THE LOWER CRITIC
All the week there had dwelt in Billy’s mind that, to him, new and
terrible story of the murdered King of the Jews. On Sunday--a bleak,
dull day, when the charred trees in the Park stood out grim and black
against the heavy sky, he hopped across to the Cranks’ Corner, hoping
to hear more; but this time there were other voices and other subjects
for the crowd. He saw two faces above the clustering people. One
speaker was a man whom he had heard before, but failed to understand;
the other was Father Francis. The man unknown to the boy by name
was Raggett, the rabid social democrat. Even without the torrent of
his venomous invective, attention would have been arrested by his
appearance.
Stiff black hair stood up on his oddly-shaped head; and the face,
behind a bristly grey moustache, reminded Billy of a savage
half-Persian cat that haunted Hill Street mews. The man was fluent,
and his high-pitched voice almost rose into a scream as he declaimed
his speech to a band of Leaguers mixed with a miscellaneous mob.
“Yes, that’s what the parsons tell you!” he yelled, derisively. “You’ve
to bless the squire and his relations, and always keep your proper
stations. That’s Christianity in the country, and it’s pretty much the
same up here in London. They’ll tell you a lot about the many mansions
up in heaven. Well, we don’t know about that. We haven’t seen ’em; but
we know right enough about the mansions here below. The only mansions
they provide for you and me are the workhouse, the prison, or the
asylum. The rich men keep the others for themselves. There are some
pretty good mansions over yonder beyond the Marble Arch, and there
are plenty more, and fine ones too, along Park Lane. We don’t get
invitations to dinner, do we? But there is plenty of food there, and
good wine, and spirits and beer for their cursed stuck-up servants; and
rich furniture, and soft beds to sleep on, too; and jewels and precious
things of all sorts. Oh! they do themselves pretty well, depend on it.
But why don’t they share out a bit? Not they! Hold fast!--that’s their
motto. And it is the same with the land. Don’t believe ’em when they
say there isn’t room in England. There is room, but they won’t let you
have it. They want the land for their parks and gardens; they want the
woods for their pheasants and their sport. The working-man may slave
in their fields all day, and sleep in a hovel at night; and if he gets
tired of it and comes to London, it’s the slum or the doss-house that’s
his portion. That’s good enough for him. Oh yes, Holdfast is a good
dog; but I’ll tell you something--Grab’s a good dog too!”
He paused, almost breathless, and there was a dull mutter of assent
throughout the crowd. Above the angry sound the clear voice of Father
Francis was heard, a voice of delicate timbre, in striking contrast
with the raucous tones of the demagogue. It was the first time he had
come amongst the cranks as a competitor for notice, and he had only
done it after great misgiving concerning his own powers and the utility
of trying them under such conditions. Yet, he asked himself, what right
had the clergy of England to shrink from the ordeal? Why should the men
under whose lips was the poison of asps, why should the blasphemer, be
allowed to hold the field? If the people would not come to the church,
ought not the church to go to the people? Was not the Master Preacher
of all time an open-air preacher. Was not the greatest of all sermons
preached from the hill-side to the common people, who heard Him gladly?
The fields of corn, the trees, the flowers, the common objects of the
country-side, had ever furnished simple but convincing themes for One
who spake as never spake mortal man before or since. No, he _would
not_ be a coward! So the young priest put his Bible under his arm and
walked across Park Lane to the Cranks’ Corner. Was discretion always
the better part of valour, or was it really a synonym for cowardice?
He went with no idea of entering into argument or controversy with
others. He knew that amid much mendacity there was blended not a
little truth, though perhaps partial and perverted, in some of those
inflammatory speeches. No one knew better the sins of his own order.
He himself, in his younger days, like Augustine of old, had drunk
deep of the knowledge of evil. Like Tannhäuser, he, too, had lingered
in the Venusberg, and gone back to it again and yet again; but ever
in his ears--sometimes near and sometimes from afar--had sounded the
wonderful chant of the pilgrims; the rhythm of their steadfast march
always reproached him; until, suddenly, shame and remorse had wrought
a miracle, and, stumbling and mistrustful of himself, he joined the
pilgrims’ ranks, and understood the music of that mighty march as he
had never done before.
