"But, talking of baptism," said Mr. Munjoy, "I wish very much we could
find a basin of water and a cake of soap somewhere; it was very dusty
coming down."
The hackman leaned to one side and spat into the dusty road that sped
away behind. "Yes," he assented; "you see, we 'ain't had no rain now
for above two weeks."
"Pretty bad look-out for salvation, I should say, if the dry weather
holds," observed Mr. Munjoy.
Dr. Caiaphas sat quiet and impassive. The uncomfortable feeling had
been growing upon him ever since he left home that he was upon a
grotesque fool's errand.
The road over which they were now passing was heavy and sandy. The
sun shone down upon it warmly, and, early as was the season, the fresh
grass had begun to show itself in irregular patches of light and
dark-green. The sky overhead was blue. In the sunshine it was warm,
but those on the shady side of the coach drew their overcoats closer
about them. Every now and then the hack would pass little groups or
single figures, all plodding along in the direction of the camp.
Sometimes there were larger groups of men and women and some children
or half-grown girls. Some of the men carried their overcoats over one
arm. One group which they passed consisted of three women, one man,
and three children. One of the women--thin and frail-looking--carried
a young baby, and the two other tired children dragged themselves
along, holding each by a hand of another of the women. All these people
were of the commoner sort. Some appeared to be working-men with their
wives, others appeared not even to be laboring men, but of that great,
underlying, nameless class that is still lower in the scale of social
existence than the class of producers. Most of these people were
evidently dressed in their best clothes, as though for a holiday.
After riding for maybe a mile, the hack turned a bend in the road, and
from the summit of a little sandy rise of ground the committee came
within sudden sight of the camp.
Every one of them was surprised at the extent of the encampment. As
they looked down upon it, it stretched away like a great town of tents
and huts. In some places the tents and frame sheds were clustered in
a confused mass, in other places they were separated into streets and
avenues. Upon the outskirts--the suburbs of this nondescript town--were
everywhere clustering groups of carts and wagons and restless crowds
of people which grew thicker and thicker in the camp, becoming here
and there congested into restless, moving ganglia of humanity. These
disconnected groups of people gathered most thickly along the banks
of the stream, and far away in the distance was a greater crowd
surrounding some central point of interest. The visitors surmised that
John the Baptist was the centre of that crowd. Beyond the stream were
a few scattered huts, and beyond that a level, green marsh. An inlet
from the sea made in part a broken, sandy headland. Beyond that, in the
distance, was a wide, sparkling stretch of water with the far, blue
line of the farther shore. Above all was the windy arch of sky looking
down peacefully and calmly upon the clustered, restless masses of human
beings below. There was an indefinable odor of salt in the air, and
the wind came across from over the marsh, fresh and cool.
The hack rattled down the road and into the camp in a cloud of dust. It
was about noon and many of the people were eating their mid-day meal.
Everywhere there were clusters of men and women, sitting in farm wagons
or carts munching their food and talking among themselves.
The driver drove for some little distance into the camp, checking his
horses every now and then and hallooing to the men and women in his
road, who scattered right and left to make way for the rather headlong
rate at which he drove. At last he stopped in front of a big frame shed
with a rude sign above the doorway, informing the passers that there
refreshment was to be had at a cheap and popular price. The shed was
open at one end, and within you could see rows of benches and long deal
tables. Here the committee got out, one by one, and stood looking about
them.
Along the wide, street-like space there fronted a long, disjointed
line of huts and tents of all sorts and kinds. The air was full of an
indescribable odor as of raw boards and crushed grass. The street was
full of a restless, passing stream of men and women and boys, and
everywhere was the ceaseless buzz of talking, now and then dominated by
the call of some one hallooing to a distant comrade.
The visiting clergymen had no doubt whither to bend their steps. All
the crowd seemed to drift and centre in one direction, and they knew
that thither they would find him whom they sought. As they passed down
along the front of the different tents and huts and shanties, they
heard everywhere the clatter of dishes and smelt the odor of cooking.
Here and there a hut bore a sign indicating that there lodging was to
be had. At one place they passed by where a man, evidently stupefied
with drink, lay in the sun by the side of a little frame hut with a
canvas cover. A thin, bony woman was cooking a meal of food at a stove
behind the hut, and the combined smell of the smoke and frying food
filled the air. Two little children came around the side of the hut and
stood looking at the committee as it passed.
The motley, restless crowd grew thicker and thicker as the committee
approached the spot where they knew John must be found, and at last
they had some difficulty in pushing their way through the congested
groups. As they elbowed their way, the crowd would look at them and
then, seeing they were ministers, would make way for them. Suddenly
they came upon the Baptist, almost before they had expected to find
him. He was eating a meal of indescribable food, sitting upon the
ground, holding the plate upon his knees. He was, indeed, a shaggy,
wild-looking figure, thin-faced, sallow, with filmy, restless eyes
and a black, coarse mat of hair and beard. He wore the same dress of
hairy cloth that the picture in the public journal had represented. The
heavy brogans were wet and soaked with water, his legs, showing above
the shoe-tops, were lean and hairy. A little cluster of his disciples,
or attendants, surrounded him; some of them were eating their food,
others, who had finished, were lying stretched upon the ground talking
in an undertone. They were all rough, common-looking men, several of
them apparently fishermen. Surrounding this group, and at a little
distance, the people stood in a crowd looking intently at the Baptist.
