of the several pillars of the church at pawkin centre, deacon barker was by all odds the strongest. his orthodoxy was the admiration of the entire congregation, and the terror of all the ministers within easy driving distance of the deacon's native village. he it was who had argued the late pastor of the pawkin centre church into that state of disquietude which had carried him, through a few days of delirious fever, into the church triumphant; and it was also deacon barker whose questions at the examination of seekers for the ex-pastor's shoes had cast such consternation into divinity-schools, far and near, that soon it was very hard to find a candidate for ministerial honors at pawkin centre.
nor was his faith made manifest by words alone. be the weather what it might, the deacon was always in his pew, both morning and evening, in time to join in the first hymn, and on every thursday night, at a quarter past seven in winter, and a quarter before eight in summer, the good deacon's cane and shoes could be heard coming solemnly down the aisle, bringing to the prayer-meeting the champion of orthodoxy. nor did the holy air of the prayer-meeting even one single evening fail to vibrate to the voice of the deacon, as he made, in scriptural language, humble confessions and tearful pleadings before the throne, or—still strictly scriptural in expression—he warned and exhorted the impenitent. the contribution-box always received his sixpence as long as specie payment lasted, and the smallest fractional currency note thereafter; and to each of the regular annual offerings to the missionary cause, the bible cause, and kindred christian enterprises, the deacon regularly contributed his dollar and his prayers.
the deacon could quote scripture in a manner which put biblical professors to the blush, and every principle of his creed so bristled with texts, confirmatory, sustentive and aggressive, that doubters were rebuked and free-thinkers were speedily reduced to speechless humility or rage. but the unregenerate, and even some who professed righteousness, declared that more fondly than to any other scriptural passage did the good deacon cling to the injunction, "make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness." meekly insisting that he was only a steward of the lord, he put out his lord's money that he might receive it again with usury, and so successful had he been that almost all mortgages held on property near pawkin centre were in the hands of the good deacon, and few were the foreclosure sales in which he was not the seller.
the new pastor at pawkin centre, like good pastors everywhere, had tortured himself into many a headache over the perplexing question, "how are we to reach the impenitent in our midst!" the said impenitent were, with but few exceptions, industrious, honest, respectable, law-abiding people, and the worthy pastor, as fully impregnated with yankee-thrift as with piety, shuddered to think of the waste of souls that was constantly threatening. at length, like many another pastor, he called a meeting of the brethren, to prayerfully consider this momentous question. the deacon came, of course, and so did all the other pillars, and many of them presented their views. brother grave thought the final doom of the impenitent should be more forcibly presented; deacon struggs had an abiding conviction that it was the man of sin holding dominion in their hearts that kept these people away from the means of grace; deacon ponder mildly suggested that the object might perhaps be attained if those within the fold maintained a more godly walk and conversation, but he was promptly though covertly rebuked by the good deacon barker, who reminded the brethren that "it is the spirit that quickeneth"; brother flite, who hadn't any money, thought the church ought to build a "working-man's chapel," but this idea was promptly and vigorously combated by all men of property in the congregation. by this time the usual closing hour had arrived, and after a benediction the faithful dispersed, each with about the ideas he brought to the meeting.
early next morning the good deacon barker, with his mind half full of the state of the unconverted, and half of his unfinished cow-shed, took his stick and hobbled about the village in search of a carpenter to finish the incomplete structure. there was moggs, but moggs had been busy all the season, and it would be just like him to want full price for a day's work. stubb was idle, but stubb was slow. augur—augur used liquor, and the deacon had long ago firmly resolved that not a cent of his money, if he could help it, should ever go for the accursed stuff. but there was hay—he hadn't seen him at work for a long time—perhaps he would be anxious enough for work to do it cheaply.
the deacon knocked at hay's door, and hay himself shouted:
"come in."
"how are ye, george," said the deacon, looking hastily about the room, and delightfully determining, from the patient face of sad-eyed mrs. hay and the scanty furnishing of the yet uncleared breakfast-table, that he had been providentially guided to the right spot. "how's times with ye?"
