The Deacon's Second Service.
IT has been made the subject of some comment lately that Deacon
Goodsole habitually absents himself from our Sabbath evening
service. The pastor called the other day to confer with me on the
subject; for he has somehow come to regard me as a convenient
adviser, perhaps because I hold no office and take no very active
part in the management of the Church, and so am quite free from what
may be called its politics. He said he thought it quite unfortunate;
not that the Deacon needed the second service himself, but that, by
absenting himself from the house of God, he set a very bad example
to the young people of the flock. "We cannot expect," said he,
somewhat mournfully, "that the young people will come to Church,
when the elders themselves stay away." At the same time he said he
felt some delicacy about talking with the Deacon himself on the
subject. "Of course," said he, "if he does not derive profit from my
discourses I do not want to dragoon him into hearing them."
I readily promised to seek an occasion to talk with the Deacon, the
more so because I really feel for our pastor. When I first came to
Wheathedge he was full of enthusiasm. He has various plans for
adding attractiveness and interest to our Sabbath-evening service,
which has always flagged. He tried a course of sermons to young men.
He announced sermons on special topics. Occasionally a political
discourse would draw a pretty full house, but generally it was quite
evident that the second sermon was almost as much of a burden to the
congregation as it was to the minister. Latterly he seems to have
given up these attempts, and to follow the example of his brethren
hereabout. He exchanges pretty often. Quite frequently we get an
agent. Occasionally I fancy, the more from the pastor's manner than
from my recollection, that he is preaching an old sermon. At other
times we get a sort of expository lecture, the substance of which I
find in my copy of Lange when I get home. Under this treatment the
congregation, never very large, has dwindled away to quite
diminutive proportions; and our poor pastor is quite discouraged.
Until about six weeks ago Deacon Goodsole was always in his pew. I
think his falling off was the last straw.
Last Sabbath evening, on my way to church, I stopped, according to
promise, to see the Deacon. As I went up the steps I heard the sound
of music, and waited a moment lest I should disturb the family's
evening devotions. But as the music continued, and presently the
tune changed, I concluded to knock. Nettie, the Deacon's youngest
daughter, who by the way is a great favorite with me, answered the
knock almost instantly. The open hymn-book was in her hand, and
before I could get time to ask for the Deacon, she had, in her
charmingly impulsive way, dragged me in, snatched my hat from my
hand, deposited it on the table, and pushed me into the parlor. In
fact, before I well knew what I was about, I found myself in the big
arm-chair with Nettie in my lap, taking part in the Deacon's second
service.
His family were all about him, including the stable boy, whose hair
looked as sleek as the Deacon's horse. For the Deacon has some queer
notions about the duties of employers to their servants, and, though
the very kindest of men, is generally thought by the neighbors to be
"a queer stick." The Deacon's wife, who has a very sweet soprano
voice, which, however, she never could be persuaded to use in our
choir, was presiding at the piano. The children all had their hymn
and tune-books, and they were "singing round"--each member of the
family selecting a hymn in turn. As they were limited to two verses
each--except where two clubbed together to secure an entire hymn--the
exercise was not prolonged, and certainly did not become tedious.
After the singing, the Deacon asked the children if they were ready
with their verses. They all raised their hands. The Deacon then
repeated a short piece of poetry, his wife followed, and then all
the children one after another, even down to Bob--a little
three-year-old, who just managed to lisp out, with a charming
mixture of pride and bashfulness,
Jesus, tender Seperd,
Has' thou died faw me,
Make me vewy fwankful
In my heart to thee.
Then the Deacon took down the family bible and opened it to the
story of Joseph. He asked the children how far he had got. They
answered him very sagely, and their responses to a few questions
which he put to them showed that they understood what had gone
before. Then he read part of one chapter, that which describes the
beginning of the famine, and, asking Joe to bring him the full
volume of Stanley's Jewish Church, he read the admirable description
of an Egyptian famine which it contains. By this time Bob was fast
asleep in his mother's arms. But all the rest of us kneeled down and
repeated the Lord's prayer with the Deacon--another of his queer
notions. The neighbors think he is inclined to be an Episcopalian,
because he wants it introduced into the church service, but he says
he does not really think that the Lord was an Episcopalian, and if
he was it would not be any good reason for not using his prayer.