Here, on this unique spot in London, men were always pouring out their
own ideas, intoxicated with the exuberance of their own verbosity; but
he himself had resolved to try another plan. What could he, or any man,
offer better worth hearing than the words of the book under his arm,
which contained the lively oracles of God Himself!
He knew he should not meet any of the Higher Critics in the Park. The
German professors and the English divines, who sit comfortably in their
book-lined studies and pen presumptuous onslaughts on the faith once
for all delivered to the saints, work their mines of infidelity from a
safe distance. These theological dynamitards do not come into the open
with their bombs. Their machines--not less infernal--take the form of
neatly bound volumes on the bookstalls, sold at popular prices, handy
to explode the faith and hope of thousands of their fellow-creatures,
leaving them torn and mangled in soul upon the rocks of desperation and
despair. But the Lower Critics, he knew, found in the Park their happy
hunting-ground. Why should they have it all their own way in Christian
England?
“_And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say,
Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him
take of the water of life freely.... And if any man shall take away
from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his
part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and out of the
things that are written in this book._” That solemn record gave him
courage. So, standing up beneath the murky sky, with the din of the
traffic on one side and the screaming voice of Raggett the Raver on the
other, Father Francis, pale but calm, read aloud some passages from one
of the oldest and most wonderful books in the Bible. How marvellous was
the contrast between the words of the iconoclast and the words echoing
down from the far-off centuries to the fool who had said in his heart,
“There is no God!”
“_No doubt ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you!...
But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the
fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee: Or speak to the
earth, and it shall teach thee, and the fishes of the sea shall
declare unto thee. Who knoweth not in all these that the hand
of the Lord hath wrought this? In whose hand is the soul of
every living thing, and the breath of all mankind._”
Raggett was speaking again. “If we don’t look after ourselves,” he
shouted, “who do you think is going to help us? Tell me that!”
“_With him is strength and wisdom_,” read the priest, “_the
deceived and the deceiver are his. He leadeth counsellors
away spoiled, and maketh the judges fools. He looseth the
bonds of kings, and girdeth their loins with a girdle. He
leadeth princes away spoiled, and overthroweth the mighty.
He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out
to life the shadow of death. He increaseth the nations and
destroyeth them. He enlargeth the nations, and straiteneth them
again._” ...
“Yes,” roared Raggett, harping on his theme, “when they talk to you
about heaven, tell them heaven helps those that help themselves. You’ve
got to make your own heaven, and now’s your time to do it!” ...
_” But ye are forgers of lies, ye are all physicians of no
value. O that ye would altogether hold your peace! and it
should be your wisdom.... Will ye speak wickedly for God? and
talk deceitfully for Him? Will ye accept His person? Will ye
contend for God? Is it good that He should search you out? Or
as one man mocketh another, do ye so mock Him?”_ ...
“... Seeing’s believing, to my mind, and possession’s nine points of
the law....”
“_Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without
knowledge? Gird up thy loins now and I will demand of thee, and
answer thou me. Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of
the earth? Declare if thou hast understanding ... whereupon are
the foundations thereof fastened? or who laid the corner-stone
thereof, when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons
of God shouted for joy?... Or who shut up the sea with doors
when it brake forth.... And said, Hitherto shalt thou come, but
no further, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed? Hast thou
commanded the morning since thy days; and caused the dayspring
to know his place?... Have the gates of death been opened unto
thee? or hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of death?_” ...
Raggett had paused and was glaring at the priest over the heads of the
people. “There’s a lot of texts going about,” he said, pointing. “I’ll
give you one: ’Down with them, down with them, even to the ground!’”
A surging murmur of approval ran through the crowd, and menacing faces
were turned towards Father Francis. His calm, clear voice went on, and
only two red spots glowing on his pale cheeks showed that he was even
aware of the pointing finger and the savage faces.
“_Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose
the bands of Orion?... Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven?
Canst thou set the dominion thereof in the earth?_” He paused a
moment.
“_Shall he that contendeth with the Almighty instruct Him? he
that reproveth God, let him answer it._”
Raggett’s arm was raised, but he faltered. Nearly all the faces were
turned towards the man at whom he had pointed, and the crowd was
strangely still.
Father Francis shut his Bible, and stepped down.