It was shortly before the wedding, during the prevalence of a “cool wave,” that Mr. Clare gave a “tea-party,” as Miss Sally called it. The “tea” consisted of coffee and small cakes, and the party was characterized by Dr. Richards, when he was invited to cast an eye over the list of guests, as likely to result as did the celebrated meeting of the Kilkenny cats. For it included not only Father McClosky, Pastor Schaefer, and the Rector of St. Andrew’s, but also a very High Church divine from North Micklegard who had recently got into trouble with his bishop by a too promiscuous use of certain technical phrases, a noted evangelist, and a Temperance lecturer. More than this number the room would not conveniently hold; and it must be admitted that, although they passed the time of day and discussed the recent flood as amicably as was to have been expected from men vowed to the service of humanity, there lurked in the corner of each reverend eye such a “say unto me Shibboleth,” that their host congratulated himself more than once upon the mollifying influence of the “cool wave,” and glanced appreciatingly at Father McClosky, who, strong in his hold upon the Rock of St. Peter, balanced his rotund person upon the hind-legs of his chair, and told anecdotes worthy of Joe Miller.
At last Mr. Clare, who had been rather grave and silent for some time, rapped slightly upon the table.
“My friends,” he said, “when I asked you to meet me here to-night, I mentioned my wish to discuss certain public questions, in a spirit of love and truth, with a number of representative men, who, as individuals, possess great influence over large constituencies. I will now add that these public questions have no reference to any theological dogma, or pious opinion that may be held or advocated by any of us; and, while I therefore am assured of greater unanimity than might otherwise be expected,”—here the orator smiled slightly,—“I hope for such diversity of view as may bring the truth most clearly to light.”
“Ye’re a set of black-hearted Protestants, all of ye,” said Father McClosky cheerfully; “but, sure, I’ve the coffee urn forninst me, and the blacker ye get, the more I’ll drink. So drive away, me boys, ’tis not meself will pay the piper.”
There was a general smile at this, and after a few references to possible vengeance wreaked by the coffee urn, in the form of dyspepsia, the High-Churchman courteously requested that Mr. Clare would state the questions upon which he desired their views.
“It is the cry of the day,” said Mr. Clare, “that Religion has lost her hold on the masses, and, among the educated classes, on men; I wish to ask you, gentlemen, for your personal experience upon this matter, if you will be so kind; of course, with the understanding that every word shall be considered by all of us strictly confidential.”
“Well, my religion is temperance,” said the lecturer, “and that hasn’t lost its hold on the masses, by a large majority. On the contrary, it is gaining ground every day.”
“I was prepared to hear you say so. Now may I ask what is the proportion—approximate, of course—between the number of men and women engaged in temperance work?”
“Why, the women are for us every time, except such unfortunates as are themselves slaves of rum, a larger number than is generally believed, I regret to say, though there is no way of getting at the exact figures. And they are much more difficult to get hold of; in fact, if we look at the relative numbers of male and female drunkards—as near as we can estimate them—the proportion of those reformed will be about five to one. That is, of twenty male drunkards, known and unknown, and the same number of females, in the first case we might hope to reform all, in the second only four.”
Mr. Clare sighed. “Let us hope,” he said, “that a part, at least, of the sixteen, reform as they have sinned, in secret and unknown. And now,” he turned to the evangelist, “I suppose there is no doubt that your meetings are well attended?”
“Sometimes a cat could get her whiskers in,” replied that personage succinctly; “but there are plenty of backsliders.”
“And the proportion of men and women?”
“Well, some say there are—and some say there ain’t—several hundred thousand more women in the world than men, so naturally we have more at our meetings, and more women converts, but the proportion don’t go beyond what one might expect; and if more of ‘em are converted, fewer of ‘em backslide,” said the Evangelist.
There was a melancholy pause, then Father McClosky said with something of the expression of a dog that expects a beating,—
“I’ll speak next, and encourage ye. Phy is it, I don’t know, but there’s mighty few men that comes aither to mass or confession nowadays, though the women are pretty faithful, the Blessed Mother be praised.”