The committee also stood for a while looking at him; then Dr. Caiaphas
came forward.
As the priest approached, the Baptist looked towards him with vacant,
lustreless eyes. The sun suddenly came out from behind a passing cloud
and shone full upon his face, but he did not wink his eyes nor shade
them from the glare.
"My friend," said the rector of the Church of the Advent, "my name is
Theodore Caiaphas. I do not know whether you have heard of me or not,
but I have heard of you. I am, as you see, an ordained priest. I and
my friends"--here he indicated the others of the committee--"have come
down to learn just what it is you preach, just what your opinions are,
and just what you advocate. Will you tell me, first of all, who you
are?"
John sat looking intently but vacantly at him. He did not speak for
a little while. Then he said, in a sudden, loud voice, "I am not the
Christ."
"So I understand," said Dr. Caiaphas. "But are you a prophet--such a
one, for instance, as Elijah?"
"I am not," said the fanatic, still in the same loud voice.
"Ah! Then you are not even a prophet?" said Dr. Caiaphas.
"No."
"Who are you, then?" said Dr. Caiaphas; "and what are you? Tell us who
you are, that we may give an answer to them that sent us." He tried not
to feel the absurdity of the situation, but some of the other clergymen
laughed.
John turned up his face and looked almost directly into the dazzling
light of the sun above. He raised his lean arms, with his hands
outspread and his fingers stretched wide open. "I am," he cried, in a
loud voice, "the voice of one crying in the wilderness: Make straight
the way, as said Isaiah, the prophet."
Again two or three of the committee laughed. The disciples of John
looked sullenly at them, but the Baptist himself paid no attention to
them.
"Then, let me understand," said Dr. Caiaphas, speaking also in a loud
voice so that all might hear--"then, let me understand just what it
is you have to say for yourself. Let me hear just what is your claim,
for it is for that reason that we have come hither. What I want
to understand, and what all these poor people here should clearly
understand, is this: If you are not the Christ--and you yourself say
you are not--nor such a one as Elijah, nor one having authority to
preach, as the saints of the Church had authority--if you are only a
voice preaching in the wilderness, by what right do you, then, baptize
and grant remission of sins? By what authority do you, then, forgive
men their sins?"
John, still with eyes uplifted and with hands outspread, cried out:
"I baptize with water, but in the midst of you there stands one whom
you know not, whose shoes I am not worthy to bear." Other words he
uttered, as uncomprehendable to the clergymen as these. He still held
his arm upraised and his hand outspread for a little. Then he ended
suddenly, and as suddenly let his hand fall from his knee, and sat
looking about him as though to see what effect his words had upon those
who heard them. One of the committee laid his hand upon Dr. Caiaphas's
arm. "Do you not see that it is useless to waste time here?" said he.
"What good can come of it, doctor? It is plain to me that the man
is mad. Any one with eyes to see and ears to hear may see and hear
that for himself. Mr. Hicks tells us that the up-train will be due
in twenty-five minutes. We have just comfortable time to make it. If
we miss it, we'll have to wait till five o'clock, and not get into
town till after dark. I am sure that I, for one, have seen enough to
convince me of the man's insanity without listening any further to what
he has to say."
Dr. Caiaphas looked at his watch. "Well," he said, reluctantly, "I
suppose we might as well return. I would like to have heard him preach
to the multitude, though, and to see how he baptizes them. However, I
quite agree with you that he is not right in his mind, and I suppose it
would be only a mere matter of curiosity to remain longer."
If Dr. Caiaphas had on his way down from New York feared that he was
on a fool's errand, he was, indeed, certain of it now. He did not say
anything until the committee was on its way back to the station in the
hack. Then he spoke.
"I am sorry, gentlemen, that I should have brought you all the way down
here only for this. I am afraid"--with a smile--"that the committee did
not get much satisfaction from the interview."
Mr. Munjoy laughed. "I am sure," he said, "that we are all very glad to
have suffered a little inconvenience to have satisfied Dr. Caiaphas."
The words were good-natured enough, but they made Dr. Caiaphas still
more uncomfortable. "Indeed," he said, "I am glad to be satisfied, but
that was not exactly my object in bringing you all down here. I am
sorry that you have taken a journey that is uncomfortable to yourselves
only to satisfy me."
"Oh, that's all right," said Mr. Munjoy, laughing. "This time to-morrow
we'll have ceased to think anything about the inconveniences of to-day.
I am sure many of us have squandered a half-day ever so much more
uselessly than this."
Then there was nothing more said.
Thus I have endeavored to describe that incident as nearly as possible
as it occurred. Since then a sentimental lustre has arisen to envelop
it, and the world has come to accept it that those priests and Levites
were blind in that they did not at once see the truth. But I think
intelligent humanity will agree that it was impossible for the priests
and Levites among us to accept the divine truth in such an astonishing
guise as that which they then beheld.
It is entirely true that God moves ever in ways incomprehensible to
the finite mind. His wisdom is not according to our wisdom, nor His
order according to our order. But it cannot be possible that He expects
us, scribes and pharisees, whom He has endowed with intelligence and
reason, to accept that which was so unintelligent and so unreasonable.
If He endows us with reason, He cannot expect us to accept that which
is unreasonable. Who is there of our class to-day who would not have
revolted against the baptism of John when it was first instituted?