A REVIVAL IN FROGTOWN.
There was quite an excitement in Frogtown. The Rev. Eliphalet Notext, “The Great Revivalist, who had made more converts than any other man in England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, the United States and Territories, and the British Provinces of North America,” was to “open a three weeks’ campaign” in the town.
Now, Frogtown prided itself on being the wickedest little town in the West. Its inhabitants claimed for it the enviable distinction of being “the fastest little village of its size in the United States”—a weakness common to most small towns. This pride in vice is a widespread weakness. The lean and slippered pantaloon will wag his fallen chaps and give evident signs of pleasant titillation when some shank-shrunken contemporary tells “what a rascal the dog was in his youth.”
Well, the Frogtowners flattered themselves that Brother Notext would find their burgh a very hard nut to crack. Brother Notext was not a theologian. He was not a scholar. He was not a preacher. In truth, he was almost illiterate. But he understood the “business” of getting up revivals. He knew how to create a sensation. He could, at least, achieve a success of curiosity, as the French say.
He began with the newspapers, of course. He contrived to have them say something about him and his “work” in every issue. He was not particular whether what they said of him was favorable or unfavorable. Indeed, he rather preferred that some of them should abuse him roundly. Abuse sometimes helped him more than praise. It made some people his friends through a spirit of contradiction. It appealed to the pugnacious instincts of some “professors of religion.” It enabled him to hint that the inimical editors were papal myrmidons, Jesuit emissaries, etc., etc.
The Rev. Eliphalet was really an excellent organizer. He had been originally the business manager of a circus. His advertisements, his posters, his hand-bills, in his old occupation, were prepared with all the gorgeous imagery of the East. He did not forget his old tactics in his new profession. Immediately on his arrival in Frogtown he grappled the newspapers. He begged, bullied, or badgered the editors until they noticed him. He set the Christian Juveniles and the kindred societies to work, with whom, of course, there was no difficulty. In a couple of days he succeeded in drawing around him the clergymen of every denomination, except the Episcopalian and Unitarian. Some of these, however, went much against their will. The Episcopalian minister—a gentle, amiable man—was very loath at first; but the pressure brought to bear upon him was too strong. He finally succumbed and joined in what was called a Union Christian Meeting of all the Protestant congregations. This important point achieved, Mr. Notext had three of the “best workers” in each congregation selected. These he sent among the people to raise the sinews of war, without which no campaign, whether sacred or profane, can be conducted to a successful issue. Mr. Notext’s terms were reasonable—only three hundred dollars a week and found. A man must live; and when a man works hard—as Mr. Notext undoubtedly did—he must live well, or he cannot stand the strain on his physical and mental strength. Then, there were blank weeks when he had no revival in hand, and probably a hotel bill to pay. Taking these things into consideration, any reasonable person will allow that three hundred dollars a week and found was not an exorbitant price.
Mr. Notext had a large tent which the profane said had been formerly used in his old business. It was pitched in a vacant lot within the city limits, and could accommodate about fifteen hundred persons. Mr. Notext prevailed on the clergymen who united with him to close their churches on the first Sunday of his revival. On the previous Friday he gathered around him a number of male and female enthusiasts. Accompanied by these people, organized in squads and led by the regular revival practitioners who did what is profanely termed the “side-show” business in all Mr. Notext’s tours, he sang hymns in front of every drinking-saloon in the town. The instrumental accompaniment to the singing was furnished by a melodeon, which was carried about in a one-horse cart.
On Sunday the union meetings began, and, notwithstanding a heavy rain, the tent was full. A large platform had been erected inside, and near the door was a table on which were exposed for sale a great variety of contributions to religious literature, all by one author, who had evidently tried every string of the religious lyre. There were collections of hymns by the Rev. Mr. Notext; tracts by the Rev. Mr. Notext; sermons by the Rev. Mr. Notext; tales for the young by the Rev. Mr. Notext; appeals to the old by the Rev. Mr. Notext; reasons for the middle-aged by the Rev. Mr. Notext, etc., etc. There were photographs, in every style, of the Rev. Mr. Notext, as well as likenesses of remarkable converts who had been remarkable rascals until they “got religion” through the efforts of the Rev. Mr. Notext.
