THE PROMOTION
Rexford Mills was the manager of all temporal supplies of the
Monastery--all food supplies, repairs, fuel, servants, etc. Three times
a week his orders for vegetables, flour, corn meal, fowls, butter,
eggs, milk, cheese, etc., as well as fruits in season, came to the
farm. Hitherto to supply these demands devolved upon Sparrow himself,
thus occupying much of his time. But during the seven months of his
sojourn here, Carl had gradually and almost unconsciously become
interested in the great warehouse and its contents and the triweekly
demands of the family at the Monastery. Often the little wagon stood
already filled with the order before Billy arrived, and Carl was found
in the office crediting the farm with the morning's order on the books.
This was a great relief to the farmer, as it allowed him to spend the
time with the men upon the farm. So satisfactorily was this work done
that Carl had really become the manager of this part of the farm's
obligations. Once a month, Mr. Mills and Carl met to compare and adjust
accounts, thus greatly assisting Mr. Mills in bringing an accurate
report to the board of trustees. Mr. Quintin highly appreciated this
accuracy, and spoke of it at every opportunity. Everything in the
warehouse as well as upon the farm was in perfect order. This pleasant
state of things could not long exist without becoming known in the
family of students and faculty, and all soon began to be interested in
the young man, the result being that invitations began to arrive for
him to attend their entertainments and other functions. He was
especially invited to the exercise grounds and games.
A literary and musical entertainment was to be given. It was to be a sort
of Thanksgiving festival; the best speakers and singers had been engaged
and they had spent much time in rehearsal. The bishop was to preside. The
hour had arrived, but alas, where was the organist? No word as to the
cause of his absence had been received, and a substitute must be found.
Who, then, could be organist? John Keyes was the only man among them that
was acquainted with the numbers; he had rehearsed them. But yesterday he
had rushed away to visit his mother, who was ill, expecting to be able to
return in time, and Professor Cummings was greatly disturbed because
unsuccessful in finding someone to take his place. The president and
faculty were approaching. They should now be singing the welcoming
"Gloria." Instead, the great organ was silent. But listen! Someone had
touched the keys. The audience arose simultaneously and sounded forth the
grand old chorus, "Glory to God in the Highest." Few in the audience
suspected that John Keyes was not at the organ. No one dreamed that the
fingers pressing those keys had not during the last year and a half
touched a musical instrument. But the festival went on with artistic
smoothness to the finish. None was more surprised than the bishop, who at
the close turned to thank the young man; but Carl had slipped away and
was not to be seen. During the entire entertainment Tom sat on a stool as
if he were petrified. This was the astonishment of his young life.
Next morning the stalwart voices of the students were heard as usual in
their early devotions, but there were no notes of the organ accompanying
them. Word had been received that Keyes himself was ill, and, strange as
it may seem, of all the one hundred and seventy-four students none felt
sufficiently proficient to assume his place at the organ.
"Who played the organ last night?" asked the bishop. "Why can he
not play?"
"O, he is not a student. He is a young Englishman from the farm, a
relative of Sparrow's," replied the professor.
"Well, why don't you secure his services until Keyes returns? I
wanted to thank him last night but could not find him. That young
man is a musician, whoever he is. I will go over with you and we will
see Sparrow."
But they did not find the farmer; instead, they fell in with Carl in
the office of the warehouse. Tom stood on a box taking a lesson in
penmanship. The copy was, "Honesty is the best policy." The writing
lesson was being accompanied by a lesson in honesty. The visitors
listened on the other side of the thin partition to what Carl was
saying to Tom.
"Honesty is telling the truth," were his words. "Honesty means not
keeping back anything. Honesty means telling a thing as it is. Telling
the truth--not more, not less."
The grave bishop tapped at the door which was immediately opened by Carl.
"Is Mr. Sparrow here?" asked the professor.
"No, sir," was the reply. "He has gone to Centerville, but will
return by noon."
