Eva Baldwin was the most independent, the most democratic, and the most
religious member of the Baldwin family. I use the word religious in
its most practical sense. The Baldwins were all religious; they were
all church-members; they all had the outside, the husk, the wrapper,
of religion. With them, a costly house of worship, a silver-tongued
preacher, the repetition of some high-sounding passages from God’s Word
and the payment of a certain amount of money for church expenses--these
things constituted religion.
The Baldwins, when it came to religion, were like a certain boy, who
went chestnutting. He had never seen a chestnut, and he eagerly filled
his basket with the great prickly burs, which the frost had opened, but
never noticed the nuts themselves, which lay hidden under the leaves.
The Baldwins were very religious,--but if the Christ had come into
Papyrus, the town which belonged to them, they would have given Him
twenty-four hours notice to get out. He was a disturber in the vales
of Judea, and He would have been too radical for the Lords of the
Berkshire Hills. It would have become the painful duty of the round
and sleek Deacon Surface, and the gaunt and spectral Sheriff Burse, on
notice from the Baldwins, to order Him out.
But Eva--black-eyed Eva--differed from her kindred. She was not
satisfied with the husk of Christianity. She was a constant thorn
in the side of her brother, Zechariah, and in a less degree of her
brother, David, the Congressman. Even between these two there was
a great gulf. The Congressman believed in equal rights, except at
home, and for his own workmen. None of the devices, some of them of
almost Satanic ingenuity, by which the mill-hands of Papyrus were
prevented from enjoying their just share in town-government, none
of these devices, I say, could have succeeded, without Congressman
Baldwin’s approval, through his confidential agent, the hundred-faced,
oily-tongued Deacon Surface. None of these devices for stealing the
workman’s vote won Eva Baldwin’s approval.
In looking--and she had not far to look--for worthy objects upon which
to bestow her help, in a practical and sensible way, Eva Baldwin had
long since found in Sprucemont, that little “deserted town” on the
mountain-tops, an outlet for some of her benevolent impulses and
surplus funds. A few generations ago Sprucemont had been one of the
most prosperous towns on the hills, but influences which it would take
too long to describe here had brought her very low, both in population
and wealth. The church in Sprucemont had long since ceased to be
self-supporting, and was dependent upon the generosity of Eva Baldwin
and others of her kind.
To awaken the interest of natives of the town who had removed, to stir
the pride of those remaining, and to attract buyers for the abandoned
farms, a celebration was planned in honor of the town’s settlement. For
such an occasion it was only natural that the most distinguished native
of the town, Reverend Ralph Cutter, filling a pulpit in Springdale,
should be selected as the principal speaker.
The day came. Up the long hills toward Sprucemont Center climbed
teams and vehicles of various descriptions. The newest automobile,
the stylish and luxurious up-to-date carriage with liveried driver
and sleek, well-groomed pair, and the pleasure-seeker’s four-horse
tally-ho, these shared the mountain road with ancient specimens of the
carriage-makers’ art, broken and repaired with conspicuous lack of
skill, and drawn by animals to whom the currycomb and oat-bin seemed
alike strangers. Between these extremes were the comfortable and tidy
conveyances of the middle classes.
It was a perfect June day. The rock maples, the red beeches and the
various birches were in their full summer luxuriance, and their light
green foliage contrasted prettily with the darker, more somber shades
of the spruce, the hemlock, and the balsam fir. The verdure of mowlands
and pastures was sprinkled with the commonplace buttercups and daisies,
while the roadside thickets were eloquent to the eye with the pink and
white blossoms of the mountain laurel.
The forests echoed with the silver bell of the wood thrush, while the
rollicking, bubbling melody of the bobolink, and the clear, sweet
whistle of the meadow lark filled every wayside field.
The ancient meeting-house, where the services were held, was a fine
specimen of old style, country church architecture. It had been built,
nearly a century before, to accommodate eight hundred people, but the
population of the town, had dwindled to half that number.
“The strength of the hills is His also.”
It was with these words of the Psalmist that Reverend Ralph Cutter
began his review of the town’s history. No one seemed to realize that
he spoke an hour. A library has been written about the best way to
hold the attention of an audience. It might all be boiled down to
this:--“Have something to say worth saying, and then say it in a way
worth hearing.” Ralph Cutter knew his subject thoroughly. He could
only give an outline of it in the time allotted to him; but, as little
ten-year-old Jimmy Stetson said, “When Mr. Cutter tells an Indian story
you feel as though the Red Skins were skulking around the church, and
when he talks about bears you almost expect to hear ’em growl.”
“Aunt Lyddy” Buxton, who came early and had a seat near the pulpit,
said:--“That’s the first time I have heard a minister in a year,
although I go to church every Sunday. Thank God there’s now and then a
minister who thinks it a part of his duty to make people hear.”
