. My minutes will be very simple. 

James Wheaton. :

--That's all right. What do you hear from Mr. Mapleson? Anything?

Laicus. :

--Yes I have his letter in my pocket. 

James Wheaton. :

--When will he come?

Laicus. :

--He declines to come. 

James Wheaton, : [(astonished). ]

--Declines to come. Why a church mouse would starve on the pittancethey pay him at Koniwasset Corners. What's his reason?

Laicus. :

--His letter is a rather singular and striking one, gentlemen. Perhaps I had better read it. 

Which he thereupon proceeds to do, slowly and distinctly, till hereaches the closing paragraphs, which he omits as being of a purelypersonal character. 

James Wheaton. :

--That fellow's got stuff in him and no mistake. By Jove I believe ifI was running this church I would take him on trust. 

Solomon Hardcap. :

--I think it a very presumptuous letter. The idea. What does heexpect? Does he think we're goin' to take a preacher without everhavin' heard him preach?

Deacon Goodsole. :

--We have heard him preach, Mr. Hardcap. He preached here two Sundayslast summer. Don't you recollect?

Solomon Hardcap. :

--Yes. I remember. But I didn't take no notice of his sermons; hewan't preachin' as a candidate. 

Mr. Gear. :

--Gentlemen I am not very much acquainted with church affairs and Idon't think I understand this business very well. What do you meanby preaching as a candidate? I thought a candidate was a man whoapplied for an office. Am I to understand that whenever a pulpit isvacant the church expects different ministers to apply for it, andputs them on trial, and picks out the one it likes the best?

Mr. Hardcap. :

--That's it exactly. 

Mr. Gear. :

--You don't really mean to say that any decent ministers apply forthe place on those terms. 

Deacon Goodsole, : [(warmly). ]

--Indeed they do Mr. Gear. There is never any lack of candidates fora favorable parish. I have got half a dozen letters in my pocketnow. One man writes and sends me copies of two or three letters ofrecommendation. Another gives me a glowing account of the revivalthat has followed his labors in other fields. Then there's a letterfrom a daughter that really moved me a good deal. She pleads hardfor her father who is poor and is getting old, and needs the salarysadly-poor man. 

Mr. Gear. :

--Well, all I have got to say, is that when any of those candidatescome to preach I hope you'll notify me, and I'll stay away. 

Mr. Hardcap. :

--I have no patience with these new fangled notions of these youngup-start preachers. I reckon the ways our fathers got theirpreachers are good enough for us. 

Mr. Gear. :

--And what do you say as to that point he makes about Paul'spreaching as a candidate, Mr. Hardcap?

Mr. Hardcap. :

--Oh! that's different, altogether-very different. The apostle wasinspired, Mr. Gear. 

I notice that this is a very popular style of argument with Mr. Hardcap. Whenever he is posed in argument his never failingrejoinder is "Oh! that's different, altogether different. " And Ithink I have observed that the Hardcap logic is not confined to Mr. Hardcap, but is in high regard in other quarters, where I shouldleast look for it. 

Mr. Gear. :

--Well I don't think much of apostolic authority myself. But Isupposed the rest of you thought you were bound by any precedentsPaul had set. 

Mr. Hardcap. :

--It's mighty high seems to me for a young man to be making ofhimself out as good as the apostle Paul. 

Mr. Wheaton. :

--I like that young Mapleson, and I like his letter. I wish we couldget him. Is there any chance of persuading him to come, Mr. Laicus?not as a candidate you know, but just to preach, in good faith likeany other man. 

Mr. Gear shrugs his shoulders. 

Laicus, : [(decidedly). ]

--No! and I should not want to be the one to try. 

Mr. Wheaton. :

--Well then who stands next on our list?

Mr. Gear. :

--Excuse me gentlemen, but if he can't come to us why shouldn't we goto him. Why not try him as we would try any other man. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--How do you mean Mr. Gear?

Mr. Gear. :

--If I want a workman at my factory I don't invite one to come frommy neighbor and try his hand for a day while I stand over and watchhim. We try our apprentices that way, but never a good workman. I goto his shop, inquire as to his character, and examine the work thathe has done. If he has done good work in another man's shop he willdo it well in mine. At least that's the way we reason in ourfactory. 

Mr. Hardcap. :

--That's a very different case Mr. Gear, altogether different. 

Mr. Gear. :

--Suppose this Mr. Whats-his-name comes, what more will you knowabout him than you know now?

Deacon Goodsole. :

--We shall hear him preach and can judge for ourselves. 

Mr. Gear. :

--One good sermon does not make a good preacher. 

Mr. Wheaton. :

--No! But you don't need to drive a horse more than five miles toknow what are his paces. 

Mr. Gear. :

--I don't know much about church management but I like the tone ofthat man's letter, and I should like to know more about him. Ibelieve if we were to appoint a committee to go out to KoniwassetCorners, hear him preach, look in on his Sabbath-school, find outwhat kind of a pastor he is, and in a word see what sort of workhe's doing where he is now, we would get his measure a great dealbetter than we should get it by having him come here, and give usone of his crack sermons-even if he would do it, I honor him becausehe won't. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--I am afraid it wouldn't do Mr. Gear-not with our people. I wouldn'tmind it myself. 

Mr. Wheaton, : [(blandly). ]

--You see Mr. Gear you don't understand church matters altogether. Itwould not be ecclesiastical-not at all. 

Mr. Gear, : [(sarcastically and sotto voce). ]

--I hope I may never learn. 

Laicus, : [(desiring to prevent controversy). ]

--Gentlemen, I for one agree with Mr. Gear. But we are evidently inthe minority; so there is nothing more to be said about it. We bothbelieve in government by the majority, and shall submit. What next, Deacon? Are there any of your letters you want to read to us?

Deacon Goodsole. :

--Oh no! It isn't worth while to read any of them. Though I am sorryfor that poor old man and his pleading daughter. 

Mr. Wheaton. :

--The Deacon's list are all too anxious. 

Deacon Goodsole. :

--I suppose there is nothing to do but to pursue the usual course. Imove that Mr. Laicus and Mr. Wheaton be appointed to open acorrespondence with candidates. 

Laicus, : [(decidedly). ]

You must excuse me gentlemen. I don't believe in candidating, and Ican't be accessory to it. I will substitute Deacon Goodsole's namefor my own. And as so amended will put the motion. 

As so amended the motion was put, and carried, and the committee onsupply adjourned to meet at the call of Deacon Goodsole and Mr. Wheaton. But as we walked along toward my home, M. Gear remarked tome that he wished I would let him know when we got a parson so thathe could come to church again; for said he, "I have no inclinationto serve as a parson tester. " And I confess I am quite of mind withhim. 

CHAPTER XV. 

Our Christmas at Wheathedge. 

IS there any reason why Episcopalians, Lutherans and Roman Catholicsshould have a monopoly of Christmas? Is its glorious old patronSaint partial? Has the Christ-child no gifts for us as well as forother folk? Have the December heavens no brightness-the angel hostno song for "blue Presbyterians?" May we not come to the sacredmanger too? Are our Church festivals so many that we need dread toadd another? Is our religion so inclined to gayety and money-makingthat we need curb its joyous tendencies? The very air of Christmasis marvellous. The heavens are never so blue, the sun never shineswith a profuser generosity. The very earth clothes itself in thespotless white of the heavenly robe, as if to prepare for the comingof its Lord. 

Alas for him who does not believe in Christmas! May the ghost ofScrooge haunt him into a better mind. 

This was what I mentally ejaculated to myself last Saturdayafternoon after Mr. Hardcap's protest against our Christmascelebration. 

The Sabbath morning previous, Miss Moore came to me mysteriouslyafter church. "I want to walk home with you, Mr. Laicus, " said she. I have a wife and children, and I felt safe. "I shall be delightedwith the honor, " I replied. But Miss Moore's honors are never emptyones. I knew that she wanted something; I wondered what. I had notlong to wonder; for we had not crossed the road before she openedthe subject. 

"We are going to trim the Church for Christmas, " said she, "and wewant you to superintend getting the evergreens. "

"What?" said I, aghast. 

Confidentially, please not mention it, I have been in the habit fora good many years of taking my wife and my prayer-book to theEpiscopal Church on Christmas-day. Dickens converted me to itsobservance ten years or more ago. But none are so sound as those whoare tinged with heresy. And am I not a "blue Presbyterian?" It wouldnot do to lend my countenance too readily to indecorous invasions ofthe sanctuary with festivals borrowed from the Roman Catholics. Besides, what would the elders say? I asked Miss Moore as much. 

"Deacon Goodsole will lend us his pung, " was the reply. 

"And the trustees?" said I. 

But Miss Moore never leaves a point unguarded. 

"Young Wheaton is home from school, " said she, "and he will go withyou to the woods. He will call to-morrow, right after breakfast. "

For a difficult piece of generalship give me a woman. Not fitted forpolitics! Why, they are born to it. Here was Miss Moore bent ontrimming the church. And lawyer Laicus was to go in DeaconGoodsole's sleigh with the son of the President of the Board ofTrustees to get the "trimmings. " He who dares to complain after thatenlists two dignitaries and one very respectable layman against himat the outset. 

"Very well, " said I, "I will go. "

"Go!" said Miss Moore, "of course you'll go. Nobody doubted that. But I want to tell you where to go and what to get. "

The next morning I was just finishing my second cup of coffee when Iheard the jingle of bells, and, looking up, saw Jim Wheaton and theDeacon's sleek horse at my door. So, bidding Harry, who was to gotoo, "be quick, " an exhortation that needed no repeating, we werevery soon in the pung, armed I with a hatchet, Harry with a pruningknife. 

That ride was one to be remembered. The air was crisp and clear. Just snow enough had fallen in the night to cover every black andnoisome thing, as though all nature's sins were washed away by herSabbath repentance, and she had commenced her life afresh. There wasluxury in every inhalation of the pure air. The horse, moreimpatient than we, could scarcely wait for leave to go, and neededno word thereafter to quicken his flying feet. Down the hill, withmerry ringing bells, ever and anon showered with flying snow fromthe horse's hoof; through the village street with a nod ofrecognition to Deacon Goodsole, who stood at his door to wave us acheery recognition; round the corner with a whirl that threatens todeposit us in the soft snow and leave the horse with an emptysleigh; across the bridge, which spans the creek; up, with unabatedspeed, the little hill on the other side; across the railroad track, with real commiseration for the travelers who are trotting up anddown the platform waiting for the train, and must exchange thejoyous freedom of this day for the treadmill of the city, this airfor that smoke and gas, this clean pure mantle of snow for thatfresh accumulation of sooty sloshy filth; pass the school-house, where the gathering scholars stand, snowballs in hand, to see us runmerily by, one urchin, more mischievous than the rest, sending aball whizzing after us; up, up, up the mountain road, for half amile, past farm-houses whose curling smoke tell of great blazingfires within; past ricks of hay all robed in white, and one ghost ofa last summer's scare-crow watching still, though the corn is longsince in-gathered and the crows have long since flown to warmerclimes; turning off, at last, from the highway into Squire Wheaton'swood road, where, since the last fall of snow, nothing has beenbefore us, save a solitary rabbit whose track our dog Jip followsexcitedly, till he is quite out of sight or even call. 

Here we are at last. And here the evergeens are about us in aprofusion which would make the eyes water of my honest friend theDutch grocer who supplied me with my family trees so many years inNew York. Our smoking nag is over his impatience now, and, beingwell blanketed, understands what is wanted of him quite as well asif he were tied, and stands as still as if he were Squire Slowgoes'fat and lazy "family horse. " With pants tied snugly over ourtopboots to keep out the intruding snow, we plunge into the woods. The ringing blows of our hatchets on the cedar-trees bring down amimic shower on our heads and backs. Young Wheaton understands hisbusiness, and shows me how the fairest evergreens are hid beneaththe snow, and what rare forms of crystalline beauty concealthemselves altogether beneath this white counterpane. So, sometimescutting from above and sometimes grubbing from below, we work anhour or more, till our pung is filled to its brim. Long before wehave finished Jip has returned from his useless search, and theneighing horse indicates his impatience to be off again. 

When we got back to the Church we found it warm with a blazing firein the great stove, and bright with a bevy of laughing girls, whoemptied our sleigh of its contents almost before we were aware whathad happened, and were impatiently demanding more. Miss Moore hadproposed just to trim the pulpit-oh! but she is a shrewd manager-andwe had brought evergreens enough to make two or three. But the planshad grown faster by far than we could work. One young lady hadremarked how beautiful the chandelier would look with an evergreenwreath; a second had pointed out that there ought to be largefestoons draping the windows; a third, the soprano, had declaredthat the choir had as good a right to trimming as the pulpit; afourth, a graduate of Mount Holyoke, had proposed some mottoes, andhad agreed to cut the letters, and Mr. Leacock, the store keeper, had been foraged on for pasteboard, and an extemporized tablecontrived on which to cut and trim them. So off we were drivenagain, with barely time to thaw out our half-frozen toes; and, inshort, my half morning's job lengthened out to a long days hard butjoyous work, before the pile of evergreens in the hall was largeenough to supply the energies of the Christmas workers. 

Of course, we must trim the Sunday school-room as well as theChurch, for the children must have their Christmas; and trimmed itwas, so luxuriantly that it seemed as though the woods had laidsiege to and taken possession of the sanctuary, and that nature waspreparing to join on this glad day her voice with that of man insinging praise to Him who brings life to a winter-wrapped earth, andwhose fittest symbol, therefore, is the tree whose greenness noteven the frosts of the coldest winter have power to diminish. 

Of course Christmas itself passed without recognition. I went, as ismy wont, with my wife and my prayer-book, to the Episcopal Church. Our Christmas waited till Sunday. A glorious day it was. The sunnever shone more brightly. The crisp keenness was gone from the air. The balmy breath of spring was in it. The Church never was so fullbefore and never has been since. The story of its decorations hadbeen spread far and wide, and all Wheathedge flocked to see what thePresbyterians would make of Christmas. The pulpit, the walls, thegallery, the chandelier were festooned with wreaths of living green. A cross-O tempora! O mores!-of cedar and immortelles, stood on thecommunion table. Over the pulpit were those sublime words of thesublimest of all books, "He shall save His people from their sins. "Opposite it, emblazoned on the gallery, was heaven and earth'sfitting response to this sublime revelation, "Glory be to God onhigh. " Miss Moore was better than her word. She managed both choirand minister. Both were in the spirit of the occasion. The parsonnever preached a better sermon than his Christmas meditation. Thechoir never sung a more joyous song of praise than their Christmasanthem. And before the influence of that morning's service I thinkthe last objection to observing Christmas faded out. 

For there had been some objections. I heard of two. 

One came from Mr. Wheaton. Monday afternoon, going by the Church, hesaw the door open, went in, found it full of busy workers; ceiling, aisles, pulpit, and gallery, strewed with evergreens, and theclatter of merry voices keeping pace with the busy fingers. It washis first intimation of what was going on. 

"Heyday!" said he. "What is all this? Who authorized it, I shouldlike to know?"

The chatter of merry voices ceased. The young ladies were in awe. Miss Moore was not there to answer for them. No one dared act asspoksman. Young Jim Wheaton was on a step-ladder rather dangerouslyresting on the backs of two pews. He was tacking the letter G to thegallery. He noticed the silence and discerned the cause. 

"Father, " said he, "I wish you would hold this ladder for me aminute. It is rather ticklish. "

"Ah, Jim, is that you?" said the old man. Pride in Jim is thefather's weak point. The ladder was held. Then his advice was askedabout the placing of the mottoes; and it was given, and that was thelast of Mr. Wheaton's objection. 

The other objection came from Mr. Hardcap, the carpenter. I met himat the door of the church Saturday afternoon, just as the lastrubbish had been swept out and we were closing the door. 

"Looks beautiful, doesn't it Mr. Hardcap?" said I. 

"They'd better have spent their time on their knees than with thesefixins, " growled Mr. Hardcap; "'twould ha' done the Church moregood, a deal sight. "

"Did you spend your time on your knees?" I could not refrain fromasking. 

But Mr. Hardcap did not answer. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Mr. Gear Again. 

OUR Bible class at the Mill has prospered greatly. Mr. Gear wasbetter than his word. The first Sabbath he brought in over a dozenof his young men; the half dozen who were already in the SabbathSchool joined us of course. Others have followed. Some of thechildren of the Mill village gathered curiously about theschool-house door from Sunday to Sunday. It occurred to me that wemight do something with them. I proposed it to Mr. Gear. Heassented. So we invited them in, got a few discarded singing booksfrom the Wheathedge Sabbath-school, and used music as an invitationto more. Mrs. Gear has come in to teach them. There are not over adozen or twenty all told as yet. If the skating or the sliding isgood they are reduced to five or six. Still the number is graduallyincreasing, and there are enough to constitute the germ of apossible Mission-school. I wish we had a Pastor. He might makesomething out of it. 

Mr. Gear adheres to his pledge, and I to mine. We have notheological discussions in the class. Occasionally, indeed prettyfrequently, we get on themes on which we are not agreed. But wenever debate. Mr. Gear has made several attempts at a theologicaldiscussion out of the class, but I have avoided them. I hope he doesnot think I am afraid of discussion. 

I am not. But I am convinced that no mere intellectual opinion is asin. If Mr. Gear is in darkness it is because he neglects some knownif not some recognized duty. My work is not to convince him of theerror of his opinions. I probably never could do that. And hisopinions are not of much consequence. My work is to find out whatknown duty he is neglecting, and press it home upon his conscience. And so far I have not discovered what it is. He is one of the mostconscientious men I ever knew. Yet something is wanting in Mr. Gear. I believe he half thinks so himself. He is mentally restless anduneasy. He seems to doubt his own doubts, and to want discussionthat he may strengthen himself in his own unbelief. But still I makeno progress. Since that first night I have got no farther into hisheart. 

"John, " said Jennie, "I wish you would call and see Mr. Gear. He hasnot been in church for six or eight weeks. "

"It is no use, " said I, "I have asked him once or twice, and healways says that he is not coming till we get a Pastor. He says hedoes not care to hear candidates; he does not consider himself agood judge of the article. 'Hardcap, ' says he is a ministerialexpert, but I am not. "

"How is he getting on?" said Jennie. 

"To tell the truth, Jennie, I don't know, " I replied. "I don't seethat he gets on at all. He seems to be just where he was. "

Jennie drew a long sigh. 

"Patience, Jennie, patience, " said I, "time works wonders. "

"No, John, " said Jennie, "time never works. It eats, and undermines, and rots, and rusts, and destroys. But it never works. It only givesus an opportunity to work. "

Perhaps Jennie is right. Perhaps we expect time to work for us, whentime is only given us that we may work. 

"Besides, " said Jennie, "there is that volume of Theodore Parker'ssermons which you borrowed of him the other day, you have neverreturned it. "

No! And I had never read it. Our theme in Bible class had touched onprayer. After the class Mr. Gear had tried to get me into atheological discussion about prayer. I had been silent as to my ownviews, but had asked him for his. And he had handed me this volumein reply. It contained a sermon by Theodore Parker on the subjectwhich Mr. Gear said expressed his own views exactly. Jennie's remarkbrought this volume to mind, I took it down from the shelf, openedto the sermon, and read it aloud to Jennie. 

We both agreed that it was a good sermon, or rather, to speak moreaccurately, a sermon in which there was good. It is true that in itMr. Parker inveighed against the orthodox philosophy of prayer; hedenied that God could really be influenced or his plans changed. Buton the duty of prayer he vehemently insisted. Mere philanthropy andhumanity, he said, are not religion. There must also be piety. Thesoul must live in the divine presence; must inhale the Spirit ofGod; must utter its contrition, its weaknesses, its wants, and itsthanks-givings to its Heavenly Father. 

That evening's reading suggested a thought to me. The next evening Istarted for Mr. Gear's to try if it were time, and to try thepracticability of the plan it had developed in my mind. Mr. Gearwelcomed me cordially. Mrs. Gear went off almost immediately onpretence of putting the children to bed, and left us two alonetogether. I opened the conversation by handing her husband thevolume of sermons and thanking him for it. 

"What do you think of the sermon?" said he. 

"I liked a great deal of it very much indeed, " said I. "I believeyou told me that you liked it. "

"Very much, " said he. "I think its one of Theodore Parker's ablestsermons. "

"And you believe in it?" said I interrogatively. 

"With all my heart, " said he. "Who can believe that the GreatInfinite First Cause can be influenced, and his plans changed by theteasing of every one of his insignificant little creatures?"

"But the rest of the sermon, " said I. "Do you believe that?"

Last Sunday Professor Strait preached for us. He preached againstwhat he called humanitarianism. He said it was living without God;that there was very little difference between ignoring God anddenying his existence, and that the humanitarians practicallyignored him; that they believe only in men. 

"It is not true, " said Mr. Gear, somewhat bitterly. "You can see foryourself that it is not true. Theodore Parker believes in prayer asmuch as Professor Strait. I don't believe but that he prayed asmuch. "

"And you agree with him?" said I, with a little affectation ofsurprise. 

"Agree with him, Mr. Laicus!" said he, "of course I do. There can beno true religion without prayer, without piety, without gratitude toGod, without faith in Him. Your Church has not the monopoly of faithin God, by any means, that it assumes to have. "

"And you really believe in prayer?" said I. 

"Believe in prayer? Why, of course I do. Do you take me for aheathen?" replied he, with some irritation. 

"And every night, " said I, "you kneel down and commend yourself toour Heavenly Father's protection? and every morning you thank himfor His watchfulness, and beseech divine strength from Him to meetthe temptations of the day; and every day you gather your familyabout His throne, that you may teach your children to love andreverence the Father you delight to worship?"

There was a long pause. Mr. Gear was evidently taken by surprise. Hemade no answer; I pressed my advantage. 

"How is it, my friend?" said I. 

