Mr. Gear.
"JENNIE," said I, "Harry and I are going out for our walk."
It was Sunday afternoon. I had enjoyed my usual Sunday afternoon
nap, and now I was going out for my usual Sunday afternoon walk.
Only this afternoon I had a purpose beside that of an hour's
exercise in the fresh air.
"I wish I could go with you John," said Jennie, "but it's Fanny's
afternoon out, and I can't leave the baby. Where are you going?"
"Up to the mill village, to see Mr. Gear," said I. "I am going to
ask him to join the Bible class."
"Why John he's an infidel I thought."
"So they say," I replied. "But it can't do an infidel any harm to
study the Bible. I may not succeed; I probably shan't; but I
certainly shan't if I don't try."
"I wish I could do something to help you John. And I think I can. I
can pray for you. Perhaps that will help you?"
Help me. With the assurance of those prayers I walked along the road
with a new confidence of hope. Before I had dreaded my errand, now I
was in haste for the interview. I believe in the intercession of the
saints; and Jennie is a--but I forget. The public are rarely
interested in a man's opinion about his own wife.
The mill village, as we call it, is a little collection of cottages
with one or two houses of a somewhat more pretentious character,
which gather round the wheel-barrow factory down the river, a good
mile's walk from the church. It was a bright afternoon in October.
The woods were in the glory of their radiant death, the air was
crisp and keen. Harry who now ran before, now loitered behind, and
now walked sedately by my side, was full of spirits, and there was
everything to make the soul feel hope and courage. And yet I had my
misgivings. When I had told Deacon Goodsole that I was going to call
on Mr. Gear he exclaimed at my proposition.
"Why he's a regular out and outer. He does not believe in
anything--Church, Bible, Sunday, Christ, God or even his own
immortality."
"What do you know of him?" I asked.
"He was born in New England," replied the Deacon, "brought up in an
orthodox family, taught to say the Westminster Assembly's Catechism
(he can say it better than I can today), and listened twice every
Sunday till he was eighteen to good sound orthodox preaching. Then
he left home and the church together; and he has never been to
either, to remain, since."
"Does he ever go to church?" I asked.
The Deacon shrugged his shoulders. "I asked him that question myself
the other day," said he. "You never go to church, Mr. Gear, I
believe?" said I.
"Oh! yes I do," he replied. "I go home every Christmas to spend a
week. And at home I always go to church for the sake of the old
folks. At Wheathedge I always stay away for my own sake."
"And what do you know of his theology?" said I.
"Theology," said the Deacon; "he hasn't any. His creed is the
shortest and simplest one I know of. I tried to have a religious
conversation with him once but I had to give it up. I could make
nothing out of him. He said he believed in the existence of a God.
But he scouted the idea that we could know anything about Him. He
was rather inclined to think there was a future life; but nobody
knew anything about it. All that we could know was that if we are
virtuous in this life we shall be happy in the next--if there is a
next."
"He does not believe that the gates are wide open there," said I.
"No," said the Deacon; "nor ajar either."
"And what does he say of Christ and Christianity," said I.
"Of Jesus Christ," said the Deacon, "that--well--probably such a man
lived, and was a very pure and holy man, and a very remarkable
teacher, certainly for his age a very remarkable teacher. But he
ridicules the idea of the miracles; says he does not believe them
any more than he believes in the mythical legends of Greek and Roman
literature. And as to Christianity he believes its a very good
sort of thing, better for America than any other religion; but he
rather thinks Buddhism is very likely better for India."
"But I wish you would go and see him," continued the Deacon.
"Perhaps you can make something out of him. I can't. I have tried
again and again, and I always get the worst of it. He is well read,
I assure you, and keen as--as," the Deacon failed in his search for a
simile and closed his sentence with--"a great deal keener than I am.
He's a real good fellow, but he doesn't believe in anything. There
is no use in quoting Scripture, because he thinks it's nothing but a
collection of old legends. I once tried to argue the question of
inspiration with him. 'Deacon,' said he to me, 'suppose a father
should start off one fine morning to carry his son up to the top of
Huricane Hill and put him to death there, and should pretend he had
a revelation from God to do it, what would you do to him?' 'Put him
in the insane asylum,' said I. 'Exactly,' said he. 'My boys came
home from your Sabbath School the other Sunday full of the sacrifice
of Isaac, and Will, who takes after his father, asked me if I didn't
think it was cruel for God to tell a father to kill his own son.
What could I say? I don't often interfere, because it troubles my
wife so. But I couldn't stand that, and I told him very frankly that
I didn't believe the story, and if it was true I thought Abraham was
crazy.' He had me there, you know," continued the Deacon, good-
naturedly, "but then I never was good for anything in discussion. I
wish you would go to see him, may be you would bring him to terms."
And so I was going now, not without misgivings, and with no great
faith in any capacity on my part to "bring him to terms," as the
Deacon phrased it, but buoyed up a good deal, notwithstanding, by
the remembrance of those promised prayers.
And yet though Mr. Gear is an infidel he is not a bad man. Even Dr.
Argure, and he is fearfully sound on the doctrine of total
depravity, admits that there are some good traits about him,
"natural virtues" he is careful to explain, not "saving graces."
Of his thorough, incorruptible honesty, no man ever intimated a
doubt. In every business transaction he is the soul of honor. His
word is a great deal better than Jim Wheaton's bond.
In every good work he is a leader. When the new school-house was to
be built, Mr. Gear was put, by an almost unanimous consent, upon the
Board, and made its treasurer. When, last Fall, rumors were rife of
the mismanagement of the Poor-house, Mr. Gear was the one to demand
an investigation, and, being put upon the Committee, to push through
against a good deal of opposition, till he secured the reform that
was needed. In his shop there is not a man whose personal history he
does not know, not one who does not count him a personal friend.
That there has not been a strike for ten years is due to the
workmen's personal faith in him. When Robert Dale was caught in the
shafting and killed last winter, it was Mr. Gear who paid the
widow's rent out of his own pocket, got the eldest son a place on a
farm, and carried around personally a subscription to provide for
the family, after starting it handsomely himself. He is appointed to
arbitrate in half the incipient quarrels of the neighborhood, and
settles more controversies, I am confident, than his neighbor,
Squire Hodgson, though the latter is a Justice of the Peace. There
is always difficulty in collecting our pew rents. Half the church
members are from one week to one quarter behind-hand. Mr. Gear has a
pew for his family, and his pew-rent is always paid before it
becomes due. The Deacon tells me confidentially, that Mr. Work does
not think it prudent to preach against intemperance because Jim
Wheaton always has wine on his table New Year's day. Mr. Gear is the
head of the Good Templars, and has done more to circulate the pledge
among the workmen of the town than all the rest of us put together.
He is naturally an intensely passionate man, and I am told rips out
an oath now and then. But that he is vigorously laboring with
himself to control his temper is very evident, and it is equally
evident, so at least the Deacon says, that he is gaining a victory
in this life-campaign.
"It is very clear," said I to myself, as I walked along, "that there
are some good points in Mr. Gear's character. He must have a side
where Christian truth could get in, if one could only find it; where
indeed it does get in, though he thinks, and every one else thinks,
it does not. Be it my task to find the place."