Then the children kissed good-night, all round, and went to bed.
Mrs. Goodsole took Bob off to his crib, and the Deacon and I were
left alone. It was long past time for church service to begin, so I
abandoned all idea of going to church, and opened to the Deacon at
once the object of my errand. I told him very frankly that we not
only missed him from the church, but that the pastor felt that his
example was an unfortunate one, and that the church generally were
afraid he was growing luke-warm in the Master's service, and I
gently reminded him of the apostle's direction not to forget the
assembling of ourselves together.
"Well," said he--though in trying to give his answer in his own
language, I am obliged to condense the conversation of half-an-hour
into a single paragraph--"Well, I will tell you how it is. You know I
used to be pretty regular in attendance on church, and in fact a
pretty busy man on Sundays. We had breakfast early. Right after
breakfast I sat down to look over my Sunday-school lesson for the
last time. At nine o'clock I went to Sunday-school, where I had a
Bible-class. At half-past ten came church. After service I had
barely time to get a lunch, and then had to hurry away to our
Mission. We almost always had some sort of a teachers' meeting after
the regular session, so that it was generally tea-time before I got
home. After tea I was off to church again. I almost always woke up
Monday morning tired, and a little cross. My children are pretty
good ones, I think, but they had a queer distaste for Sunday, which
I put down to total depravity. And, strangest of all, my wife, who
only went to church Sunday morning, and would not even sing in the
choir, seemed to be as tired Monday morning as I was, only as it was
washing-day she could not sleep as late. About two months ago I was
laid up with a boil, and could not go to church. Of course I did not
have my Sunday-school lesson to learn, and I was surprised to
notice, for the first time, how hard my wife had to work to get the
children off to Sunday-school. They stayed at church--as they always
do--and for an hour after dinner they got along very well, reading
their library books, but then began the labors of the day. First I
heard Joe out in the yard frolicking with the dog, and rousing all
the neighborhood with his racket. Of course I called him in. Next I
heard my wife calling Lucy and Nettie to come down out of the swing.
The next thing Bob was playing horse with the chairs in the parlor.
So it went all the afternoon. The children had nothing to do. They
could not read Sunday-school books all day. I am heterodox enough to
wonder how they can read them at all--and of course they got into all
sorts of mischief. And when at last poor Bobby came to me in utter
despair, and lisped out, "Papa, what did God make Sunday for?" I
broke down. I gathered the children about me, and proposed to them
this evening service. I told them that if they would learn a hymn
every Sunday I would stay at home in the evening with them. They
caught at the idea enthusiastically. There is no law about it. They
need not learn if they do not want to. But even Bobby has caught the
enthusiasm, and gets a book and goes to his mamma every Sunday
afternoon to teach him a verse. I have given up my class in the
Mission, and made one of my Sunday-school Bible-class take it. I lie
down and take a little nap after dinner. Then I learn my own hymn,
and make my preparation for our evening service. About an hour
before tea the children gather about me in the arbor and I read to
them. I have just got Dr. Newton's "Bible Wonders," and am reading
it chapter by chapter. My wife takes that opportunity to rest. The
consequence is that we both really get refreshed, instead of jaded
out by our Sunday, and I think the children really look forward with
anticipations of delight to its coming. "My Bible," continued the
Deacon good naturedly, "says something about resting on Sunday. I
wish our pastor would tell us what that means sometime."
I told the Deacon I thought he ought to tell his brethren, at some
prayer-meeting, the reason why he stayed away from church; that it
was due both to himself and to them. He agreed to do so. As for
myself I am somewhat puzzled. I do not want our pastor left to
preach to empty pews. But I am greatly enamored of the Deacon's
second service.