"Well, n--no!" said he, "I can't honestly say that I do. "

"You believe in prayer, and yet never pray, " said I, "is that it?"

"It is so much a matter of mere habit, Mr. Laicus, " said he, excusingly; "and I never was trained to pray. "

"All your lifelong, " said I, taking no heed of the excuse, "you havebeen receiving the goodness of God, and you never have had thecourtesy to say so much as 'thank you. ' All your lifelong you havebeen trespassing against Him, and never have begged his pardon, never asked his forgiveness. Is it so?"

There was a moment's pause. Then he turned on me almost fiercely. 

"How can I thank him Mr. Laicus, " said he "when you say that I donot love him, and cannot love him. "

"Did I ever say that you do not love God?" said I gently. 

"Well then, " said Mr. Gear, "I say it. There is no use in beatingabout the bush. I say it. I honor him, and revere him, and try toobey him, but I do not particularly love him. I do not know muchabout him. I do not feel toward him as I want my children to feeltoward me. What would you have me do Mr. Laicus? Would you have meplay the hypocrite? God has got flatterers enough. I do not care toswell their number. "

"I would have you honest with him as you are with me, " I replied. "Iwould have you kneel down, and tell him what you have told me; tellhim that you do not know him, and ask him that you may; tell himthat you do not love him and ask him that you may. "

"You orthodox people, " said he, "say that no man can come to Godwith an unregenerate heart; and mine is an unregenerate heart. Atleast I suppose so. I have been told so often enough. You tell usthat no man can come that has not been convicted and converted. Ihave never suffered conviction or experienced conversion. I cannotcry out to God, "God be merciful to me a sinner. " For I don'tbelieve I am a sinner. I don't pretend to be perfect. I get out oftemper now and then. I am hard on my children sometimes, was onWillie to-night, poorly fellow. I even rip out an oath occasionally. I am sorry for that habit and mean to get the better of it yet. ButI can't make a great pretence of sorrow that I do not experience. "

"You have lived, " said I, "for over thirty years the constantrecipient of God's mercies and loving kindnesses, and never paid himthe poor courtesy of a thank you. You have trespassed on hispatience and his love in ways innumerable through all these thirtyyears, and never said so much as I beg pardon. And now you can lookback upon it all and feel no sorrow. I am sorry if it is so, Mr. Gear. But if it is, it need not keep you from your God. You can beat least as frank with him as you have been with me. You can tellhim of your indifference if you can not tell him of your penitenceor your love. "

There was a pause. 

"You believe in prayer, " I continued. "You are indignant that Isuspected you of disbelief; and yet you never pray. Are you notliving without God; is it not true of you that 'God is not in allyour thoughts?'"

He was silent. 

"Will you turn over a new leaf in your lifebook?" said I. "Will youcommence this night a life of prayer?"

He shook his head very slightly, almost imperceptibly. "I will makeno promises, " said he. But still he spoke more to himself than tome. 

"Mr. Gear, " said I, "is it not evident that it is no use for you andme to discuss theology? It is not a difference of doctrine thatseparates us. Here is a fundamental duty; you acknowledge it, youassert its importance, but you have never performed it; and now thatyour attention is called to it you will not even promise to fulfilit in the future. "

"Mr. Laicus, " said he, "I will think of it. Perhaps you are right. Ihave always meant to do my duty, if my duty was made clear. PerhapsI have failed, failed possibly in a point of prime importance. I donot know. I am in a maze. I believe there is a knowledge of God thatI do not possess, a love of God that I do not experience. I believein it because I believe in you M. Laicus, and yet more because Ibelieve in my wife. But may be it will come in time. Time workswonders. "

My very words to Jennie. And Jennie's answer was mine to him. 

"Time never works Mr. Gear. It eats, and undermines, and rots, andrusts, and destroys. But it never works. It only gives us anopportunity to work. "

And so I came away. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Wanted--A Pastor. 

WE are in a sorry condition here at Wheathedge. The prospects are, that it will be worse before it is better. For weeks now (it seemslike a year or two) we have been without the Gospel. I do not meanthat literally the preaching of the Gospel has been dispensed with. On the contrary, I have heard more sermons on the text, "I amdetermined to know nothing among you save Jesus Christ, and Himcrucified, " than I ever heard before in my life. We are hearingcandidates, and every candidate seems to feel it necessary todeclare himself, to propound a sort of religious platform. Thesermons seem to me to have about as much relation, as a generalthing, to the spiritual condition of the hearers as Gov. Hoffman'slast message to the real interests of the people of the State. Infact, if the truth were told, it is not a sermon we want, but aplatform. We invite the candidate to preach, not that we may profitby the Gospel, but that he may show us his face. It has become apsychological curiosity to see how many different sermons can beevolved from that one text. I wonder sometimes if St. Paul wouldknow himself in his modern attire. 

I am very glad that Maurice Mapleson did not accept my invitation tocome to Wheathedge, to preach as a candidate. For listening to acandidate and listening to the Gospel are two very different things. The candidate preaches to show us how he can do it. We listen tohear how he can do it. From the moment he enters the pulpit all eyesare fixed upon him. His congregation is all attention. Let him notflatter himself. It is as critics, not as sinners, that we listen. We turn round to see how he walks up the aisle. Is his wife sounfortunate as to accompany him? We analyze her bonnet, her dress, her features, her figure. If not, he monopolizes all attention. Infive minutes we can, any of us-there are a few rare exceptions-tellyou the cut of his coat, the character of his cravat, the shape ofhis collar, the way he wears his hair. If he has any peculiar pulpithabit, woe betide him; he is odd. If he has not, woe betide him; heis commonplace and conventional. He rises to invoke the blessing ofGod. If he goes to the throne of God he goes alone. We go no fartherthan the pulpit. We tell one another afterwards that he is eloquentin prayer, or that his prayers are very common. If his style issolemn, we condemn him as stilted. If it is conversational, wecondemn him as too colloquial and familiar. He reads a hymn. Wecompare his elocution with that of our own favorites, or with someimaginary ideal, if we have no favorites. He preaches. We can, anyof us, tell you how he does it. But what he says, there are not halfa dozen who can tell. Does he tell us of our sins? We do not look atour own hearts, but at his picture, to see if it is painted well. Does he hold before us the cross? We do not bow before it. We ask, is it well carved and draped? The Judgment is only a dramatic poem;the Crucifixion only a tableau. 

So, though we have preaching, we have no Gospel at Wheathedge. 

Perhaps the lack of the parish is quite as painfully felt in otherdepartments as in the pulpit. The Church is without a head. Itflounders about like a headless chicken; excuse the homely simile, which has nothing but truth to commend it. When Mrs. Beale died lastweek, we had to send to Wheatensville to get a minister to attendthe funeral. When Sallie D. Was married she sent there, too, for aminister. He was out of town, and the ceremony came near beingdelayed a week for want of him. The prayer-meeting lags. Littlecoldnesses between church members break out into open quarrels. There is no one to weld the dissevered members. Poor old MotherLang, who has not left her bed for five years, laments bitterly herloss, and asks me every time I call to see her, "When will you get apastor?" The Young People's Association begins to droop. Even theSunday-school shows signs of friction, though Deacon Goodsolesucceeds in keeping it in tolerably good running order by hisimperturbable good humor. One advantage we have gained by thisinterregnum-only one. Even Mr. Hardcap is convinced that pastorallabors are not so unimportant as he had imagined. 

For myself, I am in despair. I made no very serious objection tobeing put on the supply committee. I fancied the task acomparatively easy one. I had understood that there was no lack ofministers wanting places. There is none. We have applications threeor four deep, of all sorts and kinds, from parishless clergymen. Butsuch a jury as the Wheathedge congregation affords, I never saw andhope never to see again. I only wish there was some law to treatthem as other juries are treated: shut them up in the jury-room tillthey agree on a verdict. 

The first minister was too old; he would not suit the young folks. The second, just out of the seminary, was too young; the old folkssaid he had not experience. The third had experience. He had been ina parish three years. He was still young, with the elastic hopes andstrong enthusiasm of youth. But he was a bachelor. The people prettyuniversally declared that the minister should have a wife and ahouse. The women all said there must be somebody to organize thesewing circles, and to lead the female prayer-meetings. The fourthwas married, but he had three or four children. We could not supporthim. The fifth was a most learned man, who told us the originalGreek or Hebrew of his texts, and, morning or evening, never camenearer to America than Rome under Augustus C‘sar. He was dull. Thesixth afforded us a most brilliant pyrotechnic display. Hespluttered, and fizzed, and banged, as though Fourth of July himselfhad taken orders and gone to preaching. The young people werecarried away. But the old folks all said he was sensational. 

Then, besides those we have heard, there are several we have talkedabout. There is the Rev. Mr. C-- who has the reputation of being amost excellent pastor. He is indefatigable in visiting the sick, incomforting the afflicted, in dealing with the recreant and theunconverted. But Mr. Wheaton says emphatically he will never do forour people. "He is no preacher, Mr. Laicus, " says he; "and ourpeople demand first-rate preaching. We must have a man that candraw. "

We talked over Mr. K--. He is a rare preacher, by all accounts. Iunderstand that his health has suffered somewhat by excessive study, and he would like another parish, a quieter one, where he can havemore time to his study, and can use his old sermons. He preachedonce or twice in exchange with our old pastor before he left. ButSolomon Hardcap would not hear of him, and even Deacon Goodsoleshook his head at his suggestion, "He is not social, " said theDeacon. "He does not know half the people in Highkrik, where he hasbeen settled for over five years. He often passes his best friendwithout noticing him, on the street. " "Never would do, " says Mr. Hardcap. "He only visits his people once a year. I want to know myminister. We want a man who will run in and out as though he caredfor us. Preaching is all very well, but we don't want a minister whois all talk. "

I am in despair. And despite the breach of ecclesiastical etiquette, I have resolved to resort to advertising. I have not submitted myadvertisement to the other members of the committee, but I am surethat it is in accord with the general feelings of the Church. 

"Jennie, what do you think of my sending this advertisement to theChristian Union?"

WANTED. -A pastor. He must be irreproachable in his dress, withoutbeing an exquisite; married, but without children, young, but withgreat experience; learned, but not dull; eloquent in prayer, withoutbeing colloquial or stilted; reverential, but not conventional;neither old nor commonplace; a brilliant preacher, but notsensational; know every one, but have no favorites; settle alldisputes, engage in none; be familiar with the children, but alwaysdignified; be a careful writer, a good extempore speaker, and anassiduous and diligent pastor. Such a person, to whom salary is lessan object than a "field of usefulness, " may hear of an advantageousopening by addressing Wheathedge, care of "The Christian Union, " 27, Park Place. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Our Prayer-Meeting. 

ONE thing we have gained by losing our pastor-the promise of betterprayer-meetings. 

Not that he was recreant in his duty. He performed it only too well. We learned to depend on him. He suffered us to do so. It was only bya delicate irony that the prayer-meeting could be termed one of the"social meetings" of the Church. A solemn stillness pervaded theroom. No one ever spoke after he entered the awful presence, unlesshe rose, formally addressed "the chair, " and delivered himself of aset address. Occasionally one bolder than the rest spoke in asepulchral whisper to his neighbor-that was all. In other socialmeetings the ladies, according to my observation, bear their fullburden of conversation. In our prayer-meetings no woman everventured to open her mouth. In fact, I hardly know why they werecalled prayer-meetings. We rarely had any greater number of prayersthan in our usual Sabbath service. Yes, I think we usually had onemore. 

The minister entered solemnly at the appointed hour, walked straightto his desk, without a word, a bow, a smile of recognition; read along hymn, offered a very respectable imitation of the "longprayer, " gave out a second hymn, and called on an elder to pray, whoalways imitated the imitation, and included in his broad sympathiesall that his pastor had just prayed for-the Church, theSabbath-school, the unconverted, backsliders, those in affliction, the President and all those in authority, the (Presbyterian) bishopsand other clergy, not forgetting the heathen and the Jews. Thenfollowed a passage of Scripture for a text from the pastor, with ashort sermon thereafter. Nor was it always short. I fancied he feltthe necessity of occupying the time. It was not unfrequently longenough for a very respectable discourse, if length gives thediscourse its respectability. Then we had another prayer fromanother layman, and then the invariable announcement, "the meetingis now open, " and the invariable result, a long, dead pause. Infact, the meeting would not open. Like an oyster, it remainedpertinaciously shut. Occasionally some good elder would rise tobreak the painful silence, by repeating some thought from theprevious Sunday's sermon, or by telling some incident or some ideawhich he had seen in a previous number of "The Christian Union. " Butas we had all been to church, and as most of us take "The ChristianUnion, " this did not add much to the interest of the meeting. Generally another prayer and hymn, sometimes two, sufficed to fillthe hour. The pastor kept his eye on the clock. When the handpointed to nine he rose for the benediction. And never did a crowdof imprisoned schoolboys show more glad exultation at their releasethan was generally indicated by these brethren and sisters when thewords of benediction dismissed them from their period of irksomerestraint. Every man, and every woman, too, found a tongue. We brokeup into little knots. A busy hum of many voices replaced the deadsilence. The "social meeting" commenced when the "prayer-meeting"ended. This, I think, is a fair portraiture of our prayer-meetingsat Wheathedge as they were during our late pastor's presence withus. 

The fault was not his-at least it was only proximately his. He feltthe burden, groaned under it, tried hard, poor man! to remedy theevil. He often came to consult me about it. He tried various plans. He gave a course of weekly lectures. The prayer-meeting was less ameeting of prayer than before. No man was willing to follow hiselaborate lecture with a fragmentary talk. He announced from thepulpit, the preceding Sabbath, the topic for the next meeting. Worseand worse! A few members conscientiously studied up the passage in"Barnes's Notes" and the "Comprehensive Commentary, " and brought usthe result of their investigations in discourse powerfully prosy, and recondite with second hand learning. The Minister at last gaveup the matter in despair. I think the condition of ourprayer-meetings was one consideration which greatly influenced himin deciding to leave. 

I thought that there was nothing left in them to be lost, that nochange could be other than for the better; but after he went whatlittle meeting we had fell away. The few who had been attracted byhis personal presence ceased to come. In vain we endeavored torevive our flagging spirits by continually reminding one anotherthat the promise was to two or three gathered together. That was ourstandard text. Every leader referred to it in his prayers, andgenerally in his opening remarks. We had need of it. For the lasttwo weeks there were not members enough present to serve aspall-bearers for the dead prayer-meeting. 

This brought about a crisis. Two weeks ago, Deacon Goodsole came tome to talk over the spiritual condition of our church. I agreed withhim that the prayer-meeting was a fatal symptom if not a fataldisease. We agreed to do what we could to remedy it. We asked thesession to put it into our hands. They were only too glad to do so. We spoke quietly to two other of the brethren to co-operate with us. We divided the parish among ourselves, and undertook to visit allthe praying and waking members-not a very onerous task. We talkedwith one by one, concerning the spiritual condition of the church, asked them to come next week to the prayer-meeting, and to bringwith them warm hearts. "Come, " we said, "from your closets. Come inthe spirit of prayer. " Fifteen minutes before the hour of meeting wefour met in the Bible-class room. One agreed to act that night asleader. It was Deacon Goodsole. He told the rest of us his subject. Then we all knelt together and asked God's blessing on ourprayer-meeting. From that brief and simple conference we wenttogether to the conference-room. Each one agreed to carry someoffering with him-a word, a prayer, a hymn. Each one agreed also tobring in speech but a single thought, and in prayer but a singlepetition. The leader himself should occupy but five minutes. Ourhearts were aglow. We never had such a prayer-meeting in Wheathedge. Deacon Goodsole did not have to announce that the prayer-meeting wasopen. It opened itself. We had hard work to close it. The meetinglast week was preceded in the same manner by fifteen minutes ofprayer. It was characterized by the same warmth and freshness. Weare astonished to find how short our hour is when we come to themeeting from our knees, when we bring to it, in our hearts, thespirit of God. We have no long speeches. So far we have had fewexhortations and much true experience. Shall we fall back again intothe old ruts? Perhaps. It is something that we are not in them now. Meanwhile, from this brief experience I cull five proverbs for myown reflection. 

The minister cannot make a good meeting. 

Warm hearts are better than great thoughts. 

Solemn faces do not make sacred hours. 

Little leading makes much following. 

Brevity is the soul of the prayer-meeting. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

We are Jilted. 

WHEATHEDGE is in a fever of excitement-not very agreeableexcitement. Disappointment and anger are curiously commingled. Little knots of men and women gathered after church on Sunday inexcited discussion. A by-stander might overhear in these conferencessuch phrases dropped as "Shameful. " "It's too bad. " "If he is thatsort of man it's very fortunate we did not get him. " "I have nofaith in ministers, " and the like. Do you ask what is the matter? Wehave been jilted. 

I will not give names, at least not the true ones. For I have noinclination to involve myself in a newspaper controversy, and noneto injure the prospects of a young man who possesses qualities whichfit him for abundant usefulness if vanity and thoughtlessness do notmake shipwreck of him. 

For six months now we have been without a pastor. We are hard tosuit. Mr. Wheaton was right. Wheathedge is a peculiar place, andrequires a very peculiar man. But about six weeks ago there camealong a very peculiar man. He seemed to be just adapted to theplace. He was fresh from the seminary. He had a wife but nochildren. He was full of enthusiasm. As a preacher he was free fromconventionalism, bright, sparkling, brilliant; more brilliant thanwarm. In private life he was social, genial, unministerial. Old AuntSue did indeed complain that when he called there he did not offerto pray with her. And good old Father Haines said he wished thatthere was less poetry and more Christ in his sermons. But neitherold Aunt Sue nor old Father Haines contribute much to the support ofthe Church, and their criticisms did nothing to abate the generalenthusiasm. Jim Wheaton said he was just the man, and promised todouble his subscription, if necessary, to get him. Deacon Goodsolewas scarcely less enthusiastic. I do not think there was adissenting voice among the ladies; and the young folks wereabsolutely unanimous. 

"If we can only get Mr. Uncannon, " said Jim Wheaton to me onemorning, as we rode to the city in the cars together, "in threeweeks we will drain the Methodist church dry of its young folks. "

Personally, I have no taste for foraging in other men's fields. ButI knew that Jim Wheaton would not appreciate my sentiments, and so Ikept silence. 

Mr. Uncannon preached for us two Sabbaths. He spent the interveningweek in Wheathedge. He visited with Deacon Goodsole most of theleading families. He stopped at Mr. Wheaton's. If the people hadbeen charmed with him in pulpit they were delighted with him in theparlor. The second Sabbath I do not think there would have been adissenting voice to the call. 

There was only one difficulty. It was considered very doubtful if wecould get him. That doubt I undertook to solve. 

Monday he returned to the city. I went down in the same train, andtook occasion to fall into conversation with him. I told him franklythe state of feeling. I represented that it was very desirable thatthe matter should go no further unless there was a prospect that hewould consider favorably a call if it were given him. He repliedwith equal frankness. He said that he was delighted with the placeand with the people. He wanted to come. There was only one obstacle. He understood that we paid our former pastor only $1, 200 a year. Hecould not undertake to live on that. 

"In fact, " said he, "they want me very much at North Bizzy, inConnecticut. They pay there $1, 500 a year. It is a manufacturingtown. I do not think either the society or the work would be ascongenial as in Wheathedge. I like the quiet of your rural parish. Iappreciate the advantages it would afford me for study. But $300 isa good deal of money. I do not want to be mercenary, Mr. Laicus, butI do not want to be pinched. "

I assured him that no such difficulty should stand in his way. WhenI returned, I found he had expressed the same sentiments to DeaconGoodsole and Mr. Wheaton. We were all agreed that we would do aswell as North Bizzy. So we gave him a call at $1, 500. Possibly wepresumed too much; but we generally considered it as good assettled. 

The Sabbath after the call he came to Wheathedge. This time hebrought his young wife with him. The ladies were more charmed thanever. All Wheathedge turned out to see and hear our new minister. Heremained over to our weekly prayer-meeting. It was astonishing whata spirit of devotion was awakened in our church. I have never seenthe prayer-meeting so fully attended. He seemed fully to reciprocateour enthusiasm. He and his wife were tireless in the praises of thebeauties of Wheathedge. "It is just the place, " said Mrs. Uncannon, "in which I should choose to spend my days. " Of course this sayingwas repeated all over the parish, and this evidence of herappreciative taste increased very measurably her own and herhusband's popularity. 

He went away Thursday morning without giving a final and definiteanswer. Deacon Goodsole indeed asked him point blank for one. Hereplied that though his mind was about made up, still he felt thatso solemn a connection ought not to be made without a prayerfulconsideration. This was all very proper. We waited, with patience, till this decorous delay should be over. But we already consideredhim our pastor. 

It was the next week that Deacon Goodsole came into my house oneevening, in a state of great excitement. He had an open letter inhis hand. "Look there, " said he. "The Church at North Bizzy istrying to get our minister away from us. "

The letter was from Mr. Uncannon. It was to the effect that theChurch at North Bizzy were taking measures to secure a parsonage. Hepreferred to come to Wheathedge, but he did not know what he shoulddo for a house. There had been, he believed, some talk of building aparsonage at Wheathedge. He felt very desirous to take his bride toher "home"--not to depend on boarding-houses or landlords. If thiscould be provided he thought it would settle the question; for bothhe and his wife infinitely preferred the clear air and sunny skies, and grand old mountains, and glorious river basking in the goldensunlight, &c. , &c. , to the dust and soot and noise of man's busy butdirty industry. 

"Very well, " said I. "I do not care to bid against the Church atNorth Bizzy. But I have always wanted a parsonage at Wheathedge. Iwill be one of five to pay the rent for this year, and one of ten tobuild one next year. "

Deacon Goodsole started a subscription paper on the spot. In a fewdays we had secured a house for the year, and money enough to makeour building operation certain. The Deacon wrote Mr. Uncannonaccordingly. We expected his answer forthwith, and his arrival soonafter. Wheathedge was at last satisfied. 