"not very good, deac'n," replied hay. "nothin' much doin' in town."
"money's awful sceerce," groaned the deacon.
"dreadful," responded george, devoutly thanking the lord that he owed the deacon nothing.
"got much to do this winter?" asked the deacon.
"not by a d—day's job—not a single day," sorrowfully replied hay.
the deacon's pious ear had been shocked by the young man's imperfectly concealed profanity, and for an instant he thought of administering a rebuke, but the charms of prospective cheap labor lured the good man from the path of rectitude.
"i'm fixin' my cow-shed—might p'raps give ye a job on't. 'spose ye'd do it cheap, seein' how dull ev'ry thin' is?"
the sad eyes of mrs. hay grew bright in an instant. her husband's heart jumped up, but he knew to whom he was talking, so he said, as calmly as possible:
"three dollars is reg'lar pay."
the deacon immediately straightened up as if to go.
"too much," said he; "i'd better hire a common lab'rer at a dollar 'n a half, an' boss him myself. it's only a cow-shed, ye know."
"guess, though, ye won't want the nails druv no less p'ticler, will ye, deac'n?" inquired hay. "but i tell yer what i'll do—i'll throw off fifty cents a day."
"two dollars ort to be enough, george," resumed the deacon. "carpenterin's pooty work, an' takes a sight of headpiece sometimes, but there's no intellec' required to work on a cow-shed. say two dollars, an' come along."
the carpenter thought bitterly of what a little way the usual three dollars went, and of how much would have to be done with what he could get out of the cow-shed, but the idea of losing even that was too horrible to be endured, so he hastily replied:
"two an' a quarter, an' i'm your man."
"well," said the deacon, "it's a powerful price to pay for work on a cow-shed, but i s'pose i mus' stan' it. hurry up; thar's the mill-whistle blowin' seven."
hay snatched his tools, kissed a couple of thankful tears, out of his wife's eyes, and was soon busy on the cow-shed, with the deacon looking on.
"george," said the deacon suddenly, causing the carpenter to stop his hammer in mid-air, "think it over agen, an' say two dollars."
hay gave the good deacon a withering glance, and for a few moments the force of suppressed profanity caused his hammer to bang with unusual vigor, while the owner of the cow-shed rubbed his hands in ecstasy at the industry of his employe.
the air was bracing, the winter sun shone brilliantly, the deacon's breakfast was digesting fairly, and his mind had not yet freed itself from the influences of the sabbath. besides, he had secured a good workman at a low price, and all these influences combined to put the deacon in a pleasant frame of mind. he rambled through his mind for a text which would piously express his condition, and texts brought back sunday, and sunday reminded him of the meeting of the night before. and here was one of those very men before him—a good man in many respects, though he was higher-priced than he should be. how was the cause of the master to be prospered if his servants made no effort? then there came to the deacon's mind the passage, "—he which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins." what particular sins of his own needed hiding the deacon did not find it convenient to remember just then, but he meekly admitted to himself and the lord that he had them, in a general way. then, with that directness and grace which were characteristic of him, the deacon solemnly said:
"george, what is to be the sinner's doom?"
"i dunno," replied george, his wrath still warm; "'pears to me you've left that bizness till pretty late in life, deac'n!"
"don't trifle with sacrid subjec's, george," said the deacon, still very solemn, and with a suspicion of annoyance in his voice. "the wicked shall be cast into hell, with—"
"they can't kerry their cow-sheds with 'em, neither," interrupted george, consolingly.
"come, george," said the good deacon, in an appealing tone, "remember the apostle says, 'suffer the word of exhortation.'"
"'xcuse me, deac'n, but one sufferin' at a time; i ain't through sufferin' at bein' beaten down yet. how about deac'ns not being 'given to filthy lucre?'"
the good deacon was pained, and he was almost out of patience with the apostle for writing things which came so handy to the lips of the unregenerate. he commenced an industrious search for a text which should completely annihilate the impious carpenter, when that individual interrupted him with:
"out with it, deac'n—ye had a meetin' las' night to see what was to be done with the impenitent. i was there—that is, i sot on a stool jest outside the door, an' i heerd all 'twas said. ye didn't agree on nothin'—mebbe ye'v fixed it up sence. any how, ye'v sot me down fur one of the impenitent, an' yer goin' fur me. well—"
"go on nailin'," interrupted the economical deacon, a little testily; "the noise don't disturb me; i can hear ye."