“That’s the minister I always like to hear,” said Farmer Gray. “I don’t
have to go to a dictionary to find out what he means, and it’s all
good, sober, solid sense, every word he has to say.”
The speaker did not occupy a minute more than the time allotted to
him. For a minister, or any other speaker, to take time which belonged
to others, Ralph Cutter considered no better than any other kind of
stealing, and he never practiced it. He always kept within his allotted
time. He had saved a few minutes in which to consider the future of the
town.
“Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and every hill shall
be made low.”
“I understand these words of Isaiah,” he said, “to be prophecy full
of blessing to us all. These hills shall be brought low--that is to
say, they shall be more easily reached. Not only this, but the working
people in the cities shall be able to reach them. The time is coming,
when the poorest one of our millions of laborers shall be able to
enjoy a summer vacation, with his family, on these hills, or at the
sea-shore, or wherever else on God’s beautiful earth he chooses to
spend it. The multitudes, now scarcely earning their daily bread,
shall not always toil to maintain the few in idleness and luxury. The
good things, the best things of God’s bountiful earth shall be within
reach of the toiling masses, not occasionally and sparingly, but at all
times and in generous measure. The workman shall enjoy the full fruit
of his labors. There shall be no idlers, as now, to fatten upon the
laborers’ toil. God has provided an abundance for all His children, and
the avarice of the few shall not always keep his gifts away from the
many.
“Perhaps you will call this socialism, but it is Christianity also.
I believe, in practice, we have scarcely learned the a b c of
Christianity. I am not attacking the rights of property. I have no pet
theories to advance. The present system, which allows one man to pile
up hundreds of millions by getting control of steel or oil, while the
working multitude are little better than slaves--this system, I say,
cannot endure. It must fall. When we have learned, by experience, what
true Christianity means, it may be that we shall get back very near to
the starting-point of Christianity, when the disciples had all things
common.
“Every mountain and hill shall be brought low--brought within reach of
the toiling hosts of the valley. All these abandoned acres shall be
tilled again. This temple shall again be filled with glad worshippers,
as of old. The electric railway, which is leveling the hills
everywhere, shall bring to these beautiful heights the tired and dusty
dwellers in the city, for summer rest. This leveling process shall
benefit the dwellers and toilers in the vales. Already the farm-house
feels the throbbing life of the city, through the telephone and the
daily mail. This is only the beginning. No one knows what the end may
be.”
It was an eloquent address; eloquent in its pictures of history;
eloquent in its present comfort; eloquent in its promise for the
future, and it had a fitting and appreciative word for those outside
the town who had kept the fires of religion burning on this ancient
altar. It had none of the marks of much of our present oratory--no
foreign phrases; no words difficult to understand; no carefully poised
periods; no words dropped nearly to a whisper. The prize pupil in
elocution sometimes cannot be heard in the rear of the hall, while the
speaker who makes himself clearly heard in all parts of the house goes
home without even honorable mention. While mere noise is not oratory,
yet Daniel Webster, Charles Sumner and George William Curtis always
made themselves heard. The speaker’s concluding words were:--
“Let us be true to the God of our fathers, and the God of our fathers
shall bless us.”
There was not a more interested listener than Eva Baldwin. All the old
feeling which she had experienced during the speaker’s stay in Papyrus,
and which she had tried to suppress since, came rushing back. She
thought: “Why could not God have given to me to be the help-meet of
such a man, even if He gave my millions to some one else?”
As for Ralph Cutter, he had been unjust to Miss Baldwin in allowing her
wealth to place a barrier between them. The sight of her to-day fanned
into flame again the old fires of his admiration, and he more than half
resolved to seek an opportunity of renewing her acquaintance.
After the exercises, which closed early, several small parties visited
Twin Mountain, which was near by. One of the parties included Reverend
Ralph Cutter and another included the Baldwins. For a moment, and only
for a moment, the parties met. The minister and the heiress saluted
each other cordially and lingered after their parties had separated.
She expressed regret that he had left Papyrus. He expressed regret that
it had seemed best for him to leave, and then, something in her eyes
seeming to warrant it, he added:
“I had hoped to become better acquainted with you, had I remained.”
“Did I place any obstacles in the way of our further acquaintance?
I certainly did not intend to do so,” she replied, and there was no
mistaking the frank, honest meaning in the black eyes.
“No, you did not. May I correspond with you?”
“Certainly.” She was laughing now; a laugh of relief and pleasure. “But
do not forget, when circumstances permit, that a face to face meeting
is a long way ahead of a letter.”
But the parties to which they belonged were getting farther and farther
apart.
“You might return home with us,” she suggested. “You could take an
evening train for Springdale.” And he very gladly assented.