"A pious and painful preacher."--FULLER.
Mr. Lyon lived in a small house, not quite so good as the parish
clerk's, adjoining the entry which led to the Chapel Yard. The new
prosperity of Dissent at Treby had led to an enlargement of the chapel,
which absorbed all extra funds and left none for the enlargement of the
minister's income. He sat this morning, as usual, in a low up-stairs
room, called his study, which, by means of a closet capable of holding
his bed, served also as a sleeping-room. The bookshelves did not suffice
for his store of old books, which lay about him in piles so arranged as
to leave narrow lanes between them; for the minister was much given to
walking about during his hours of meditation, and very narrow passages
would serve for his small legs, unencumbered by any other drapery than
his black silk stockings and the flexible, though prominent, bows of
black ribbon that tied his knee-breeches. He was walking about now, with
his hands clasped behind him, an attitude in which his body seemed to
bear about the same proportion to his head as the lower part of a stone
Hermes bears to the carven image that crowns it. His face looked old and
worn, yet the curtain of hair that fell from his bald crown and hung
about his neck retained much of its original auburn tint, and his large,
brown, short-sighted eyes were still clear and bright. At the first
glance, every one thought him a very odd-looking rusty old man; the
free-school boys often hooted after him, and called him "Revelations";
and to many respectable Church people, old Lyon's little legs and large
head seemed to make Dissent additionally preposterous. But he was too
short-sighted to notice those who tittered at him--too absent from the
world of small facts and petty impulses in which titterers live. With
Satan to argue against on matters of vital experience as well as of
church government, with great texts to meditate on, which seemed to get
deeper as he tried to fathom them, it had never occurred to him to
reflect what sort of image his small person made on the retina of a
light-minded beholder. The good Rufus had his ire and his egoism; but
they existed only as the red heat which gave force to his belief and his
teaching. He was susceptible concerning the true office of deacons in
the primitive Church, and his small nervous body was jarred from head to
foot by the concussion of an argument to which he saw no answer. In
fact, the only moments when he could be said to be really conscious of
his body, were when he trembled under the pressure of some agitating
thought.
He was meditating on the text for his Sunday morning sermon, "And all
the people said, Amen"--a mere mustard-seed of a text, which had split
at first only into two divisions, "What was said," and "Who said it";
but these were growing into a many-branched discourse, and the
preacher's eyes dilated, and a smile played about his mouth till, as his
manner was, when he felt happily inspired, he had begun to utter his
thoughts aloud in the varied measure and cadence habitual to him,
changing from a rapid but distinct undertone to a loud emphatic
_rallentando_.
"My brethren, do you think that great shout was raised in Israel by each
man's waiting to say 'amen' till his neighbors had said amen? Do you
think there will be a great shout for the right--the shout of a nation
as of one man, rounded and whole, like the voice of the archangel that
bound together all the listeners of earth and heaven--if every Christian
of you peeps round to see what his neighbors in good coats are doing, or
else puts his hat before his face that he may shout and never be heard?
But this is what you do: when the servant of God stands up to deliver
his message, do you lay your souls beneath the Word as you set out your
plants beneath the falling rain? No; one of you sends his eyes to all
corners, he smothers his soul with small questions, 'What does brother
Y. think?' 'Is this doctrine high enough for brother Z.?' 'Will the
church members be pleased?' And another----"
Here the door was opened, and old Lyddy, the minister's servant, put in
her head to say, in a tone of despondency, finishing with a groan, "Here
is Mrs. Holt wanting to speak to you; she says she comes out of season,
but she's in trouble."
"Lyddy," said Mr. Lyon, falling at once into a quiet conversational
tone, "if you are wrestling with the enemy, let me refer you to Ezekiel
the thirteenth and twenty-second, and beg of you not to groan. It is a
stumbling-block and offence to my daughter; she would take no broth
yesterday, because she said you had cried into it. Thus you cause the
truth to be lightly spoken of, and make the enemy rejoice. If your
faceache gives him an advantage, take a little warm ale with your
meat--I do not grudge the money."
"If I thought my drinking warm ale would hinder poor dear Miss Esther
from speaking light--but she hates the smell of it."
"Answer not again, Lyddy, but send up Mistress Holt to me."
Lyddy closed the door immediately.
"I lack grace to deal with these weak sisters," said the minister, again
thinking aloud, and walking. "Their needs lie too much out of the track
of my meditations, and take me often unawares. Mistress Holt is another
who darkens counsel by words without knowledge, and angers the reason of
the natural man. Lord, give me patience. My sins were heavier to bear
than this woman's folly. Come in, Mrs. Holt--come in."
