"ARISE AND BUILD."
THE next day after the conversation related in the last chapter,
Bob's scheme was again talked over, and after a consultation with Mr.
Laurence, who cordially approved, an informal meeting of the principal
church-goers was called, and the plan laid before them. There were
various opinions about the matter. Mr. Stuart thought it would be an
odd thing to turn an old office into a church. He had never heard of
such a thing being done, but he saw no special objection, and if they
wanted the building, they could have it rent free.
"So far, so good," said Mr. Bell; "but it will need some fixing up,
besides pulpit, seats, and so on."
"Oh, you must do that yourselves. I cannot give you the house gratis,
and repair it into the bargain."
"Of course not," returned Mr. Bell; "nobody calculated you would.
That's got to be done among the rest of us; Bostwick and I have been
down to look at it, and made a rough calculation about what will be
wanted, and we make out that a hundred and twenty dollars would fix it
first-rate. Now, then, how is it going to be done?"
"That's the rub, I guess you'll find," said Mr. Crampton, the painter.
"Money ain't very plenty around here just now."
"Them that can't give money can give work," replied Mr. Bell, "and them
that can't give work, can give good-will. Here's Brother Bostwick, now,
says he'll do all the mason work that's wanted, and that's something.
I will give the carpenter's work, and what of that sort needs to be
done, and I reckon you, Crampton, can do the painting and set the glass
without breaking yourself, can't you?"
"WELL, I can, and more than that, if I've a mind."
"Let's have that first, any way. Carpenter's work, mason work, and
painting—we are getting on well. We shall want about fourteen or
fifteen hundred feet of good lumber—perhaps more."
"I'll give you a thousand feet, and let my team draw it," said
Hildreth, who was one of the wealthiest men in the place, "and after
that, if you want more, I'll see about it. I'm no great things of a
church-goer myself, but my wife is, and I'd do as much, if it was only
to oblige Miss Champlin, who I take to be the principal getter-up of
the business, and who is one of the finest young women I know. She has
had a hard row to hoe since she came home, I expect."
"You might say so, if you knew," replied Mr. Bell; "but they get along
wonderful well, considering. Well, I don't see but we've got all we
want, except a little ready money, and that we must come at some way or
other. I think, friends, we should be justified in making a beginning
as it is, and them that thinks so, please signify it."
The vote was unanimous, and they were just going to disperse, when Mr.
Crampton said—
"Here's Downing coming; let's see what he'll say."
Mr. Downing entered accordingly, and after going lightly over the
proposed plan, Mr. Crampton asked him what he would contribute.
"Not a red cent!" replied Mr. Downing, with emphasis, and with a frown
which made his gloomy countenance still more repulsive. "I'll never
give the first penny as long as young Laurence stays here. He isn't the
kind of minister for my money. I'd as soon have Charley Strong himself."
"Charley Strong! Pray what has he to do with Mr. Laurence?" asked Mr.
Bell.
"Just this," answered Mr. Downing. "No longer ago than last Wednesday,
I saw Mr. Laurence and Charley Strong walking arm-in-arm all the way
from Stuart's store up to the school-house, talking as fast as you
please. More than that, I know well enough that the last time Laurence
was over here, Charley Strong rode home with him, and he has stayed
there, or about there ever since, to my certain knowledge. Now you
can do as you please; but a minister who don't know how to choose his
company any better than that, is not the man for my money, no matter
whose son he is."
"Hem!" said Mr. Bostwick. "Did you ever happen to hear in all your life
of a certain person who went to dine with a man not over and above
respectable, and who kept company not over and above respectable, and
what some folks said about it?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Bostwick," returned Mr. Downing; "but
if the man pretended to be a minister, and the company was no better
than the one we were speaking of, I think folks had a right to talk."
"Of course they had, and I'll tell you what they said. They said, 'He
received publicans and sinners, and eateth with them.' Mayhap you can
remember now what kind of an answer they got."
