It was not until early in Brent's second year at the Bible Seminary that
he was compelled to go through the ordeal he so much dreaded, that of
filling a city pulpit. The Dexterites had been wont to complain that
since the advent among them of the theological school their churches had
been turned into recitation-rooms for the raw students; but of "old Tom
Brent's boy," as they still called him, they could never make this
complaint. So, as humanity loves to grumble, the congregations began to
find fault because he did not do as his fellows did.
The rumours of his prowess in the class-room and his eloquence in the
society hall had not abated, and the curiosity of his fellow-townsmen
had been whetted to a point where endurance was no longer possible.
Indeed, it is open to question whether it was not by connivance of the
minister himself, backed by his trustees on one side and the college
authorities on the other, that Brent was finally deputed to supply the
place of the Rev. Mr. Simpson, who was affected by an indisposition,
fancied, pretended, or otherwise.
The news struck the young man like a thunderbolt, albeit he had been
expecting it. He attempted to make his usual excuse, but the kindly old
professor who had notified him smiled into his face, and, patting his
shoulder, said, "It 's no use, Brent. I 'd go and make the best of it;
they 're bound to have you. I understand your diffidence in the matter,
and, knowing how well you stand in class, it does credit to your
modesty."
The old man passed on. He said he understood, but in his heart the young
student standing there helpless, hopeless, knew that he did not
understand, that he could not. Only he himself could perceive it in all
the trying horror of its details. Only he himself knew fully or could
know what the event involved,--that when he arose to preach, to
nine-tenths of the congregation he would not be Frederick Brent,
student, but "old Tom Brent's boy." He recoiled from the thought.
Many a fireside saint has said, "Why did not Savonarola tempt the hot
ploughshares? God would not have let them burn him." Faith is a
beautiful thing. But Savonarola had the ploughshares at his feet. The
children of Israel stepped into the Red Sea before the waters parted,
but then Moses was with them, and, what was more, Pharaoh was behind
them.
At home, the intelligence of what Brent was to do was received in
different manner by Mrs. Hodges and her husband. The good lady launched
immediately into a lecture on the duty that was placed in his hands; but
Eliphalet was silent as they sat at the table. He said nothing until
after supper was over, and then he whispered to his young friend as he
started to his room, "I know jest how you feel, Freddie. It seems that I
ought n't to call you that now; but I 'low you 'll allus be 'Freddie' to
me."
"Don't ever call me anything else, if you please, Uncle 'Liph," said the
young man, pressing Eliphalet's hand.
"I think I kin understand you better than most people," Mr. Hodges went
on; "an' I know it ain't no easy task that you 've got before you."
"You 've always understood me better than any one, and--and I wish you
knew what it has meant to me, and that I could thank you somehow."
"'Sh, my boy. It 's thanks enough to hear them words from you. Now you
jest calm yoreself, an' when Sunday comes--I don't know as I 'd ought to
say it this way, but I mean it all in a Christian sperrit--when Sunday
comes, Freddie, my boy, you jest go in an' give 'em fits."
The two parted with another pressure of the hand, and it must be
confessed that the old man looked a little bit sheepish when his wife
hoped he had been giving Fred good advice.
"You don't reckon, Hester, that I 'd give him any other kind, do you?"
"Not intentionally, 'Liphalet; but when it comes to advice, there 's
p'ints o' view." Mrs. Hodges seemed suspicious of her husband's
capabilities as an adviser.
"There 's some times when people 'd a good deal ruther have sympathy
than advice."
"An' I reckon, 'cordin' to yore way o' thinkin' this is one o' them.
Well, I intend to try to do my dooty in this matter, as I 've tried to
do it all along."
"Hester, yore dooty 'll kill you yit. It 's a wonder you don't git
tired a-lookin' it in the face."
"I ain't a-goin' to shirk it, jest to live in pleasure an' ease."
"No need o' shirkin', Hester, no need o' shirkin'; but they 's some
people that would n't be content without rowin' down stream."
"An' then, mind you, 'Liphalet, I ain't a-exchangin' words with you, fur
that 's idleness, but there 's others, that would n't row up stream, but
'ud wait an' hope fur a wind to push 'em." These impersonalities were as
near "spatting" as Mr. and Mrs. Hodges ever got.