He hastened to disencumber a chair of Matthew Henry's Commentary, and
begged his visitor to be seated. She was a tall elderly woman, dressed
in black, with a light-brown front and a black band over her forehead.
She moved the chair a little and seated herself in it with some
emphasis, looking fixedly at the opposite wall with a hurt and
argumentative expression. Mr. Lyon had placed himself in the chair
against his desk, and waited with the resolute resignation of a patient
who is about to undergo an operation. But his visitor did not speak.
"You have something on your mind, Mrs. Holt?" he said, at last.
"Indeed I have, sir, else I shouldn't be here."
"Speak freely."
"It's well known to you, Mr. Lyon, that my husband, Mr. Holt, came from
the north, and was a member in Malthouse Yard long before _you_ began
to be pastor of it, which was seven year ago last Michaelmas. It's the
truth, Mr. Lyon, and I'm not that woman to sit here and say it if it
wasn't true."
"Certainly, it is true."
"And if my husband had been alive when you'd come to preach upon trial,
he'd have been as good a judge of your gifts as Mr. Nuttwood or Mr.
Muscat, though whether he'd have agreed with some that your doctrine
wasn't high enough, I can't say. For myself, I've my opinion about high
doctrine."
"Was it my preaching you came to speak about?" said the minister,
hurrying in the question.
"No, Mr. Lyon, I'm not that woman. But this I _will_ say, for my husband
died before your time, that he had a wonderful gift in prayer, as the
old members well know, if anybody likes to ask 'em, not believing my
words, and he believed himself that the receipt for the Cancer Cure,
which I've sent out in bottles till this very last April before
September as now is, and have bottles standing by me--he believed it was
sent to him in answer to prayer; and nobody can deny it, for he prayed
most regular, and read out of the green baize Bible."
Mrs. Holt paused, appearing to think that Mr. Lyon had been successfully
confuted, and should show himself convinced.
"Has any one been aspersing your husband's character?" said Mr. Lyon,
with a slight initiative toward that relief of groaning for which he had
reproved Lyddy.
"Sir, they daredn't. For though he was a man of prayer, he didn't want
skill and knowledge to find things out for himself; and that's what I
used to say to _my_ friends when they wondered at my marrying a man from
Lancashire, with no trade nor fortune, but what he'd got in his head.
But my husband's tongue 'ud have been a fortune to anybody, and there
was many a one said it was as good as a dose of physic to hear him talk;
not but what that got him into trouble in Lancashire, but he always
said, if the worst came to the worst, he could go and preach to the
blacks. But he did better than that, Mr. Lyon, for he married me; and
this I will say, that for age, and conduct, and managing----"
"Mistress Holt," interrupted the minister, "these are not the things
whereby we may edify one another. Let me beg of you to be as brief as
you can. My time is not my own."
"Well, Mr. Lyon, I've a right to my own character; and I'm one of your
congregation, though I'm not a church member, for I was born in the
General Baptist connection: and as for being saved without works,
there's a many, I dare say, can't do without that doctrine; but I thank
the Lord I never needed to put _my_self on a level with the thief on the
cross. I've done _my_ duty, and more, if anybody comes to that; for I've
gone without my bit of meat to make broth for a sick neighbor: and if
there's any of the church members say they've done the same, I'd ask
them if they had the sinking at the stomach as I have; for I've ever
strove to do the right thing, and more, for good-natured I always was;
and I little thought, after being respected by everybody, I should come
to be reproached by my own son. And my husband said, when he was
a-dying--'Mary,' he said, 'the Elixir, and the Pills, and the Cure will
support you, for they've a great name in all the country round, and
you'll pray for a blessing on them.' And so I've done, Mr. Lyon; and to
say they're not good medicines, when they've been taken for fifty miles
round by high and low, rich and poor, and nobody speaking against 'em
but Dr. Lukin, it seems to me it's a flying in the face of Heaven; for
if it was wrong to take the medicines, couldn't the blessed Lord have
stopped it?"
Mrs. Holt was not given to tears; she was much sustained by conscious
unimpeachableness, and by an argumentative tendency which usually checks
the too great activity of the lachrymal gland; nevertheless her eyes had
become moist, her fingers played on her knee in an agitated manner, and
she finally plucked a bit of her gown and held it with great nicety
between her thumb and finger. Mr. Lyon, however, by listening
attentively, had begun partly to divine the source of her trouble.
"Am I wrong in gathering from what you say, Mistress Holt, that your son
has objected in some way to your sale of your late husband's medicines?"