"well, what way am i so much wickeder 'n you be—you an' t'other folks at the meetin'-house?" asked hay.
"george, i never saw ye in god's house in my life," replied the deacon.
"well, s'pose ye hevn't—is god so small he can't be nowheres 'xcept in your little meetin'-house? how about his seein' folks in their closets?"
"george," said the deacon, "ef yer a prayin' man, why don't ye jine yerself unto the lord's people?"
"why? 'cos the lord's people, as you call 'em, don't want me. s'pose i was to come to the meetin'-house in these clothes—the only ones i've got—d'ye s'pose any of the lord's people 'd open a pew-door to me? an' spose my wife an' children, dressed no better 'n i be, but as good 's i can afford, was with me, how d'ye s'pose i'd feel?"
"pride goeth before a fall, an' a haughty sperit before," groaned the deacon, when the carpenter again interrupted.
"i'd feel as ef the people of god was a gang of insultin' hypocrites, an' ez ef i didn't ever want to see 'em again. ef that kind o' pride's sinful, the devil's a saint. ef there's any thin' wrong about a man's feelin' so about himself and them god give him, god's to blame for it himself; but seein' it's the same feelin' that makes folks keep 'emselves strait in all other matters, i'll keep on thinkin' it's right."
"but the preveleges of the gospel, george," remonstrated the deacon.
"don't you s'pose i know what they're wuth?" continued the carpenter. "haven't i hung around in front of the meetin'-house summer nights, when the winders was open, jest to listen to the singin' and what else i could hear? hezn't my wife ben with me there many a time, and hevn't both of us prayed an' groaned an' cried in our hearts, not only 'cos we couldn't join in it all ourselves, but 'cos we couldn't send the children either, without their learnin' to hate religion 'fore they fairly know'd what 'twas? haven't i sneaked in to the vestibule winter nights, an' sot just where i did last night, an' heard what i'd 'a liked my wife and children to hear, an' prayed for the time to come when the self-app'inted elect shouldn't offend the little ones? an' after sittin' there last night, an' comin' home and tellin' my wife how folks was concerned about us, an' our rejoicin' together in the hope that some day our children could hev the chances we're shut out of now, who should come along this mornin' but one of those same holy people, and jewed me down on pay that the lord knows is hard enough to live on."
the deacon had a heart, and he knew the nature of self-respect as well as men generally. his mind ran entirely outside of texts for a few minutes, and then, with a sigh for the probable expense, he remarked:
"reckon flite's notion was right, after all—ther' ort to be a workin'-man's chapel."
the rich man's church
"ort?" responded hay; "who d'ye s'pose'd go to it? nobody? ye can rent us second-class houses, an' sell us second-hand clothin', and the cheapest cuts o' meat, but when it comes to cheap religion—nobody knows its value better 'n we do. we don't want to go into yer parlors on carpets and furniture we don't know how to use, an' we don't expect to be asked into society where our talk an' manners might make some better eddicated people laugh. but when it comes to religion—god knows nobody needs an' deserves the very best article more 'n we do."
the deacon was a reasonable man, and being old, was beginning to try to look fairly at matters upon which he expected soon to be very thoroughly examined. the indignant protest of the carpenter had, he feared, a great deal of reason, and yet—god's people deserved to hold their position, if, as usual, the argument ended where it began. so he asked, rather triumphantly:
"what is to be done, then?"