“It is true,” said the High-Churchman; “the proportion is very discouraging: I have about six times as many female penitents as male.”
Father McClosky looked very quizzical just at this point; but, catching a pleading glance from his host, he helped himself to a cup of coffee, and left the floor to the rector of St. Andrew’s.
“My church has been very full of late,” he said, “and the increase has been chiefly men; the growth would be still more marked, I dare say,” he added, smiling, “if the expression of our host’s peculiar views were not restrained—muzzled, so to speak—out of deference to my feelings.”
He exchanged a glance of affectionate confidence with Ernest Clare, then the latter turned to Pastor Schaefer.
“It rests with you now to speak, Herr Pastor,” he said, “though I believe I know what your reply will be.”
“My church is full every Sunday,” said the pastor proudly, “and the men outnumber the women two to one.”
“And, I believe, formerly the proportions were reversed,” said Mr. Clare. “Gentlemen, my own experience has been similar to that of the Herr Pastor. When I began my ministry, I preached to congregations of women. This did not impress me as at all in order; for the Revelation of God was a revelation to men; the Jewish Church was a church of men, the Bible was written for men, and Christianity was preached to men. Therefore, if it have now lost its hold upon them, it must be either that we men, as men, have undergone a radical change, or that the faith which once moved us is wrongly preached. Of course, an unbeliever would say that the world is outgrowing Christianity; but that women, as more conservative and less enlightened—as a class—than men, cling to it longest. But I am not addressing a party of unbelievers, but of Christians, therefore we may dismiss that explanation at once.”
“But even though a man may not have outgrown his coat, yet if it has been fastened up behind by two or three heretical pins, he may not be able to put it on,” said Father McClosky innocently.
“Omitting the word heretical, which bears a different meaning to—perhaps—each of us, your conclusion was mine,” said Mr. Clare, smiling. “For I do not think, gentlemen, that human nature or even masculine nature has changed very much in the last eighteen hundred years.”
“It hasn’t changed materially since the days of Homer,” said the High-Churchman. “Love, war, and religion were the keys to it then. Love, competition, and money are the keys to it now.”
“That ain’t bad,” said the evangelist; “you wouldn’t mind my using that, would you? I could do more damage with it than you could.”
“You are most kind, and I am highly flattered,” said the High-Churchman.
“I’m kinder rusty on Homer,” said the lecturer, with a grin, “but I don’t think human nature has changed much since Jacob’s time. He took a deal of money in his, if I remember right, or cattle, which is much the same thing. Yet Jacob was a religious man, too; and the Jews were a religious people.”
“Their religion was slightly erratic at times, but no one can deny that they had plenty of it. Well, then, I suppose you all agree that the fault lies not in Christianity, or in the hearers of it, but in the manner of presenting it?”
“But what is the fault?” asked the rector of St Andrew’s earnestly.
“The form of religion which is gaining ground with the masses, and which is still the religion of men, is temperance,” said Mr. Clare. “Revivalists and evangelists, like our friend here, move the masses powerfully for a time, but, as he tersely expresses it, they backslide. Religious bodies, such as those which the rest of us represent, are losing—let us admit the truth that we may amend our mistake—are losing ground with the masses as a whole, and with the men of the educated classes, every day of our lives.”
“I fear you are right,” said the High-Churchman, sighing, “though missions and street-preaching have done a good deal; but, as you say, they backslide. We can get them, but the thing is to keep them.”
“Exactly. Now, not to speak of the earliest ages of Christianity, religion still had some power when St. Leo saved Rome and the barbarian invaders bowed their heads to receive baptism! And in the Middle Ages”—
“The Ages of Faith!” sighed the High-Churchman.
“The Ages of Superstition and priestcraft,” cried the rector of St. Andrew’s.