Two or three of the men laughed, and Mr. Downing looked rather taken
aback, while Mr. Bostwick continued: "Now some folks think that men who
wear the kind of coat Richard Laurence does, should be as much like
their Master as they can. Charley Strong is a hard case, and no wonder,
considering how he has been brought up; but he has got a soul to be
saved as well as the best of us, and the Lord that bought him paid as
much for him as He did for you and me, Mr. Downing—just as much. And
if He was to walk through the towns of this county, as He did through
them towns of old, He'd be as likely to talk to such poor fellows as
Charley, or even Joe Fisher, as He would to you and me. I'm not an
educated man myself, but I was brought up by pious parents, and thank
the Lord I've known Him this many a year, and my experience of Him is
that He is just as ready to save the worst sinner as He is the smartest
feeling Pharisee."
"Amen!" said Mr. Bell, emphatically.
"That's well said, Bostwick," said Mr. Stuart, "and I think you have
the right of it. Who knows what might be done for such kind of people,
if Christians would only take them up and befriend them, and try to
help them along. I have not seen Charley so steady since he was ten
years old as he has been for the last two weeks, and if he was anywhere
but at home, he might do well enough yet; but what can you expect
when his father gets his living by selling the very poison that is
destroying his only son?"
"If my memory serves me, you once sold liquor yourself, Mr. Stuart,"
said Mr. Downing, with a sneer.
"God forgive me, I did," replied Stuart earnestness; "and I would cut
off my right hand to be able to repair the mischief I have done. But
that's neither here nor there. Come, Downing, I know when you come
to reflect, you won't think the worse of Laurence for trying to do
something for poor Charley."
"Why perhaps not, if that's the view you take of it, though I can't
say I think it looks very well. But after all, Laurence is a regular
dandy in his dress and ways. Just look at his fine black coat and white
cravat, and his hair curls like a girl's. To be sure it always did curl
when he was a little boy."
"That is indeed a misfortune," said Mr. Stuart, gravely; "but then
isn't a curly-haired minister better than none at all?"
Downing smiled in spite of himself.
"Come, I see you are going to help the matter along after all. How much
are you going to give us?"
"There's a dollar for you," replied Mr. Downing, "and that's all you
get from me, I can tell you."
"That will do for a beginning; and now, as we seem to have finished our
business, I move that this committee do adjourn. When do you calculate
to begin, Mr. Bell?"
"Right off," answered Mr. Bell. "I am going to set my boys to pulling
down the partitions, and mending the fences to-day. I've given them
their time to work for the church, and they are so pleased, you'd think
they were going to preach in it themselves."
"It has been a first-rate thing for the children, that's a fact,"
remarked Mr. Hildreth; and with these words the meeting adjourned.
There was great rejoicing among the "women folks," when it was
understood how matters had gone, and it was agreed that they would do
their share towards fitting up the church decently. The very children
were anxious to help, and more than one little boy and girl vowed
secretly to devote the hoarded contents of his or her savings bank to
the same purpose.
The work was commenced at once, as Mr. Bell had said. The green about
the door was nicely fenced, and cleared of all encumbrances, dusty
partitions were torn down and carried away, piles of new boards and
stacks of bricks made their appearance, and Mr. Laurence never passed
that way without rejoicing over his work, and praying for an increased
blessing upon the flock, over which he trusted the Holy Ghost had made
him overseer.
Mr. Bostwick gave it as his opinion that the house might be ready for
occupation in about three weeks; that is, about the commencement of
Lent, which fell very late this year. Mr. Laurence was very desirous
that this should be the case, as his heart was set upon a series of
Lenten services, which could not well be holden in the school-house.
Charley Strong, the young man whose companionship had been so strongly
objected to by Mr. Downing, was the only son of the tavern-keeper with
whom my readers have become acquainted in the early part of this story.