"Well," said the bishop, "we really came to see you. You play the organ,
and we are minus an organist at our chapel services. Mr. Keyes, our
organist, we have just learned, has been taken suddenly ill and is in the
hospital. Can you serve us until he returns?"
"I hardly know how to answer you, Bishop," replied Carl, hesitatingly. "I
am working for Mr. Sparrow; and, besides, I have had no practice, with
the exception of last evening, for a long time, which is, of course, a
serious disadvantage. But if Mr. Sparrow does not object, I will do the
best I can for you."
The end of the matter was that that evening Carl conducted all the
musical services in the chapel.
The news soon spread abroad that remarkable music could be heard in the
Monastery, and the people flocked there from outside to hear it, and the
spacious chapel became crowded at even the everyday services. This new
organist improvised such harmonies as they had never heard before. And
this inspiration seemed to touch the faculty as each member of it took
his turn in conducting the services. Bishop Albertson preached as never
before. He seemed to almost ignore his notes as he talked to the people,
and the people in turn manifested a devoutness never witnessed before by
a Monastery congregation. Dr. Ezra Day had ever been a favorite, but the
present hour brought him a far greater degree of popularity. The veteran
Dr. Peregrine Worth also preached as never before. Indeed, everything
seemed to receive new life; the old monotony had departed; something new
had come. What was it? Was this what the Methodists called a revival?
So marked and intense was this feeling that a meeting of the faculty and
trustees was called. Was this a modern Pentecost? So Worth said; so
Cummings thought. A great meeting was held for consultation and the
people were publicly invited. Everyone declared a church should be
organized. The bishop was in favor of this, and at the proper time one
hundred and eighteen persons presented themselves as candidates for
confirmation. Up to this time what was known as Monastery was simply a
scientific and theological seminary. Its faculty was composed of educated
clergymen. It was a college with a bishop as president, supported by the
church at large and the products of the farm, having a board of trustees
to hold and manage the estate according to the laws of the commonwealth.
Now it was to become an organized parish church and, in addition, the
center of a diocese. The bishop was to assume the duties of the rector,
with the members of the faculty as his assistants, and the trustees were
incorporated as the "Board of Trustees of Monastery Church and College,"
according to law. This was a new regime for Bishop Albertson, who, years
before, had been rector of a small parish in Virginia. Even at that time
he was a rigid churchman and a profound scholar, and because of these and
other qualifications he had unexpectedly been elevated to the episcopal
office. Soon after this well-merited promotion he had been earnestly
requested to take this young seminary under his care and
superintendence, and had cheerfully accepted this added responsibility.
From that time he had made Monastery his home and the headquarters of his
diocese. It continued to be "a school of the prophets" during ten years,
when it was granted a university charter and it became a school of
classics as well as theology. No one ever felt disappointed at this
appointment of Bishop Albertson to the presidency of the institution,
which under his care had grown from a small seminary with seventeen
students to its present proportions and standing in the state. Now there
were seventy-two theological students and two hundred and forty-five in
the classical and scientific courses. This had been done under the
fostering care and superintendency of the present incumbent. This
institution had been simply a high-grade school of classics and theology,
principally the latter. Experimental religion had but a small place in
its curriculum or life. "Thou shalt not" of the Old Testament was
strictly taught and demanded of all. But "Thou shalt" of the New
Testament was rarely thought of, much less practiced. So apparent was
this that critical observers used to say of it: "Here is where they have
neither religion nor politics." And this local adage was literally true.
The highest morality was practiced and demanded, but the dogmas which
insisted upon the regeneration of the heart and life were very sparingly
taught. Morality in its highest life was demanded of all, but the inner
life was left to take care of itself.