On the platform were seated the shepherds of most of the flocks in Frogtown. Some among them, it is true, did not seem quite at home in that situation, but they had to be there. In the centre of the platform was an organ, which furnished the instrumental music. On each side of the organ seats were arranged for a volunteer choir. Fully half those present were children.
The Rev. Eliphalet Notext was introduced to the audience by the minister of the Methodist church. The revivalist was a stout, fair-haired, fresh-colored, rather pleasant-looking man, inclined to corpulency, evidently not an ascetic, and gifted with no inconsiderable share of physical energy and magnetism.
“I wish all persons who can sing to come on the platform and occupy the seats to the right and left of the organ,” he began.
No movement was made in response to this call. It was repeated with a better result. A dozen young ladies summoned up enough courage to mount the platform.
“This will never do!” cried Mr. Notext. “I want every person present who can sing right here on this stand. We can’t get along without music and plenty of it.”
“Brethren,” he continued, turning toward the clergymen on the platform, “you know the singers in your congregations; go among them and send them up here. Everybody must put his shoulder to the wheel in the great work of bringing souls to Jesus.”
The brethren meekly did as they were bid. They soon succeeded in filling the seats reserved for the singers. These numbered about one hundred.
“That’s more like it,” said Mr. Notext approvingly. “Now, my friends, we will begin by singing a hymn. I want everybody to join in.” (A nod to the organist, who began to play.)
The singing was rather timid at first, but, led by Mr. Notext, the singers rapidly gained confidence, and soon rolled forth in full chorus. Having fairly launched them, their leader, after the first verse, left them to take care of themselves. The singing was really good. The rich volume of harmony drowned the commonplace melody and the vulgar words. Thus Brother Notext was successful in the production of his first effect. It was evident that he depended much on the singing. There is nothing like a grand mass of choral music to excite the sensibilities. After two or three hymns, the revivalist had his audience in a highly emotional condition. “I want all the children together in front!” shouted Mr. Notext. “Adults [the accent on the first syllable] will retire to the back seats. Don’t stop the music! Keep up the singing! Go on! go on!” Then he ran to the organ, whispered something to the organist, and led off with
“Oh! you must be a lover of the Lord,
Or you won’t go to heaven when you die,”
leaving the singers to sing it out for themselves after the first two or three lines.
It took some time to get all the children to the front. If the music flagged, Mr. Notext shouted to the singers to “keep it up.” From time to time he would rush to the organ, pick up a hymn-book in a frantic manner, and lead off with a new hymn, waving his hands in cadence, but, with a due regard for his lungs, not singing a note more than was absolutely necessary to start the other singers afresh.
The fathers and mothers of the little ones, softened by the music, looked with moistened eyes on their children as the latter took their seats. The American people are very fond of children when they are old enough to walk and talk and be interesting. Mr. Notext was alive to this fact. Even the worst criminal or the most cynical man of the world cannot help being touched while music charms his ears and his eyes look on the beautiful spectacle of childish innocence. Mr. Notext evidently knew the more amiable weaknesses of human nature. He appealed to the senses and the affections, and won over the fathers and mothers through the children.
“Now, my little friends,” said Mr. Notext, “I wish you all to keep perfectly silent while I am talking to you. This first meeting is especially for you.”
There was considerable buzzing among the little ones.
“I must have silence, if I am to do anything with these children,” said Mr. Notext rather testily, and in a tone which showed that he would not scruple to apply the birch to his little friends if they did not keep quiet. “The slightest noise distracts their attention. There are some boys to the right there who are still talking! I wish some one would stop them.”
