A BISHOP MILITANT
No one had ever heard the Bishop explain his curious surplice but
once, and that had been several years before, when the little chapel,
by the aid of a concert Miss Alice gave, contributions from the
Excelsior Mill headed by Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley, and other sources had
been furnished, and the Bishop came forward to make his first talk:
"This is the only church of its kind in the worl', I reckin'," he
said. "I've figured it out an' find we're made up of Baptis',
Metherdis', Presbyterian, 'Piscopalian, Cam'elites an' Hard-shells.
You've 'lected me Bishop, I reckon, 'cause I've jined all of 'em, an'
so far as I know I am the only man in the worl' who ever done that
an' lived to tell the tale. An' I'm not ashamed to say it, for I've
allers foun' somethin' in each one of 'em that's a little better than
somethin' in the other. An' if there's any other church that'll teach
me somethin' new about Jesus Christ, that puffect Man, I'll jine it.
I've never seed a church that had Him in it that wa'n't good enough
for me."
The old man smiled in humorous retrospection as he went on:
"The first company of Christians I jined was the Hard-shells. I was
young an' a raw recruit an' nachully fell into the awkward squad. I
liked their solar plexus way of goin' at the Devil, an' I liked the
way they'd allers deal out a good ration of whiskey, after the fight,
to ev'ry true soldier of the Cross--especially if we got our feet too
wet, which we mos' always of'ntimes gen'ally did."
This brought out visible smiles all down the line, from the others at
the Hard-shells and their custom of foot-washing.
"But somehow," went on the old man, "I didn't grow in grace--spent
too much time in singin' an' takin' toddies to keep off the effect of
cold from wet feet. Good company, but I wanted to go higher, so I
drapt into the Baptis' rigiment, brave an' hones', but they spen' too
much time a-campin' in the valley of the still water, an' when on the
march, instid of buildin' bridges to cross dry-shod over rivers an'
cricks, they plunge in with their guns stropped to their backs, their
powder tied up in their socks in their hats, their shoes tied 'round
their necks an' their butcher-knife in their teeth. After they lan'
they seem to think it's the greates' thing in the worl' that they've
been permitted to wade through water instead of crossin' on a log,
an' they spen' the balance of their time marchin' 'roun' an' singin':
"'Billows of mercy, over me roll,
Oceans of Faith an' Hope, come to my soul.'
"Don't want to fly to heaven--want to swim there. An' if they find
too much lan' after they get there, they'll spen' the res' of
eternity prayin' for a deluge.
"Bes' ole relig'un in the worl', tho,--good fighters, too, in the
Lord's cause. Ole timey, an' a trifle keerless about their
accoutrements, an' too much water nachully keeps their guns rusty an'
their powder damp, but if it comes to a square-up fight agin the
cohorts of sin, an' the powder in their pans is too damp for
flashin', they'd jes' as soon wade in with the butcher-knife an' the
meat axe. I nachully out-grow'd 'em, for I seed if the Great Captain
'ud command us all to jine armies an' fight the worl', the Baptis'
'ud never go in, unless it was a sea-fight.
"From them to the Cam'elites was easy, for I seed they was
web-footed, too. The only diff'rence betwix' them an' the Baptis' is
that they are willin' to jine in with any other rigiment, provided
allers that you let them 'pint the sappers an' miners an' blaze out
the way. Good fellers, tho', an' learned me lots. They beats the
worl' for standin' up for each other an' votin' allers for fust
place. If there's a promotion in camp they want it; 'n' when they
ain't out a-drillin' their companies they're sho' to be in camp
'sputin' with other rigiments as to how to do it. Good, hones'
fighters, tho', and tort me how to use my side arms in a tight place.
Scatterin' in some localities, but like the Baptises, whenever you
find a mill-dam there'll be their camp an' plenty o' corn.
"Lord, how I did enjoy it when I struck the Methodis' rigiment! The
others had tort me faith an' zeal, but these tort me discipline. They
are the best drilled lot in the army of the Lord, an' their drill
masters run all the way from wet-nurses to old maids. For furagin'
an' free love for ev'rything they beats the worl', an' they pay mo'
'tenshun to their com'sary department than they do to their
ord'nance. They'll march anywhere you want 'em, swim rivers or build
bridges, fight on ship or sho', strong in camp-meetin's or battle
songs, an' when they go, they go like clockwuck an' carry their dead
with 'em!
