I get my first Bible Scholar.
A pretty little cottage-white, with green blinds; the neatest of
neat fences; a little platform in front of the sidewalk with three
steps leading up to it,--a convenient method of access to our high
country carriages; two posts before the gate neatly turned, a
trellis over the front door with a climbing rose which has mounted
half way to the top and stopped to rest for the season; another
trellis fan-shaped behind which a path disappears that leads round
to the kitchen door; the tastiest of little bird houses, now
tenantless and desolate,--this is the picture that meets my eye and
assures me that Mr. Gear is a man both of taste and thrift, as
indeed he is.
Mrs. Gear who comes to the door in answer to my knock and who is a
cheerful little body with yet a tinge of sadness in her countenance,
as one who knows some secret sorrow which her blithe heart cannot
wholly sing away, is very glad to see me. She calls me by my name
and introduces herself with a grace that is as much more graceful
as it is more natural than the polished and stately manners which
Mrs. Wheaton has brought with her from fashionable society to
Wheathedge. Mr. Gear is out, he has gone down to the shop,--will I
walk in,--he will be back directly. I am very happy to walk in, and
Mrs. Gear introducing me to a cozy little sitting-room with a
library table in the centre, and a book-case on one side, well
filled too, takes Harry by the hand, and leads him out to introduce
him to the great Newfoundland dog whom we saw basking in the
sunshine on the steps of the side door, as we came up the road.
I am accustomed to judge of men by their companions, and books are
companions. So whenever I am in a parlor alone I always examine the
book-case, or the centre table--if there is one. In Mrs. Wheaton's
parlor I find no book-case, but a large centre table on which there
are several annuals with a great deal of gilt binding and very
little reading, and a volume or two of plates, sometimes handsome,
more often showy. In the library, which opens out of the parlor, I
find sets of the classic authors in library bindings, but when I
take one down it betrays the fact that no other hand has touched it
to open it before. And I know that Jim Wheaton buys books to furnish
his house, just as he buys wall paper and carpets. At Mr. Hardcap's
I find a big family Bible, and half a dozen of those made up volumes
fat with thick paper and large type, and showy with poor pictures,
which constitute the common literature of two thirds of our country
homes. And I know that poor Mr. Hardcap is the unfortunate victim of
book agents. At Deacon Goodsole's I always see some school books
lying in admirable confusion on the sitting-room table. And I know
that Deacon Goodsole has children, and that they bring their books
home at night to do some real studying, and that they do it in the
family sitting-room and get help now and then from father and from
mother. And so while I am waiting for Mr. Gear I take a furtive
glance at his well filled shelves. I am rather surprized to find in
his little library so large a religious element, though nearly all
of it heterodox. There is a complete edition of Theodore Parker's
works, Channing's works, a volume or two of Robertson, one of
Furness, the English translation of Strauss' Life of Christ, Renan's
Jesus, and half a dozen more similar books, intermingled with
volumes of history, biography, science, travels, and the New
American Cyclopedia. The Radical and the Atlantic Monthly are on the
table. The only orthodox book is Beecher's Sermons,--and I believe
Dr. Argure says they are not orthodox; the only approach to fiction
is one of Oliver Wendell Holmes' books, I do not now remember which
one. "Well," said I to myself, "whatever this man is, he is not
irreligious."
I had just arrived at this conclusion when Mr. Gear entered. A tall,
thin, nervous man, with a high forehead, piercing black eyes, and a
restless uneasiness that forbids him from ever being for a moment
still. Now he runs his hand through his hair pushing it still
further back from his dome of a head, now he drums the table with
his uneasy fingers, now he crosses and uncrosses his long legs, and
once, as our conversation grows animated, he rises from his seat in
the vehemence of his earnestness, and leans against the mantel
piece. A clear-eyed, frank faced, fine looking man, who would compel
your heed if you met him anywhere, unknown, by chance, on the public
street. "An infidel you may be," I say to myself, "but not a bad
man; on the contrary a man with much that is true and noble, or I am
no physiognomist or phrenologist either." And I rather pride myself
on being both.