A softly-stepping gentleman with long hair and green goggles went to the designated group, remonstrated with, and finally succeeded in silencing, them. Then Mr. Notext began his sermon to the children. He told the story of the Passion in a manner which, though it inexpressibly shocked Christians of the old-fashioned kind who happened to be present, was exceedingly dramatic—“realistic” in the highest degree, to borrow a word from the modern play-bill. Suddenly he broke off and said rather excitedly:
“There is a boy on the fourth bench who persists in talking. I must have absolute silence, or I cannot hold the attention of these children. The slightest noise distracts them and takes their minds away from the picture I am endeavoring to present to them. It is that red-haired boy! Will somebody please to take him away?” Several pious gentlemen bore down on the poor little red-haired urchin, and all chance of “getting religion” was taken away from him for the nonce by his summary removal. When silence was restored, Mr. Notext resumed the story. When describing how the divine Victim was buffeted and spat upon, he administered to himself sounding slaps on the face, now with the left hand, now with the right. He placed an imaginary crown of thorns on his head, pressed the sharp points into his forehead, and, passing the open fingers of both hands over his closed eyes and down his face, traced the streams of blood trickling from the cruel wounds. Tears already rolled down the cheeks of the little ones. When he reached the nailing to the cross, he produced a large spike, exhibited it to the children, and went through the semblance of driving it into his flesh. An outburst of sobs interrupted him. Some of the children screamed in very terror. The desired effect was produced. Many fathers and mothers, touched by the emotion and terror of their children, wept in sympathy with them.
“Now the music!” shouted Mr. Notext, stamping with impatience, as if he wanted a tardy patient to swallow a Sedlitz-powder in the proper moment of effervescence. “Now the music!” And he led off with
“Oh! you must be a lover of the Lord,
Or you won’t go to heaven when you die!”
He shouted to the “workers” to go among the people and ask them to “come to Jesus.” A crowd of “workers,” some professional, some enthusiastic volunteers, broke loose upon the audience. They seized people by the hands. They embraced them. They inquired: “How do you feel now? Do you not feel that Jesus is calling you?” They begged them to come to Jesus at once. They asked them if they were “Ker-istians.”
One of the workers met two gentlemen who entered together and were evidently present through curiosity. Of the first, who seemed to be a cool, keen, self-poised business man, the worker asked the stereotyped question:
“Are you a Ker-istian?”
“Of course, of course,” said the self-possessed business man.
The worker passed on, perfectly satisfied with the off-hand declaration. He repeated the question to the gentleman’s companion, who, possessed of less assurance, hesitated and humbly replied:
“I trust so.”
The worker immediately grappled the sensitive gentleman, much to his mortification, and it was some time before he succeeded in effecting his escape, regretting, doubtless, that he had not made as prompt and satisfactory a profession of faith as that of his companion.
The “inquiry meeting,” as the exercises toward the close were named, was continued until late in the afternoon. When the children were dismissed, they were instructed to beg their parents to come to Jesus—to entreat them, with tears if necessary, until they consented. A Presbyterian gentleman of the old school, describing his sensations after the meeting was over, said:
“I cannot deny that I was affected. I felt tears coming to my eyes—why, I could not tell. The effect, however, was entirely physical. My reason had nothing to do with it. It condemned the whole thing as merely calculated to get up an unhealthy excitement, which, even if not injurious, would be fleeting in its effect. I noticed some nervous women almost worked up into spasms. As to the children, they were goaded into a state of nervousness and terror which was pitiable to see. I can only compare my own condition to that of a man who had drunk freely. While the effect lasted I was capable of making a fool of myself, being all the while aware that I was doing so. Sunlight and air have dispelled the intoxication, and now nothing remains but nausea.
“I am disgusted with such claptrap, and ashamed of myself for having been affected by it, however temporarily and slightly.”
The progress made on the first Sunday of the revival was duly chronicled in the newspapers of the day following. It was announced that hundreds of children had been awakened to a sense of their sinful condition. A little girl—four years old—had recognized that she was thoroughly steeped in sin. She had had no idea of the condition of her soul until she was roused to it by Mr. Notext’s preaching. She was now perfectly happy. She had experienced religion. She knew she was forgiven. She had gone to Jesus, and Jesus had come to her. She had sought Mr. Notext’s lodgings, leading her father with one hand and her mother with the other.