Through all the community that clustered about Mr. Simpson's church and
drew its thoughts, ideas, and subjects of gossip therefrom, ran like
wildfire the news that at last they were to have a chance to judge of
young Brent's merits for themselves. It caused a stir among old and
young, and in the days preceding the memorable Sunday little else was
talked of.
When it reached the ears of old Dan'l Hastings, who limped around now
upon two canes, but was as acrimonious as ever, he exclaimed, tapping
the ground with one of his sticks for emphasis, "What! that young Brent
preachin' in our church, in our minister's pulpit! It 's a shame,--an'
he the born son of old Tom Brent, that all the town knows was the worst
sinner hereabouts. I ain't a-goin' to go; I ain't a-goin' to go."
"Don't you be afeared to go, Dan'l: there ain't no danger that his
docterns air a-goin' to be as strong as his father's whisky," said his
old enemy.
"Oh, it 's fur the likes o' you, Thomas Donaldson, to be a-talkin' o'
docterns an' whisky in the same breath. You never did have no
reverence," said the old man, testily.
"An' yet, Dan'l, I 've found docterns an' whisky give out by the same
breath."
Mr. Hastings did not think it necessary to notice this remark. He went
on with his tirade against the prospective "supply:" "Why can't Elder
Simpson preach hisself, I 'd like to know, instead o' puttin' up that
young upstart to talk to his betters? Why, I mind the time that that boy
had to be took out o' church by the hand fur laffin' at me,--at _me_,
mind you," the old man repeated, shaking his stick; "laffin' at me when
I was expoundin' the word."
"That 's ter'ble, Dan'l; fur, as fur as I kin ricollec', when you 're
a-expoundin' the word it ain't no laffin' matter."
"I tell you, Thomas Donaldson, the world 's a-goin' down hill fast: but
I ain't a-goin' to help it along. I ain't a-goin' to hear that Brent boy
preach."
This declaration, however, did not prevent the venerable Dan'l from
being early in his seat on the following Sunday morning, sternly,
uncompromisingly critical.
As might have been expected, the church was crowded. Friends, enemies,
and the merely curious filled the seats and blocked the aisles. The
chapel had been greatly enlarged to accommodate its growing
congregation, but on this day it was totally inadequate to hold the
people who flocked to its doors.
The Rev. Mr. Simpson was so far recovered from his indisposition as to
be able to be present and assist at the service. Elizabeth was there,
looking proud and happy and anxious. Mrs. Hodges was in her accustomed
place on the ladies' side of the pulpit. She had put new strings to her
bonnet in honour of the occasion. Her face wore a look of great
severity. An unregenerate wag in the back part of the church pointed her
out to his companions and remarked that she looked as if she 'd spank
the preacher if he did n't do well. "Poor fellow, if he sees that face
he 'll break down, sure." Opposite, in the "amen corner," the
countenance of the good Eliphalet was a study in changing expressions.
It was alternately possessed by fear, doubt, anxiety, and exultation.
Sophy Davis sat in a front seat, spick and span in a new dress, which
might have been made for the occasion. People said that she was making
eyes at her young fellow-salesman, though she was older than he. Mrs.
Martin and her friend whispered together a little farther back.
A short time before the service began, Brent entered by a side door near
the pulpit and ascended to his place. His entrance caused a marked
sensation. His appearance was impressive. The youthful face was white
and almost rigid in its lines. "Scared to death," was the mental note of
a good many who saw him. But his step was firm. As Elizabeth looked at
him, she felt proud that such a man loved her. He was not handsome. His
features were irregular, but his eyes were clear and fearless. If a
certain cowardice had held him back from this ordeal, it was surely not
because he trembled for himself. The life he had lived and the battles
he had fought had given a compression to his lips that corrected a
natural tendency to weakness in his mouth. His head was set squarely on
his broad shoulders. He was above medium height, but not loosely framed.
He looked the embodiment of strength.
"He ain't a bit like his father," said some one.
"He 's like his father was in his best days," replied another.
"He don't look like he 's over-pleased with the business. They say he
did n't want to come."
"Well, I guess it 's purty resky work gittin' up to speak before all
these people that 's knowed him all his life, an' know where an' what he
come from."
"They say, too, that he 's some pumpkins out at the college."
"I 'ain't much faith in these school-made preachers; but we' ll soon see
what he kin do in the pulpit. We 've heerd preachers, an' we kin
compare."
