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The meeting of welcome at the Baptist Church was a
failure. Rain spoiled the barbecue, and thunder turned the
milk in the ice-cream. When the speaking came at night, the
house was crowded to overflowing. The three preachers had
especially prepared themselves, but somehow John's manner
seemed to throw a blanket over everything,--he seemed so
cold and preoccupied, and had so strange an air of restraint
that the Methodist brother could not warm up to his theme
and elicited not a single "Amen"; the Presbyterian prayer
was but feebly responded to, and even the Baptist preacher,
though he wakened faint enthusiasm, got so mixed up in his
favorite sentence that he had to close it by stopping fully
fifteen minutes sooner than he meant. The people moved
uneasily in their seats as John rose to reply. He spoke slowly
and methodically. The age, he said, demanded new ideas; we
were far different from those men of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries,--with broader ideas of human brotherhood
and destiny. Then he spoke of the rise of charity and
popular education, and particularly of the spread of wealth
and work. The question was, then, he added reflectively,
looking at the low discolored ceiling, what part the Negroes of
this land would take in the striving of the new century. He
sketched in vague outline the new Industrial School that
might rise among these pines, he spoke in detail of the
charitable and philanthropic work that might be organized, of
money that might be saved for banks and business. Finally he
urged unity, and deprecated especially religious and denominational
bickering. "To-day," he said, with a smile, "the
world cares little whether a man be Baptist or Methodist, or
indeed a churchman at all, so long as he is good and true.
What difference does it make whether a man be baptized in
river or washbowl, or not at all? Let's leave all that littleness,
and look higher." Then, thinking of nothing else, he slowly
sat down. A painful hush seized that crowded mass. Little
had they understood of what he said, for he spoke an unknown
tongue, save the last word about baptism; that they
knew, and they sat very still while the clock ticked. Then at
last a low suppressed snarl came from the Amen corner, and
an old bent man arose, walked over the seats, and climbed
straight up into the pulpit. He was wrinkled and black, with
scant gray and tufted hair; his voice and hands shook as with
palsy; but on his face lay the intense rapt look of the religious
fanatic. He seized the Bible with his rough, huge hands;
twice he raised it inarticulate, and then fairly burst into
words, with rude and awful eloquence. He quivered, swayed,
and bent; then rose aloft in perfect majesty, till the people
moaned and wept, wailed and shouted, and a wild shrieking
arose from the corners where all the pent-up feeling of the
hour gathered itself and rushed into the air. John never knew
clearly what the old man said; he only felt himself held up to
scorn and scathing denunciation for trampling on the true
Religion, and he realized with amazement that all unknowingly
he had put rough, rude hands on something this little
world held sacred. He arose silently, and passed out into the
night. Down toward the sea he went, in the fitful starlight,
half conscious of the girl who followed timidly after him.
When at last he stood upon the bluff, he turned to his little
sister and looked upon her sorrowfully, remembering with
sudden pain how little thought he had given her. He put his
arm about her and let her passion of tears spend itself on his
shoulder.
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