“The Ages when Religion stood in the forefront of the battle for freedom and enlightenment,” said Mr. Clare. “Who drained the marshes and made the waste places fruitful? The monks! Who stood as protector between master and slave, oppressor and oppressed? The Church! Who were doctors, lawyers, teachers, musicians, and architects? The clergy, religious and secular. Then, as a result of their own very work, some of these ‘professions,’ as we still call them, passed into the hands of the laity; that is, those who studied medicine could find facilities for so doing elsewhere than in the cloister.”
“And the monks became jealous,” said the rector of St. Andrew’s.
“Their human nature was the same as ours,” was the reply; “besides, they really considered human learning something so dangerous in itself that it ought to be exercised only under the mighty protection of the Church. We must remember that the Cross was stamped upon what we still call a crucible, to protect it from the demons who guarded the secrets of nature, if we would understand the imprisonment of Friar Bacon. The less pious the experimenter, the more dangerous the experiment: and even the most religious trembled for his soul in drawing a pentagon, or setting free those dangerous creatures which we still call geists, ghosts, or gases.”
“The more fools they,” said the Lecturer.
“But, considering the faith of the scientific world now, are ye sure they were entirely wrong?” asked the Father.
“When oxygen and nitrogen produce water, or right doing produces a wrong effect, I shall be sure they were entirely right,” replied Mr. Clare. “But we wander from our subject. Take the time of the Religious Wars. Had religion lost its power then over the masses?”
“The religion of Rome had, over a large part of them,” said the Pastor.
“Because the religion of Rome had become a drag on progress, instead of its banner-bearer,” said Mr. Clare.
Father McClosky took another cup of coffee. Mr. Clare glanced at him with a slight smile, and took up his subject a little farther on.
“Look at the English Revolution under Cromwell, and the times which immediately succeeded it. Neither religion nor its ministers were powerless to move the masses then.”
“But phwat’s your conclusion?” asked Father McClosky, with some irritation. “Give us the conclusion, and we can find out the premises ourselves.”
“You’ll feel better by and by, Bryan,” said his friend, laughing, “and in what I have to say now we’re all in the same box, except that your church has rather the advantage. I believe, gentlemen, that the reason Religion has lost her hold on the masses is because, though not exactly a drag, she certainly no longer leads the van of progress. Why, it has even become a sort of reproach that such a man introduces politics into his pulpit! As if politics were not to the State what religion is to the individual!”
“Good!” said the temperance lecturer.
“But, my dear friend,” said the rector of St. Andrew’s gently, “you know we have already agreed that our congregations consist chiefly of women! Now, what would be the practical use of preaching high or low tariff, or free trade, to a set of non-voters? while, as for the men, even if they came to hear us, and considered a parson’s opinions worthy of anything more than silent contempt,—why, I really fear that the only effect we should produce would be that of a disgraceful row.”
“I should say so!” replied Mr. Clare, laughing; “but, my dear rector, the subjects you suggest belong to a past age of the world. You might as well spend your time in refuting the errors of the Donatists or Sabellians as to preach either tariff—high or low—or free trade. The issues are deeper now.”
“I really cannot see it,” said the rector.
“No; I fear we have not absorbed all the lessons of the Cannomore disaster,” replied Mr. Clare quietly.
“I have been much impressed lately,” said the High-Churchman, who had evidently been feeling around in his mind for the key of this enigma, “by the increasing frequency of the allusions in current literature to an imminent social revolution. Is that what you mean?”
“You do well to use the word imminent,” returned the other gravely.
“But you would not, surely, have us preach that!”
“If we don’t, I fear it will preach to us,” said Mr. Clare.
“Well, to be sure, we all know your views,” said the evangelist, “and I guess most of us suspected what you were driving at; but I’ve converted too many to be an easy convert myself. You’ve got to prove it every time.”
“Prove what? the reality of the danger?”
“Well, no!” said the lecturer, “I admit the danger now and here. A government that licenses the sale of poison has got to fall, sooner or later, if God Almighty is the Ruler of heaven and earth.”
“Is He the Ruler of earth?” asked Mr. Clare.