He was a tan, handsome young man, very well educated, and, when sober,
very well bred. He had grown up, as Mr. Stuart said, under the very
worst influences possible. His father had begun by indulging him in
every thing, right or wrong, to which he took a fancy, and laughing at
those who warned him of the danger of this course. His mother—a good
and pious woman—died when he was about five years old—of a broken heart
it was said. Charley was brought up in the barroom, and saw, smelt, and
tasted liquor from morning till night. What wonder if he acquired a
taste for it? What wonder if the taste became a raging passion, which
deprived him of reason, and threatened to destroy him, body and soul?
At seventeen, Charley was sent to college, from which he returned in
disgrace, and before he had been at home a week, he ruined a valuable
horse belonging to his father, by over-driving him in a fit of
intoxication. From that time, their quarrels were constant: the father
seemed to lose all affection for his son, and though he allowed him to
take his meals and sleep at home, he showed him no other kindness, and
never spoke to him without abusing him for an idle, drunken, ungrateful
vagabond.
Now and then, when unable to beg or borrow the means of satisfying his
raging appetite, Charley would do a little work, and several times he
had been known to keep sober and industrious for a week at a time;
but with the temptation ever before him, how could he be expected to
withstand it? These fits of abstinence were sure to be followed by fits
of drunkenness long and violent, and every one worse than the other.
He had lately had one or two attacks of delirium tremens; he grew pale
and thin, and was troubled with a distressing cough, and every one said
that he would not last much longer. And is it not a fearful thing to
say in such a case? Is it not fearful to think of a young man, of fine
talents and good disposition, capable of almost any amount of good,
going down to a drunkard's death bed—a drunkard's grave—a drunkard's
eternity?
Richard Laurence had known Charley well at one time. They had been boys
at school together, though Richard was several years the oldest, and
there had been a degree of intimacy between them, until the time that
Richard finally decided to consecrate his talents to the service of
the Church, and went to the city of New York to pursue his studies for
the ministry. Even when the most degraded, Charley had retained some
sense of shame at his abasement. He kept himself as much as possible
out of the sight of his former friend, and, unless he was too much
intoxicated to recognize any one, he would go two miles out of his
way to avoid meeting him. Richard had tried in vain to bring about an
encounter—Charley kept determinedly out of his way.
It chanced one Wednesday evening that he was passing near the
school-house, now lighted up for evening service, just as his former
friend was alighting from his horse at the door. In his haste to
escape, he stumbled over a stick of wood, which had been left in the
way, and fell; and before he could recover himself entirely, Richard
had seized his hand, and was expressing his delight at the meeting, in
a voice, the cordiality and sincerity of which did not admit of a doubt.
"Come, Charley," said Richard, after a few minutes conversation, "you
have never yet heard me preach. Come in and listen, if it is only for
the sake of old times at school."
Charley laughed and hesitated, and was finally persuaded to enter.
There was no little nudging and whispering among those already
assembled as he took his seat; and some persons looked a little uneasy,
but it was soon perceived that he was entirely sober.
The lecture was upon the parable of the prodigal son, and was almost as
direct and simple in its character as a lecture could be. Every one in
the room felt that he or she was directly addressed by the preacher,
and a very evident solemnity and seriousness was diffused throughout
the congregation. Charley felt himself so much embarrassed by his new
situation that he could think of nothing else for a while, but his
attention was gradually directed from himself and fastened on the
preacher.
"How well he writes!" he thought. "If he had been preaching before the
most fashionable and literary congregation in New York, he could not
have taken more pains with his discourse."
But his attention was soon directed from the manner to the matter of
the lecture. He had never been able in all his degradation to destroy
either his conscience or his affections; and now that he was perfectly
sober, every word of the beautiful parable of the prodigal son came
home to his heart. He felt himself to be the very prodigal of the
story. Had he not wasted his substance, destroyed his health, lost his
reputation, and was he not now feeding on husks, lower than the swine,
hopeless in this world, and hopeless in the next? He knew all this
before, and why should he come here to be told of it? He almost made
up his mind to rise and leave the house, when the preacher went on to
another branch of his subject.