But now, something had happened; here was a change. Even the organ spoke
with a new voice; the prayer book meant more than it had in the
past--everything spoke with a new tongue. Here was an amount of emotion
that was new and strange, and the responses in the services were more
prompt and fervent. The bishop ceased to read his sermons and talked as
one who had authority. His voice was more distinct. The audiences heard
him as never before. Several of the professors who had always been spoken
of as unattractive and uninteresting became exactly the reverse. Young
men were found praying in their rooms. In one of them the bishop was
heard leading a score of young men in prayer. Old-fashioned and old-time
hymns were sung, fervent responses were heard, and scores of persons from
roundabout professed to have found Christ. During six weeks this
wonderful influence was felt. It extended for miles throughout the
country. During that time four hundred persons took upon themselves the
obligations of the Christian profession and Monastery Church became a
great power through the county.
Mr. Keyes, the organist, had died in the hospital, and Carl had been
appointed in his place as organist and musical director. He very soon
organized a choir of forty persons. And this was not all that added
responsibility to this young man's life. The bishop, realizing the
growing responsibilities of his work, appointed him his private
secretary, which necessarily took him away from all the work on the farm;
but even this did not separate him from the farmhouse. He continued to
sleep there in "Carl and Tom's room," and, excepting during school hours,
wherever you found Carl Tom was not far away.
The grand old man, Dr. George Thorndyke, who gave three hundred acres of
land for a "school for prophets," little dreamed that his gift was to
develop to such proportions, and become, also, a great influential
church, a great center of religious influence, whose power would be felt
miles around.
But the college chapel was neither fit nor large enough for the demands
which were now pressing upon it. They must have a building capacious and
suitable in which to worship. And now the true character of the great
revival was seen in the prompt responses of the people; more generous
were they than the ancient people who built the temple, and in the course
of a few months a large and beautiful church was erected capable of
seating twelve hundred people. As this building neared completion the
building committee began to prepare for its dedication. The chief
clergyman to be invited was an old friend and classmate of Bishop
Albertson--Bishop McLaren, of Durham, England. There was to be, of
course, select music; the singing must not be inferior to that which
Bishop McLaren listened to in his cathedral home. Carl was told that the
Durham singers were known throughout the kingdom as superb, and he must
do his best in drilling his choir.
But there seemed to be, if not a lack of interest, at least a lack of
energy. For many weeks before the time Carl assembled the choir for
special rehearsal at least twice a week. And while progress was made, yet
there seemed to be a lack of enthusiasm in both singers and organist. The
cause of this was soon apparent. Carl was ill; and the day that the
president went to New York to meet his friend, Carl was attacked with a
raging fever. It was seen very quickly that the young man ought to have
given up much sooner and the best medical aid was hastily summoned. Of
course a substitute must be provided, and the committee succeeded in
securing the services of Professor Schuets, from New York, to have charge
of the organ and music during the dedicatory services. When the day (the
Sabbath) for the great service came Carl lay in his bed delirious with
typhoid fever. Nancy Sparrow was his faithful nurse, while Tom was hands
and feet to his mother. It was really pathetic to see the little fellow
as he sat near the bed so vigilant and anxious in his desire to be of
service. And when the doctor came, how his great blue eyes watched his
every movement! Then he would waylay the doctor as he left the house,
asking if Carl were not improving, and if he would not be up in a few
days. But the physician did not dare encourage the boy. It was soon
observed that every morning and evening, immediately after the doctor's
visits, Tom walked over to the office in the warehouse, where Giles more
than once found him engaged in earnest prayer for Carl's recovery.
"I tell you, Mrs. Sparrow," said Giles on one of these occasions, "Carl
will get well. Tom talked to God today, and I don't believe that God will
refuse the little fellow what he wants."
It was on one of those visits that Billy, who was in the root cellar
under the warehouse, heard the lad's footsteps and, slipping upstairs,
listened to the prayer of his boy. These were his words: "Dear Father in
heaven, maybe you are tired of hearing me ask you for the same thing so
many times, but there is nothing else that I want; but I _do_ want Carl.