“Well! He rules over a set of awful rebels, I admit,” replied the lecturer.
“Then, see here, my friend; while you are blaming the government for failing to exercise a power that it doesn’t possess, don’t you feel that you waste time? Wouldn’t it be wiser and more economical of nervous force to give the power to the government first, and then require its exercise?”
“But how are you going to do it?” asked the lecturer.
“I don’t think that is the next question,” observed the High-Churchman; “you should ask first, how would government exercise such power if it possessed it?”
“Government can and does, at need, absolutely forbid the sale of liquors in a military camp,” said Mr. Clare; “and if the entire Union were one vast camp, garrisoned by an industrial army, working for and paid by government”—
“By George!” said the temperance lecturer.
“Now, to the rest of you,” said Mr. Clare, smiling at the lecturer’s sudden “satisfaction,” “I can present what I wish to say most succinctly, by reading a series of extracts from Lange’s ‘History of Materialism.’ The authority is a good one, and ought to weigh with us the more strongly because the author is—or was—not a nominal Christian.”
“But I do not agree with you!” cried the pastor, who had until now been completely silenced by Irish and American loquacity. “I cannot, as a Christian pastor, accept the authority of an infidel”—
“Not even when he agrees with you?” asked Mr. Clare, and began to read before the other could reply.
“‘The present state of things has often been compared with that of the ancient world before its dissolution.... We have the immoderate growth of riches, we have the proletariat, we have the decay of morals and religion; the present forms of government all have their existence threatened, and the belief in a coming general and mighty revolution is widely spread and deeply rooted.’
“Nor,” said Mr. Clare, “need we look for our Goths and Vandals only among the whites. It is my firm belief that only the establishment of a Commune can save us from a race war, the most deadly and terrible the world has ever seen. But to continue:—
“‘It is very probable that the energetic, even revolutionary efforts of this century to transform the form of society in favor of the poor and down-trodden masses, are very intimately connected with New-Testament ideas, though the champions of these efforts feel themselves bound in other respects to oppose what is nowadays called Christianity. History affords us a voucher for this idea in the fusion of religious and communistic ideas in the extreme left of the reformation movement of the sixteenth century.’”
“But what did Count Zinzendorff and his dear Moravians know of Communism, unless they learned it from the convents and the Church at large?” asked Father McClosky.
“Or the Book of Acts and the Bible at large,” said his friend. “Nevertheless, my dear Bryan, you are quite right. We have had to thank the religious orders for many things already. It is quite probable that the next generation will learn in their school histories that the ideal of Communism, ‘Nihil habentes; omnia possidentes,’ was kept alive in the cloister until the world was ready for it. The next extract deserves our very best attention, gentlemen.
“‘If it comes to the dissolution of our present civilization, it will hardly be that any existing church, and still less Materialism, will succeed to the inheritance; but from some unsuspected corner will emerge some utter absurdity, like the Book of Mormon, or Spiritualism, with which the justified ideas of the epoch will fuse themselves, to found a new centre of universal thought, to last, perhaps, for thousands of years.’”
“Theosophy?” said the High-Churchman, laughing, as the reader paused.
“I should be sorry to see theosophy raise the banner of Socialism, I confess,” said Mr. Clare. “Flimsy as it is, with its attempts at natural science, it advocates a pure morality, and has already proclaimed the Brotherhood of Man. Let it now come forward as the champion of the poor, and the masses will flock to it.”
“But, phy not,” asked the priest, “av it is so pure and moral as ye say?”
“It may seem to contradict my own principle, which is to welcome truth, wherever and however it be found,” said Mr. Clare; “but I don’t deprecate any influence that will make a man moral; I merely deprecate the occupation of the throne by any but the rightful heir. But we shall come to that presently. Let me read you a little more.