Imagine, then, if you can, the chagrin and disappointment which wascaused when, last Sunday morning, a letter was read from Mr. Uncannon to Mr. James Wheaton, Chairman of the Board of Trustees, declining the call. Mr. Uncannon had given it his most prayerfulconsideration. He was deeply moved by the warm welcome which hadbeen accorded to him. He had hoped that the Lord would make it plainthat it was to be his privilege to cast in his lot with us. But theLord had ordered it otherwise. The Providential indications seemedto him clear that it was his duty to labor in another field. 

But he united his prayers with ours that the Great Bishop would soonsend us a pastor who should feed us with the bread of life. 

Deacon Goodsole says that the Providential indications are a salaryof $1, 800 and a parsonage; and Mr. Wheaton says if any other youngman succeeds in playing us off against a rival parish he ismistaken; that's all. Even gentle Jennie is indignant. "Of allflirtation, ministerial flirtation seems to me to be the worse, " shesays; and truth to tell, she never had much patience with any other. 

I do not want to judge Mr. Uncannon too harshly. In fact I am not ina very judicial frame of mind. But, whatever his intent, hisministerial coquetry has injured the cause of Christ in Wheathedgemore than a year of preaching can benefit it in North Bizzy. Meanwhile, the parsonage, which we hired, lies vacant on our hands, and waits for an occupant. 

CHAPTER XX. 

We propose. 

WE are in the valley of humiliation. Since the church has beenrejected, it has an opportunity to understand how a candidate feelswhen he is rejected. I am inclined on consideration to recall thelast paragraph of the last chapter. I am inclined to think Mr. Uncannon may prove a "means of grace" to us yet. He has certainlybeen a thorn in the side. 

On further consideration, I do retract it. I here emphaticallyrecord that first thoughts are not always best thoughts, and that itis my sober second judgment that Mr. Uncannon has done us more goodthan he has the parish at North Bizzy. We gave him to themgrudgingly. But it has been a case in which the proverb applies: Itis more blessed to give than to receive. For Mr. Uncannon'sflirtation has probably given us Maurice Mapleson for a pastor. 

Two weeks ago I was coming up from New York on the train. DeaconGoodsole was in the seat in front of me. My satchel was my onlytraveling companion. And I, according to custom, was enjoying atrain nap, when I was aroused by a hand on my shoulder coupled witha hearty "Hallo! you could not be sounder asleep if you were inchurch and Dr. Argure was in the pulpit. "

It was Mr. Wheaton. 

"Good afternoon, " said I. "Sit down. " And my satchel exchanged itsseat for a place in my lap in order to make room for Mr. Wheaton onthe seat beside me. 

"Look here, gentlemen, " said Mr. Wheaton, taking the proffered seat, "we've been fooling about this minister business long enough. "

"Been fooled you mean, " said Deacon Goodsole. 

"I tell you, " said Mr. Wheaton, slapping his knee by way ofemphasis, "that young Maurice Mapleson is the man for us. The more Ithink of it the more I am sure of it. "

"He is a right earnest man, " said the Deacon. "I think he was thefirst spark we have seen in the ashes of our prayer meeting for manya day. "

"Can't you get him to come down, Mr. Laicus?" asked Mr. Wheaton. 

I shook my head resolutely. 

"Not as a candidate you know, but on some dodge or other. Invite himto spend a week with you, and book on to him for the pulpit whenSunday comes. "

"He isn't the man for dodges, " said the Deacon, doubtfully. 

I shook my head as decidedly to the second proposition as to thefirst. 

"Well then, " said Mr. Wheaton, "if he won't come here we will haveto go there. It isn't far. "

The Deacon doubted whether the church would agree to deviate fromthe old paths. 

"They wouldn't have done it, " said Mr. Wheaton. "But they'll agreeto anything now I think. "

"Mr. Gear recommended that plan when we first met, " said I. "He willapprove of it. But how as to Mr. Hardcap?"

"Oh! no matter about Hardcap, " said Mr. Wheaton, "he's no account. "

"Excuse me, " said I, "he is one of our committee and is of account. "

So after some consultation it was finally agreed that we should getoff at the Mill Village Station to see Mr. Gear, and then walk up toWheathedge. Deacon Goodsole also proposed to put Mr. Hardcap on thespecial committee to go to Koniwasset Corners, and Mr. Wheaton saidhe would furnish a free pass over the road to all who would go. Noman is impervious to compliments if they are delicatelyadministered. At all events Mr. Gear was sensibly pleased by havingus call on him in a body. And Mr. Hardcap, when he found that thenew plan involved a free ride on the railroad and a Sunday excursionfor himself, withdrew all objections. 

My wife says, "For shame, John, " and wants me to strike that lastsentence out. But it is true, and I do not know why it should notstand. It is in confidence you know. 

The next Saturday Mr. Wheaton, Mr. Hardcap and Deacon Goodsolestarted for Koniwasset Corners. They reached it, or rather theyreached Koniwasset, the nearest point, Saturday evening, and Sundaymorning rode over, a drive of five miles. It was a beautiful day;the congregation turned out well; the little church was full, andMaurice, unconscious of the presence of a committee, and preaching, not to fish for a place, but to fish for men, was free, unconstrained and, as Providence willed it, or as good fortune wouldhave it (the reader may have his choice of expressions, according ashe is Christian or heathen), was in a good mood. Deacon Goodsole wasdelighted. Jim Wheaton was scarcely less so, and even Mr. Hardcapwas pleased to say that it was "a real plain Gospel sermon. " DeaconGoodsole found an old friend in one of the congregation and wenthome with him to dinner, while Mr. Wheaton and Mr. Hardcap went backto the hotel. Deacon Goodsole joined them in the evening and broughta good report of the Sunday-school, where he had watched theunconscious parson (who superintends his own school), and had even, to avoid suspicion, taken the place of an absent teacher for theafternoon. 

Mr. Wheaton had to return the next day, but the Deacon found nogreat difficulty in persuading Mr. Hardcap to stay over, and Tuesdayevening they went to the weekly prayer-meeting. Meanwhile theyinquired quietly in the neighborhood about the preacher at theCorners, giving however no one a hint of their object, except theparson at Koniwasset who commended Maurice very highly for his pietyand his efficiency. As to his preaching, he said he should not callhim eloquent, "but" he added, "there is one thing; Maurice Maplesonnever speaks without having something to say; and he is very much inearnest. "

Both the Deacon and Mr. Hardcap were very much pleased with thespirit of the prayer-meeting--the Deacon said Mr. Mapleson couldmake more of a fire with less fuel than any man he knew--and when thecommittee made their report, which they did at the close of ourWednesday evening meeting, it was unanimous in favor of givingMaurice a call. 

To call a man without hearing him was not the orthodox way, and theobjections which Mr. Hardcap had originally proposed in thecommittee meeting were renewed by others. In reply it was said, verytruly, that the church really knew more about Mr. Mapleson than theycould possibly learn from a trial sermon, or even from half a dozenof them, that a careful investigation by a committee into his actualworking power was a far better test than any pulpit exhibition, however brillant. I added that Mapleson's letter was positive, andhis convictions settled, and that I felt reasonably certain he wouldnot preach as a candidate. On the whole this increased the desire toget him; and finally a second committee was appointed to go and hearhim. A couple of ladies were put, informally, on this committee, andthe church paid the expenses of the four. I say informally. DeaconGoodsole nominated Miss Moore and Mrs. Biskit, and quoted the caseof Phoebe from the sixteenth chapter of Romans to prove that it wasapostolic. But the ladies shook their heads, as did some of theelders of the church and Mr. Hardcap entered a vigorous protest. TheDeacon was a born and bred Congregationalist, and is radical, I amafraid, in church matters. A compromise was finally effected byappointing two of the elders, who agreed to take their wives. 

They came back as well pleased as the first committee had been, andthe result was, to make a long story short, that last week aunanimous call was sent to Maurice, and as I write this letter Ihave before me a private note from him, saying that he has receivedit, and that, if agreeable to us, he will come down and spend a weekwith me. He says he wants to see our prayer-meeting, ourSabbath-school teachers' meeting, and our Sabbath-school. He addsthat he will preach for us on Sunday if we desire, but that he doesnot want it known that he will be here at the prayer-meeting, as hewants to take a back seat and see how it goes. 

In short he gives me to understand that it is the church which is ontrial, not the minister, and that whether he comes or not depends onwhat kind of a church he finds it to be. This reversal of theordinary course of things is a little queer; but I guess it is allright. At all events it will not do the church at Wheathedge anyharm. Meanwhile until we get a final answer from Maurice Maplesonour pulpit is no longer in the market. For after our experience ofministerial coquetry I do not think there will be any inclination onour part for a flirtation. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Ministerial Salaries. 

"MR. Wheaton, " said I, "we made a queer blunder the other night; wedid not settle on any salary when we made out our call to Mr. Mapleson. "

"No blunder, " said Mr. Wheaton, "I left it out on purpose. I thoughtmay be we could get him for less than fifteen hundred dollars. Whatdo you think? Wouldn't he come on twelve hundred, and theparsonage?" And Mr. Wheaton smiled on me with an air ofself-satisfaction which seemed to say, 'Jim Wheaton is the man tomanage church business. '

I confess I was indignant at the idea of driving a sharp bargainwith a minister, but I rather suspect Jim Wheaton never makes anyother than a sharp bargain. 

"Not with my advice, " said I. "I told him the church ought to payfifteen hundred a year and a parsonage, and I presumed it would. ButI recommend him not to come till he knows. "

We were in the Post Office, waiting for the distribution of theevening mail. Mr. Hardcap was one of our group. So was DeaconGoodsole. It was indeed a sort of extemporized and unintentionalmeeting of our supply committee, only Mr. Gear being absent. 

"The church won't give mor'n 1, 200 with my advice, " said Mr. Hardcapdecidedly. "And that's mor'n I make. I would just like to contractmy time for the year at four dollars a day. And I have to get up atsix and work till sunset, ten hours, hard work. I don't see why theparson should have half as much again for five or six hours' work. Ihave heard our old pastor say myself that he never allowed himselfto study mor'n six hours a day. "

"But the pastoral work, Mr. Hardcap?" said I. "You make no accountof that. "

"The calls, do you mean?" said he. "Well, I should like to be paidfour dollars a day for just dressin' up in my best and visitin', that's all. "

"Not only the calls, " said I, "though you would find callinganything but recreation, if it was your business. But there are theprayer-meetings, and the Sabbath-school, and the whole managementand direction of the church. "

"Prayer-meetin' and Sabbath-school!" replied Mr. Hardcap; "don't weall work in them? And we don't ask any salary for it. I guess itain't no harder for the parson to go to prayer-meetin' than forme. "

I shrugged my shoulders. The deacon interposed. 

"I agree with you, Mr. Laicus, " said he. "We have got to pay a goodsalary. I wish we could make it two thousand a year instead offifteen hundred. "

Mr. Hardcap opened his eyes and pursed his mouth firmly together, asthough he would say 'Do my ears deceive me?'

"But, " continued the deacon, "there is something in what Mr. Hardcapsays. There are half-a-dozen farmers in our Wheathedge congregationwho don't handle fifteen hundred dollars in money from one year'send to the other. Mr. Hardcap isn't the only man to whom it seems abig sum to pay. Mr. Lapstone the shoemaker, Mrs. Croily theseamstress, Joe Hodgkins the blacksmith, and half-a-dozen others Icould name, have to live on less. And you must remember theirincomes, Mr. Laicus, as well as yours, and mine, and Mr. Wheaton'shere. "

"Well, gentlemen, " said Mr. Wheaton, "we've got to pay a goodsalary, but I think we ought to keep expenses down all we can. "

"I don't believe in makin' preachin' a money makin' businessno-how, " said Mr. Hardcap. "Parsons hain't got no business to be alayin' up of earthly riches, and fifteen hundred dollars is a gooddeal of money to spend on bread and butter, now I tell you. "

"Mr. Hardcap, " said I, "what do your tools cost you?"

"My tools?" said he. "Yes, " said I, "your tools. What do they costyou?"

"Well, " said he, "they range all the way from ten cents up to fivedollars, accordin' to the article and its quality. "

"Did you ever consider, " said I, "what a minister's tools cost?"

"Minister's tools!" said he, "I didn't know he had any, except hispen. "

"My dear sir, " said I, "his tools alone cost him between one and twohundred dollars a year. "

Mr. Hardcap expressed his incredulity by a long whistle; and evenDeacon Goodsole expressed a quiet doubt. But my father was aminister and I know something about it. 

"Look here, " said I. "He must have at least two religious weeklies, one of his own denomination, and one of a more general character, "and I took out a pencil and paper and noted down my list as I madeit, "that's six dollars. He ought to have at least two of thepopular magazines, that's eight dollars. He ought to have a goodscientific magazine of some kind, four dollars more; and histheological quarterly is indispensable, four dollars more; and atleast one of the daily newspapers, he ought really to read on bothsides, but we will allow only one, that's ten dollars, and here isthe footing of his periodical literature: Two religious weeklies $6Popular Magazines 8 Scientific Magazine 4 Theological Quarterly 4Daily Paper 10 $32"

"That's what it will cost him, " said I, "simply to keep up with thetimes. "

The other gentlemen looked at my figures a moment in silence. DeaconGoodsole was the first to speak. "That is a pretty liberalestimate, " said he. "A great many ministers get along on less thanthat. "

"Oh yes, " said I, "and grow dry and dull in consequence. Little foodmakes lean men. "

Mr. Hardcap shook his head resolutely, "I don't believe in preachin'to the times, " said he. "It's scripter interpretation and thedoctrines we want. "

"Very well, " said I, "the tools for that work cost more yet. Yourscost you from ten cents to five dollars, his from five dollars to ahundred. A single volume of Lange, or Alford, or the Speaker'sCommentary cost five dollars; a good Bible Dictionary, from twentyto thirty; a good Encyclopedia, from fifty to a hundred. Andtheological treaties have a small market and therefore a highprice-very high for their value. And his tools grow old too, andhave to be replaced oftener than yours do, Mr. Hardcap. "

"I don't see that, Mr. Laicus, " said he. "A book, if you keep itcareful, will last a great many years. I am reading out of a Biblethat belonged to my grandfather. And I expect 'll belong to mygrandson yet. "

"My dear Mr. Hardcap, " said I, "the leaves and covers and printedworks do not make the book. Ideas make the book. You can use yourtools over and over again. If your plane gets dull out comes thehones and the dulled edge is quickly sharpened again. But ideas aregone when they are used. "

"I don't see it, " said Mr. Hardcap. And I do not suppose he does. Iwonder if he knows what an idea is. 

"It is so, " continued I, "with all student-tools. There are a fewwhich the minister uses over and over again; his dictionaries, commentaries, and cyclopedia, if he has one. There are a fewtreaties that are worth reading and re-reading; but they areexceptional. Generally the student gets the gist of a book in onereading, as a squirrel the kernel of a nut at one crack. Whatremains on his shelves thereafter is only a shell. A book that hasbeen dulled can rarely be sharpened and put to use again. There isno ministerial hone. The parson must replenish his bench every year. At least he ought to. "

"I haven't no great opinion of larned ministers no-how, " said Mr. Hardcap. "It isn't larnin' we want, Mr. Laicus. It is the Gospel, the pure, unadulterated Gospel. "

Mr. Hardcap was incorrigible. I might as well try to explain to aNorth American Indian the cost and the value of a modern cotton millas the cost and the value of student tools to Mr. Hardcap. 

But I believe I produced some impression on the others. DeaconGoodsole still pondered my figures. "I never thought of the cost ofminister's tool before, " said he. "It's quite an item. "

"Well, " said Mr. Hardcap, "for my part I don't see why the parsoncan't live on a thousand dollars a year as well as I can. "

I had failed to produce conviction on the subject of tools. Iresolved to try another tack. "What do you pay for help?" said I. 

"Help?" said he interrogatively. 

"Yes, " said I. "What do you pay your cook and chambermaid?"

"Hoh!" said he contemptuously. "I don't keep no help. My Bible tellsme that God made the wife to be a help-meet for man, and my wife isall the help I want. I wouldn't have a servant round my house at noprice. "

"Do you suppose our pastor and his wife can get along the same way?"I asked. 

"Don't see why not, " said he sententiously. 

"What!" said Mr. Wheaton. "Would you have your pastor's wife do herown work, Mr. Hardcap? I hope we haven't got so poor as that. Shemust be a lady, Mr. Hardcap; a lady, sir. "

"Well, " said Mr. Hardcap, "and can't a lady do her own work? Highand mighty notions these that a woman must eat the bread of idlenessto be a lady. "

"Oh! it's all very well, Mr. Hardcap, " said Mr. Wheaton; "but ourpastor's wife has a position to maintain. She owes a duty to theparish, sir. She can't be maid of all work at home. I should beashamed of the church to suffer it. "

"There certainly is a difference, Mr. Hardcap, " said the Deacon. "Mrs. Hardcap may do her own washing. And if anybody finds her overthe washtub Monday morning no one thinks the worse of her for it. But it really wouldn't do for our pastor's wife. "

Mr. Hardcap shook his head resolutely. "I don't see it, " said he. "Idon't believe a minister's wife is too good to work. "

"She isn't, " said the Deacon. "But if she washes Monday, and ironsTuesday, and sweeps Wednesday, and bakes Thursday, and sews Fridayand Saturday, what time has she left to make calls or receive them?"

Mr. Hardcap only shrugged his shoulders. 

"How many calls does your wife make in a year?" I asked. 

"Oh! we don't make no calls, " said Mr. Hardcap. "We've got otherwork to do. "

"And yet you expect your minister and his wife to call on you?" saidI interrogatively. 

"I s'pose so, " said he. 

"I remember hearing you say that you thought it rather hard of Mrs. Work, just before they left, that she hadn't been inside of yourhouse for six months. How many calls do you suppose Mrs. Maplesonwould have to make in a year in order to call on every family oncein six months?"

"Don't know, " said Mr. Hardcap, shortly. 

"Well, " said the Deacon, "we've got over a hundred families in ourparish. It would take nearly one call every day. "

"Beside extra calls on the sick, " I continued. "You will either haveto give Mrs. Mapleson a servant or relinquish your expectation ofreceiving any calls from her; that is very evident. "

Mr. Hardcap made no reply. 

"There are one or two other items that ought to be considered indeciding what the pastor's salary should be, " said a gentle buttremulous voice at my side. I turned about to see the speaker. Itwas old Father Hyatt, who had joined our group, unperceived. 

"I suppose Mr. Hardcap's best broadcloth coat and Mrs. Hardcap'sblack silk gown last them a good many years. Isn't it so, Mr. Hardcap?"

Mr. Hardcap confessed that it was. 

"The minister has to wear broadcloth, Mr. Hardcap, all the week. Hemust be always in society dress. So must his wife. With the utmosteconomy their bill for clothes mounts up to a frightful sum. I know, for I have tried it. "

"There is something in that, " said Mr. Hardcap. 

Old Father Hyatt is a great favorite with Mr. Hardcap, as indeed heis with all of us. And no one ever accused Father Hyatt ofextravagance. 

"I know a city clergyman, " continued the old man, "who alwayspreaches in a silk gown, though he is a Congregationalist. 'It savesmy coat', said he to me once in explanation. 'I can wear a seedycoat in the pulpit and no one is the wiser. ' 'But, ' said I, 'howabout the silk gown?' 'Oh!' said he, 'the ladies furnish the gown. '"

We laughed at the parson's shrewdness. Even Mr. Hardcap smiled. 

"And there are some other items, too, gentlemen, " added FatherHyatt, "which I hope you will consider. The churches don'tordinarily know about them. At least they do not consider them. Thecompany item alone is an enormous one. Not once in six months now doI have a friend to pass the night with me. But when I was settledhere my spare room always had a guest, and half the time my stablean extra horse. Every benevolent agent, every traveling minister, every canvasser makes straight for the minister's house. He has tokeep an inn for the benefit of the parish, and gets no pay for it. "

"Cut them off, " said Mr. Hardcap. But he said it good naturedly. 

"'Given to hospitality, ' says the Apostle, " replied Father Hyatt. 

"Well, " said Deacon Goodsole, with a sigh, "we ought to pay thefifteen hundred a year. It's none too much. But I don't see whereit's coming from. "

"Oh! never you fear, " said Mr. Wheaton. "Mr. Mapleson is worthfifteen hundred, and we'll have to pay it. We'll get it somehow. Write him it's fifteen hundred, Mr. Laicus. You'll be safe enough. "

With which our informal conference came to an end. But I have notwritten. I wonder if Jim Wheaton runs the Koniwasset Coal Company, and the Newtown railroad, and the Wheathedge bank on the "somehow"principle. I wish had asked him. I am glad I have no stock in them. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Ecclesiastical Financiering. 

BUT though I have no stock in the Koniwasset Coal Company or theNewtown railroad or the Wheathedge Bank, I have some in the CalvaryPresbyterian Church, and I decidedly object on consideration tocarry on that institution on the "somehow" principle. So I intimatedas much to Mr. Wheaton the other day, after thinking the wholematter over, and taking counsel with Jennie about it. 

"Oh! go ahead, " said Mr. Wheaton. "Tell him we'll pay him $1, 500 anda parsonage. The church will back you, Mr. Laicus. "

"And if the church don't, " said I, "will you pay the deficit?"

Mr. Wheaton shook his head, very decidedly. I was equally decidedthat without a responsible backer I would not "go ahead. " So on mydemand a meeting of the Board of Trustees was called. The SupplyCommittee met with them. James Wheaton, Esq. , Chairman of the Boardof Trustees, was in the chair. 

On behalf of the Supply Committee I stated the object for which theBoard was convened. The church had hitherto paid $1, 200 salary. Itwas quite inadequate. No one doubted that. It was unreasonable toexpect that Maurice Mapleson would come for less than we had offeredMr. Uncannon-$1, 500 a year and a parsonage. But in the call, by astrange omission, the church had neglected to mention any salary. The Committee wished to write Mr. Mapleson on the subject. Would theBoard sustain us in pledging the church to $1, 500 and the parsonage?

Upon this there was an informal expression of opinion all round theBoard. Mr. Wheaton led the way. He had no doubt on the subject. Wemust have a minister, a good minister, a live, wide-awake, practicalman. Such men were in demand. If one could not be got for $1, 200, wemust pay $1, 500. That was the way in which he managed railroads; andbusiness was business, whether in church or railroad. Not pretendingto be a saint, he naturally took a worldly view of the matter; buthe at least tried to conduct worldly matters on equitableprinciples. It was certainly true that the laborer was worthy of hishire. 

So, in substance, said James Wheaton, Esq. , Chairman Board ofTrustees, etc. , etc. ; and so, in substance, said they all. Even Mr. Hardcap acquiesced, though with a mild protest against modernextravagance. 

"Well, gentlemen, " said Mr. Wheaton, "this is just what I expected;yes, let me say, just what I was sure of. In fact, I told Mr. Laicushe might depend on having $1, 500 a year; but he was not satisfiedwith my assurance-he wanted yours. I hope he is satisfied. "

"Excuse me, " said I, "if I seem unreasonable, but I am notsatisfied; and I should certainly have been so with Mr. Wheaton'sassurance. I never doubted that he was good for $1, 500 a year. But, in dealing with a church board, to be frank, I want to know wherethe money is coming from. Pray, Mr. Treasurer, what was our incomelast year?"

The Treasurer murmured something about not having his accounts. 

"In round numbers, " said I. 

"Between fourteen and fifteen hundred dollars. "

"And our expenses?"

"Not far from eighteen hundred dollars. "

"And, pray, how, " continued I, "was the deficit made up?"

A part, it appears, was made up by a special subscription, and apart is still due as floating debt, and part went in to increase themortgage. Perhaps I would remember the meeting in the fall at Mr. Wheaton's house. 

I did remember it very well. But I was anxious that the othergentlemen should not forget it. 

"And now, gentlemen, " said I, "you propose to add three hundreddollars to that annual deficit. Where is the money to come from?"

There was a momentary silence. The question was evidently a new one. Apparently not a member of the Board had considered it. At lengthone gentleman suggested that we must raise the pew rents. Thisbrought an indignant protest from Deacon Goodsole, who is a strongadvocate of the free-pew system. 

"Never, " said he, "with my consent. Any pew-rent is bad enough. Trafficking in the Gospel is abominable at best. It shuts out thepoor. Worse than that, it shuts out the godless, the irreligious, the profane--the very men we want to catch. The pew-rents are toohigh now. We must not raise them. "

The Treasurer also added a mild protest. The pew-holders would notstand it. 

"What do you say, Mr. Wheaton?" said I. 

"Say?" said he: "why, I say you cannot carry on a church on the sameprinciples on which you carry on a railroad or a bank. It is adifferent affair altogether. You must trust the Lord for something. I think that we can safely trust Him to the amount of three hundreddollars at least. Where's your faith?"

"Making false promises and trusting the Lord to fulfil them isn'tfaith, " said Deacon Goodsole. 

"I say, Jim, " said Mr. Jowett, "you trust Him for your interestmoney--that will set us all right. "

There was a little laugh at this suggestion. Mr. Wheaton holds amortgage on the church. He did not take kindly to this practicalapplication of the doctrine of faith. 

"Oh! well, " said he, "we can raise it somehow. Never fear. A goodminister will fill up our empty pews. Then in the summer we mustmanage to bleed the boarders a little more freely. It won't hurtthem. What with a concert, or fair, or a subscription, or a littleextra effort our plate collections, we can manage it, I have nodoubt. "

"For my part, " said I, "I agree with one the gentlemen, who told usearly in this discussion that we must carry on church affairs onbusiness principles. I don't see any business principles in agreeingto pay money which we have not got and don't know where to get. "

"Gentlemen, " said Mr. Jowett, "Mr. Laicus is right. The shamefullyloose ways in which our Protestant churches carry on their financesis a disgrace to the Christian religion. "

Mr. Jowett is a broker. He assured me after the meeting that it wasalmost impossible to get a loan on church property because churcheswere so notoriously slack in paying their interest. 

Mr. Hardcap murmured an assent. "I don't b'lieve, gentlemen, inagreein' to pay what we hain't got. If we'd got the $1, 500, I'd saygive it to him. I don't grudge him the money. But I don't want thischurch to make no promises that it aint' a goin' to keep. "

"Mr. Hardcap has had some experience with promise-breakingchurches, " said Deacon Goodsole. 

It seems that Mr. Hardcap did the carpenter work in some repairs onthe Methodist church here last summer. When he got through hecarried in his bill to the President of the Board of Trustees. ThePresident referred him to the Treasurer. The Treasurer reported nofunds and referred him to the Chairman of the Building Committee. The Chairman of the Building Committee explained that it was hisbusiness to supervise the building, not to raise the funds, and senthim back to the President. It was not till Mr. Hardcap, whose stockof patience is small, threatened the church with a mechanic's lienthat the remedy was forthcoming. 

"Well, gentlemen, " said I, "I will not be a party to getting aminister here on-excuse the term, --false pretences; on the assurancethat we can pay him $1, 500 a year when it is a hard matter to payhim $1, 200. There are ten of us here. I will put my name down nowfor $30, if the rest will do the same. If the Lord sends the $300, or if the ladies raise it by a fair, or if Mr. Wheaton gets up aconcert, or the summer boarders come to our rescue, we shall havenothing to pay. If none of these things happen, the minister willnot have it all to lose. "

The matter was eventually settled in that way. We raised acontingent fund of $250 then and there, which we have since made upto $400. So that now we can offer $1, 500 a year with a clearconscience. 

As a lawyer I have had some experience dealing with corporations. And I record my deliberate conviction here that of all corporationschurch corporations are financially the worst; the most loose anddilatory and unconsciously dishonest. I record it as my deliberateconviction, having had some opportunities for knowing, that in theCalvinistic church, of the others I don't pretend to know anything, on the average not one half the ministry get their meagre salariespromptly. This injustice is the greatest and most scandalous featurein the treatment to which the churches subject their ministers. Thatministers are subjected to hardships is a matter of no consequence. So are other people. It is the injustice, the absolute andindefensible injustice, the promising to pay their meagre salariesand then not paying even those-the obtaining of their services underfalse pretences-that I complain of. If I were a minister I neverwould accept a call without knowing thoroughly the income and theexpenditure of the church. 

As I write there lies before me a letter from my late pastor. Hewants to borrow $300 for a few weeks. His Board of Trustees are thusmuch behind-hand in the first quarter's payment. He has not themeans to pay his rent. The duty of the Board in such a case is veryevident. The very least they can do is to share in providingtemporarily for the exigency. The very most which a mean Board coulddo would be to ask the minister to unite with them in paying up thedeficiency. In fact, he who is least able to do it has to carry itall. Nobody else will trust the church. He has to trust it forhundreds of dollars. And then when his grocer and his landlord andhis tailor go unpaid, men shrug their shoulders and say, pityingly, "Oh! he's a minister, he is not trained to business habits. " And theworld looks on in wonder and in silent contempt to see the ChristianChurch carrying on its business in a manner the flagrant dishonestyof which would close the doors of any bank, deprive any insurancecompany of its charter, and drive any broker in Wall street from theBrokers' Board. 

Jennie says this last is pretty sharp writing; and she shakes herhead over it. But it is time, and I decline to cancel it. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Our Donation Party--by Jane Laicus. 

MY husband wants me to write an account of the donation we gave ournew minister. He wants it to put in his book. 

"Why, John, " said I, "I can't write anything for a book. I neverwrote anything for print in my life. You mustn't think I am cleverbecause you are. "

"My dear Jennie, " said he, "there is no magic in print. Write justsuch an account as you wrote your mother. If you had that letter youcould not do better than give me that to put in. "

"I can't possibly write, John. I would indeed if I could. "

"Then, " said John, "it can't go in at all. For I was not here. Icannot describe it. "

He was so earnest about it I finally had to yield. He says I alwayshave my own way. I didn't this time I am sure. There is only onething that reconciles me to it. I do not believe the publishers willprint it. I told John I wouldn't trust my writing to his judgment. Iwouldn't you know, of course because he would be sure to say it wasgood. So we agreed to leave it to the publishers. If they don't likethis chapter they are going to leave it out. John is going to leavethem to read the proof, and we shan't either of us know till thebook is published whether "our donation party" gets in or not. Iconfess to a little hope it will get in. 

Let me see how it happened. Oh! this was the way: Maurice was at ourhouse the Sunday he supplied our pulpit. He told my husband that hethought he should accept our call. But he said he didn't think theparsonage would do him any good. He wanted to go to housekeeping, but he had not the money to furnish it with, and he would not run indebt. 

That set me thinking. I talked the matter over with Miss Moore andfound she was quite of my mind; and the week after, we got Maurice'sletter accepting the call, we proposed to the ladies at the sewingsociety to undertake to furnish the parsonage. The idea took atonce. In fact the having a parsonage is a new thing at Wheathedge, and we feel a little pride in having it respectable, you know; atleast so as not to be a disgrace to the church. Mrs. Goodsolethought it doubtful about raising the money, and Mrs. Hardcap saidthat "her husband wasn't in favor of the parsonage nohow, and shedidn't believe would think much of fixin' of it up;" but Miss Moorereplied to Mrs. Goodsole that she could try at any rate, and to Mrs. Hardcap that she would be responsible that Mr. Hardcap would do hisshare; a remark which to some of us seemed a bold one, but whichpleased Mrs. Hardcap for all that. 

Mr. Hardcap, I believe, means well, though to some of us his ideasdo seem very contracted, sometimes. But my husband says that narrowmen are needed as well as broad ones, and that if there were no Mr. Hardcap to count the cost of every venture before it was undertaken, the church would have been bankrupt long before this time. 

We appointed committees that evening; one to raise the money-ofcourse Miss Moore was at the head of that--one to furnish thekitchen, one to furnish the parlor and bed-room, (as I knew thebride, I was put on that committee, ) and one to provide a supper. Some of the ladies wanted to have a grand reception. They said itwould be a good thing to surprise the new pastor with ahouse-warming. Mrs. Hardcap proposed that the sewing society meetthere that afternoon. But Miss Moore objected strongly. She said itwould cost nearly as much to provide a supper for the wholecongregation as to furnish a good bed-room set. I think, though, itwas really little Miss Flidgett who put a quietus on that plan. 

"Why, " said she in an injured tone, "I want to be there and see howthey like it. "

Nobody dared advocate the plan after that speech. I really thinkthat they all felt very much the same way, however. 

The next day some of us met at the parsonage to take a survey. Lastyear the house was without a tenant, and it had come to be in rathera dilapidated condition. The fence gate was off the hinges. Thegarden was over-grown with weeds. The sink in the kitchen was badlyrotted. One of the parlor blinds was off. There was a bad leak overthe back porch, and the plastering looked just ready to fall, andthe whole looked dingy, --it needed outside painting sadly. 

"We needn't let these things go so, " said Miss Moore. "The landlordmust put the house to rights. "

So off we posted to the landlord, who is a queer, crusty oldbachelor, who has, I verily believe, a kind heart, and does a gooddeal of good in his own fashion; but his fashion is never like anyone else's. Not a thing could Miss Moore get out of him. He hadrented the house as it stood, he said. If the trustees didn't likeit they needn't have taken it. They paid little enough rent torepair it themselves. He had nothing more to do except to get hisrent regularly, and that she might depend he would do. 

Miss Moore returned somewhat disappointed, but nothing daunted. "Somuch the better, " said she. "It will give Mr. Hardcap a chance to dosomething. "

"How about the painting?" said Mrs. Wheaton. "It ought to bepainted. "

Miss Moore shook her head. "So it ought, " she said, "and so I toldMr. Quirk; but he won't do anything, --and we can't afford to paintit; we shouldn't have money left for furnishing. "

So we took the measure of the floors for the carpets, settled onwhat furniture we would get, and adjourned. 

Next week I went down to New York and called on the young lady towhom Maurice is engaged. Her home is in New York, or rather it wasthere; for to my thinking a wife's home is always with her husband;and I never like to hear a wife talking of "going home" as thoughhome could be anywhere else than where her husband and her childrenare. Maurice and Helen were to be married two weeks from thefollowing Friday, for Maurice proposed to postpone their weddingtrip till his next summer's vacation; and Helen, like the dear, sensible girl she is, very readily agreed to that plan. In fact Ibelieve she proposed it. She had some shopping to do before thewedding, and I had some to do on my own account, and we wenttogether. I invented a plan of refurnishing my parlor. I am afraid Itold some fibs, or at least came dreadfully near it. I told Helen Iwanted her to help me select the carpet; and though she had no timeto spare, she was very good-natured, and did spare the time. Weladies had agreed-not without some dissent-to get a Brussels for theparlor, as the cheapest in the end, and I made Helen select her ownpattern, without any suspicion of what she was doing, andincidentally got her taste on other carpets, too, so that really sheselected them herself without knowing it. Deacon Goodsolerecommended me to go for furniture to Mr. Kabbinett, a German friendof his, and Mrs. Goodsole and I found there a very nice parlor set, in green rep, made of imitation rosewood, which he said would wearabout as well as the genuine article, and which we both agreedlooked nearly as well. We would rather have bought the realrosewood, but that we could not afford. Mr. Kabbinett made us aliberal discount because we were buying for a parsonage. We got anextension table and chairs for the dining-room, (but we had to omita side-board for the present), and a very pretty oak set for thechamber. We did not buy anything but a carpet for the library, forMr. Laicus said no one could furnish a student's library for him. Hemust furnish it for himself. 

When we got back to Wheathedge, Tuesday afternoon, we found theparsonage undergoing transformations so great that you would hardlyknow it. Miss Moore had got Mr. Hardcap, sure enough, to repair it. She had agreed to pay for the material, and he was to furnish thelabor. The fence was straightened, and the gate re-hung, and theblinds mended up, and Mr. Hardcap was on the roof patching it whereit leaked or threatened to. Deacon Goodsole had a bevy of boys fromthe Sabbath-school at work in the garden under his direction. Ifthere is anything the Deacon takes a pride in, next to his horse, itis his garden, and he said that the parson should have a chance forthe best garden in town. Great piles of weeds stood in the walk. Twoboys were spading up; another was planting; a fourth was wheelingaway the weeds; and still another was bringing manure from theDeacon's stable. Miss Moore was setting out some rose-bushes beforethe door; and the Deacon himself, with his coat off, was trimmingand tying up a rather dilapidated looking grape-vine over a stillmore dilapidated grape arbor. 

The next morning, about eleven o'clock, little Miss Flidgett camerunning into our house, without ever knocking, in the greatestpossible excitement. 

"Mrs. Laicus, " said she, "the painters have come. "

"The painters!" said I. "What painters?"

"Why didn't you order them?" said she. 

"They are painting the parsonage. I supposed of course you orderedthem. "

It was very evident that she did not suppose anything of the kind, but was dying of curiosity to know who did. I confess I had somecuriosity to know myself. So I put on my bonnet and shawl, and ranover with her to find out about it. Sure enough the painters werethere, three or four of them, with their ladders up against the sideof the house, and the parsonage already beginning to change colorunder their hands. Some of the ladies were in the kitchensupervising the repairs of the sink, and the putting up of someshelves in the pantry, but they knew nothing about the painters. Iasked one of the hands, at work on the front door, who sent him. 

"The boss, ma'am, " he replied, very promptly. 

"And who is the boss?" said I. 

"Mr. Glazier, ma'am. "

Mr. Glazier is the painter himself, the head-man. So I was no betteroff than before. I was afraid Mrs. Wheaton had ordered them, and Iknew our funds were getting low, for we had overrun our estimate forcarpets; and I have the greatest horror of running in debt. So Iresolved to go right over to Mrs. Wheaton's and get at the bottom ofthe mystery. But Mrs. Wheaton knew nothing of the matter. We wereboth sure Miss Moore would not have ordered them, and I wasreturning as wise as I started, when, as I passed the parsonage, Isaw Mr. Glazier and Mr. Quirk in the yard, talking together. So Iturned in to ask Mr. Glazier about it. As I passed up the walk Mr. Quirk called out to me. 

"You ladies are in possession, I see, " said he. "You mean to makethe parson comfortable and contented if you can. "

"Yes, Sir, " said I, "though we are not responsible for the greatestimprovement, the painting. I think Mr. Glazier must be responsiblefor that himself. I can't find any one that ordered it done. "

I thought that would bring the information, and it did. 

"Oh! that's Mr. Quirk's orders, " said he. 

"Yours?" said I turning to the crusty old landlord who wouldn't doanything. 

He nodded. I think he enjoyed my perplexity. I spoke on the impulseof the moment. If I had given it a second thought I should not havedone it; and yet I am not sorry I did. 

"Mr. Quirk, " said I, "my husband was right and I was wrong. Weladies thought very hard of you that you would not do anythingtoward repairing the parsonage. For one I want to apologize. "

"Judge not, that ye be not judged, " said the old man; and he turnedon his heel and went away. He is the queerest man I ever saw. 

I wish you could have seen that parsonage last Friday, the day thatMr. Mapleson and his wife were to arrive. The walks were trim. Theplot before the piazza had been new sodded. The grapevine wasalready putting out new buds as if it felt the effect of theDeacon's tender care. There was not a weed to be seen. The beds, with their rich, black loam turned up to the sun, had a beauty oftheir own, which only one who loves to dig among flowers as much asI do can appreciate. Mr. Glazier had made the dingy old house looklike a new one. After all there is nothing I like better for acottage than pure white with green blinds. Inside we had a lovelycarpet on the parlor, and the new set of imitation rosewood. Abeautiful bouquet from Mrs. Wheaton's garden stood in the baywindow, which looks out upon the river. My girl, lent for theoccasion, was in the kitchen; and in the dining-room there wassupper spread just for two, with cake, preserves, and pies enough inthe closet (every body in the parish had sent in supper for thatevening) to keep the parson supplied for a month at least. I was thelast to leave the house, and I did not leave it till I heard thewhistle of the train. Then I ran over to Miss Moore's littlecottage, which is right across the way. Her parlor window was fullof ladies peering out, first and foremost of whom was little MissFlidgett, who thus gratified her wish to see how they would take it. The Deacon, who was fixing something about the stable, was almostcaught. But he heard the carriage-wheels just in time to run intothe shed, and I could see him there holding the door open a crackand peering out to see what passed. Even dignified Mrs. Wheatoncould not resist the temptation to be passing along, accidentally ofcourse, just as the parson drove up. Mr. Wheaton had called for themat the depot. It was arranged (with them, that is) that he was totake them right to our house, and they were to stay there till theycould decide whether to board or keep house. He proposed to them, however, according to pre-arrangement, to stop a minute at theparsonage on the way. "Mrs. Mapleson, " he said, "can see what it isand how she likes the house, and the location; and besides I have anerrand to do at the store. "

We saw him get out and hand them out. Just then Mrs. Wheaton passedby, and he introduced her to them. Mrs. Wheaton took a seat in thenow vacant carriage to go with her husband to the store; and Mr. AndMrs. Mapleson went up the walk. We saw them go in and shut the door. In a moment they came out again. Maurice looked up and down thestreet in perplexity; then he stepped back a few paces and looked upat the house. His wife stood meanwhile on the door-step. Suddenlyshe beckoned to him, and pointed out something on the side of thedoor just over the bell-handle. They had discovered the littlesilver plate on which was engraved "Rev. Maurice Mapleson. " At thatmoment the expressman drove up with their trunks. Maurice settledwith him, looked up and down the street as if looking for Mr. Wheaton, who did not make his appearance as you may believe; andthen parson, wife, and trunks all went into the house together, andwe dispersed. 

As to the Deacon, he had to climb out of a back window into an allythat runs behind the house in order to get out of his positionwithout being discovered. 

And that is the way we gave our donation party in Wheathedge. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Maurice Mapleson. 

IT is not six weeks since Maurice Mapleson preached his first sermonhere, at Wheathedge, and already events prove the wisdom of ourselection. I have been studying somewhat and pondering more thesecret of his success, and I have sat down this evening to try andclear up my own shadowy thoughts by reducing them to form. I oftentake my pen for such a purpose. Is it not Bacon who says the penmakes an accurate thinker?

Maurice Mapleson certainly is not what I should call a greatpreacher. He is not learned. He is not brilliant. He seldom tells usmuch about ancient Greece or Rome. He preached a sermon on Woman'sfunction in the church, a few Sundays ago. I could not helpcontrasting it with Dr. Argure's sermon on the same subject. Mauricecould not have made a learned editorial or magazine article out ofhis sermon. He did not even discuss the true interpretation ofPaul's exhortations and prohibitions. He talked very simply andplainly of what the women could do here at Wheathedge. 

He thanked them with unmistakeable sincerity for what they hadalready done, and made it an incentive to them to do more-more forChrist, not for himself. 

Jennie says that is the secret of Maurice's success. He isappreciative. He never scolds. He commends his people for what theyhave done and so incites them to do more. She thinks that praise isa better spur than blame. She always manages her servants on thatprinciple. Perhaps that is the reason why they are not the greatestplague of life to her. 

But if Maurice's sermons are not great, neither are they long. Helays it down as a cardinal rule in moral hygiene that a congregationshould not go away from the church hungry. Harry no longer begs tostay at home Sunday mornings, and even Mr. Hardcap rarely getsasleep. 

If I compare Mr. Mapleson with Mr. Uncannon, I should sayunhesitatingly that the latter was the more brilliant preacher ofthe two. No one ever comes out of church saying "What a powerfuldiscourse! What a brilliant figure! What a pretty illustration! Howeloquent!" But I find that we very often spend our dinner hour indiscussing not the sermon, but its subject. 

There are however two or three peculiarities which I observe aboutMaurice Mapleson's preaching. Dr. Argure tells me that he neverwrites a sermon without a reference to its future use. I once askedhim whether he ever preached extemporaneously. "No, " said he. "Ihave meant to. But I have so many fine sermons waiting to bepreached that I could never bring myself to abandon them for a meretalk. "

I do not think Maurice has any fine sermons waiting to be preached. Indeed I know he has not. For one evening when he excused himselffrom accepting an invitation to tea, because he was behind-hand inhis work and had his sermon to prepare, I replied, "You must have agood stock on hand. Give us an old one. "

"I haven't a sermon to my name, " he replied. 

"What do you mean?" said I. 

"I mean, " said he, "that a sermon is not an essay; that every sermonI ever preached was prepared to meet some special want in my parish, and that when it was preached, there was an end of it. I could nomore preach an old sermon than I could fire a charge of gun powder asecond time. "

"But experiences repeat themselves, " said my wife. "What your peopleat Koniwasset Corners knew of doubt, of trouble, of sorrow, ofimperfect Christian experience, we know too. As in water faceanswereth to face, so the heart of man to man. "

"That is true, " said Maurice thoughtfully. "But there are no twofaces exactly alike. And my sermon is meaningless to me, if not tomy people, unless I can see the want and bring out the truth to meetit. "

"But the truth is always the same, " said Jennie, "and the wants ofthe human heart are not widely different. "

"That is both true and false, " said he. "The truth is always thesame; but not always the same to me. I fell into conversation withMr. Gear last night on the subject of the atonement. He thinks itrepresents God as revengeful and unforgiving. Can I answer him withan old sermon? God's love is immutable. But I hope I understand itbetter and feel it more than I did three years ago. I cannot bringan old experience to meet a new want. No! a sermon is like a flower, it is of worth only when it is fresh. "

His sermons at all events are always fresh. They are his personalcounsel to personal friends. I dimly recognize this element of powerin them. But this is not all. There is something more, somethingthat I missed in Dr. Argure's learned essays, and in Mr. Uncannon'spulpit pyrotechnics. But it is something very difficult to define. 

Did you ever consider the difference between a real flower and a waximitation? The latter may be quite as beautiful. It may deceive youat first. And yet when you discover the deception you aredisappointed. "The lack of fragrance, " Jennie suggests. No! theflower may be odorless. It is the lack of life. I do not know whatthere is in that mystic life that should make such a difference. ButI am sure that the charm of the flower is in its life. 

The most beautiful statue that Powers ever chiseled does not comparefor grace and beauty with the Divine model. The same mystic elementof life is wanting. 

There is life in Maurice Mapleson's sermons. What do I mean by life?Earnestness? No! Mr. Work was earnest. But this mysterious life waswanting. I can feel it better than I can define it. It is not in thesermon. It is in the man. I get new information from Dr. Argure. Ido not get much new information from Maurice Mapleson. I used to getnew ideas occasionally from Mr. Work. I rarely get a new idea fromMaurice Mapleson. But I get new life, and that is what I most want. 

This element of life enters into all his work. It is in the manrather than in his productions. 

Our prayer-meetings have improved wonderfully since he came. "How doyou prepare for the prayer-meeting?" I asked him the other day. 

"By an hour of sleep and an hour of prayer, " he replied. "I alwaystry to go into the meeting fresh. "

And he succeeds. His coming into the meeting is like the coming ofSpring. He brings an atmosphere with him. It is indescribable, butits effect is marvelous. Jennie says she never understood before asshe does now what was meant by the declaration in Acts concerningthe Apostles, that though they were unlearned men, the people tookknowledge of them that they had been with Jesus. 

And it is this life which makes him so admirable as a pastor. "Is hesocial?" a friend asked me the other day. Yes. He is social. Butthat is not all. Mr. Work was social. But he was always a minister. He went about the streets in a metaphysical white choker and blackgown. He was everywhere professional. When he opened the subject ofpersonal religion he did it with an introduction as formal andstately as that with which he habitually began his sermons. Heformally inducted you into the witness box and commenced aprofessional inquisition on the state of your soul. I confess I haveno fancy for that sort of Presbyterian confessional. I like thePapal confessional better. It does not invade your house and attackyou with its questionings when you are in no mood for them. I toldMr. Work so once, whereat he was greatly shocked and somewhatindignant. 

Mr. Uncannon too was very social. But he was never a minister. Outside the pulpit he never introduced the subject of religion. Ithink it is perfectly safe to say that no one would have takenknowledge of him that he had been with Jesus. As to pastoral callshe expressly disavowed any intention of making any. "I have notime, " said he, "for gadding about and spiritual gossiping. It's asmuch as I can do to get up my two sermons a week. "

But Maurice is social in a different way. I asked him once whatsystem he pursued as to pastoral calls. 

"A very simple system, " said he, "mix much with my people and bemuch with Christ. If I do both, Mr. Laicus, I shall not fail tobring them together. I don't trouble myself about ways and means. "

The week after Mr. Mapleson came to Wheathedge, some ecclesiasticalbody met at Albany. I had a case before the Court of Appeals, andMaurice and I happened to take the same train. As we waited in thestation he addressed himself to a surly looking baggage-master withthis question, "What time will the train get to Albany?"

"Can't tell, " said the surly baggage-master. "Nothing is certain torailroad men. "

"Except one thing, " said Mr. Mapleson. 

"What's that?" said the surly baggage-master. 

"Death, " said Mr. Mapleson. 

"That's a fact, " said the surly baggage-master. "Specially certainto railroad men. "

"And there is one other thing certain, " added Maurice. 

"What's that?" asked the baggage-master, no longer surly. 

"That we ought to be ready for it. "

The baggage-master nodded thoughtfully. "So we ought, " said he; andhe added as he turned away, "I hope you're readier than I be. "

I note this little incident here because it revealed so much ofMaurice Mapleson's character to me. I think it did more to discloseto me the secret of his success than any sermon he has everpreached. Mr. Work when he went away read us the statistics of hisministerial industry. He told us how many sermons he had preached, how many prayer meetings he had attended, how many sick he hadvisited, and how many religious conversations he had held with theimpenitent. I should as soon think of Maurice Mapleson's keeping arecord of the number of times he kissed his wife or taught hischildren-if he had any. 

While I have been writing in a vain endeavor to put my vague andshadowy ideas of Maurice Mapleson's magnetic power into words, Jennie has come in and has seated herself beside me. 

"Jennie, I cannot get into clear and tangible form my shadowy ideas. What is the secret of ministerial success? What is the commoncharacteristic which gives pulpit power to such widely dissimilarcharacters as Chalmers, Whitefields, the Westleys, Spurgeon andRobertson in England, and Edwards, Nettleton, Finney, the Beechers, father and son, Murray, John Hall, Dr. Tyng, and a score of others Icould mention in this country?"

"Hand me your New Testament, John. "

It was lying on the table beside me. She took it from my hand andopened it. 

"I don't know as to all the names you have mentioned, John, but Ithink the secret of true pulpit power, the secret of Paul's wondrouspower, the secret of Maurice Mapleson's power--the same in kindthough smaller in measure--is this. And she read from Galatians, thesecond chapter and twentieth verse:

"'I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live; yet not I, butChrist liveth in me, and the life which I now live in the flesh, Ilive by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himselffor me. '"

CHAPTER XXV. 

Our Church-Garden. 

ONE needs no other evidence that Maurice Mapleson is working awonderful transformation in this parish than is afforded by thechange which has been made in the external appearance of the church. It is true that Miss Moore always was a worker. But I do not believethat even Miss Moore could have carried out her plan of a churchgarden under Mr. Work. And Mr. Work was a good minister too. 

When I first came to Wheathedge the Calvary Presbyterian church wasexternally, to the passer-by, distinguished chiefly for the severesimplicity of its architecture, and the plainness, not to say thehomeliness, of its surroundings. It is a long, narrow, woodenstructure, as destitute of ornament as Squire Line's old fashionedbarn. Its only approximation to architectural display is a squaretower surmounted by four tooth-picks pointing heavenward, andencasing the bell. A singular, a mysterious bell that was and is. Itexpresses all the emotions of the neighborhood. It passes throughall the moods and inflections of a hundred hearts. To-day it ringsout with soft and sacred tones its call to worship. To-morrow fromits watch-tower it sees the crackling flame in some neighboring barnor tenement, and utters, with loud and hurried and anxious voice, its alarm. Anon, heavy with grief, it seems to enter, as asympathising friend, into the very heart experiences of bereaved andweeping mourners. And when the rolling year brings roundIndependence day, all the fluctuations of feeling which mature andsoften others are forgotten, and it trembles with the excitement ofthe occasion, and laughs, and shouts, and capers merrily in itshomely belfry, as though it were a boy again. 

Pardon the digression. But I love the dear old bell. And its voiceis musical to me, albeit I sometimes fancy, like many anothersinger's it is growing weak and thin with age. 

The surroundings of the church were no better than the externalaspect. The fence was broken down. The cows made common pasture inthe field-there is an acre of ground with the church, I believe-tillthe grass was eaten so close to the ground that even they disdainedit. A few trees eked out a miserable existence. Most of them, girdled by cattle, were dead. A few still maintained their "strugglefor life, " but looked as though they pined for the freedom of thewoods again. Within, the church justified the promise of itsexternal condition. The board of trustees are poor. Every man hadbeen permitted to upholster his own pew. Some, without owners, werealso without upholstering. In the rest, the only merit was variety. The church looked as though it had clothed itself in a Joseph's coatof many colors; or rather, its robe presented the appearance of poorJoe Sweaten's pantaloons, which are so darned and pieced and mendedthat no man can guess what the original material was, or whether anyof it is left. There was but one redeeming feature-the bouquet uponthe pulpit. Every Sunday, Sophie Jowett brought that bouquet. As herfather had a large conservatory, the bouquet was rarely missing evenin winter. As she has admirable taste it was always beautiful evenwhen the flowers were not rare. She had done her work very quietly, had asked no permission, had consulted with no one. One Sabbath thebouquet appeared upon the pulpit. After that it was never missing, except one Sunday when Miss Sophie was sick, and for three weeks inthe Fall, when she was away from home. 

Such was the condition of the church at Wheathedge when I bought myhouse. 

Last spring Miss Sophie was married. There were more tears and lessradiance than usual at that wedding. Mr. Line said that he nevercould supply the place in the Sunday-school. Mr. Work came up fromNew York to marry them. His voice was tenderer than usual when hepronounced the marriage ceremony. The first Sabbath after thatwedding the pulpit was without flowers. Was there any who did notmiss them, and in missing them did not miss her? It took the lastornament from our church, which thenceforth looked desolated enough. 

When Maurice Mapleson came the bouquet came back. But it was mademostly of wild flowers. I think his wife began it. Perhaps it wasthis which suggested to Miss Moore's fertile brain the idea of achurch-garden. 

At all events one Wednesday after prayer-meeting Miss Moore and Mrs. Biskit came to me. "We want a dollar from you, " said Miss Moore. 

"What for?" said I. Not that I thought of questioning Miss Moore'sdemand, --no one ever does that; but because I naturally liked to knowwhat my money was going to do. 

"We are going to start a church-garden, " said she. "The trusteeshave given us the ground, and we want to raise about ten dollars fora beginning. "

I gave her the dollar and thought no more about it; indeed, I shouldhave accounted the scheme quite chimerical if there had been any oneat the head of it except Miss Moore. 

However, the next week, as I was passing the church, I saw MissMoore and Mrs. Biskit at work in the churchyard. A little plot hadbeen spaded up at one side, one or two walks laid out, and they werebusy putting in some flower seed. I thought of offering my services. But as my agricultural education was neglected in my youth, and asmy knowledge of gardening is very limited, I passed on. 

My chance came pretty soon. When Miss Moore has anything to do forthe church every one gets an opportunity to help. 

It could not have been more than two or three days later, when, as Ipassed, I perceived that she had already increased her stock ofgardeners. Half a dozen young men were working with a will. She hadhalf of the minister's Bible-class engaged. Two of them had broughta load of gravel from down under the hill as you go to the Millvillage. They were shoveling this out at the front gate, while someothers were spreading it in a broad walk up to the church-door. Agreat pile of sods lay right by the side of the growing gravel-heap. Deacon Goodsole, in his shirt sleeves, was raking over the groundpreparing it for grass-seed. "Rather late for grass-seed, " he hadremonstrated, but the inexorable Miss Moore had replied, "Betterlate than never. " Four or five of the boys, who had used the churchcommon as a ball-ground, were enlisted-a capital stroke of policythat. Among them was Bill Styles, who prides himself on throwing astone higher and with surer aim than any other boy in Wheathedge, and had demonstrated it by stoning all the glass out of the towerwindows. A melancholy-looking cow, transfixed with astonishment, hadstopped in the middle of the road to look with bewilderment upontheir invasion of its ancient territory. I leaned for a moment onthe tottering fence and looked, equally bewildered, on the busyscene. 

But Miss Moore never suffers any one to look on idly where she islaboring. "Ah! Mr. Laicus, " said she, cheerily, "you are just theman we want. That cow will come in through these gaps in the fenceand undo our work in an hour after we leave it. I wish you would gethold of somebody and fix it up. " With that she was off again, and Iwas in for an office. 

Deacon Goodsole afterwards told me confidentially that he was caughtin the same way. 

Now, though I am no gardener, I am a bit of a carpenter. So, aftertaking the dimensions of the fence, mentally, I started off for thematerial, which Mr. Hardcap gave, and, with the aid of a volunteeror two, I succeeded in so far filling the breach that the melancholycow gave up her little game, and walked philosophically away. 

To make a long story short, the result of Miss Moore's energeticendeavors was seen the next Sabbath, in part, in an entirely newaspect of affairs, which has been constantly improving since. Theboard of trustees, moved thereto partly by the energies of MissMoore, partly by those of their Baptist neighbors who have just gotinto a new church, have commenced to build a new fence. A graveledwalk, free from dust in drought and from mud in rainy weather, leadsup to the church-door. A border of sod on either side meltsgradually away into the beginning of a lawn of grass which will befuller and better next year than this. On a couple of fan shapedlattices, in which I take a little pride as my own handiwork, ahoney-suckle on one side of the church-door and a prairie rose onthe other are planted. In imagination I already see them reachingout their tendrils in courtship over the door. I should not wonderif next Spring should celebrate their nuptials. Some ivy, planted byMiss Moore, on the eastern side of the church promises in time toembosom it in green. A parterre of flowers in the rear, has alreadyhelped to furnish the pulpit every Sunday with a bouquet, and, MissMoore declares, will, another summer, give the minister a bouquet onhis study table all the week, and messengers of beauty to add to thecomfort of many a sick-room. And in the Fall Deacon Goodsole and Iwith half a dozen young men from the pastor's Bible-class are goingup into the woods for some maples to set out in the place of thedead sticks which served only as monuments of the departed. 

But Miss Moore is in a quandary. She does not know what to do withher ten dollars. All the work was given. Even Pat Maloney, RomanCatholic though he is, would not take anything for spading up theground for "our church garden. "

I am a conservative man. But I do wish Miss Moore could be chairmanof our board of trustees for a year or two. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Our Temperance Prayer-Meeting. 

IT is late in the fall. The summer birds have fled southward. Thesummer residents have fled to their city homes. The mountains haveblossomed out in all the brilliance of their autumnal colors; butthe transitory glory has gone and they are brown and bare. Onelittle flurry of snow has given us warning of what is coming. Thefurnace has been put in order; the double windows have been put on;a storm-house has enclosed our porch; a great pile of wood lies upagainst the stable, giving my boy promise of plenty of exerciseduring the long winter. And still the summer lingers in these brightand glorious autumnal days. And of them the carpenters and thepainters are making much in their work on the new library-hall. 

Do not let the reader deceive himself by erecting in his imaginationan edifice of brick or stone, with all the magnificent architecturaldisplay which belongs to the modern style of American cosmopolitanarchitecture. Library-hall is a plain wooden building, one storyhigh, and containing but three rooms. It is to cost us just $1, 000, when it is finished. Let me record here how it came to be begun. 

Temperance is not one of the virtues for which Wheathedge is, orought to be, famous. I know not where you will find cooler springsof more delicious water, than gush from its mountain sides. I knownot where you will find grapes for home wine-that modern recipe fordrunkenness-more abundant or more admirably adapted to the vintner'spurpose. But the springs have few customers, and one man easilymakes all the domestic wine which the inhabitants of Wheathedgeconsume. But at the landing there are at least four grog-shops whichgive every indication of doing a thriving business, beside Poole's, half-way to the Mill village; to say nothing of the bar the busiestroom by all odds, at Guzzem's hotel, busiest, alas! on the Sabbathday. 

Maurice Mapleson is not one who considers that his parish and hiscongregation are coterminus. "I like the Established Church for onething, " he says. "The parish is geographical, not ecclesiastical. All within its bounds are under the parson's care. In our system theminister is only responsible for his own congregation. It is likecaring for the wounded who are brought into hospital, and leavingthose that are on the field of battle uncared for. "

A little incident occurring soon after he came, first openedMaurice's eyes, I think, to the need of temperance reform in thecommunity. 

He had occasion, one evening after prayer-meeting, to visit a sickchild of his Sabbath-school. The family were poor and his road ledhim down near the brickyard toward "Limerick, " as this settlement ofhuts-half house, half pig-stye-is derisively called. The night wasdark, and returning, abstracted in thought, he almost fell over whathe first took to be a log lying in the street. It was a man, who, ona cursory examination, proved to be suffering under no less adisorder than that of hopeless intoxication. It was a dangerous bed. Maurice made one or two unsuccessful attempts to arouse the fellow, but in vain. Retracing his steps a few rods to the nearest hut, hesummoned assistance, and with the aid of Pat sober, got Pat drunkupon his feet. But he was quite too drunk to help himself, and toolarge and heavy to be left to the sole charge of Pat sober, whohappened to recognize a friend, whose home he said was a quarter ofa mile down the valley. Maurice, who had preached a few Sundays agoon the parable of the Good Samaritan, could not bring himself toimitate the example of the Priest and Levite; so steadying the tipsypedestrian on one side, while sober Pat sustained him on the other, they half led, half dragged the still unconscious sleeper to alittle round hut, which he called home. The wife was sitting up forher husband and received both him and his custodians withobjurgations loud on the first, and thanks equally loud addressed tothe others. No sooner was the stupid husband safely deposited on thebed than, begging them to wait a moment, she went to the cupboardand taking down a big, black bottle, half filled a cracked tea-cupwith whiskey, which she offered to Maurice as an expression of hergratitude. "I do not know, " said Maurice to me, as he told me thestory, "that she will ever forgive me for declining, though Icouched my declension as courteously as possible. "

Coming home and pondering this incident, he made up his mind thatsomething must be done for the temperance cause in Wheathedge; andfurther pondering led him to the conclusion that he must begin atthe church. 

So one evening last week he came round to talk with me about it. 

"The first thing, " said he to me, "is to arouse the Church. Ibelieve in preaching the gospel of temperance to the Jews first, andafterwards to the Gentiles. I will begin in the Synagogue. Afterwards I will go to the streets, and lanes, and highways. "

"You will meet with some opposition, " said I. "A temperance meetingin the church has never been heard of in Wheathedge. You will bedeparting from the landmarks. "

"Do you think so?" said Maurice. 

"I am sure of it, " said I. 

"Very good, " said he, "if I meet with opposition it will prove I amright. It will prove that the Church needs stirring up on thesubject. If I am not opposed I shall be inclined to give up theplan. However I will not wait for opportunity. I will challenge it. "

The next Sunday he gave notice that that evening there would be aTemperance prayer and conference meeting in the church, in lieu ofpreaching. 

"The town, " said he, "is cursed with intemperance. There is onemiscellaneous dry-goods and grocery store, one drug store, one mill, about half a bookstore, and an ice-cream saloon; and within a radiusof half a mile of this church there are ten grog-shops and twodistilleries, quite too large a proportion even for those whobelieve, as I do not, in moderate drinking. I have no remedy topropose. I have no temperance address to deliver. What I do proposeis that we gather to-night and make it the subject of earnest prayerto God, and of serious conference among ourselves, that we may knowwhat our duty is in the case, and knowing, may do it bravely andwell. "

As we came out of church the proposed Temperance prayer-meeting wasthe theme of general discussion. 

Mr. Guzzem was sorry to see that this church was threatened with anirruption of fanaticism. He thought the minister had better stick tohis business and leave side-issues alone. 

Mr. Wheaton thought the true remedy for intemperance was thecultivation of the grape, and the manufacture of modern wines. Hedid not believe in meetings. 

Mr. Hardcap was as much a foe to intemperance as any one; but hethought the true remedy for intemperance was the preaching of theGospel. Paul was the model for preachers, and Paul knew nothing butJesus Christ and Him crucified. Deacon Goodsole inquired who thatman was that preached before Felix of righteousness, temperance, andjudgment to come. But Mr. Hardcap apparently did not hear thequestion, at least he did not answer it. 

Elder Law thought it might be very well, but that the minister oughtnot to change the service of the Sabbath without consulting theSession. It was a dangerous precedent. 

Deacon Goodsole thought it a move in the right direction, and vowedhe would give the afternoon to drumming up recruits. Miss Moore saidshe would go with him. 

Mr. Gear, who has not been inside a prayer-meeting since he has beenat Wheathedge, declared when I told him of the meeting, that it wasthe first sensible thing he had ever known the church to do; and ifthey were really going to work in that fashion he would like to becounted in. And sure enough he was at the prayer-meeting in theevening, to the great surprise of everybody, and to theconsternation of Mr. Hardcap, who found in the fact that an infidelcame to the meeting, a confirmation of his opinion that it was adesecration of the Sabbath and the sanctuary. 

Mrs. Laynes, whose eldest boy jumped off the dock last Spring in afit of delirium tremens, came to Maurice with tears in her eyes tothank him for holding a temperance meeting. "I can't do anything butpray, " she said; "but oh, Pastor, that I can and will do. "

The meeting was certainly a remarkable success, there was justopposition enough to make it so. Those that were determined itshould succeed were there ready to speak, to sing, to pray. Thosethat did not believe in it were there to see it fail. Those thatwere indifferent were there, curious to see whether it would succeedor fail, and what it would be like. And Deacon Goodsole and MissMoore were there with their recruits, a curious and motley additionto the congregation. The church was full. Every ear was attention;every heart aroused. And when finally good old Father Hyatt, withhis thin white hair and tremulous voice, and eyes suffused withtears, told in tones of unaffected pathos, the sad story of Charl. Pie's death, I do not believe that even Jim Wheaton's eyes were dry. At all events I noticed that when, at the close of the meeting, Maurice put the question whether a second meeting should be held thefollowing month, Jim Wheaton was among those who voted in theaffirmative. There were no dissentients. 

When I came home from this meeting, I put on paper as well as Icould Father Hyatt's pathetic story. It is as follows:

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Father Hyatt's Story. 

IF you had known Charlie P. , and had seen his little struggle, andhad felt as I did the anguish caused by his tragic death, you wouldnot talk of moderate drinking as a remedy for intemperance. 

I was away from my parish when I first heard of it. I very wellremember the start with which I read the first line of the note, "Charlie P-- is dead;" and how after I had finished the account, written in haste and partaking of the confusion of the hour, theletter dropped from my hands, and I sat in the gathering darkness ofthe summer twilight, rehearsing to myself the story of his life, andthe sad, sad story of his tragic death. Years have passed since, butthe whole is impressed upon my memory in figures that time cannotfade. If I were an artist, I could paint his portrait, I am sure, asI see him even now. Such a grand, open-hearted, whole-souled fellowas he was. 

It was about a year before that I first saw him in my church. Hispeculiar gait as he walked up the center aisle, first attracted myattention. He carried a stout cane and walked a little lame. Hiswife was with him. Indeed, except at his office, I rarely saw themapart. She loved him with an almost idolatrous affection; as wellshe might, for he was the most lovable man I ever knew; and he lovedher with a tenderness almost womanly. I think he never for a momentforgot that it was her assiduous nursing which saved his life. Hisface attracted me from the first, and I rather think I called on thenew-comers that very week. At all events we soon became fastfriends, and at the very next communion husband and wife united withmy church by letter from --, but no matter where; I had best giveneither names nor dates. They lived in a quite, simple way, goingbut little into society, for they were society to each other. Theyrarely spent an evening out, if I except the weekly prayer-meeting. They came together to that. He very soon went into theSabbath-school. A Bible-class of young people gathered about him asif by magic. He had just the genial way, the social qualities, andthe personal magnetism to draw the young to him. I used to lookabout sometimes with a kind of envy at the eager attentive faces ofhis class. 

Judge of my surprise when, one day, a warm friend of Charlie's cameto me, privately, and said, "Charlie P. Is drinking. "

"Impossible, " said I. 

"Alas!" said he, "it is too true. I have talked with him time andagain. He promises reform, but keeps no promise. His wife is almostbroken-hearted, but carries her burden alone. You have influencewith him, more than any one else I think. I want you to see him andtalk with him. "

I promised, of course. I made the effort, but without success. Icalled once or twice at his office. He was always immersed inbusiness. I called at his house. But I never could see him alone. Iwas really and greatly perplexed, when he relieved me of myperplexity. Perhaps he suspected my design. At all events onemorning he surprised me by a call at my study. He opened the subjectat once himself. 

"Pastor, " said he, "I have come to talk with you about myself. I ambringing shame on the Church and disgrace on my family. You know allabout it. Everybody knows all about it. I wonder that the childrendo not point at me in the street as I go along. Oh! my poor wife! mypoor wife! what shall I do?"

He was intensely excited. I suspected that he had been drinking tonerve himself to what he regarded as a disagreeable but unavoidableduty. I calmed him as well as I could, and he told me his story. 

He was formerly a temperate though never a total abstinence man. Hewas employed on a railroad in some capacity-express messenger Ithink. The cars ran off the track. That in which he was sitting wasthrown down an embankment. He was dreadfully bruised and mangled, and was taken up for dead. It seemed at first as though he hadhardly a whole bone in his body; but by one of those marvelousfreaks, as we account them, which defeat all physicians'calculations, he survived. Gradually he rallied. For twelve monthshe lived on stimulants. His wife's assiduous nursing through thesetwelve months of anxiety prostrated her upon a bed of sickness. Fromhis couch he arose, as he supposed, to go through life on crutches. But returning strength had enabled him to substitute a cane. Herattack of typhoid fever left her an invalid, never to be strongagain. Alas! his twelve months' use of stimulants had kindled a firewithin him which it seemed impossible to quench. 

"I cannot do my work, " said he, "without a little, and a little isenough to overset me. I am not a hard drinker, Pastor, indeed I amnot. But half a glass of liquor will sometimes almost craze me. "

I told him he must give up the little. For him there was but onecourse of safety, that of total abstinence. He was reluctant to cometo it. His father's sideboard was never empty. It was hard to putaside the notions of hospitality which he had learned in hischildhood, and adopt the principles of a total abstinence, which hehad always been taught to ridicule. However, he resolved bravely, and went away from my study, as I fondly hoped, a saved man. 

I had not then learned, as I have since, the meaning of thedeclaration, "The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. "

I saw him every few days. He never showed any signs of liquor. Iasked him casually, as I had opportunity, how he was getting along. He always answered, "Well. " I sounded others cautiously. No onesuspected him of any evil habit. I concluded he had conquered it. Though I did not lose him from my thoughts or prayers, I grew lessanxious. He kept his Bible-class, which grew in numbers and ininterest. Spring came, and I relaxed a little my labors, as thatclimate-no matter where it was, to me the climate was badenough-required it. Despite the caution, the subtle malaria laidhold of me. I fought for three weeks a hard battle with disease. When I arose from my bed the doctor forbade all study and all workfor six weeks at least. No minister can rest in his own parish. Mypeople understood that, as parishes do not always. One bright springday, one of my deacons called, and put a sealed envelope into myhand to be opened when he had left. It contained a check for mytraveling expenses, and an official note from the officers of thechurch bidding me go and spend it. In three days I was on my way tothe White Mountains. It was there my wife's hurried note told me thestory of Charlie's death. And this was it:

The habit had proved too strong for his weak will. He had resumeddrinking. No one knew it but his wife and one confidential friend. He rarely took much; never so much as to be brutal at home, or unfitfor business at the office; but enough to prove to him that he wasnot his own master. The shame of his bondage he felt keenly, powerless as he felt himself to break the chains. The week after Ileft home his wife left also for a visit to her father's. She tookthe children, one a young babe three months old, with her. Mr. P. Was to follow her in a fortnight. She never saw him again. One nighthe went to his solitary home. Possibly he had been drinking-no oneever knew-opened his photograph album, covered his own photographwith a piece of an old envelope, that it might no longer look uponthe picture of his wife on the opposite page, and wrote her, on ascrap of paper torn from a letter, this line of farewell:

"I have fought the battle as long as I can. It is no use. I will notsuffer my wife and children to share with me a drunkard's shame. God-bye. God have mercy on you and me. "

The next morning, long after the streets had resumed theiraccustomed activity, and other houses threw wide open their shuttersto admit the fragrance of flowers, and the song of birds, and theglad sunshine, and all the joy of life, that house was shut andstill. When the office clerk, missing him, came to seek him, thedoor was fast. Neighbors were called in. A window was forced open. Lying upon the bed, where he had fallen the night before, lay poorCharlie P. A few drops of blood stained the white coverlet. It oozedfrom a bullet wound in the back of his head. The hand in death stillgrasped the pistol that fired the fatal shot. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Our Village Library. 

TO that prayer-meeting and Father Hyatt's story of Charlie P. , Wheathedge owes its library. 

"Mr. Laicus, " said Mr. Gear as we came out of the meeting together, "I hope this temperance movement isn't going to end in aprayer-meeting. The praying is all very well, but I want to see somework go along with it. "

"Very well, " said I, "what do you propose?"

"I don't know, " said he. "But I think we might do something. Ibelieve in the old proverb. The gods help those who helpthemselves. "

That very week Mr. Mapleson called at my house to express the sameidea. "What can we do to shut up Poole's?" said he. "It's dreadful. Half our young men spend half their evenings there lounging anddrinking away their time. " He proposed half a dozen plans andabandoned them as fast as he proposed them. He suggested that weorganize a Sons of Temperance, and gave it up because neither of usbelieved in secret societies; suggested organizing a Band of Hope inthe Sabbath-school, but withdrew the suggestion on my remarking thatthe Sabbath-school would not touch the class that made Poole's barthe busiest place in town; hinted at trying to get John B. Gough, but doubted whether he could be obtained. I told him I would thinkit over. And the next evening I walked up to Poole's to survey theground a little. I found, just as you turn the corner from the Mainstreet to go up the hill, what I had never noticed before-a sign, not very legible from old age and dirt, "Free Reading-room. " Havingsome literary predilections, I went in. A bar-room, with three orfour loungers before the counter, occupied the foreground. In therear were two round wooden tables. On one were half a dozen copiesof notorious sensation sheets, one or two with infamousillustrations. A young lad of sixteen was gloating over the pages ofone of them. The other table was ornamented with a backgammon boardand a greasy pack of cards. The atmosphere of the room was composedof the commingled fumes of bad liquor, bad tobacco, kerosene oil andcoal gas. It did not take me long to gauge the merits of the freereading-room. But I inwardly thanked the proprietor for thesuggestion it afforded me. 

"A free reading-room, " said I to myself; "that is what we want atWheathedge. "

The same thought had fortunately occurred almost simultaneously tomy friend Mr. Korley, though his reason for desiring itsestablishment were quite different from mine. His family spendsevery summer at Wheathedge. His wife and daughters found themselvesat a loss how to spend their time. They had nothing to do. Theypestered Mr. Korley to bring them up the last novels. But his mindwas too full of stocks; he always forgot the novels. On Saturday hewent over to Newtown, hearing there was a circulating library there. He found the sign, but no books. "I had some books once, " theproprietor explained, "but the Wheathedge folks carried them all offand never returned them. " Thus it happened that when the week aftermy visit to the free reading-room, I met Mr. Korley on board thetrain, he remarked to me, "We ought to have a circulating library atWheathedge. "

"And a reading-room with it, " said I. 

"Well, yes, " said he. "That's a fact. A good reading-room would be acapital thing. "

"Think of the scores of young men, " said I, "that are going down toruin there. They have no home, no decent shelter even for a winter'sevening, except the grog-shop. "

"I don't care so much about the young men, " said Mr. Korley, "as Ido about the middle-aged ones: My Jennie pesters me almost to deathevery time I go down, to buy her something to read. Of course Ialways forget it. Besides, I would like a place where I could seethe papers and periodicals myself. I would give fifty dollars to seea good library and reading-room in Wheathedge. "

"Very good, " said I, "I will put you down for that amount. " So Itook out my pocket-book and made a memorandum. 

"What! are you taking subscriptions?" asked Mr. Korley. 

"Have taken one, " said I. 

That was the beginning. That night I took a blank book and drew up asubscription paper. It was very simple. It read as follows:

"We, the undersigned, for the purpose of establishing a library andreading-room in Wheathedge, subscribe the sums set opposite ournames, and agree that when $500 is subscribed the first subscribersshall call a meeting of the others to form an organization. "

I put Mr. Korley's name down for $50, which started it well. Mr. Jowett could do no less than Mr. Korley, and Mr. Wheaton no lessthan Mr. Jowett; and so, the subscription once started, grew veryrapidly, like a boy's snowball, to adequate proportions. The secondTuesday in July I was enabled to give notice to all the subcribersto meet at my house. My parlors were well filled. I had taken painsto get some lady subscribers, and they were there as well as thegentlemen. I read to the company the law of the State providing forthe organization of a library association. Resolutions were drawn upand adopted. Stock was fixed at $5, that everybody might be astockholder. The annual dues were made $2, imposed alike onstockholders and on outsiders. A Board of trustees was elected. Andso our little boat was fairly launched. 

We began in a very humble way. The school trustees loaned us duringthe summer vacation a couple of recitation-rooms which we convertedinto a library and conversation-room. The former we furnished in thefirst instance with the popular magazines and two or three of thedaily newspapers. We forthwith began also to accumulate something ofa library. Mr. Wheaton presented us with a full assortment of PatentOffice reports, which will be very valuable for reference if anybody should ever want to refer to them. We also have two shelvesfull chiefly of old school-books, which a committee on donationssucceeded in raising in the neighborhood. 

But apart from these treasures of knowledge our collection iseminently readable. Maurice Mapleson is on the library committee, and Maurice Mapleson is fortunately a very sensible man. "The firstthing, " he says, "is to get books that people will read. Valuablebooks that they won't read may as well stay on the publishers'shelves as on ours. " So as yet we buy only current literature. Werarely purchase any book in more than two volumes. We have a goodliberal assortment of modern novels-but they are selected with somecare. We sprinkle in a good proportion of popular history andpopular science. The consequence is our library is used. The booksreally circulate. Our conversation-room has proved quite as popularas the library. It is furnished with chess and checkers. What ismore important it is furnished with young ladies. For the Wheathedgelibrary knows neither male nor female. And the young men find ourcheckers more attractive than Tom Poole's cards. They are ready toexchange the stale tobacco smoke and bad whiskey of his bar-room forthe fair, fresh faces that make our reading-room so attractive. Theboys, too, as a class are very willing to give up the shamelesspictorial literature of his free reading-room for Harper's and theIllustrated Christian Weekly. In a word the Wheathedge librarybecame so universally popular that when the opening of the schoolthreatened to crowd us out of our quarters, there was no difficultyin raising the money to build a small house, large enough for ourpresent and prospective needs. The only objection was Mr. Hardcap. For Mr. Hardcap does not approve of novels. 

This objection came out when I first asked him for a subscription, payable in work on the new building. 

"Do you have novels in your library?" said he. 

"Of course, " said I. 

"Then, " said he, "don't come to me for any help. I won't do anythingto encourage the reading of novels. "

"You do not approve of novels, then, I judge, Mr. Hardcap?" said I. 

"Approve of novels!" said he, energetically. "If I had my way, thepestiferous things should never come near my house. I totallycondemn them. I don't see how any consistent Christian can sufferthem. They're a pack of lies, anyhow. "

"Do you not think, " said I, "that we ought to discriminate; thatthere are different sorts of novels, and that we ought not tocondemn the good with the bad?"

"I don't believe in no kind of fiction, nohow, " said Mr. Hardcap, emphatically. "What we want is facts, Mr. Laicus-hard facts. That'swhat I was brought up on when I was a boy, and that's what I mean tobring my boys up on. "

I thought of Mr. Gradgrind, but said nothing. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Hardcap, half soliloquizing, "there is CharlesDickens. He was nothing in the world but a novel writer, and theyburied him in Westminster Cathedral, as though he were a saint; andpreached sermons about him, and glorified him in our religiouspapers. Sallie is crazy to get a copy of his works, and even wifewants to read some of them. But they'll have to go out of my houseto do it, I tell ye. Why, they couldn't make more to do if it wasBunyan or Milton. "

"Bunyan?" said I. "Do you mean the author of Pilgrim's Progress?"

"Yes, " said he: "that is a book. Why, it's worth a hundred of yourmodern novels. "

"How is that?" said I. "Pilgrim's Progress, if I mistake not, isfiction. "

"Oh! well, " said . Mr. Hardcap, "that's a very different thing. Itisn't a novel. It's a allegory. That's altogether different. "

"What is the difference?" said I. 

"Oh! well, " said he, "that's altogether different. I suppose it isfictitious; but then it's altogether different. It's a allegory. "

"Now I don't approve, " continued Mr. Hardcap, without explaininghimself any further, "of our modern Sunday-school libraries. I havecomplained a good deal, but it's no use. Tom brings home a storybook every Sunday. I can't very well say he shan't take any booksout of the library, and I don't want to take him out ofSunday-school. But I don't like these Sunday-school stories. Theyare nothing but little novels anyhow. And they're all lies. I don'tbelieve in telling stories to teach children. If I had my way, therewouldn't be but one book in the library. That would be the Bible. "

"You could hardly leave in all the Bible, " said I. "You would haveto cross out the parable of the prodigal son. "

"The parable of the prodigal son!" exclaimed Mr. Hardcap, inastonishment. 

"Yes, " said I: "that is, if you did not allow any fiction in yourSunday reading. "

"Oh!" said he, "that's very different. That's not fiction; that's aparable. That's entirely different. Besides, " continued he, "I don'tknow what right you have to assume that it is a story at all. I haveno doubt that it is true. Christ says distinctly that a man had twosons, and one came and asked him for his portion. He tells it allfor a fact, and I think it very dishonoring to him to assume that itis not. I have no doubt that he knew just such a case. "

"And the same thing is true of the parable of the lost sheep, andthe lost piece of money, and the sower, and the merchantman, and thepearl, and the unfaithful steward?" I asked. 

"Yes, " said he, "I have no doubt of it. "

"Well, " said I, "that is at least a new view of Scripture teaching. "

"I have no doubt it is the correct one, " said he. "I don't believethere is any fiction in the Bible at all. "

"Well, " said I, "when you get home you read Jotham's story of thetrees, in the Book of Judges; I think it's about the ninth chapter. "

"I will, " said he; "but if it's in the Bible I have no doubt it istrue, no doubt whatever. "

But in spite of Mr. Hardcap, the Wheathedge library flourished; andnext week our new quarters are to be dedicated to the cause ofliterature and temperance by a public meeting. And I am assured bythose that know, that Tom Poole's business was never so poor as ithas been since we started our opposition to his free reading-room. 

Miss Moore asked Maurice Mapleson last week to suggest a subject foran illuminated motto to hang on the wall of the reading-room overthe librarian's desk. 

"Overcome evil with good, " said he. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Maurice Mapleson Tries an Experiment. 

FIVE or six weeks ago Maurice came to me in some excitement. "Mr. Laicus, " said he, "is it true that ten of you gentlemen have tocontribute thirty dollars a piece this year to make up my salary?"

"No, " said I. 

"Why, John, " said Jennie. 

"We didn't have to do it, " I continued. But in point of fact we doit. "

"I don't like that, " said he soberly. "If the church can't pay mefifteen hundred dollars a year I do not want to receive it. Ithought the church was strong and well able to do all it professedto do. "

"My dear Mr. Mapleson, " said I, "you attend to the spiritualinterests of the church and leave its finances to us. If we cannotpay you all we have promised, we will come and beg off. Till thenyou just take it for granted that it's all right. "

Maurice shook his head. 

"Why, my dear friend, " said I, "how much do you suppose I pay forpew rent?"

"I haven't the least idea, " said he. 

"Fifty dollars, " said I. "That provides myself and wife and Harrywith a pew in church twice on the Sabbath if we want it. It pays forHarry's Sabbath-school instruction and for your service as a pastorto me and to mine. But we will make no account of that. Fiftydollars a Sabbath is a dollar a week, fifty cents a service, twentycents a head. Harry half price, and the Sabbath-school, and theprayer-meetings, and the pastoral work thrown in. It is cheaper thanany lecturer would give it to us, and a great deal better qualitytoo. My pew rent isn't what I pay for the support of the Gospel. Itis what I pay for my own spiritual bread and butter. It won't hurtme, nor Deacon Goodsole, nor Mr. Wheaton, nor Mr. Gowett, nor anyone else on that list to contribute thirty dollars more for thecause of Christ and the good of the community. "

Maurice shook his head thoughtfully, but said nothing more about itthen, and the matter dropped. 

The last week in December we have our annual meeting. It isgenerally rather a stupid affair. The nine or ten gentlemen whoconstitute the board of trustees meet in the capacity of anecclesiastical society. In the capacity of a board of trustees theyreport to themselves in the capacity of a society. In the capacityof a society they accept the report which they have presented in thecapacity of a board of trustees, and pass unanimously a resolutionof thanks to the board, i. E. Themselves, for the efficient andenergetic manner in which they have discharged their duties. Theythen ballot in a solemn manner for themselves for the ensuing yearand elect the ticket without opposition. And the annual meeting isover. 

But this year our annual meeting was a very different affair. TheSabbath preceding, the parson preached a sermon on the text: "Thepoor have the Gospel preached to them. " In this sermon he advocateda free-pew system. His arguments were not very fresh or new (thereis not much that is new to be said on the subject) till he came tothe close. Then he startled us all by making the followingproposition:

"The chief objection, " said he, "to the free-pew system is thequestion, 'Where shall the money come from?' From God, I answer. Ibelieve if we feed his poor, he will feed us. I, for one, am willingto trust Him, at least for one year. "

It slipped out very naturally, and there was a little laugh in thecongregation at the preacher's expense. But he was very much inearnest. 

"I propose to the society to throw open the doors of this church, and declare all the pews free. Provide envelopes and papers, andscatter them through the pews. Let each man write thereon what he iswilling to pay for the support of the Gospel, and whether he willpay it weekly, monthly, quarterly, semi-quarterly or annually. Givethese sealed envelopes to me. No one shall know what they containbut myself and the treasurer. I will pay out of the proceeds all thecurrent expenses of the church, except the interest. Whateverremains, I will take as my salary. The interest, the trustees willprovide out of the plate collections and with the aid of the ladies. This is my proposition. Consider it seriously, earnestly, prayerfully, and come together next Wednesday night to actintelligently upon it. "

I hardly think the minister's eloquence would have sufficed to carrythis plan, but the treasurer's balance-sheet helped his caseamazingly. 

I supposed there would be a small deficit, but thought I knew itcould not be very great. But I had not reckoned on the genius forincapacity which characterises church boards. To have the unusualdeficit, which was involved by the increase of the parson's salary, provided for by a special subscription was more than they couldbear. They had regarded it as their duty, made plain by the exampleof their predecessors in office for many years, to bring the churchin debt, and nobly had they fulfilled their duty. On the strength ofthat extraordinary subscription they had rushed into extraordinaryexpenditures with a looseness that was marvellous to behold. 

Here is the annual exhibit as it appears in the treasurer's report:

BALANCE SHEET. Cr. Pew-rents$1, 250. 00Sunday Collections325. 25Received by a Ladies' Fair113. 34Special Subscription300. 00

$1, 988. 59

Dr. Minister's Salary$1, 500. 00Organist (a new expenditure advocated by Mr. Wheaton because of the SpecialSubscription), Six months' salary100. 00Church Repairs, (a new fence and new blinds, &c. , advocated by Mr. Wheatonbecause of the Special Subscription)134. 75Reed Organ for the Sabbath-School (advocated by Mr. Wheaton because of theSpecial Subscription)150. 00Interest on Mortgage315. 00Sexton200. 00Fire, lights and incidentals225. 00Commission for collecting pew-rents55. 75

$2, 680. 50

1, 988. 59Deficit$691. 91

Of course, the minister's salary was behind; and, of course, theminister was behind to the grocer, and the baker, and the butcher, and the dry-goods dealer; and, of course, everybody felt blue. Therewas a good deal of informal discussion before the parson'sproposition was taken up. Mr. Hardcap wanted to decrease theminister's salary. Mr. Wheaton wanted to raise the pew rents. Mr. Leacock thought Mr. Wheaton could afford to give up his mortgage onthe church. Mr. Line proposed to take up a subscription, pay thebalance off on the spot, and begin the new year afresh. Mr. Gazbagthought it ought to be left to the ladies to clear off the debt witha concert or something of that sort. Mr. Cerulian thought (though hesaid it very quietly) that if we had a minister who could drawbetter, we shouldn't have any difficulty. 

The parson kept his own counsel till these various plans had been, one after another, proposed and abandoned. Then he again proposedhis own. 

"I do not want, " he said, "any more salary than this church andcongregation can well afford to give. I am willing if it is poor toshare its poverty. I believe if it is prosperous it will be willingto share with me its prosperity. I have studied this matter a gooddeal; I believe the pew rent system to be thoroughly bad. Itexcludes the poor. What is more to the purpose it excludes thosewhom we most need to reach. The men who most need the Gospel willnot pay for it. The law of supply and demand does not apply. No manpays a pew rent who does not already at least respect religion, ifhe does not personally practise it. The influence within the churchof selling the Gospel in open market is as deadly as its influencewithout. It creates a caste system. Practically our pews areclassified. We have a parquette, a dress circle, a family circle, and an amphitheatre. The rich and poor do not meet together. We arenot one in Christ Jesus. Moreover I believe it to be as badfinancially as it is morally. When an American makes a bargain hewants to make a good one. What he buys he wants to get as cheap ashis neighbor. If you rent your pews, every renter expects to get hisseat at the lowest rates. But Americans are liberal in giving. Ifthey contributed to the support of the Gospel, if what they gave thechurch was a free gift, I believe they would give with a free hand. At all events I would like to try the experiment. It can be no worsethan it has been this year. The trustees can have no difficulty inraising interest money from the plate collections and a specialsubscription. There can be no injustice in requiring them to securea special fund for any special expenditures. And all the otherexpenditures I will provide for myself out of the free gifts of thecongregation. I am willing to run all the risks. It may do good. Itcan do the church no harm. "

A long discussion followed this proposal. 

Mr. Wheaton was at first utterly opposed to the plan. He thought itwas tempting Providence to make no more adequate provision for ourdebts. Six of us quietly agreed to assume the mortgage debt, that isto say to insure him that the plate collections and the ladiestogether would pay the interest promptly. That changed his view. Hesaid that if the minister had a mind to risk his salary on such acrazy scheme, very well. And at the last he voted for it. 

Mr. Hardcap thought it was a first-rate plan. It was noticedafterward that he moved from a plain seat in the gallery to acushioned and carpeted seat in the center aisle. Whether he paid anymore contribution than he had before paid of pew rent, nobody butthe parson knows. But nobody suspects him of doing so. 

Mrs. Potiphar thought it was horrid. What was to prevent any common, low-born fellow, any carpenter's son, right from his shop, comingand sitting right alongside her Lillian? She couldn't sanction suchcommunist notions in the church. 

Deacon Goodsole warmly favored the minister's idea-was its mostearnest advocate, and was the man who first started the plan forbuying Mr. Wheaton's acquiescence. 

Mr. Line hadn't a great deal of faith in it. This was not the waythe church used to raise money when he was a boy. Still, he wantedto support the minister, and he wanted to have the poor reached, andhe hadn't anything to say against it. 

Squire Rawlins said, "Go ahead. The minister takes all the risk, don't you see? He's a big fool in my opinion. But there's no lawagin a man makin' a fool of himself, ef he wants ter. "

Miss Moore organized that very night a double force to carry theplan into effect. One was a ladies' society to pay the interest; theother was a band of workers, young men and young women, to go out onSunday afternoons and invite the people who now do not go anywhereto church, to come to ours. 

On the final vote the plan was carried without a dissenting voice. Ibeg Mrs. Potiphar's pardon. Her voice was heard in very decideddissent as the meeting broke up. But as the ladies do not vote inthe Calvary Presbyterian Church, her protest did not prevent thevote from being unanimous. 

Maurice Mapleson is sanguine of results, I am not. I am afraid hewill come out bankrupt himself at the end of the year. I wanted toraise a special subscription quietly to ensure his salary. But hewould not hear of it. He replied to my suggestion, "I said I wouldtrust the Lord, and I will. If you want to add to your envelopecontribution, very well. But I do not want any more than that willgive me. "

But one thing I notice and record here. Our congregation haveincreased from ten to twenty per cent. Miss Moore's invitations havemet with far greater success than I anticipated. I never could getany of the boys from the Mill village to come to church at allregularly under the old system. When this change was made I gavenotice of it, and now over half my Bible-class are in thecongregation. But I can get no intimation from Maurice how the planis prospering financially. All he will say is, "We shall all know atthe close of the year. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

Mr. Hardcap's Family Prayers. 

"JENNIE, " said I, the other evening, "I should like to go and make acall at Mr. Hardcap's. "

Our new pastor had preached a sermon on that unapplied passage ofScripture, Luke xiv: 12-14. It had made a great stir in our littlevillage. Mr. Wheaton thought it was a grand sermon, butimpracticable. Mrs. Potiphar resented it as personal. DeaconGoodsole thought it was good sound doctrine. I thought I would givethe sermon a trial; meanwhile I reserved my judgment. 

It is not a bad method, by the way, of judging a sermon to try itand see how it works in actual experiment. 

Jennie assented with alacrity to my proposition; her toilet did nottake long, and to Mr. Hardcap's we went. 

It was very evident that they did not go into society or expectcallers. In answer to our knock we heard the patter of a child'sfeet on the hall floor and Susie opened the door. As good fortunewould have it, the sitting-room door at the other end of the hallstood invitingly open, and so, without waiting for ceremony, Ipushed right forward to the common room, which a great blazing woodfire illuminated so thoroughly that the candles were hardlynecessary. Mrs. Hardcap started in dismay to gather up her basket ofstockings, but on my positive assurance that we should leaveforthwith if she stopped her work she sat down to it again. Luckilythe night was cold and there was no fire in the stove of thecheerless and inhospitable parlor. So they were fain to let us sharewith them the cheery blaze of the cozy sitting-room. We did notstart out till after seven, and we had not been in the room morethan ten minutes before the old-fashioned clock in the corner rangout the departure of the hour and ushered in eight o'clock--whereatJames laid aside his book, and at a signal from his father broughthim the family Bible. 

"We always have family prayers at eight o'clock, " said Mr. Hardcap, "before the children go to bed; and I never let anything interferewith it. "

This in the tone of a defiant martyr; as one under the impressionthat we were living in the middle ages and that I was an Inquisitorready to march the united family to the stake on the satisfactoryevidence that the reading of the Bible was maintained in it. 

I begged him to proceed, and he did so, the defiant spirit a littlemollified. 

He opened at a mark somewhere in Numbers. It was a chapter devotedto the names of the tribes and their families. Poor Mr. Hardcap! Ifhe was defiant at the first threatening of martyrdom, he endured theinfliction of the torture with a resolute bravery worthy of acovenanter. The extent to which he became entangled in those names, the new baptism they received at his hands, the singular contortionsof which he proved himself capable in reproducing them, theextraordinary and entirely novel methods of pronunciation which heevolved for that occasion, and the heroic bravery with which hestruggled through, awoke my keenest sympathies. Words which hefought and vanquished in the first paragraph rose in rebellion in asecond to be fought and vanquished yet again. The chapter at lengthdrew to an end. I saw to my infinite relief that he was at lastemerging from this interminable feast of names. What was my horrorto see him turn the page and enter with fresh zeal upon the conquestof a second chapter. 

Little Charlie (five years old) was sound asleep in his mother'sarms. Her eyes were fixed on vacancy and her mind interiorlycalculating something. I wondered not that James snored audibly onthe sofa. Susie never took her eyes off her father, but sat as onethat watches to see how a task is done. My wife listened for alittle while with averted face, then wandered off, as she afterwardstold me, to a mental calculation of her resources and expenses forthe next month. And still Mr. Hardcap rolled out those census tablesof Judea's ancient history. It was not till he had finished threechapters that at length he closed the book and invited me to lead inprayer. 

Half an hour later, after Jamie had been roused up from his cornerof the sofa and sent off to bed, and Charlie had been undressed andput to bed without being more than half aroused, Mrs. Hardcap askedmy advice as to this method of reading the Bible. 

"Mr. Hardcap, " said she, "read a statement the other day to theeffect that by reading three chapters every day and five on Sundayhe could finish the Bible in a year. And he is going through it inregular course. But I sometimes doubt whether that is the best way. I am sure our children do not take the interest in it which theyought to; and I am afraid those chapters of hard names do not alwaysprofit me. "

The martyr in Mr. Hardcap re-asserted itself. 

"All Scripture, " said he solemnly, "is given by inspiration of Godand is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction and forinstruction in righteousness. We cannot afford to pass by any partof the word of God. "

"What do you think about it, Mr. Laicus?" said Mrs. Hardcap. 

"Think!" said I; "I should be afraid to say what I think lest yourhusband should account me a hopeless and irreclaimable unbeliever. "

"Speak out, " said Mr. Hardcap; "as one who at the stake should say, 'pile the fuel on the flame, and try my constancy to its utmost. '"Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. "

"Well, " said I, "if I were to speak out, I should say that this wayof reading the Bible reminds me of the countryman who went to a cityhotel and undertook to eat right down the bill of fare, supposing heought not to call for fish till he had eaten every kind of soup. Itis as if one being sick, should go to the apothecary's shop, andbeginning on one side, go right down the store taking in due orderevery pill, potion, and powder, till he was cured-or killed. "

Mr. Hardcap shook his head resolutely. "Is it not true, " said he, "that all Scripture is profitable?"

"Yes, " said I, "but not that it is all equally profitable for alloccasions. All the food on the table is profitable, but not to beeaten at one meal. All the medicine in the apothecary's shop isprofitable, but not for the same disease. "

"There is another thing, " said Mrs. Hardcap, "that I cannot helpbeing doubtful about. James is learning the New Testament through asa punishment. "

"As a punishment!" I exclaimed. 

"Yes, " said she. "That is, Mr. Hardcap has given him the NewTestament, and for his little offences about the house he allots himso many verses to learn; sometimes only ten or twelve, sometimes awhole chapter. I am afraid it will give the poor boy a distaste forthe word of God. "

"There is no danger, " said Mr. Hardcap, oracularly. "The word of Godis sharper than a two edged sword, and is quick even to the dividingasunder of the joints and the marrow. It is the book to awakenconviction of sin, the proper book for the sinner. There is no bookso fitting to bring him to a sense of his sinfulness and awaken inhim a better mind. "

"And how, " said I, "do you find it practically works? Does he seemto love his Bible?"

"Says he hates it awfully, " said his mother. 

"Such, " said Mr. Hardcap, "is the dreadful depravity of the humanheart. It is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. "

It was quite idle to argue with Mr. Hardcap. We left himunconvinced, and I doubt not he is still reading his three chaptersa day and five on Sunday. But I pity poor James from the bottom ofmy heart; and as my wife and I walked home I could not but helpcontrasting in my own mind Mr. Hardcap's way of reading the Bibleand that which Deacon Goodsole pursues in his family. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

In Darkness. 

LAST Tuesday night Jennie met me at the station. It is unusual forher to do so. The surprise was a delightful one to me. But as I satdown beside her in the basket wagon she did not greet me as joyouslyas usual. Her mien was so sober that I asked her at once thequestion:

"Jennie, what is the matter? You look sick. "

"I am sick, John, " said she; "sick at heart. Willie Gear is dead. "

"Willie Gear dead!" I exclaimed. 

"Yes, " said Jennie. "He was skating on the pond. I suppose this warmweather has weakened the ice. It gave way. Three of the boys went intogether. The other two got out. But Willie was carried under theice. "

Jennie was driving. Instead of turning up the hill from the depotshe kept down the river road. "I thought you would want to go downthere at once, " said she. "And so I left baby with Nell and camedown for you. "

We rode along in silence. Willie Gear was his father's pride andpet. He was a noble boy. He inherited his mother's tenderness andpatience, and with them his father's acute and questioningintellect. He was a curious combination of a natural skeptic and anatural believer. He had welcomed the first step toward convertingour Bible-class into a mission Sabbath-school, and had done morethan any one else to fill it up with boys from the Mill village. Hewas a great favorite with them all and their natural leader invillage sports and games. There was no such skater or swimmer forhis age as Willie Gear, and he was the champion ball-player of thevillage. But I remember him best as a Sabbath-school scholar. I cansee even now his earnest upturned face and his large blue eyes, looking strait into his mother's answering gaze, and drinking inevery word she uttered to that mission-class which he had gatheredand which she every Sabbath taught. He was not very fortunate in histeacher in our own church Sabbath-school. For he took nothing ontrust and his teacher doubted nothing. I can easily imagine how hissoul filled with indignation at the thought of Abraham's offering uphis only son as a burnt sacrifice, and how with eager questioning heplied his father, unsatisfied himself with the assurances of one whohad never experienced a like perplexity, and therefore did not knowhow to cure it. 

And Willie was really gone. Would it soften the father's heart andteach him the truth of Pascal's proverb that "The heart has reasonsof its own that the reason knows not of;" or would it blot out thelast remnant of faith, and leave Mr. Gear without a God as he hadbeen without a Bible and without a Saviour?

I was still pondering these problems, wildly thinking, notaimlessly, yet to no purpose, when we reached the familiar cottage. Is it indeed true that nature has no sympathy? There seemed to me tobe on all around a hush that spoke of death. There needed nosorrowful symbol of crape upon the door; and there was none. Ialmost think I should have known that death was in the house had noone told me. 

As I was fastening my horse Mr. Hardcap came up. We entered the gatetogether. 

"This is a hard experience for Mr. Gear, " said I to Mr. Hardcap. 

"The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether, "replied Mr. Hardcap, severely. 

I could feel Jennie tremble on my arm, but I made no response to Mr. Hardcap. 

Mr. Gear opened the door for us himself before we had time to knock. He was perfectly calm and self-possessed. Jennie said afterward sheshould not have guessed, to have seen him elsewhere, that he hadeven heard of Willie's death. But I noticed that he uttered nogreeting. He motioned us into the sitting-room without a word. 

Here, on a sofa, lay, like a white statue, the form of the dear boy. By the side of the sofa sat the mother, her eyes red and swollenwith much weeping. But the fierceness of sorrow had passed; and nowshe was almost as quiet as the boy whose sleep she seemed to watch;she was quite as pale. 

She rose to meet us as we entered, and offered me her hand. Jennieput her arm around the poor mother's waist and kissed her tenderly. But still nothing was said. 

Mr. Hardcap was the first to break the silence. "This is a solemnjudgment, " said he. 

Mr. Gear made no reply. 

"I hope, my friend, " continued Mr. Hardcap, "that you will heed thelesson God is a teachin' of you, and see how fearful a thing it isto have an unbeliev'n heart. God will not suffer us to rest in oursin of unbelief. If we lay up our treasures on earth where moth andrust doth corrupt, we must expect they will take to themselves wingsand fly away. "

Mr. Hardcap's horrible mutilation of Scripture had always impressedme in a singular manner. But I think its ludicrous side never soaffected me before. What is it in me that makes me always appreciatemost keenly the ludicrous in seasons of the greatest solemnity anddistress? The absurdity of his misapplication of the sacred textmingled horribly with a sense of the insupportable anguish I knew hewas causing. And yet I knew not how to interfere. 

"I hope he was prepared, " said Mr. Hardcap. 

"I hope so, " said Mr. Gear quietly. 

"He was such a noble fellow, " said Jennie to the weeping mother. Shesaid it softly, but Mr. Hardcap's ears caught the expression. 

"Nobility, ma'am, " said he, "isn't a savin' grace. It's a nateralvirtoo. The question is, did he have the savin' grace of faith andrepentance?"

"I believe, " said Mrs. Gear, earnestly, "that Willie was aChristian, if ever there was one, Mr. Hardcap. "

"He hadn't made no profession of religion you know, ma'am, " said Mr. Hardcap. "And the heart is deceitful above all things anddesperately wicked. "

Mr. Hardcap is very fond of quoting that text. I wonder if he everapplies it to himself. 

"It seems kind o' strange now that he should be taken away so suddenlike, " continued Mr. Hardcap, "without any warnin'. And you knowwhat the Scripture tells us. 'The wages of sin is death. '"

Mr. Gear could keep silence no longer. "I wish then, " said hehoarsely, "God would pay me my wages, and let me go. "

"Oh! Thomas, " said his wife appealingly. Then she went up to Mr. Hardcap, and laid her hand gently on his arm. "Mr. Hardcap, " saidshe, "it was very good of you to call on us in our sorrow. And I amsure that you want to comfort us, and do us good. But I don'tbelieve my husband will get any good just now from what you have tosay. We are stunned by the blow that came so suddenly, and must havea little time to recover from it. Would you feel offended if I askedyou to go away and call again some other time?"

"The word must be spoken in season and out of season, " said Mr. Hardcap doggedly. Nevertheless he turned to leave. He offered hishand to Mr. Gear, who was leaning with his head upon his handagainst the mantel-piece, and possibly did not notice the profferedsalutation. At all events he never moved. Mr. Hardcap looked at hima moment, opened his mouth as if to speak, but apparentlyreconsidered his purpose, for he closed it again without speaking, and so left the room. Mrs. Gear went with him to the door, where Iheard her ask him to pray for her and for her husband, and where Iheard him answer something about a sin unto death that could not beprayed for. Jennie followed Mrs. Gear softly out; and so Mr. Gearand I were left alone. 

Alone with the dead. 

"That's your Christian consolation, " said Mr. Gear bitterly. 

"Is that just to your wife?" I answered him quietly. 

"No! It is not just to my wife, " he replied. "I would give all Ipossess to have her faith. She is almost heart-broken, --and yet-yet-Iwho ought to sustain her would be crazed with grief if I had not herto lean upon. And she-she leans on I know not what. Oh! if I did butknow. "

"She leans on Him who not in vain Experienced every human pain, " Ianswered softly. 

"He was such a noble boy, " continued Mr. Gear speaking half tohimself, and half to me. "He was so pure, so truthful, sochivalrous, so considerate of his mother's happiness and of mine. And he was beginning to teach me, teach me that I did not know all. I was afraid of my own philosophy for him. I wanted him to have hismother's faith, though I never told him so. I never perplexed himwith my own doubtings. I solved what I could of his, I was coming tobelieve little by little that there was a clearer, better light thanthat I walked in. I was hoping that he might find it and walk in it. I even dreamed, sometimes, to myself, that he would yet learn how toshow it to me. And now he is gone, and the glimmer of light is gone, and the last hope for me is gone with him. "

"He is gone, " I said softly, "to walk in that clearer, better light, and beckons you to follow. "

Mr. Gear made no answer, hardly seemed to note the interruption. 

"And this is the bitterness of the blow to me, " he continued, stillspeaking half to me, half to himself. "I thought I believed inimmortality. I thought I believed in God. These two beliefs at leastwere left me. And now nothing is left. My wife says 'he is not deadbut sleepeth. ' But I cannot see it. To me he is gone, for ever gone. If on the other side of that veil which hides him from me, thatmystic something which we call his spirit still lingers, I do notsee it. I had a dream of that better land once and called it faith. But this cruel blow has wakened me, and the dream has passed in thevery hour when I need it most. And nothing is left me; not even thatpoor vision. "

"Not even God?" said I softly. 

"Not even God, " he answered with terrible deliberation. "For a badGod is worse than no God at all. And how can I believe that God isgood? He looks down on our happy home. He looks on our dear boy, itslife and joy. He knows how our life is wrapped up in him. He seeshow little by little Willie is leading me up into a higher, happier, holier life. And then He strikes him down, and leaves my wifeheart-broken, and me in darkness, bereft by one blow of my child andof my faith. "

Then he pointed to the dead boy who lay on the lounge before us. "How can I reconcile this with the love of God?" he cried. "How canyou, Mr. Laicus?"

All bitterness was gone now. He looked me earnestly in the eye, andasked eagerly, as one who longed for a solution, and yet was indespair of finding it. 

"I cannot, " I answered, "and dare not try. If I had only life's bookto read, Mr. Gear, I should not believe in a God of love. I shouldturn Persian, and believe in two gods, one of love and good-will, one of hate and malice. "

He looked at me in questioning surprise. 

"Love, Mr. Gear, is its own demonstration. I know that God lovesme. "

"How?" said he. 

"How?" said I. "Do you remember when we first met, Mr. Gear, thatyou told me your God was everywhere, in every brook, and mountain, and flower, and leaf, and storm, and ray of sunshine. "

He nodded his head reflectively, as one recalling a half forgottenconversation. 

"My God is in the hearts of those that seek Him, " said I. "And in myheart I carry an assurance of His love that life cannot disturb. Iknow His love as the babe knows its mother's love, lying upon herbreast. It knows her love though it neither understands her naturenor her ways. "

He shook his head sadly. 

"Mr. Laicus, " said he, "I believe you, but I do not comprehend you. I believe that you have a faith that is worth the having. I wouldgive all I possess or ever possessed to share it with you in thishour. I do not know-I sometimes think it is only a pleasant dream. Would God I could sleep and dream such dreams. "

"It is no dream, Mr. Gear, but truth and soberness, " said I. "Adream does not last through eighteen centuries, and raise half aworld from barbarism to civilization. A dream does not carry mothersthrough such sorrows as this with outlooking anticipations so clearas those which give Mrs. Gear her radiant hope. No! Mr. Gear. It isyou who have been dreaming, and life's sorrow has awakened you. "

"Mr. Laicus, " he cried almost passionately, "I said I believed innothing. But it is not true. I have no creed. I do not even believein God or immortality any more. I have no God. I am without hope. But I believe in my wife. I believe in you. I believe that you andshe have something-I know not what-that supports you in temptationand sustains you in sorrow. Tell me what it is. Tell me how I mayget it. I will cast my pride away. I would believe. Help myunbelief. "

"Mr. Gear, " said I, laying my hand upon his arm, "here in thepresence of this dear boy, be the solemn witness of your petitionand your vow, will you kneel with me to ask of God what you haveasked of me, but what He alone can give you, and record before Himthe promise you have made to me, but which He alone can receive atyour hands?"

He made no answer-hesitated a moment-then knelt, with the dear boy'shand fast clasped in his, while kneeling at his side I echoed theprayer he had already uttered: "I believe; help Thou mine unbelief. "

And as we rose I saw the tears streaming down his softened face, thefirst tears he had shed since I had entered his house. I knew thatWillie had taught him more in his death than by his life, and feltthat now, to my own heart though not to his, I could answer thequestion he had asked me, "How can you reconcile this with the loveof God?"

CHAPTER XXXII. 

God said, "Let there be Light. "

FROM Mr. Gear's Jennie and I drove directly to Maurice Mapleson's. Fortunately we found him at home. Briefly I told him of my visit. 

"What can we do, " I said at the close, "to save this man from thedespair of utter skepticism?"

"He is in good hands, " said Mr. Mapleson, with calm assurance. 

"No! Mr. Mapleson, " said I, "I can do nothing more with him. So longas I had only the intellect to deal with, I thought I knew what tosay and when to keep silence. But I dare neither speak nor keepsilence now. "

"I did not mean your hands, " said Mr. Mapleson. 

"What then?" said I. 

"He is in God's hands, " replied the pastor. "God has taken him outof your hands into His own. Leave him there. "

"Is there then nothing more to be done?" I said. 

"Yes, " said he, "but chiefly prayer. "

Then after a moment's pause he added: "I believe, Mr. Laicus, in theoft quoted and generally perverted promise: If two of you shallagree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall bedone for them of my Father which is in heaven. I believe it wasintended for just such exigencies as this. It is not a generalcharter, but a special promise. Now is the time to plead it. Whobeside yourself in our church is Mr. Gear's most intimateacquaintance and warmest friend?"

I thought a moment before I answered. Then I replied, "To be honest, Mr. Mapleson, I do not believe there is one in the church whounderstands him. But Deacon Goodsole has had more to do with himthan any other, and perhaps understands him better. "

"Very well, " said Mr. Mapleson. "Will you meet Deacon Goodsole at myhouse to-morrow evening, half an hour before the prayer-meeting, tounite in special prayer for Mr. Gear? I will see the Deacon. I amsure he will come. "

"I am sure he will, " I added warmly; "as sure as that I will bethere myself. "

With that I bade Mr. Mapleson good-night and hurried away. For teahad long been waiting, the children's bed hour was near, and Jenniewas growing impatient to be at home. 

Wednesday evening Mr. Mapleson, the Deacon and I went into ourchurch prayer-meeting from half an hour spent in Mr. Mapleson'sstudy in prayer for Mr. Gear. Mr. Mapleson had seen Mr. Gear thatmorning. But the stricken father was very silent; he offered nocommunication; and Mr. Mapleson had pressed for none. I confess Ihad hoped much from Mr. Mapleson's interview, and I went into theprayer-meeting burdened and sorrowful. 

I think I have already remarked that Mr. Mapleson's conduct of aprayer-meeting is exceedingly simple. He seldom says much. He setsus all an example of brevity. A few words of Scripture, a fewearnest words of his own or a simple prayer, usually constitute hissole contribution to the meeting, which is more truly a meeting forprayer than any other prayer-meeting I ever attended. 

That evening he seemed loath to open the meeting. We were littlelate in beginning. When we did begin we were late in getting intothe heart of it. He called on one after another to lead in prayer. Idid not know but that he was going to omit the reading of Scriptureand his own remarks altogether. Our prayer-meeting commences athalf-past seven. The pastor never allows it to overrun an hour. Andit was after eight when he arose to read. He read from the twelthchapter of Acts, the account of Peter's deliverance from prison. Heread it from beginning to end without a comment, and then he spokesubstantially as follows. His words were very simple. But thatmeeting has left an impression upon me that time will neverobliterate. I believe I could repeat his words to my dying day. 

"A great deal is said and written, " said he, "about the apostolicfaith. But the apostles were men of like passions as we ourselves. They fought the same doubts. They prayed in the same hesitating, uncertain, unbelieving way. Peter was in prison. His friends coulddo nothing to effect his deliverance-nothing but pray. So theyassembled for that purpose. They had the promise of the Lord, 'Iftwo of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shallask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in Heaven. ' Butthey did not believe it. They took some comfort in praying-as we do. But they did not expect any answer to their prayers. The thoughtthat God might really afford deliverance never seems to haveoccurred to them. And when Peter, delivered by the angel of theLord, came knocking at the gate of the house, and the startleddisciples wondered what this midnight summons might mean, and theservant returned to report that Peter stood without, they laughed ather. You are mad, said they. And when he persisted in his knocking, and she in her assertion, they added with trembling and under-breathto one another, in mortal fear, "It is his ghost. " Anything was morecredible to their minds than that God should have answered theirunited prayers. 

"The promise of God is to the prayer of faith. But God is constantlybetter than his promise. He does not limit Himself by ourexpectations. He does exceedingly abundantly more than we can ask oreven think. We are not therefore to be driven from our knees by ourwant of faith. I hear men talk as though prayer were of no availunless we believe beforehand with assurance that we were going toreceive all for which we asked. It is not true. We are not heard forour much asking, nor for much our believing, but for God's greatmercy's sake. 

"When the mission was first started at the Mill village, if I haveunderstood aright, it was started on the application of the childrenthemselves. They gathered around the school-house when theBible-class assembled. They had no expectation of instruction. Whenthe first person came to the door to invite them in, probably halfof them scampered away in fright. Did they expect all that has come?Or would any Christian worker have said, 'They shall not have aSabbath-school till they ask it, and believe that it will beprovided for them?' And our Father does not wait for the prayer offaith. Like the father in the parable he comes while we are yet afaroff. If we have faith enough to look wistfully and yearningly for ablessing, He has superabundant love to grant it. "

And then he read, and we sang that most beautiful hymn:

 "Oh! see how Jesus trusts himself Unto our childish love! As though by His free ways with us Our earnestness to prove. His sacred name a common word On earth He loves to hear; There is no majesty in Him Which love may not come near. The light of love is round His feet, His paths are never dim; And He comes nigh to us when we Dare not come nigh to Him. Let us be simple with Him, then, Not backward, stiff, nor cold, As though our Bethlehem could be What Sinai was of old. "

Mr. Mapleson is very fond of music. Singing is a feature of all ourprayer-meetings. I have heard him say that he thought more peoplehad been sung into the kingdom of heaven than were ever preachedinto it. Usually his rich voice carries the bass almost alone. Butduring the singing of this hymn he sat silent, leaning his head uponhis hand. This silence was so unusual that it almost oppressed themeeting. When the hymn closed there was a solemn hush, a strangeexpectancy; it seemed as though no one dared to break the sacredsilence. 

Our lecture-room occupies half the basement of the church. I sat ina front seat, close by the little desk-a low platform furnished onlywith a light stand on which rests the minister hymn-book and asmall Bible. The room was full, but it had filled up after I camein. 

The prolonged silence grew painful. Then I heard a rustle as of onerising to his feet. Then a voice; I startled, half turned round, restrained myself, thank God, and only cast on Jennie, at my side, alook of wonder and of thanksgiving. The voice was that of Mr. Gear. 

"Fellow-townsmen, " said he, --he spoke hesitatingly at first as oneunused to the place and the assemblage, --"I have come here to make arequest. You are surprised to see me here. You will be moresurprised to hear my request. I want to ask you to pray for me. "

He had recovered from his hesitancy now. But he spoke with anunnatural rapidity as though he were afraid of breaking downaltogether if he stopped a moment to reflect upon himself and hisposition. 

"You know me only as an infidel. I am an infidel. At least I was. Yes! I suppose I still am. My mother died when I was but a babe. Myfather brought me up. He was orthodox of the orthodox. But oh! hewas a hard man. And he had a hard creed. I used to think the creedmade the man. Lately I have thought perhaps the man made the creed. At all events both were hard. And I repudiated both. At fourteen Iabhorred my father's creed. At eighteen I had left my father's roof. I have never returned except on occasional visits. "

He had gained more self-possession now, and spoke more slowly anddistinctly. The room was as still as that room of death in which theevening before I had prayed with him, kneeling by the corpse of hislittle boy. 

"What I have been at Wheathedge you know. I cannot come hereto-night on a false pretence. I cannot call myself a desperatesinner. I have wronged no man. I have lived honestly and uprightlybefore you all. I owe no man anything. I have depended on my dailylabor for my daily bread. Out of it I have provided as I hadopportunity for the poor around me. No one ever went hungry from mydoor away. My creed has been a short and simple one, 'Do unto othersas you would have others do unto you. ' I have tried to liveaccording to my creed. 

"But I begin to think that my creed is not all the truth. Mr. Laicusfirst led me to think so. No! my boy first led me to think so. I wassatisfied with my creed for myself. But I was not satisfied with itfor my boy. 

"Then I met Mr. Laicus. We commenced to study the Bible together. Ifhe had attempted to prove my opinions wrong I would have defendedthem. But he did not. We studied the undoubted truth. The doubtfulpoints he left alone. I learned there was more in the Bible, more inhuman life and the human heart than I had thought. I grew little bylittle sure that I had not all the truth. But I was unwilling toconfess it. I was-yes, I was too proud. 

"Yesterday"--his voice trembled and he spoke with difficulty for amoment, but quickly recovered himself--"yesterday we lost the lightand life out of our house. No! I am wrong. My light wasextinguished, and my life was quenched in death. But my wife's wasnot. The dear boy was as dear to her as he was to me. But she livesand hopes; I am in darkness and almost in despair. My father's hardcreed drove me into infidelity. My wife's, my friend's tenderer andhappier faith calls me back again. But I do not know the way. 

"Last night, kneeling by the side of my dear boy, I vowed that Iwould cast away my pride and seek that light in which my wife and myfriends are walking. An hour ago the thought occurred to me-whereseek it better than where they are gathered who are walking in thislight? It seemed to me I could not come. But I had made the vow. Iwould not go back from it. I have cast away my pride. Oh! friends, help me to find that light in which you walk. 

"Do not misunderstand me. I will not have your prayers on falsepretences. I am, if not still an infidel, at least an unbeliever. Ihave no creed. I only believe that there is light somewhere, forothers live in it. And I long to come into that light myself. Helpme to find the way. And yet-I hardly know why I came here to-night. It was not for counsel. I do not want words now. The kindliest onlypain me. Discussion and debate would arouse all the old devil ofcontradiction in me. Leave me alone. No! Do not leave me alone. Giveme your prayers. Give me your Christian sympathies. But for therest, for a little while, I want to be alone. "

He sat down. There was a moment of perfect stillness. Then thepastor arose. 

"Christ's sympathies are broader and His love is larger than wethink, " said he. "We hedge him round with our poor creeds, and shutHim up in our little churches, and think He works only in ourappointed ways. He breaks over the barriers we put about him, andcarries on His work of love in hearts that we think are beyond allreach of Him or us. We cannot tell our brother how to find thelight. The light will find him. 'Jesus Christ is the light whichlighteth every man that cometh into the world. ' And when the heartcasts its pride away the light enters. For thus saith the High andLofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell inthe high and holy place; with him also that is of a contrite andhumble spirit, to revive the heart of the contrite ones. Into Hishands let us commit our brother's spirit. "

And he poured forth his soul in a prayer which carried heavenwardmany an unbreathed cry for help, and received in the beating of manyhearts a warmer, truer response than any spoken words could havegiven to it. 

After service I walked along with Maurice Mapleson. 

"I was never more astonished in my life, " said I, "than when I heardMr. Gear's voice in the prayer-meeting to-night. "

"I was not astonished, " said Mr. Mapleson. "I went to thatprayer-meeting sure that God had in store for us a better answer toour prayers than we had thought. I do not believe in presentiments;but I had a strange presentiment that Mr. Gear would come to ourmeeting to-night, that God would rebuke our little faith by Hisunexpected answer. I even waited for Mr. Gear's coming. I saw himenter. I took that chapter of Acts-which God seemed to give me atthe moment-partly that I might lead him on to fulfil the purposewhich I fully believed had brought him there. While you weresinging, I was praying. And when the hymn and the prayer were endedtogether, I knew God would not let him go away unblest. "

"I shall never again doubt, " said I, "the truth of God'spromise-'that if two of us shall agree on earth as touching anythingthey shall ask, it shall be done for them. '"

"Shall you not?" said he, with a smile. "I wish I could be as surefor myself. "

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A Retrospect. 

I am sitting in my library. The fire burns cheerily in the grate. Adear voice is singing sweetly by my side. For baby is restlessto-night and Jennie has brought him down to rock him to sleep hereand keep me company. 

The years pass in review before me. Thank God for the dear wife whothree years ago persuaded me that I was a Christian more than aCongregationalist. The years have not been unfruitful. The work hasbeen, oh! so little, and the harvest so great!

I believe the whole church is satisfied with the result of ourpeculiar method of candidating. I am sure there is no one who wouldwillingly exchange Mr. Mapleson for Mr. Uncannon. There have beenrumors once or twice that there was danger Maurice Mapleson wouldleave. He has twice had invitations to preach in city churches whosepulpits were vacant. But he has declined. "I hope, " he says, "tolive and die here. It is as God wills. But I have no ambition for alarger field of usefulness. It is all I can do to cultivate thisfield. "

My prophesy has proved true respecting Mr. Work. He has broken down, given up preaching, nominally because of a throat trouble; really, Ibelieve, because of spirit trouble, and has opened a young ladies'school in one of the suburbs of the city. Mr. Uncannon has leftNorth Bizzy after a year's pastorate, for one of the great cities ofthe West, where he is about equally famous for his fast horses, hisgood cigars, and his extraordinary pulpit pyrotechnics. 

Maurice Mapleson's experiment has proved a complete success. Ourchurch at last is out of its financial difficulties. We held ourannual meeting last week. And here is the financial exhibit as itappeared in the treasurer's report:

Cr. Monthly Subscriptions$1, 675. 00Sunday Collections395. 85Ladies' Entertainments (a special fair having been organized byMiss Moore to secure the interest money. )251. 06

$2, 321. 91

2, 276. 90Balance in Treasury$45. 01

Dr. Minister's Salary$1, 500. 00Organist, (the office was discontinued, congregational singingestablished, and Deacon Goodsole's eldest daughter voluntered to play. )NothingChurch Repairs-Sundries55. 50Interest on Mortgage315. 00Sexton (Salary reduced by himself as a contribution to the supportof the church. )175. 00Fire, lights and incidentals231. 40

$2, 276. 90

The church has never before had a balance in its treasury, and itwas bewildered with astonishment at the result. The money was reallydue to Maurice, who was to pay, the reader will recollect, theincidental expenses out of the monthly subscriptions and take theremainder as his salary. But Maurice positively refused to take it. He, however, has long wanted the old pulpit cut down and a lowplatform substituted. The money was voted for that purpose, and thealterations are now going on. 

Though the pews are free, the pew system is not wholly abandoned. Each attendant selects a seat for himself or a pew for his family. This is regarded his as much as if he paid pew rent for it. Butinstead of a fixed rent he pays what he will. No one has paid lessthan the old rates and some have nearly doubled them. But theimprovement in finances is not the only nor even the best result ofMaurice Mapleson's experiment. The congregation has increased quiteas much as the income. Not less than a score of families are regularattendants on our church who never went to church before. With oneor two exceptions every pew is taken. We are beginning to talkquietly about an enlargement. 

I think this change had something to do with the revival lastSpring. Maurice thinks so at all events. And any attempt to go backto the old system would meet with as much opposition from DeaconGoodsole as from Jim Wheaton. The only member of the congregationwho regrets the change is Mrs. Potiphar. She turns up her nose--metaphorically I mean--the natural nose is turned up all the time atthat revival. "It did not reach any of our set, " she says. "Why, bless you, I don't believe it added fifty dollars to the churchincome. "

One would think to hear her talk that Mrs. Potiphar supported thechurch. If she does, her right hand does not know what her left handis doing. 

The immediate precursor of that revival was the prayer-meeting whichMr. Gear attended, and in which he asked the prayers of the church. When in June he stood up before the congregation to profess hisfaith in Christ as a Savior from sin, and in the Holy Spirit as aDivine Comforter in trial and in sorrow, he did not stand alone. Twenty-eight stood with him. Among them were nine of the boys fromour Mill village Bible-class. Of that brightest of Sabbath days Icannot trust myself to speak. The tears come to my eyes, and my handtrembles as I write. I must pass on to other thoughts. 

I have already explained how the Bible-class gathered to itself asecond class of which Mrs. Gear took charge. Both classes have grownsteadily, and latterly, rapidly, and are now beyond all that themost sanguine of us ever anticipated. There is a flourishingSabbath-school at the Mill village. Mr. Gear superintends it. Nearlyhalf of my old scholars are teachers now. But others have come totake their places. My own class is larger than ever. Once a monthMr. Mapleson preaches in the school-house, and in the summer hiscongregation overflows upon the green sward without. Once or twicehe has been forced into the grove adjoining. It is evident that theold school-house will not serve us much longer. Mr. Gear is alreadyrevolving plans for the erection of a chapel. It seems to me ratherchimerical. No! On second thoughts nothing seems to me chimericalany more. And as Mr. Gear and Miss Moore are both engaged in thisenterprize, I am confident it will succeed. 

There is not in our church a more active, earnest, devoted Christianworker than Mr. Gear. He is one of the board of trustees, and aboutthe only man on it who is not afraid of Jim Wheaton. He rarelymisses a prayer-meeting, and though he does not speak very often henever speaks unless he has something to say. And that is more thancan be said of some of those who "occupy the time" in ourprayer-meetings. I understand that Mr. Hardcap was not altogethersatisfied with Mr. Gear's "evidences" when he appeared before thesession. But if daily life affords the true "evidences" of Christiancharacter, there are very few of us that might not be glad toexchange with Mr. Gear. I doubt whether Dr. Argure would think hewas sound in the faith. And if the "faith" is synonymous with theWestminster Assembly's Confession of it, I do not believe he is. Deacon Goodsole has confidentially hinted to me his fear that Mr. Gear has some doubts concerning the doctrine of election; and thathe is not quite clear even on the doctrine of eternal punishment. Itis not impossible. But I do not believe there is a member of ourchurch whose faith in a present, prayer-hearing God is stronger. Hisfirst step toward securing a chapel for the Sabbath-school has beentaken already. It was a meeting of the Sabbath-school teachers athis own house to pray for a chapel. And he builds on thatprayer-meeting a strong assurance that he will get it. I do notthink he is quite sound in the catechism. I wish I were as sound inthe faith. 

I have often wished to know how he solved his old doubts. If I couldfind his specific for skepticism, I thought to myself, it would beof inestimable value to others. So with some hesitation, lest Ishould awaken the old unbelief, I asked him the question the otherday. 

"How did you finally settle your old difficulties concerningChristian truth?" said I. 

"I never have, " said he quietly. "They disappeared of themselves, asthe snow disappears from Snow-cap when May comes. "

The fire burns low upon the hearth. The risen moon casts her softlight through the Eastern window and bathes the room with herradiance. The mountains, mist clad, stand as shadows of their dailyself, more beautiful in their repose than in the full glory of thebusy day. The baby sleeps quietly, nestled close to his mother'sbreast, too big I tell her for her arms; but she protests I'm wrong. And still I sit, silent, and the past defiles before me. 

At length Jennie breaks the silence. "What are you pondering sodeeply, John?"

"I was thinking, Jennie, how much I owe the little woman whopersuaded me to this dear home, who convinced me that I was, or atleast ought to be, a Christian more than a Congregationalist, andwho taught me that I could work for Christ without infringing on mydaily duties, and so brought to me all the flood tide of happinessthat makes my life one long song of joy. "

THE END.