I would not have to ask my earthly father so often, if he could possibly
do it; but he isn't able. _You are able_ and, somehow, I can't
understand why you don't. Father and mother and I all love Carl; he is
one of us; and what would the bishop do without him? And now, dear
Father, I'm going back to the house to see if he isn't better. I know
you will do it. Amen."
The two prelates sat in the resident bishop's study. "There is a sample
of my secretary's work," said Bishop Albertson, as he handed an account
book to his friend, "and it is as accurate as it is beautiful."
Bishop McLaren started when his eyes fell upon the ledger. After a
moment's hesitancy he remarked: "Never but in one instance have I seen as
fine work. That was the writing of my own dear boy; those capitals are
just like his. Ah, well."
On the afternoon of the Sabbath the two bishops strolled across the park,
and almost unconsciously found themselves in front of the farmhouse.
Little Tom sat on the front steps with a sad countenance; looking up he
recognized Bishop Albertson standing before him.
"Well, Tom, how is Carl today?" asked the bishop.
"O, Bishop, he is very bad. He talks and talks, and they don't know what
he means. He talks about his father and mother, and nobody knows where
they live. He never told anybody. But I'm praying for him, Bishop, and I
know he won't die."
"Can we go up and see him?" asked Bishop Albertson, and without waiting
for an answer, he proceeded up the back stairs, but the English visitor
remained below.
When Bishop Albertson entered the room he found Nancy bathing the sick
youth's brow. She saluted the visitor with great respect. Carl lay quite
still with his face toward the wall. Laying her hand upon his brow, Nancy
said: "Carl, dear, here's the bishop come over to see you."
The sick man murmured: "No, no, he will never come to see me, but mother
would if she knew."
The bishop in low, quiet tones said: "Carl, where is your father? We will
let him know how ill you are, and I know he will come to you."
In still weaker accents the delirious youth went on: "No, no, don't tell
him; he thinks I'm dead; better so."
At this moment Dr. King, making his second call for the day, stepped
into the room, and at once in low but emphatic tones remarked: "Mrs.
Sparrow, this will not do. Our patient must be kept quiet; otherwise
more harm can be done in a half hour than can be overcome in a week. I
will send a nurse tonight, and with skillful nursing we will, if
possible, save the patient."
The bishop took the hint and quietly descended to the parlor, where he
found his colleague awaiting him with his head resting upon both hands.
Silently they wended their way to the bishop's study. It lacked about an
hour to the time of evening service.
The visiting clergyman, addressing his host said: "Bishop Albertson, I
think I have never told you the particulars of my great affliction. The
illness of your secretary, and seeing the specimen of his penmanship,
brings back to my recollection the darkest providence that has ever come
into my life."
"No, Bishop," said his brother minister, kindly, "you have not. But
sorrow passes few of us by in this world. We all suffer, some grievously.
I did not suspect, however, that such had been your lot."
"Yes," was the reply, after a moment's silence, "mine has been a heavy
cross. A little more than a year ago my son, just entering upon the
summer vacation, went off with two friends on a yachting trip. They were
near Land's End when a hurricane struck and wrecked the boat; they were
all lost, the yacht never having been seen again; and once this
afternoon, when the door of your secretary's room was opened for a
moment, I heard his delirious cry, and his voice sounded strangely like
that of my own lost boy. Possibly, I, too, should have gone up to see
him, but after that I could not--I could not." He paused and then added:
"O, it was my profoundest wish that Eddie might some day take my place,
and be the comfort of my old age."
That evening's sermon will never be forgotten by the large congregation
which came to hear the eminent English divine. "Thou destroyest the hopes
of man" was the text.
Two days later the Bishop of Durham returned to his home, and although he
had enjoyed seeing the classmate of his early years, the affliction in
Bishop Albertson's home had reminded him of his own sad loss, so that
when he arrived at Durham he felt prostrated by the renewal of his bitter
bereavement.