“‘There is but one means to meet the alternative of this revolution, or of a dim stagnation.... Ideas and sacrifices may yet save our civilization, and transform the path that leads through desolating revolutions into a path of beneficent reforms.... Even to-day, again, a new religious community might, by the power of its ideas and the charm of its social principles, conquer a world by storm.... Whether even out of the old confessions such a stream of new life might proceed, or whether conversely a religionless community could kindle a fire of such devouring force, we do not know. One thing, however, is certain. If the New is to come into existence and the Old is to disappear, two great things must combine,—a world-kindling ethical idea, and a social influence which is powerful enough to lift the depressed masses a great step forward. Sober reason, artificial systems, cannot do this. The victory over disintegrating egoism and the deadly chilliness of the heart will only be won by a great Ideal, which appears amongst the wondering peoples as a “stranger from another world,” and by demanding the impossible unhinges the reality!
“‘Often already has an epoch of materialism been but the stillness before the storm, which was to burst forth from unknown gulfs, and give a new shape to the world.... The social question stirs all Europe, a question on whose wide domain all the revolutionary elements of science, of religion, and of politics seem to have found the battleground for a great and decisive contest. Whether this battle remains a bloodless conflict of minds, or whether, like an earthquake, it throws down the ruins of a past epoch with thunder into the dust, and buries millions beneath the wreck, certain it is that the new epoch will not conquer unless it be under the banner of a great idea, which sweeps away egoism, and sets human perfection in human fellowship as a new aim, in place of restless toil, which looks only to personal gain.’
“That banner of a great idea,” said Mr. Clare, “should it not bear the figure of the seventh angel, the sounding of whose trumpet was followed by great voices in heaven, saying ‘The kingdom of the world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ; and He shall reign for ever and ever!’ Gentlemen, do you ask a stronger lever whereby to move the masses?”
There was a pause, then the High-Churchman said slowly, “You are an enthusiast, Mr. Clare, and enthusiasm is an exceedingly valuable quality when used on the right side. But, though, of course, you are not conscious of it, you talk very like a demagogue. One would wish, and we of the clergy give our lives, that all should be brought into the fold; but not for the sake of the loaves and fishes.”
“Does sheep ate fish?” asked Father McClosky with a look of inquiring innocence; but Mr. Clare frowned him into silence, and answered quickly,—
“The crying defect—perhaps I should say the worst heresy—of our day is, that it divides Christ. He is, we are told, perfect man and perfect God; but in practice we clergy, and Christians generally, represent Him as God only, leaving the beauty of His manhood, the religion of humanity, to those who deny His Godhead.”
“I don’t think I quite understand you,” said the High-Churchman.
“If you find a family starving,” said Mr. Clare, “you, as a man, relieve them to the extent of your last penny, and call upon your congregation to help. It is true that you do this because He says, ‘Inasmuch as ye do it unto these, ye do it unto me;’ but if the poor people themselves ask, ‘Why does God let us suffer when there is so much wealth in the world, and He is Almighty?’ you reply, ‘My dear friends, we must not dispute God’s decrees. He makes some men rich and others poor, and He doth all things well. But He feeds all with the bread of heaven who call upon Him, and when you come to that land where we shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, He shall wipe away all tears from off all faces.’”
The High-Churchman laughed good-humoredly. “In that connection it sounds very like a satire, or would, to the starving family,” he said. “But it is sound doctrine for all that, Mr. Clare.”
“It has saved the world for nearly nineteen centuries,” said Mr. Clare. “Yet the inevitable deduction of the starving family would be, either that God understood nothing of human needs and desires, or that, however good His meaning and intentions, His power was limited.”
“But things of earth are as dust to Him,” said the rector of St. Andrew’s. “It is the things of heaven that are permanent and real. What will be to us a little more or less hunger or sorrow or cold or nakedness, when we awake up satisfied, after His likeness?”
Mr. Clare regarded the speaker with a glance of reverent tenderness. “Most true,” he said gently, “and therefore you never give to any temporal needs?”
“You’ve got him there,” said the evangelist. “Well, I see what you mean, Mr. Clare, but I don’t see what you are going to do about it. Now, I, for one, don’t think Socialism a practicable thing; I may wish it was, but I think it ain’t; so do you expect me to preach a kingdom that I don’t believe would run two months?”