We lawyers learn to study the faces of our witnesses, to form quick
judgments, and to act upon them. If I did not mistake my man the
directest method was the best, and I employed it.
"Mr. Gear," said I, "I have come to ask you to join my Bible class."
"Me!" said Mr. Gear unmistakeably surprised. "I don't believe in the
Bible."
"So I have heard," I said quietly. "And that's the reason I came to
you first. In fact I do not want you to join my Bible class. I have
not got any Bible class as yet, I want you to join me in getting one
up."
Mr. Gear smiled incredulously. "You had better get Deacon Goodsole,"
said he,--"or," and the smile changed from a goodnatured to a
sarcastic one, "or Mr. Hardcap."
"I have no doubt they would either of them join me," said I. "But
they believe substantially as I have been taught to believe about
the Bible. They have learned to look at it through creeds, and
catechisms, and orthodox preaching. I want to get a fresh look at
it. I want to come to it as I would come to any other book, and to
find out what it means, not what it seems to mean to a man who has
been bred to believe that it is only the flesh and blood of which
the dry bones are the Westminster Assembly's Catechism."
"Mr. Laicus," said Mr. Gear, "I thank you for the honor you do me.
But I don't believe in the Bible. I don't believe it's the word of
God any more than Homer or Tacitus. I don't believe those old
Hebrews knew any more than we do--nor half so much. It says the world
was made in six days. I think it more likely it was six millions of
years in making."
"So do I," said I.
"It says God rested on the Sabbath day. I believe He always works,
day and night, summer and winter, in every blazing fire, in every
gathering storm, in every rushing river, in every growing flower, in
every falling leaf."
He rose as he spoke and stood, now leaning against the mantel piece,
now standing erect, his dark eyes flashing, his great forehead
seeming to expand with great thoughts, his soul all enkindled with
his own eloquence: for eloquent he really was, and all unconscious
of it.
"Your Bible," said he "shuts God up in a Temple, and in an ark in
that, and hides him behind curtains where the High priest can find
him but once a year. My God is every where. There is no church that
can hold him. The heavens are his home; the earth is his footstool.
All this bright and beautiful world is his temple. He is in every
mountain, in every cloud, in every winter wind and every summer
breeze."
He looked so handsome in his earnest eloquence that I had no heart
to interrupt him. And yet I waited and watched for any opening he
might give me, and thought of Jennie, and her prayers at home, and
declared to myself by God's help I would not let this man go till I
had caught him and brought him to know the love that now he knew
not.
"Your Bible, Mr. Laicus," said he, "sets apart one day for the Lord
and gives all the rest to the world, the flesh, and the devil. I
believe all days are divine, all days are the Lord's, all hours are
sacred hours and all ground is holy ground."
I wanted to tell him that my Bible did no such thing. But I had
fully considered what I would do before I had sought this interview.
I had resolved that nothing should tempt me into a contradiction or
an argument. I had studied Jennie's method, and I reserved my fire.
"Your Bible tells me," said he, "that God wrote his laws with his
finger on two tables of stone; that he tried to preserve them from
destruction by bidding them be kept in a sacred ark; and that
despite his care they were broken in pieces before Moses got down
from the mountain top. I believe he writes them impartially in
nature and in our hearts, that science interprets them, and that no
Moses astonished out of his presence of mind can harm them or break
the tablets on which they are engraven."
So true, yet oh so false. Oh God! help me to teach him what my Bible
really is and what its glorious teachings are.
"I don't believe the Bible is the Word of God. I can't believe it. I
don't believe the laws of Moses are any more inspired than the laws
of Solon, or the books of Samuel and Kings than the history of
Tacitus, or the Psalms of David than the Paradise Lost of Milton,
or--you'll think me bold indeed to say so Mr. Laicus," (he was cooler
now and spoke more slowly), "the words of Jesus, than the precepts
of Confucius or the dialogues of Plato."
In that sentence he gave to me my clue. I seized it instantly, and
never lost it from that moment. Never case in court so thrilled me
with excitement as I too arose and leaned against the mantel-piece.