"And he arose and came to his father, and while he was yet a great way
off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran and fell on
his neck, and kissed him."
These words fell with strange force on the ear of the besotted
drunkard; they seemed to bring with them, I know not what, of light and
consolation. He began to feel almost as if his case were not hopeless;
as if "he" might at some time arise and go to his Father, and be met
with words of love and forgiveness.
But when the preacher went on to enlarge on the love of God towards
penitent sinners, and His yearning over them even when a great way off;
when he spoke of the price paid for all; of the wonderful sacrifice for
sin; of the fountain opened for all uncleanness; of the grace ready and
waiting for the chief of sinners, Charley no longer cared or thought
where he was, or who saw him. He bowed his head on his trembling hands,
and tears—genuine tears of repentance—streamed from his eyes: he wept
almost aloud.
He was not the only one who did so; more than one hard hand dashed away
the gathering drops; and more than one prayer went up, and was heard in
heaven, for the prodigal son. Richard saw and rejoiced with trembling
over the impression he had made, and, when he sat down at the end of
the discourse, he too bowed his head, and prayed with heart and soul
for the friend of his childhood.
The congregation rose from their knees, and began to go out, but
Charley did not rise; and when all had departed but Mr. Bell, who
lingered about the door to take the key, Richard took a seat beside
him. He was rather at a loss how to begin the conversation that he
desired, but Charley saved him the trouble.
"Richard Laurence," he said, raising his head, and looking his friend
full in the face, "do you really in your heart believe that there is
any salvation—any hope for such a miserable lost wretch as I am? As you
love your own soul, tell me nothing but the truth."
"As truly as I believe there is a God, Charley," answered the young
minister with equal solemnity, "so truly do I believe that He is ready
and waiting to receive and pardon you the moment you make up your mind
to arise and go to Him. His love knows no difference, and He is just
as ready to accept you now as if you had never strayed from Him. He is
speaking to you by His Spirit, and calling you to come. It may be the
turning-point of your life, Charley; will you refuse His love?"
"I am as ignorant as a heathen, Richard. What must I do?"
"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved;' you have
nothing else to do. Put your trust in Him who died to save you, and say
with the man of old, 'Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.'"
"But such a wretch as I am! I was drunk yesterday, and I shall be drunk
to-morrow. No, there is no hope."
"Do you wish to be drunk to-morrow, Charley?"
"No, God knows I don't! I would never touch a drop again, if I could
help it; but how can I? The moment I go home, there it is before me. I
cannot go to my bed without seeing and smelling the accursed poison,
and though I would rather die than drink again, I know I shall not be
able to help it."
"Then don't go home," said Richard. "Go over to Spring Bank with me,
and stay a while, and you will be out of the way of temptation. There
is no one at home but the housekeeper—your old friend, Mrs. Millar, you
know. There you will be safe, and we can talk further together. Come,
if it is only for the sake of our old friendship."
"I will go, Richard. God bless you for your kindness. Oh! If I should
be saved after all—saved, body and soul! I tell you, Dick, there have
been times within this year that I have seen the pit of hell opening
under me, and felt that one step would take me into it, and yet I
couldn't help myself. But it seems lighter now. I feel as if all were
not lost yet."
As they went out of the door, Mr. Bell came forward and shook the young
man cordially by the hand.
"God bless you, Charley," said he; "we shall see you a man yet, by the
grace of God. I've got a brother that was once further down the hill
than you are, and he is now as fair a standing man as any in the State
of Michigan, and with as fine a family about him as you'd wish to see.
We shall all think of you, my boy, and pray for you. My wife always
said you'd come round sooner or later, if a mother's prayers were of
any account. Drop in and see us, and you'll find her ready to welcome
you for your ma's sake."