Charley Biggs—the well-known drunken alderman—was among the converted. He had “got religion,” and was resolved henceforth to touch the time-honored toddy nevermore.
A belated “local” of one of the newspapers, while returning to his lodgings on the previous evening, had his coat-tail pulled, much to his surprise, by a little girl about six years old.
“Please, sir,” she asked, “do you know Jesus?”
The “local” was struck dumb.
“O sir!” she continued, “won’t you please come to Jesus?”
This was enough. The hard heart-of the “local” was touched. He sobbed, he wept, he cried aloud. He fell upon his knees. The little girl fell on hers. They sang:
“Come to Jesus,
Come to Jesus,
Come to Jesus just now,” etc.
When the “local” rose, after the conclusion of the singing, he took the little girl’s hand and went whither she led him. He, too, had “got religion”—somewhat as one gets a coup de soleil or a stroke of paralysis.
The opposition dailies mildly called attention to the purely emotional character of the effects produced. They expressed their fears that the moral and physical result of factitious excitement on minds of tender years might be the reverse of healthy. The next day the melodeon was carted about again and the singing continued on the sidewalks and in front of the drinking-saloons. Mr. Notext’s machinery was in full blast. The meeting on the second evening was devoted principally to grown people. The tent was full. The choir was strengthened by additional voices, and the music was good of its kind.
After half a dozen hymns had been sung, Mr. Notext began his sermon—by courtesy so-called. He first spoke of the number of persons he had converted at home and abroad. For he had been “abroad,” as he took care to let his audience know. He had been the guest and the favored companion of the Duchess of Skippington, of the Earl of Whitefriars, of Lord This and Lady That, and the Countess of Thingumy. In Scotland and in Ireland immense crowds followed him and “got religion.” He converted three thousand people in a single town in Ireland. Since the meeting on the previous day, many children, and many adults as well, had visited him at his lodgings. Some who came to the tent “to make fun” went away full of religion. He would now let a dear little friend of his tell his own story in his own way.
A red-haired youngster, about thirteen, was introduced to the audience as the nephew of a prominent and well-known official in a neighboring town. (It was afterwards stated, by the way, that the official in question had not a nephew in the world. No doubt the youngster imposed on Mr. Notext.) If ever there were a thoroughly “bad boy,” this youngster was one, or—as may be very possible—his face belied him atrociously. Mr. Notext placed his arm dramatically—affectionately, rather—around the young rogue’s neck, and led him to the front of the platform. The boy looked at the audience with a leer, half-impudent, half-jocular, and then gave his experiences glibly in a very harsh treble:
“When first I heard that Rev. Mr. Notext was going to get up a revival, I joked about it with other boys, and said he couldn’t convert me; and the night of the first meeting I said to the other boys—who were bad boys, too—for us to go along and make fun. And so we did. And I came to laugh at Mr. Notext and to make fun. And somehow—I don’t know how it was—I got religion, and I was converted; and now I am very happy, and I love Mr. Notext, and I am going with him to Smithersville when he gets through here. And I am very happy since I was converted and became a good boy.” (Sensation among the audience, and music by the choir in response to Mr. Notext’s call.)
Another juvenile convert was brought forward. He repeated substantially the same story as his predecessor, though more diffidently. (More music by the choir.)
Mr. Notext now told the affecting story of “little Jimmy.” Little Jimmy was a native of Hindostan. He lived in some town ending in an. There was in that town a missionary school. Jimmy’s master was a very bad man—cruel, tyrannical. He forbade Jimmy to go to the mission-school. But Jimmy went, nevertheless, whenever he could. The master was a true believer in the national religion of Hindostan. He believed that Jimmy would go to perdition if he left his ancestral faith to embrace the national religion—or rather the governmental religion—of Great Britain. Jimmy would return from his visits to the mission-school in a very happy mood, singing as he went:
“Yes, I love Jesus,
Yes, I love Jesus,
I know, I know I do,” etc.
Mr. Notext gave an operatic rendering of the scene of Jimmy going home singing the above words. One day the master heard Jimmy, and was roused to a state of fury. He forbade the boy to sing the song. But Jimmy would sing it (Mr. Notext did not say whether Jimmy sang the hymn in English or Hindostanee). Then the brutal master took an enormous cowhide—or the Hindostanee punitive equivalent thereto—and belabored poor Jimmy. But Jimmy continued to sing, though the tears rolled down his cheeks from pain. And the master flogged; and Jimmy sang. And still the master flogged and flogged. And still Jimmy sang and sang and sang. It was like the famous fight in Arkansas, wherein the combatants “fit and fit and fit.” But there must be an end of everything—even of an Arkansas fight. The struggle lasted for hours. Exhausted nature finally gave way, and poor little Jimmy died under the lash, singing with his last breath:
“Yes, I love Jesus,
Yes, I love Jesus,
I know, I know I do.”
“Now, my friends,” said Mr. Notext, “I want you all to stand up for Jesus and sing poor little Jimmy’s song.” And Mr. Notext led off. The choir followed his example; but the audience remained seated.
“I want to know,” said Mr. Notext rather testily, “how many Christians there are in this assembly. I want every one of them to stand up!”
Several persons now stood up, and gradually the action began to spread, like yawning in a lecture-room. There were still many, however, who had not hearkened to Mr. Notext’s summons to stand up. He called attention to them, and bade some of the brethren go to them and talk them into an erect position. Some of the recalcitrants, evidently to avoid importunity, stood up. The rest also stood up, and hurriedly left the tent, followed by an angry scowl from Mr. Notext. After a little hesitation, he said: “We will now once more sing little Jimmy’s hymn.” And when the hymn was sung, the meeting dispersed.
Next morning the friendly newspapers chronicled the wonderful success of Mr. Notext’s efforts. The number of converts was miraculously large. Two thousand persons had stood up for Jesus. The meetings were continued during the week. The modus operandi was about the same. Mr. Notext repeated himself so often that interest began to languish and his coups de théâtre to grow flat and stale. When he was at a loss for words to continue one of his disjointed discourses, he took refuge in music and hymns.
“Brethren, let us sing:
“Come to Jesus!
Come to Jesus!
Come to Jesus just now,” etc.
When his vulgar and often unintentionally blasphemous exhortations failed to hold the attention of his hearers, and Morpheus was making fight against him in sundry corners of the tent, he would suddenly call in his loudest tones on all present to stand up for Jesus. In cases of very marked inattention, he would summon his hearers, and particularly the children, to write down their names for Jesus in a large book kept for that purpose by the great revivalist. This stroke generally roused the audience pretty thoroughly. But when the children had written their names in the book three or four times, they began to grow tired of the practice, thinking that, if these writing lessons were continued, they might as well be at school.
In the beginning of the second week there were unmistakable signs of impending collapse. The revival received a momentary impulse, however, from the opposition of another “Reverend Doctor,” who challenged Mr. Notext to controversy. This aroused the natural desire to witness a “fight” which lives in the human heart. But the desire was not gratified, owing to Mr. Notext’s refusal to accept the challenge. His failure to exhibit a proper polemical pugnacity was a very great detriment to him. Indeed, the end of the second week showed a marked falling off in the number of persons present at the nightly meetings. Then the sinews of war began to fail. The weekly wage of the great revivalist could not be raised, though he thrice sent back “the best workers” in all the congregations to make additional efforts to raise the stipulated sum.
The Rev. Dr. Notext did not tarry very much longer in Frogtown. He had barely turned his back upon the little town before every trace of the “great tidal wave of the revival” (as the journals called it) had disappeared. The youthful converts had gone back to their peg tops, their kites, and their china alleys, and Alderman Charley Biggs was again taking his whiskey-toddies in the time-honored way.