And never was I, in tone and manner, calmer.
"As much so?" I asked carelessly.
"Yes....." said he, hesitatingly, "yes..... as much so I suppose."
"The ten commandments have been before the world for over three
thousand years," said I. "The number that have learned them and
accepted them as a guide, and found in them a practical help is to
be counted by millions. There is hardly a child in Wheathedge that
does not know something of them, and has not been made better for
them; and hardly a man who knows Solon even by name. We can hardly
doubt that the one is as well worth studying as the other, Mr.
Gear."
"No," said Mr. Gear. "I don't deny that they are worth studying. But
I do deny that they are inspired."
"The Psalms of David have supplied the Christian church with its
best psalmody for nearly three thousand years," continued I. "They
constitute the reservoir from which Luther, and Watts, and Wesley,
and Doddridge, and a host of other singers have drawn their
inspiration, and in which myriads untold have found the expression
of their highest and holiest experiences, myriads who never heard of
Homer. They are surely as well worth studying as his noble epics."
"I don't deny, they are worth studying," said Mr. Gear. "I only
assert that they ought to be studied as any other books of noble
thoughts, intermingled with grossest errors, should be studied."
"The words of Jesus," I continued more slowly than before "have
changed the life and character of more than half the world, that
half which alone possesses modern civilization, that half with which
you and I, Mr. Gear, are most concerned. There was wonderful power
in the doctrines of Buddha. But Buddhism has relapsed everywhere
into the grossest of idolatries. There is a wonderful wealth of
moral truth in the ethics of Confucius. But the ethics of Confucius
have not saved the Chinese nation from stagnation and death. There
is wonderful life-awaking power in the writings of Plato. But they
are hid from the common people in a dead language, and when a Prof.
Jowett gives them glorious resurrection in our vernacular, they are
still hid from the common people by their subtlety. Every
philosopher ought to study Plato. Every scholar may profitably study
Buddha and Confucius. But every intelligent American ought to study
the life and words of Jesus of Nazareth."
"I do," said Mr. Gear. "I do not disesteem Jesus of Nazareth. I
honor him as first among men. I revere his noble life, his sublime
death, and his incomparable teachings. I have read his life in the
Gospels; I have read it as Strauss gives it; and as Renan gives it;
and now I am devoting my Sunday afternoons to reading it as
Pressense gives it. You see I am an impartial student. I read all
sides."
"You think Christ's life and teaching worth your study then?" I said
inquiringly.
"Worth my study? Of course I do," said he. "I am an infidel, Mr.
Laicus; at least people commonly call me so, and think it very
dreadful. But I do not mean to be ignorant of the Bible or of
Christianity as Jesus Christ gave it to us. It needs winnowing. We
have grown wiser and know better about many things since then. But
it is well worth the studying and will be for many years to come."
"All I ask of you," said I, "is to let me to study it with you."
He made no answer; but looked me steadily in the eye as if to try
and fathom some occult design.
"No," said I, "that is not all. As I came by Joe Poole's I saw half
a dozen of the men from your shop lounging about the door. They
could spend the afternoon to better purpose, Mr. Gear, in studying
the life and words of Jesus."
"I know they could," he said. "No man can say that any word or
influence of mine helped carry them to Joe Poole's bar."
"Will you lend your word and influence with mine to summon them
away?" said I.
He made no answer.
"I saw a dozen others engaged at a game of ball upon the green as I
passed by."
"A harmless sport, Mr. Laicus, and as well done on Sunday as on any
other holiday."
"Perhaps," said I. "But an hour and a half from their Sunday in
studying the life and words of Jesus would do them no harm, and
detract nothing from their holiday. They do not study so hard
throughout the week that the brain labor would be injurious."
Mr. Gear smiled.
"There is not a man in your shop, Mr. Gear, that would not be made a
better workman, husband, father, citizen, for studying that life and
those teachings one hour a week."
"It is true," said he.
"You organized a Shakspeare club last winter to keep them from Joe
Poole's," said I. "Was it a good thing?"
