“It war tole ter me,” said an elderly man, who was seated in a rush-bottomed chair outside the door, and who, although a visitor, bore a lance in this domestic controversy with much freedom and spirit, “ez how ye hed done got religion up hyar ter the Baptis’ meetin’-house the last revival ez we hed. An’ I s’posed it war the truth.”
“I war convicted,” replied the young fellow, ambiguously, still leaning lazily on his rifle. He was a striking figure, remarkable for a massive proportion and muscular development, and yet not lacking the lithe, elastic curves characteristic of first youth. A dilapidated old hat crowned a shock of yellow hair, a sunburned face, far-seeing gray eyes, and an expression of impenetrable calm. His butternut suit was in consonance with the prominent ribs of his horse, the poverty-stricken aspect of the place, and the sterile soil of a forlorn turnip patch which embellished the slope to the water’s edge.
“Convicted!” exclaimed his mother, scornfully. “An’ sech goin’s-on sence! Mark never hed no religion to start with.”
“What did ye see when ye war convicted?” demanded the inquisitive guest, who spoke upon the subject of religion with the authority and asperity of an expert.
“I never seen nuthin’ much.” Mark Yates admitted the fact reluctantly.
“Then ye never hed no religion,” retorted Joel Ruggles. “I knows, ’kase I hev hed a power o’ visions. I hev viewed heaven an’ hung over hell.” He solemnly paused to accent the effect of this stupendous revelation.
There had lately come a new element into the simple life of the gorge,—a force infinitely more subtle than that potency of steam which was wont to flash across the railroad bridge; of further reaching influences than the wide divergences of the civilization it spread in its swift flight. Naught could resist this force of practical religion applied to the workings of daily life. The new preacher that at infrequent intervals visited this retired nook had wrought changes in the methods of the former incumbent, who had long ago fallen into the listless apathy of old age, and now was dead. His successor came like a whirlwind, sweeping the chaff before him—a humble man, ignorant, poor in this world’s goods, and of meager physical strength. It was in vain that the irreverent sought to bring ridicule upon him, that he was called a “skimpy saint” in reference to his low stature, “the widow’s mite,” a sly jest at the hero-worship of certain elderly relicts in his congregation, a “two-by-four text” to illustrate his slim proportions. He was armed with the strength of righteousness, and it sufficed.
It was much resented at first that he carried his spiritual supervision into the personal affairs of those of his charge, and required that they should make these conform to their outward profession. And thus old feuds must needs be patched up, old enemies forgiven, restitution made, and the kingdom set in order as behooves the domain of a Prince of Peace. The young people especially were greatly stirred, and Mark Yates, who had never hitherto thought much of such subjects, had experienced an awakening of moral resolve, and had even appeared one day at the mourners’ bench.
Thus he had once gone up to be prayed for, “convicted of sin,” as the phrase goes in those secluded regions. But the sermons were few, for the intervals were long between the visitations of the little preacher, and Mark’s conscience had not learned the art of holding forth with persistence and pertinence, which spiritual eloquence (not always welcome) is soon acquired by a receptive, sensitive temperament. Mark was cheerful, light-hearted, imaginative, adaptable. The traits of the wilder, ruder element of the district, the hardy courage, the physical prowess, the adventurous escapades appealed to his sense of the picturesque as no merit of the dull domestic boor, content with the meager agricultural routine, tamed by the endless struggle with work and unalterable poverty, could stir him. He had no interest in defying the law and shared none of the profits, but the hair-breadth escapes of certain illicit distillers hard by, their perpetual jeopardy, the ingenuity of their wily devices to evade discovery by the revenue officers and yet supply all the contiguous region, the cogency of their arguments as to the injustice of the taxation that bore so heavily upon the small manufacturer, their moral posture of resisting and outwitting oppression—all furnished abundant interest to a mind alert, capable, and otherwise unoccupied.
Not so blunt were his moral perceptions, however, that he did not secretly wince when old Joel Ruggles, after meditating silently, chewing his quid of tobacco, reverted from the detail of the supposed spiritual wonders, which in his ignorance he fancied he had seen, to the matter in hand: