Part 25

“I’d feel as ef the people of God was a gang of insultin’ hypocrites, an’ ez ef I didn’t ever want to see ’em again. Ef that kind o’ pride’s sinful, the devil’s a saint. Ef there’s anythin’ wrong about a man’s feelin’ so about himself and them God give him, God’s to blame for it himself; but seein’ it’s the same feelin’ that makes folks keep ’emselves strait in all other matters, I’ll keep on thinkin’ it’s right.”

“But the preveleges of the Gospel, George,” remonstrated the Deacon.

“Don’t you s’pose I know what they’re wuth?” continued the carpenter. “Haven’t I hung around in front of the meetin’-house Summer nights, when the winders was open, jest to listen to the singin’ and what else I could hear? Hezn’t my wife ben with me there many a time, and hevn’t both of us prayed an’ groaned an’ cried in our hearts, not only ’cos we couldn’t join in it all ourselves, but ’cos we couldn’t send the children either, without their learnin’ to hate religion ’fore they fairly know’d what ’twas? Haven’t I sneaked in to the vestibule Winter nights, an’ sot just where I did last night, an’ heard what I’d ’a liked my wife and children to hear, an’ prayed for the time to come when the self-app’inted elect shouldn’t offend the little ones? An’ after sittin’ there last night, an’ comin’ home and tellin’ my wife how folks was concerned about us, an’ our rejoicin’ together in the hope that some day our children could hev the chances we’re shut out of now, who should come along this mornin’ but one of those same holy people, and Jewed me down on pay that the Lord knows is hard enough to live on.”

The Deacon _had_ a heart, and he knew the nature of self-respect as well as men generally. His mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked:

“Reckon Flite’s notion was right, after all—ther’ ort to be a workin’-man’s chapel.”

“Ort?” responded Hay; “who d’ye s’pose ’d go to it?

Nobody? Ye can rent us second-class houses, an’ sell us second-hand clothin’, and the cheapest cuts o’ meat, but when it comes to cheap religion—nobody knows its value better ’n we do. We don’t want to go into yer parlors on carpets and furniture we don’t know how to use, an’ we don’t expect to be asked into society where our talk an’ manners might make some better eddicated people laugh. But when it comes to religion—God knows nobody needs an’ deserves the very best article more ’n _we_ do.”

The Deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly examined. The indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great deal of reason, and yet—God’s people deserved to hold their position, if, as usual, the argument ended where it began. So he asked, rather triumphantly:

“What _is_ to be done, then?”

“Reform God’s people themselves,” replied the carpenter, to the horror of the pious old man. “When the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes along, there’ll be plenty that’ll be glad to take it. Reform yer own people, Deac’n. ’Fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we’ll be glad enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer own.”

Soldiers of the Cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the Deacon, and he prudently withdrew.

Reform God’s people themselves! The Deacon was too old a boy to tell tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform. Of course there was—weren’t we all poor sinners?—when we would do good wasn’t evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to complain, when they wern’t, at least, any better? Besides, suppose he were to try to reform the ways of Brother Graves and Deacon Struggs and others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to reform _him_? And who was to know just what quantity and quality of reform was necessary? “Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines.” The matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed the injunction, “Commit thy way unto the Lord.”

But the Lord relegated the entire matter to the Deacon. Hay did a full day’s work, the Deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the Deacon’s red cow made an addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the Deacon was far from comfortable. The idea that certain people must stay away from God’s house until God’s people were reformed, seemed to the Deacon’s really human heart something terrible. If they _would_ be so proud—and yet, people who would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could scarcely be very proud. He knew there couldn’t be many such, else this out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn’t a full congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which Hay spoke, and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the subject of their eternal welfare.

What a pity it was that those working-men who wished to repair to the sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! If he had only known all this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired him at three dollars; though, really, was a man to blame for doing his best in the labor market? “Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” Gracious! he could almost declare he heard the excited carpenter’s voice delivering that text. What _had_ brought that text into his head just now?—he had never thought of it before.

The Deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. Of one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the Church at Pawkin Centre was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not such hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever really known many such! If Hay only had means, the problem would afford its own solution. The good Deacon solemnly declared to himself that if Hay could give good security, he (the Deacon) would try to lend him the money.

But even this (to the Deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive of sleep. “He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.” There! he could hear that indignant carpenter again. What an unsatisfactory passage that was, to be sure! If it would only read the other way—it didn’t seem a bit business-like the way it stood. And yet, as the Deacon questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had a very small balance—even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the Lord. He had never lent to the Lord except in his usual business manner—as small a loan as would be accepted, on as extensive collaterals as he could exact. Oh, why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of their forefathers, and robe themselves in garments grievous in price, and stumbling-blocks in the path of their fellow-men?

But sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. Suppose—only suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend Hay money enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of money it would take! A common neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the children—oh, the thing couldn’t be done for less than two hundred and fifty dollars. Of course, it was entirely out of the question—he had only wondered what it _would_ cost—that was all.

Still no sleep. He wished he hadn’t spoken with Hay about his soul—next time he would mind his own business. He wished he hadn’t employed Hay. He wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. “No man can come to me except the Father which sent me draw him”—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the Almighty’s plans.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” Hah! _Could_ that carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with such—such—tantalizing texts! They had kept him awake, and at his time of life a restless night was a serious matter. Suppose——

Very early the next morning the village doctor, returning from a patient’s bedside, met the Deacon with a face which suggested to him (the doctor was pious and imaginative) “Abraham on Mount Moriah.” The village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him he was in time for a fine steak, but the Deacon shook his head in agony, and passed on. He neared the carpenter’s house, stopped, tottered, and looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his way behind the house, where Hay was chopping firewood. The carpenter saw him and turned pale—he feared the Deacon had found cheaper labor, and had come to give him warning.

“George,” said the Deacon, “I’ve been doin’ a heap of thinkin’ ’bout what we talked of yesterday. I’ve come to say that if you like I’ll lend you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye’v a mind to, without note, security or int’rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you an’ yer hull fam’ly in Sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the Savin’s Bank, at interest, to go on doin’ the same with when necessary. An’ all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed. An’ ef nobody else’s pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine. And may the Lord” the Deacon finished the sentence to himself—“have mercy on my soul.” Then he said, aloud:

“That’s all.”

The carpenter, at the beginning of the Deacon’s speech, had dropped his axe, to the imminent danger of one of his feet. As the Deacon continued, the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow inquiringly, and awaited the conditions. But when the Deacon said “That’s all,” George Hay seized the Deacon’s hard old hand, gave it a grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner, and exclaimed:

“Deacon, God’s people are reformin’!”

The Deacon staggered a little—he had not thought of it in that light before.

“Deacon, that money ’ll do more good than all the prayin’ ye ever done. ’Xcuse me—I must tell Mary,” and the carpenter dashed into the house. Had Mrs. Hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the Deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; seeing which the Deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane than he had done in any day for years.

It is grievous to relate, but truth is mighty—that within a fortnight the good Deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times. He would die in the poorhouse if he were so extravagant again. Three hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—lumber, shingles, nails, labor and all—would cost. Suppose Hay should take the money and go West? Suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor! One suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and nervous. But on the second Sunday, having satisfied himself that Hay was in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought back bundles, and that he (the Deacon) had seldom been in the street without meeting one of Hay’s children with a paper of hooks and eyes or a spool of thread, the Deacon stationed himself in one of his own front windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on Hay’s door, a little distance off. The first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no one appeared—could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night and pawned everything? No—the door opened—there they came. It couldn’t be—yes, it was—well, he never imagined Hay and his wife were so fine a-looking couple. They came nearer, and the Deacon, forgetting his cane, hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew, and left the door wide open. He waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come. He looked around impatiently, and there, O, joy and wonder!—the president of the Pawkin Savings’ Institution had invited the whole family into his pew! Just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing:

“From all that dwell below the skies Let the Creator’s praise arise”;

and the Deacon, in his excitement, distanced the choir, and the organ, and the congregation, and almost brought the entire musical service to a standstill.

The Deacon had intended to watch closely for Hays’ conversion, but something wonderful prevented—it was reported everywhere that the Deacon himself had been converted, and all who now saw the Deacon fully believed the report. He was even heard to say that as there seemed to be some doubt as to whether faith or works was the saving virtue, he intended thereafter to practice both. He no longer mentions the poorhouse as his prospective dwelling, but is heard to say that in his Father’s house there are many mansions, and that he is laying up his treasure in heaven as fast as possible, and hopes he may get it all on the way there before his heart is called for. At the post-office, the tin-shop and the rum-shop the Deacon’s conversion is constantly discussed, and men of all degrees now express a belief in the mighty power of the Spirit from on high. Other moneyed men have been smitten and changed, and the pastor of the Pawkin Centre Church daily thanks the Lord for such a revival as he never heard of before.

JOE GATTER’S LIFE INSURANCE.

GOOD? He was the model boy of Bungfield. While his idle school-mates were flying kites and playing marbles, the prudent Joseph was trading Sunday-school tickets for strawberries and eggs, which he converted into currency of the republic. As he grew up, and his old school-mates purchased cravats and hair-oil at Squire Tackey’s store, it was the industrious Joseph who stood behind the counter, wrapped up their purchases, and took their money. When the same boys stood on the street-corners and cast sheep’s eyes at the girls, the business-like Joseph stood in the store-door and contemplated these same boys with eyes such as a hungry cat casts upon a brood of young birds who he expects to eat when they grow older. Joe never wasted any time at parties; he never wore fine clothing; he never drank nor smoked; in short, Joe was so industrious that by the time he reached his majority he had a thousand dollars in the bank, and not a solitary virtue in his heart.

For Joe’s money good Squire Tackey had an earnest longing, and soon had it to his own credit; while the sign over the store-door read “Tackey & Gatter.” Then the Squire wanted Joe’s soul, too, and so earnest was he that Joe soon found it necessary to remonstrate with his partner.

“’Twont do, Squire,” said he; “religion’s all very well in its place, but when a man loses the sale of a dozen eggs, profit seven cents, because his partner is talking religion with him so hard that a customer gets tired of waiting and goes somewhere else, then religion’s out of place.”

“The human soul’s of more cons’kence than many eggs, Joseph,” argued the Squire.

“That’s just it,” replied Joe; “money don’t hit the value of the soul any way, and there’s no use trying to mix ’em. And while we’re talking, don’t you think we might be mixing some of the settlings of the molasses barrel with the brown sugar?—’twill make it weigh better.”

The Squire sighed, but he could not help admitting that Joe was as good a partner as a man could want.

In one of Joe’s leisure moments it struck him that if he were to die, nobody would lose a cent by the operation. The idea was too exasperating, and soon the local agents of noted insurance companies ceased to enjoy that tranquility which is characteristic of business men in the country. Within a fortnight two of the agents were arraigned before their respective churches for profane brawling, while Joe had squeezed certain agents into dividing commissions to the lowest unit of divisibility, and had several policies in the safe at the store.

The Squire, his partner, was agent for the Pantagonian Mutual, and endured his full share of the general agony Joe had caused. But when he had handed Joe a policy and receipt, and taken the money, and counted it twice, and seen to it carefully that all the bills were good, the good Squire took his revenge.

“Joseph,” said he, “you ain’t through with insurance yet—you need to insure your soul against risk in the next world, and there’s only one Agent that does it.”

The junior partner stretched himself on the counter and groaned. He knew the Squire was right—he had heard that same story from every minister he had ever heard. Joe was so agitated that he charged at twelve and a half cents some calico he had sold at fifteen.

Only one Agent! But the shrewd Joseph rejoiced to think that those who represented the Great Agent differed greatly in the conditions of the insurance, and that some made more favorable terms than others, and that if he could get the ministers thoroughly interested in him, he would have a good opportunity for comparing rates. The good men all wanted Joe, for he was a rising young man, and could, if the Spirit moved him, make handsome subscriptions to good purposes. So, in their zeal, they soon regarded each other with jealous eyes, and reduced their respective creeds to gossamer thinness. They agreed about grace being free, and Joe accepted that much promptly, as he did _anything_ which could be had without price. But Joe was a practical man, and though he found fault with none of the doctrines talked at him, he yet hesitated to attach himself to any particular congregation. He finally ascertained that the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood’s church had no debt, and that its contributions to missions and other religious purposes were very small, so Joe allowed himself to be gathered into the fine assortment of crooked sticks which the Reverend Barzillai Driftwood was reserving unto the day of burning.

Great was the rejoicing of the congregation at Joe’s saving act, and sincere was the sorrow of the other churches, who knew their own creeds were less shaky. But in the saloon and on the street Joe’s religious act was discussed exclusively on its merits, and the results were such as only special spiritual labor would remove. For no special change was noticeable in Joe; on Sunday he abjured the world, but on Monday he made things uncomfortable for the Widow Macnilty, whose husband had died in the debt of Tackey & Gatter. A customer bought some gingham, on Joe’s assurance that the colors were fast, but the first wash-day failed to confirm Joe’s statement. The proprietor of the stage line between Bungfield and Cleopas Valley traded horses with Joe, and was afterward heard mentioning his new property in language far more scriptural than proper.

Still, Joe was a church-member, and that was a patent of respectability. And as he gained years, and building lots, and horses, and commenced discounting notes, his respectability grew and waxed great in the minds of the practical people of Bungfield. Even good women, real mothers in Israel, could not help thinking, as they sorrowed over the sand in the bottoms of their coffee-cups, and grew wrathful at “runney” flour bought for “A 1 Superfine” of Tackey & Gatter, that Joe would make a valuable husband. So thought some of the ladies of Bungfield, and as young ladies who can endure the idea of such a man for perpetual partner can also signify their opinions, Joe began to comprehend that he was in active demand. He regarded the matter as he would a sudden demand for any commodity of trade, and by skillfully manipulating the market he was soon enabled to choose from a full supply.

Thenceforward Joe was as happy as a man of his nature could be. All his investments were paying well: the store was prosperous, he was successful in all his trading enterprises, he had purchased, at fearful shaves, scores of perfectly good notes, he realized on loans interest which would cause a usury law to shrivel and crack, his insurance policies brought him fair dividends, and his wife kept house with economy and thrift. But the church—the church seemed an unmitigated drag. Joe attended all the church meetings—determined to get the worth of the money he was compelled to contribute to the current expenses—he had himself appointed treasurer, so he could get the use of the church money; but the interest, even at the rates Joe generally obtained, did not balance the amount of his contribution.

Joe worried over the matter until he became very peevish, yet he came no nearer a business-like adjustment of receipts and expenditures. One day when his venerable partner presented him a certificate of dividend from the Pantagonian Mutual, Joe remarked:

“Never got any dividends on that other insurance you put me up to taking, partner—that ’gainst fire risks in the next world, you know. ’Twill be tough if there’s any mistake—church does take a sight of money.”

“Joseph,” said the Squire, in a sorrowful tone, “I’ve always been afeard they didn’t look enough into your evidences when they took you into that church. How can a man expect to escape on the day of wrath if he’s all the time grumbling at the cost of his salvation? Mistake? If you don’t know in your heart the truth of what you profess, there’s mighty little hope for you, church or no church.”

“Know in my heart!” cried Joe. “That’s a pretty kind of security. Is that what I’ve been paying church dues for? Better have known it in my heart in the first place, and saved the money. What’s the use of believing all these knotty points, if they don’t make a sure thing for a man?”

“If your belief don’t make you any better or happier, Joseph,” rejoined the Squire, “you’d better look again and see if you’ve got a good hold of it; those that’s got a clear title don’t find their investment as slow in making returns, while those that find fault are generally the ones that’s made a mistake.”

Poor Joe! He thought he had settled this whole matter; but now, if his partner was right, he was worse off than if he hadn’t begun. He believed in justification by faith; now, wasn’t his faith strong—first-class, he might say? To be sure of being safe, hadn’t he believed everything that _all_ the ministers had insisted upon as essential? And what _was_ faith, if it wasn’t believing? He would ask his partner; the old man had got him into this scrape—now he must see him through.

“Squire,” said he, “isn’t faith the same thing as believing?”

“Well,” said the Squire, adjusting his glasses, and taking from the desk the little Testament upon which he administered oaths, “that depends on how you believe. Here’s a verse on the subject: ‘Thou believest in God; thou doest well; the devils also believe, and tremble.’”

Ugh! Joe shivered. He wasn’t an aristocrat, but would _any_ one fancy such companionship as the Squire referred to?

“Here,” said the Squire, turning the leaves, “is another passage bearin’ on the subject. ‘O, generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bring forth, therefore, _fruits_ meet for repentance.’”

Vipers! Joe uncomfortably wondered who else the Squire was going to introduce into the brotherhood of the faith.

“Now, see what it says in another place,” continued the Squire, “Not every one that saith unto Me Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.”