"Mr. Lyon, he's masterful beyond everything, and he talks more than his
father did. I've got my reason, Mr. Lyon, and if anybody talks sense I
can follow him; but Felix talks so wild, and contradicts his mother. And
what do you think he says, after giving up his 'prenticeship, and going
off to study at Glasgow, and getting through all the bit of money his
father saved for his bringing-up--what has all his learning come to? He
says I'd better never open my Bible, for it's as bad poison to me as the
pills are to half the people as swallow 'em. You'll not speak of this
again, Mr. Lyon--I don't think ill enough of you to believe _that_. For
I suppose a Christian can understand the word o' God without going to
Glasgow, and there's texts upon texts about ointment and medicine, and
there's one as might have been for a receipt of my husband's--it's just
as if it was a riddle, and Holt's Elixir was the answer."
"Your son uses rash words, Mistress Holt," said the minister, "but it is
quite true that we may err in giving a too private interpretation to the
Scripture. The word of God has to satisfy the larger needs of His
people, like the rain and the sunshine--which no man must think to be
meant for his own patch of seed-ground solely. Will it not be well that
I should see your son, and talk with him on these matters? He was at
chapel, I observe, and I suppose I am to be his pastor."
"That was what I wanted to ask you, Mr. Lyon. For perhaps he'll listen
to you, and not talk you down as he does his poor mother. For after we'd
been to chapel, he spoke better of you than he does of most: he said you
was a fine old fellow, and an old-fashioned Puritan--he uses dreadful
language, Mr. Lyon; but I saw he didn't mean you ill, for all that. He
calls most folks's religion rottenness; and yet another time he'll tell
me I ought to feel myself a sinner, and do God's will and not my own.
But it's my belief he says first one thing and then another only to
abuse his mother. Or else he's going off his head, and must be sent to a
'sylum. But if he writes to the _North Loamshire Herald_ first, to tell
everybody the medicines are good for nothing, how can I ever keep him
and myself?"
"Tell him I shall feel favored if he will come and see me this evening,"
said Mr. Lyon, not without a little prejudice in favor of the young man,
whose language about the preacher in Malthouse Yard did not seem to him
to be altogether dreadful. "Meanwhile, my friend, I counsel you to send
up a supplication, which I shall not fail to offer also, that you may
receive a spirit of humility and submission, so that you may not be
hindered from seeing and following the Divine guidance in this matter by
any false lights of pride and obstinacy. Of this more when I have spoken
with your son."
"I'm not proud or obstinate, Mr. Lyon. I never did say I was everything
that was bad, and I never will. And why this trouble should be sent on
me above everybody else--for I haven't told you all. He's made himself a
journeyman to Mr. Prowd the watchmaker--after all this learning--and he
says he'll go with patches on his knees, and he shall like himself the
better. And as for him having little boys to teach, they'll come in all
weathers with dirty shoes. If it's madness, Mr. Lyon, it's no use your
talking to him."
"We shall see. Perhaps it may even be the disguised working of grace
within him. We must not judge rashly. Many eminent servants of God have
been led by ways as strange."
"Then I'm sorry for their mothers, that's all, Mr. Lyon; and all the
more if they'd been well-spoken-on women. For not my biggest enemy,
whether it's he or she, if they'll speak the truth, can turn round and
say I've deserved this trouble. And when everybody gets their due, and
people's doings are spoke of on the house-tops, as the Bible says they
will be, it'll be known what I've gone through with those medicines--the
pounding and the pouring, and the letting stand, and the weighing--up
early and down late--there's nobody knows yet but One that's worthy to
know; and the pasting o' the printed labels right side upwards. There's
few women would have gone through with it; and it's reasonable to think
it'll be made up to me; for if there's promised and purchased blessings,
I should think this trouble is purchasing 'em. For if my son Felix
doesn't have a strait-waistcoat put on him, he'll have his way. But I
say no more. I wish you good-morning, Mr. Lyon, and thank you, though I
well know it's your duty to act as you're doing. And I never troubled
you about my own soul, as some do who look down on me for not being a
church member."
"Farewell, Mistress Holt, farewell. I pray that a more powerful teacher
than I am may instruct you."
The door was closed, and the much-tried Rufus walked about again, saying
aloud, groaningly--
"This woman has sat under the Gospel all her life, and she is as blind
as a heathen, and as proud and stiff-necked as a Pharisee; yet she is
one of the souls I watch for. 'Tis true that even Sara, the chosen
mother of God's people, showed a spirit of unbelief, and perhaps of
selfish anger; and it is a passage that bears the unmistakable signet,
'doing honor to the wife or woman, as unto the weaker vessel.' For
therein is the greatest check put on the ready scorn of the natural
man."