“People said that our present form of government was impracticable,” replied Mr. Clare, “and there were many prophecies as to the length of time it would last.”
“Prophecies which you want to fulfil?”
“By no means. Sudden and sweeping changes are exactly what I deprecate; but when a form of government has once taken root, I don’t see any objection to its bearing leaf, flower, and fruit. I hope we shall always have a United States and a President thereof; though I might wish for a few more amendments to the Constitution.”
“All right,” said the evangelist. “Which am I to preach about first?”
“Whichever you most strongly believe to be right and just. For instance, take the trusts and syndicates; do you believe they are pleasing to your King and mine?”
“Well, you know, trusts—why, you can’t have progress without the freedom of the individual; and the freedom of the individual sometimes leads to some other individual being robbed and murdered.”
“That’s all the answer I want,” said Mr. Clare, laughing. “Well, then, our railroads and telegraph lines,—are they managed as they would be by a company of angels?”
“There are angels and angels,” said the evangelist.
“Are the profits arising from manufactures, etc., equitably divided between labor and capital?”
“That depends on your notion of equity, and who does the dividing.”
“Then it seems to me,” said Mr. Clare, “that you have a very fair collection of subjects for sermons on hand, in all of which our Lord Jesus, both as a man and as King of the whole earth, takes a deep and practical interest.”
“But,” said the High-Churchman, “I might preach such things, Mr. Clare, for I have no wife and children dependent on me; and, as for our friends here,”—he indicated the evangelist and the lecturer,—“the multitudes would flock to hear them. But there is many a poor preacher would starve if he acted as you would have him; for, remember, the laity hold the purse-strings.”
“Let him starve, then, in God’s name,” said Mr. Clare passionately; “have we not just heard how the things of earth are as dust beside the things of heaven? And if the first kingdom has its martyrs, shall not also the second? But I do not believe,” he went on more quietly, “that such a course, whatever loss or want it might entail, whatever sacrifices of one’s own personal likings and idiosyncrasies, would involve absolute starvation. The money is not all in the pockets of the capitalists as yet, and a man who lost one pulpit would find another, poorer, perhaps, but more powerful. Besides, what I want—the only thing of real use—is not a sermon here or there, but a general advance all along the line; a proclamation by the divines of every shade of opinion that God Almighty takes an interest in politics.”
“It would be an evangelical alliance worth having,” said the High-Churchman.
“It would be a power,” said Mr. Clare.
“The clerical vote, if it were solid, would be worth buying up,” said the lecturer. And the evangelist added, “But what steps would you take to organize your new alliance, and what would you call it?”
“Oh! don’t accuse me of trying to found a party,” said Mr. Clare. “I have no idea of the kind, I assure you; neither party nor partisans. My party is ‘all those who love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity;’ my emblem is the Cross; and the counter-sign, ‘Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’”
“I’m glad you don’t want to wave the red flag,” said the lecturer; “the old Stars and Stripes are good enough for me.”
“Long may they wave,” said Mr. Clare. “No. I don’t feel drawn towards the red flag; it is too distinctive, and would be a beacon rather than a standard to most people. If I were to change my colors at all,” he went on, smiling, “though I hope never to do so, I should adopt these.”
He took up a china flower-pot, very prettily decorated by Annie Rolf’s own hand, wherein were growing large, richly colored purple and gold pansies.
“The gold of love and the purple of self-devotion—of martyrdom at need,” he said.
“‘The language of flowers I know not,
But pansies speak to me
Of hope for earth-born toilers,
In time and eternity.’
Gentlemen, will you wear my heart’s-ease?”
The words were simple, but the tone was full of meaning. Instinctively all felt that the climax of the evening had been reached, the closing word been spoken; and each one, silently accepting a blossom and exchanging a cordial pressure with the hand that bestowed it, with only a murmured “Good-night,” left the room. Not the least cordial pressure was that which came from the hand of Pastor Schaefer.