"That 's so: we 've heerd some preachers in our day. He must toe the
mark. He may be all right at college, but he 's in a pulpit now that has
held preachers fur shore. A pebble 's all right among pebbles, but it
looks mighty small 'longside o' boulders. He 's preachin' before people
now. Why, Brother Simpson himself never would 'a' got a special
dispensation to hold the church all these years, ef it had n't been fur
the people backin' him up an' Conference was afraid they 'd leave the
connection."
"Well, ef this boy is anything, Lord only knows where he gets it, fur
everybody knows--"
"'Sh!"
The buzz which had attended the young speaker's entrance subsided as Mr.
Simpson rose and gave out the hymn. That finished, he ran his eyes over
the front seats of the assembly and then said, "Brother Hastings, lead
us in prayer."
The old man paused for an instant as if surprised, and then got slowly
to his knees. It was a strange selection, but we have seen that this
particular parson was capable of doing strange things. In the course of
a supplication of some fifteen minutes' duration, Brother Hastings
managed to vent his spleen upon the people and to pay the Lord a few
clumsy compliments. During the usual special blessing which is asked
upon the preacher of the hour, he prayed, "O Lord, let not the rarin'
horses of his youth run away with Thy chariot of eternal truth. Lord,
cool his head and warm his heart and settle him firm. Grant that he may
fully realise where he 's a-standin' at, an' who he 's a-speakin' to. Do
Thou not let _him_ speak, but speak through him, that Thy gospel may be
preached to-day as Thy prophets of old preached it."
Throughout the prayer, but one thought was running through Frederick
Brent's mind, and his heart was crying in its anguish, "Oh, my God, my
God, why do they hound me so?"
It is a terrible thing, this first effort before the home people,
especially when home has not been kind.
When he arose to meet the people's eyes, his face was haggard and he
felt weak. But unflinchingly he swept his eyes over the crowd, and that
instant's glance brought before him all the panorama of the past years.
There before him was the sneaking Billy Tompkins, now grown to the
maturity of being called "Bill." Then there was Dan'l Hastings. Oh, that
night, years ago, when he had been marched up the aisle with crimson
face! In one brief second he lived it all over again, the shame, the
disgrace, the misery of it. There, severe, critical, expectant, sat his
guardian, the master-hand who had manipulated all the machinery of his
life. All this passed through his mind in a flash, as he stood there
facing the people. His face changed. The haggard look passed away. His
eyes kindled, his cheeks mantled. Even in the pulpit, even in the house
of God, about to speak His word, the blood sped hotly through his veins,
and anger burned at his heart. But he crushed down his feelings for the
moment, and began in a clear ringing voice, "Judge not, that ye be not
judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged, and with
what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." The lesson he
drew from the words was God's recognition of the fallibility of human
judgment, and the self-condemnation brought about by ignoring the
prohibition in the text. By an effort, he spoke deliberately at first,
but the fire in his heart came out more and more in his words as he
progressed. "Blinded by our own prejudices," he said, "circumscribed by
our own ignorance, we dare to set ourselves up as censors of our
fellow-men. Unable to see the whole chain of life which God has forged,
we take a single link and say that it is faulty. Too narrow to see His
broad plan, we take a patch of it and say, 'This is not good.' There is
One who works even through evil that good may come, but we take the sin
of our brother, and, without seeing or knowing what went before it or
shall come after, condemn him. What false, blind, petty judges we are!
You women who are condemning your fallen sisters, you men who are
execrating your sinful brothers, if Christ to-day were to command, 'Let
him who is without sin cast the first stone,' look into your own hearts
and answer me, how many of you would dare to lift a hand? How many of
you have taken the beam out of your own eye before attempting to pluck
the mote out of your brother's? O ye pharisaical ones, who stand in the
public places and thank God that you are not as other men, beware,
beware. The condemnation that surely and inevitably shall fall upon you
is not the judgment of Jesus Christ. It is not the sentence of the
Father. It is your own self-condemnation, without charity, without
forbearance, without love; 'for with what judgment ye judge ye shall be
judged.'
"Stand by the wayside if you will. Draw aside your skirts in the
vainglory of self-righteousness from the passing multitude. Say to each
other, if you will, 'This woman is a sinner: this man is a criminal.'