"reform god's people themselves," replied the carpenter, to the horror of the pious old man. "when the right hand of fellowship is reached out to the front, instead of stuck behind the back when a poor man comes along, there'll be plenty that'll be glad to take it. reform yer own people, deac'n. 'fore yer pick out of our eyes the motes we'll be glad enough to get rid of, ye can get a fine lot of heavy lumber out of yer own."
soldiers of the cross, no more than any other soldiers, should stand still and be peppered when unable to reply; at least so thought the deacon, and he prudently withdrew.
reform god's people themselves! the deacon was too old a boy to tell tales out of school, but he knew well enough there was room for reform. of course there was—weren't we all poor sinners?—when we would do good wasn't evil ever present with us?—what business had other sinners to complain, when they weren't, at least, any better? besides, suppose he were to try to reform the ways of brother graves and deacon struggs and others he had in his mind—would they rest until they had attempted to reform him? and who was to know just what quantity and quality of reform was necessary? "be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines." the matter was too great for his comprehension, so he obeyed the injunction, "commit thy way unto the lord."
but the lord relegated the entire matter to the deacon. hay did a full day's work, the deacon made a neat little sum by recovering on an old judgment he had bought for a mere song, and the deacon's red cow made an addition to the family in the calf-pen; yet the deacon was far from comfortable. the idea that certain people must stay away from god's house until god's people were reformed, seemed to the deacon's really human heart something terrible. if they would be so proud—and yet, people who would stand outside the meeting-house and listen, and pray and weep because their children were as badly off as they, could scarcely be very proud. he knew there couldn't be many such, else this out-of-door congregation would be noticed—there certainly wasn't a full congregation of modest mechanics in the vestibule of which hay spoke, and yet, who could tell how many more were anxious and troubled on the subject of their eternal welfare.
what a pity it was that those working-men who wished to repair to the sanctuary could not have steady work and full pay! if he had only known all this early in the morning, he did not know but he might have hired him at three dollars; though, really, was a man to blame for doing his best in the labor market? "ye cannot serve god and mammon." gracious! he could almost declare he heard the excited carpenter's voice delivering that text. what had brought that text into his head just now?—he had never thought of it before.
the deacon rolled and tossed on his bed, and the subject of his conversation with the carpenter tormented him so he could not sleep. of one thing he was certain, and that was that the reform of the church at pawkin centre was not to be relied on in an extremity, and was not such hungering and thirsting after righteousness an extreme case?—had he ever really known many such! if hay only had means, the problem would afford its own solution. the good deacon solemnly declared to himself that if hay could give good security, he (the deacon) would try to lend him the money.
but even this (to the deacon) extraordinary concession was unproductive of sleep. "he that giveth to the poor lendeth to the lord." there! he could hear that indignant carpenter again. what an unsatisfactory passage that was, to be sure! if it would only read the other way—it didn't seem a bit business-like the way it stood. and yet, as the deacon questioned himself there in the dark, he was forced to admit that he had a very small balance—even of loans—to his credit in the hands of the lord. he had never lent to the lord except in his usual business manner—as small a loan as would be accepted, on as extensive collaterals as he could exact. oh, why did people ever forsake the simple raiment of their forefathers, and robe themselves in garments grievous in price, and stumbling-blocks in the path of their fellow-men?
but sleep failed even to follow this pious reflection. suppose—only suppose, of course—that he were to give—lend, that is—lend hay money enough to dress his family fit for church—think what a terrible lot of money it would take! a common neat suit for a man would cost at least thirty dollars, an overcoat nearly twice as much; a suit cloak, and other necessities for his wife would amount to as much more, and the children—oh, the thing couldn't be done for less than two hundred and fifty dollars. of course, it was entirely out of the question—he had only wondered what it would cost—that was all.
still no sleep. he wished he hadn't spoken with hay about his soul—next time he would mind his own business. he wished he hadn't employed hay. he wished the meeting for consideration of the needs of the impenitent had never taken place. "no man can come to me except the father which sent me draw him"—he wished he had remembered that passage, and quoted it at the meeting—it was no light matter to interfere with the almighty's plans.
"blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." hah! could that carpenter be in the room, disarranging his train of thought with such—such—tantalizing texts! they had kept him awake, and at his time of life a restless night was a serious matter. suppose—
very early the next morning the village doctor, returning from a patient's bedside, met the deacon with a face which suggested to him (the doctor was pious and imaginative) "abraham on mount moriah." the village butcher, more practical, hailed the good man, and informed him he was in time for a fine steak, but the deacon shook his head in agony, and passed on. he neared the carpenter's house, stopped, tottered, and looked over his shoulder as if intending to run; at length he made his way behind the house, where hay was chopping firewood. the carpenter saw him and turned pale—he feared the deacon had found cheaper labor, and had come to give him warning.