"The only thing they need is an incubator, to keep up their hennery
department an' supply their captains with the yellow legs of the
land. Oh, but I love them big hearted Methodists!
"I foun' the Presbyterian phalanx a pow'ful army, steady, true an'
ole-fashioned, their powder strong of brimstone an' sulphur an' their
ordnance antique. Why, they're usin' the same old mortars John Knox
fired at the Popes, an' the same ole blunderbusses that scatter wide
enough to cover all creation an' is as liable to kick an' kill
anything in the rear as in front. They won't sleep in tents an'
nothin' suits 'em better'n being caught in a shower on the march. In
battle they know no fear, for they know no ball is goin' to kill you
if you're predistined to be hung. In the fight they know no
stragglers an' fallers from grace.
"Ay, but they're brave. I jined 'em Sunday night after the battle of
Shiloh, when I saw one of their captains stan' up amid the dead an'
dyin' of that bloody field, with the shells from the Yankee gun-boats
fallin' aroun' him. Standin' there tellin' of God an' His
forgiveness, until many a po' dyin' soldier, both frien' an' foe,
like the thief on the cross, found peace at the last hour.
"Befo' I jined the 'Piscopal corps I didn't think I cu'd stan'
'em--too high furlutin' for my raisin'. They seemed to pay mo'
attenshun to their uniforms than their ordnance, an' their
drum-majors outshine any other churches' major generals. An'
drillin'? They can go through mo' monkey manoeuvers in five minutes
than any other church can in a year. It's drillin'--drillin' with 'em
all the time, an' red-tape an' knee breeches, an' when they ain't
drillin' they're dancin'. They have signs an' countersigns, worl'
without end, ah-men. An' I've knowed many of them to put all his
three months' pay into a Sunday uniform for dress parade.
"Weepons? They've got the fines' in the worl' an' they don't think
they can bring down the Devil les' they shoot at him with a silver
bullet. Everything goes by red-tape with 'em, an' the ban'-wagon goes
in front.
"But I jined 'em," went on the old man, "an' I'll tell you why."
He paused--his voice trembled, and the good natured, bubbling humor,
which had floated down the smooth channel of his talk, vanished as
bubbles do when they float out into the deep pool beyond.
"Here," he said, lifting his arm, and showing the coat of the Captain
of Artillery--"this is what made me jine 'em. This is the coat of
Cap'n Tom, that saved my life at the risk of his own an' that was
struck down at Franklin; an' no common man of clay, as I be, ever
befo' had so God-like a man of marble to pattern after. I saw him in
the thick of the fight with his guns parked an' double-shotted, stop
our victorious rush almos' up to the river bank an' saved Grant's
army from defeat an' capture. I was on the other side, an' chief of
scouts for Albert Sidney Johnston, but I see him now in his blue
Yankee coat, fightin' his guns like the hero that he was. I was
foolish an' rushed in. I was captured an' in a prison pen, I drawed
the black ball with 'leven others that was sentenced to be shot. It
was Cap'n Tom who came to me in the early dawn of the day of the
execution an' said: 'They shall not shoot you, Bishop--put on my blue
coat an' go through the lines. I owe much to my country--I am giving
it all.
"'I owe something to you. They shall not shoot you like a dog. I will
tell my colonel what I have done to-morrow. If they think it is
treason they may shoot me instead. I have nothing to live for--you,
all. Go.'
"I have never seed him sence.
"We are mortals and must think as mortals. If we conceive of God, we
can conceive of Him only as in human form. An' I love to think that
the blessed an' brave an' sweet Christ looked like Cap'n Tom looked
in the early dawn of that morning when he come an' offered
himself,--captain that he was--to be shot, if need be, in my
place--so gran', so gentle, so brave, so forgivin', so like a
captain--so like God."
His voice had dropped lower and lower still. It died away in a
sobbing murmur, as a deep stream purls and its echo dies in a deeper
eddy.
"It was his church an' I jined it. This was his coat, an' so, let us
pray."