Charley was not seen in Brooksville again before Sunday, when he rode
over to church with Mr. Laurence. He was very pale, and several persons
noticed how his hands trembled, but he was perfectly sober, and though
very serious, there was an expression of happiness about his face which
had not been seen there for many a day.
"T wouldn't go over to the tavern, Charley," said Mr. Stuart to him
when church was out. "Come home and get your dinner with us."
"By your leave, Mr. Stuart," interrupted Mr. Bell, "he don't do any
such thing. My woman has set her heart upon his coming to our house
to-day, and I shan't dare to go home without him. I'm dreadful afraid
of my wife, you know."
Mr. Stuart smiled and yielded, only saying, "If there is any way I can
serve you, Charley, let me know."
Mr. Laurence took his friend home with him again in the evening, and
he was not seen again in Brooksville for some time. No one knew what
he was about unless it were Mr. Bell; and if he was questioned, he
only said he guessed Charley was able to take care of himself, and if
he wasn't, he had friends to help him. His father seemed perfectly
indifferent about the matter, and indeed said openly that he considered
it a good riddance, wherever he was. He thought Laurence would find his
match with him, if Charley got into his tantrums, as he always did if
he was sober for a few days. It wouldn't be strange if Charley should
cut his throat for him.
But Charley was in safe hands. He knew, better than any one else, his
own weakness and danger. Once escaped from the horrible pit, he was
resolved to make any sacrifice rather than return to it; and it was
at his own desire that two or three days after his last appearance at
Brooksville, Richard Laurence accompanied him to an Insane Asylum,
where he was placed as a boarder, and where he was rooted to stay till
all danger was over, employing himself when he was able to work at all,
with the study of medicine, which he had once before commenced. Here,
then, he remained, and the good people of Brooksville, after having
wondered for a while what had become of him, finally forgot him, and
talked of something else.
Meanwhile the work went rapidly on at the church, as it now began to
be called. The windows were all mended, the walls whitened, and a new
floor laid. The chancel was inclosed with a neat but plain railing,
and furnished with a pulpit, reading-desk, and communion table; and
the rest of the space was being filled up with comfortable benches
and hassocks, or haddocks, as Mr. Hildreth preferred to call them,
which, like all the rest of the woodwork, were painted white. A learned
ecclesiologist would have found much to object to in the form and
arrangement of all these things, but the good people of Brooksville
were perfectly content with them, and took great satisfaction in the
neatness and convenience of their little sanctuary.
Mr. Laurence made his contribution in the shape of half a dozen very
pretty lamps to light up the church for evening service. Mr. Willson
gave two large Prayer-Books and a Psalm-Book for the desk, and a Bible
for the pulpit. Some ladies of Raeburn presented a pretty carpet for
the chancel (rag carpet was considered good enough for the aisles), and
to crown all, the old doctor, who had met the first application of the
committee with nothing but inarticulate growls, put into Mr. Laurence's
hands one day a large basket, containing a plain but handsome silver
Communion Service, saying as he did so, that he hoped to see it used
before many weeks were over.
The women on their part were not idle. Already they had purchased and
made up a decent gown and surplice, and they were now employed upon the
cushions for the altar and the pulpit. Susan Champlin was persuaded to
collect the subscriptions. She had nothing in particular to keep her
at home now, and day after day she might be seen round the village, or
mounted on Mrs. Stuart's pony (for she was an excellent horse-woman),
riding off to sound the hearts and purses of all the farmers' wives in
the neighborhood. She was a very successful collector, and the fresh
air and diversion were of great service to her: her sadness abated;
the color returned to her pale cheek, and the light to her eyes; she
was once more heard singing about the house and over her work, and the
anxiety of her friends for her gradually passed away.
All things were now in readiness, and on the Sunday before Lent, Mr.
Laurence announced that there would be service in the new church on Ash
Wednesday morning and evening, and that on Thursday morning, at nine
o'clock, a meeting would be held in the same place, for the purpose of
regularly organizing a Parish.