"george," said the deacon, "i've been doin' a heap of thinkin' 'bout what we talked of yesterday. i've come to say that if you like i'll lend you three hundred dollars fur as long as ye'v a mind to, without note, security or int'rest; you to spend as much of it ez ye need to dress you an' yer hull fam'ly in sunday clothes, and to put the balance in the savin's bank, at interest, to go on doin' the same with when necessary. an' all of ye to go to church when ye feel so disposed. an' ef nobody else's pew-door opens, yer allus welcome to mine. and may the lord" the deacon finished the sentence to himself—"have mercy on my soul." then he said, aloud:
"that's all."
the carpenter, at the beginning of the deacon's speech, had dropped his axe, to the imminent danger of one of his feet. as the deacon continued, the carpenter dropped his head to one side, raised one eye-brow inquiringly, and awaited the conditions. but when the deacon said "that's all," george hay seized the deacon's hard old hand, gave it a grasp which brought agonized tears to the eyes of its venerable owner, and exclaimed:
"deacon, god's people are reformin'!"
the deacon staggered a little—he had not thought of it in that light before.
"deacon, that money'll do more good than all the prayin' ye ever done. 'xcuse me—i must tell mary," and the carpenter dashed into the house. had mrs. hay respected the dramatic proprieties, she would have made the deacon a neat speech; but the truth is, she regarded him from behind the window-blind, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; seeing which the deacon abruptly started for home, making less use of his cane than he had done in any day for years.
it is grievous to relate, but truth is mighty—that within a fortnight the good deacon repented of his generous action at least fifty times. he would die in the poor-house if he were so extravagant again. three hundred dollars was more than the cow-shed—lumber, shingles, nails, labor and all—would cost. suppose hay should take the money and go west? suppose he should take to drinking, and spend it all for liquor! one suspicion after another tortured the poor man until he grew thin and nervous. but on the second sunday, having satisfied himself that hay was in town, sober, the day before, that he had been to the city and brought back bundles, and that he (the deacon) had seldom been in the street without meeting one of hay's children with a paper of hooks and eyes or a spool of thread, the deacon stationed himself in one of his own front windows, and brought his spectacles to bear on hay's door, a little distance off. the first bell had rung, apparently, hours before, yet no one appeared—could it be that he had basely sneaked to the city at night and pawned everything? no—the door opened—there they came. it couldn't be—yes, it was—well, he never imagined hay and his wife were so fine a-looking couple. they came nearer, and the deacon, forgetting his cane, hobbled hurriedly to church, entered his pew, and left the door wide open. he waited long, it seemed to him, but they did not come. he looked around impatiently, and there, o, joy and wonder!—the president of the pawkin savings' institution had invited the whole family into his pew! just then the congregation rose to sing the hymn commencing:
"from all that dwell below the skies
let the creator's praise arise";
and the deacon, in his excitement, distanced the choir, and the organ, and the congregation, and almost brought the entire musical service to a standstill.
the deacon had intended to watch closely for hays' conversion, but something wonderful prevented—it was reported everywhere that the deacon himself had been converted, and all who now saw the deacon fully believed the report. he was even heard to say that as there seemed to be some doubt as to whether faith or works was the saving virtue, he intended thereafter to practice both. he no longer mentions the poor-house as his prospective dwelling, but is heard to say that in his father's house there are many mansions, and that he is laying up his treasure in heaven as fast as possible, and hopes he may get it all on the way there before his heart is called for. at the post-office, the tin-shop and the rum-shop the deacon's conversion is constantly discussed, and men of all degrees now express a belief in the mighty power of the spirit from on high. other moneyed men have been smitten and changed, and the pastor of the pawkin centre church daily thanks the lord for such a revival as he never heard of before.