"Worked capitally," said Mr. Gear.
"Won't you join me in organizing a Bible club for Sunday afternoons
this winter for the same purpose?"
"There is so little in common between us," said he; and he looked me
through and through with his sharp black eyes. What a lawyer he
would have made; what a cross examination he could conduct.
"You believe in the literal inspiration of the New Testament
Scripture. I believe it is a book half legend half history. You
believe in the miracles. I believe they are mythical addition of a
later date. You believe that Jesus Christ was conceived of the Holy
Ghost and born of the Virgin Mary. I believe his birth was as
natural as his death was cruel and untimely. You believe that--he
was divine. I believe he was a man of like passions as we ourselves
are,--a Son of God only as every noble spirit is a spark struck off
from the heavenly Original. You believe that he bears our sins upon
a tree. I believe that every soul must bear its own burdens. What is
there in common between us? What good could it do to you or to me to
take Sunday afternoon for a weekly tournament, with the young men
from the shop for arbitrators?"
"None," said I calmly.
"What would you have then?" said he.
"When you organized that Shakspeare club last winter," said I, "did
you occupy your time in discussions of the text? Did you compare
manuscripts? Did you investigate the canonicity of Shakspeare's
various plays? Did you ransack the past to know the value of the
latest theory that there never was a Will. Shakspeare save as a nom
de plume for Lord Bacon? Did you inquire into the origin of his
several plots, and study to know how much of his work was really his
own and how much was borrowed from foreign sources. Or did you leave
that all to the critics, and take the Shakspeare of today, and
gather what instruction you might therefrom?"
Mr. Gear nodded his head slowly, and thoughtfully, as if he
partially perceived the meaning of my answer. But he made no other
response.
"There is much in common between us, Mr. Gear," I continued
earnestly, "though much, very much that is not. We can find plenty
of subject for fruitless debate no doubt. Can we find none for
agreement and mutual helpfulness? Jesus of Nazareth you honor as
first among men. You revere His noble life, His sublime death, His
incomparable teachings. So do I. That noble life we can read
together, Mr. Gear, and together we may emulate His example without
a fruitless debate whether it be divine or no. Those incomparable
teachings we can study together, that together we may catch the
spirit that dictated them, without a theological controversy as to
their authority. And even that sublime death I should hope we might
contemplate together, without contention, though in the suffering
Christ you see only a martyr, and I behold my Saviour and my God."
He made no answer, still stood silent. But he no longer looked at me
with his sharp eyes. They had retired beneath his shaggy eyebrows as
though he would search his own soul through and through, and read
its verdict. He told me afterwards the story of his battle; I
guessed it even then.
"We may not agree on the Gospel of John, Mr. Gear," said I, "but we
shall not quarrel about the Golden Rule and the Sermon on the
Mount."
"Mr. Laicus," said Mr. Gear at length, very slowly. "I thank you for
coming to me, I thank you for speaking plainly and frankly as you
have; I thank you for the respect which you have shown to my
convictions. They are honest, and were not arrived at without a
struggle and some self sacrifice. You are the first Christian," he
added bitterly "that ever paid them the regard of a respectful
hearing. I will join you in that Bible Class for this winter, and I
will prove to you, infidel that I am, that I as well as a Christian,
can respect convictions widely different from my own. If we quarrel
it shall not be my fault."
"I believe you, Mr. Gear," said I. "God helping me it shall not be
mine, and there's my hand upon it."
He grasped it warmly.
"When shall we begin?" said I.
"Next Sunday."
"Where?" said I.
"As you please?" said he.
"Here, or in my house, or at the church parlors, or wherever we can
gather the young men," said I.
"The mill school-house is better than either," said he. "The boys
will come there. They are used to it."
"The mill school-house be it," said I. "Next Sunday afternoon at 3
o'clock. I will bring the Bibles; you will bring the boys."
"As many as I can," said he.
"Jennie," said I that evening. "Mr. Gear and I are going to take the
Bible Class together."
Tears stood in her eyes as she looked up at me with that smile I
love so much. But she only said. "I knew you would succeed John."