Close your eyes against their acts of repentance, harden your hearts
against their pleas for forgiveness, withhold mercy and pardon and
charity; but I tell you of One who has exalted charity into the highest
and best of virtues. I bring you the message of One whose judgment is
tempered by divine love. He is seeing you. He is hearing you. Over the
parapets of high heaven the gentle Father leans waiting to take into His
soul any breath of human love or charity which floats up to Him from
this sin-parched world. What have you done to merit His approval? Have
you been kind, or have you been hard? Have you been gentle, or have you
been harsh? Have you been charitable, or have you hunted out all the
evil and closed your eyes to all the good? You have forgotten, O ye of
little faith, you have forgotten, you without charity in your hearts,
and you who claim to follow Christ and yet have no love for your
fellows,--you have forgotten that God is a God of wrath as well as of
love; that Christ hath anger as well as pity; that He who holds the
hyssop of divine mercy holds also the scourge of divine indignation. You
have forgotten that the lash you so love to wield over your brother's
back shall be laid upon your own by Him who whipped the money-changers
from His temple. Listen! The day shall come when the condemnation you
are accumulating against yourselves shall overwhelm you. Stop trying to
steal the prerogative of heaven. Judge not. God only is just!"
The silence throughout the sermon was intense. During the closing words
which have been quoted, it was like a presence in the chapel. The voice
of the preacher rang out like a clarion. His eyes looked before him as
if he saw into the future. His hand was uplifted as if he would call
down upon them the very judgment which he predicted.
Without more words he sat down. No one moved or spoke for an instant.
Dan'l Hastings let his cane fall upon the floor. It echoed through the
silent place with a crash. Some of the women started and half cried out;
but the spell was now partly broken. Mr. Simpson suddenly remembered to
pray, and the gossips forgot to whisper when their heads were bowed.
There were some pale faces in the crowd, and some which the galling of
tears had made red. There was in the atmosphere something of the same
tense silence that follows a terrific thunder-clap. And so the service
ended, and the people filed out of church silent still. Some few
remained behind to shake the preacher's hand, but as soon as the
benediction was over he hurried out the side door, and, before any one
could intercept him, was on his way home. But he left a willing
substitute. Mrs. Hodges accepted all his congratulations with complacent
condescension.
"Dan'l," said Thomas Donaldson, as he helped the old man down the church
steps, "I was mistaken about the docterns an' the whisky. It was
stronger an' better, because it was the pure stuff."
"I 'ain't got a word to say," said Dan'l, "'ceptin' that a good deal of
it was jest sass." But he kept mumbling to himself as he hobbled along,
"Jedge not, fur you 're a-pilin' up sentences on yoreself. I never
thought of it that way before; no, I never."
Brent did not come out of his room to dinner that afternoon. Mrs. Hodges
was for calling him, but the old man objected. "No, Hester," he said,
"Freddie jest wants to be let alone. He 's a-feelin' now."
"But, 'Liphalet, he ought to know how nice people talked about his
sermon. I tell you that was my kind o' doctern. It 's wonderful how a
child will learn."
Notwithstanding his belief that his young friend wanted to be left
alone, the old man slipped into his room later on with a cup of tea. The
young man sat before the table, his head buried in his hands. Eliphalet
set the cup and saucer down and turned to go, but he paused at the door
and said, "Thank the Lord fur the way you give it to 'em, Freddie. It
was worth a dollar." He would have hurried out, but the young man sprang
up and seized his hand, exclaiming, "It was wrong, Uncle 'Liph, it was
wrong of me. I saw them sitting about me like jackals waiting for their
prey; I remembered all that I had been and all that I was; I knew what
they were thinking, and I was angry, angry. God forgive me! That sermon
was preached from as hot a heart as ever did murder."
The old man stroked the young one's hair as he would a child's. "Never
mind," he said. "It don't matter what you felt. That 's between you an'
Him. I only know what you said, an' that 's all I care about. Did n't
you speak about the Lord a-whippin' the money-changers from the temple?
Ain't lots o' them worse than the money-changers? Was n't Christ divine?
Ain't you human? Would a body expect you to feel less'n He did? Huh!
jest don't you worry; remember that you did n't hit a head that was n't
in striking distance." And the old man pressed the boy back into his
chair and slipped out.