The text was suited to the hymn. At first the preacher labored perceptibly, and the attention of the audience slackened. The disappointment was great. Near Major Gordon sat a pompous, self-satisfied looking man, occupying a corner of the bench, who was notorious for his noise in meeting, his sharp bargains out of it, and his opposition to all new preachers. He had publicly declared he would not like this one, and now, after listening awhile, he quietly leaned his head back, covered his shining bald pate and face with a bandanna handkerchief to keep off the flies, and surrendered himself to sleep. But as the preacher warmed in his discourse, the opinion of the congregation began to change. The orator, though what is called illiterate, was evidently deeply read in the Bible; and no man can be that, yet remain really ignorant; for he will know the human heart, if he knows nothing else, and will have at his command the most sublime imagery in all ancient or modern poetry. The preacher soon showed that he was also terribly in earnest. Heaven and hell, God and Satan, were awful realities in his eyes; and he labored to impress them as such on his hearers. He described a conscience-struck sinner, seeking to flee from the wrath to come; and described him with a glow of language and a fervor of eloquence which went directly to the heart. Cries of “Amen!” became frequent in the congregation. Even the comfortable old sleeper, disturbed in his slumbers, began to respond occasionally also, though still retaining the bandanna over his face, and making a vigorous effort to doze on. But now the warnings of the orator became more earnest than ever. The conflagration of the preceding day was introduced. “Where will the sinner be,” he cried, “when, at the last judgment, the whole world will be wrapt in flame? No providential rain will then put out the fire of an angry God.” The effect was electric. The women sobbed aloud, and some even shrieked. “If eloquence means the adaptation of style to an audience,” reasoned Major Gordon, “this man is a Christian Demosthenes.” Even the captious sleeper could endure it no longer, but, half starting to his feet, he snatched the handkerchief from his face, and shouted stentoriously, “Amen!”
Towards the close, the sermon became a fervid appeal, in which the most majestic Bible imagery was employed with startling power. Tears rolled down the speaker’s face, while emotion often choked his utterance. The effect, when the preacher sat down, was evidently deep. For some minutes not a listener stirred. Even the noisy critic was now melted into heartfelt and silent emotion. Indeed, it was only when the minister, apparently too exhausted to conclude the services, leaned over the pulpit, requesting the well-known patriarch of the neighborhood to conclude with prayer, that the spell seemed even partially dissolved. Then, for an instant or two, there were deep drawn breaths, as of relief, and a slight movement through the audience, as of persons shifting from uncomfortable postures.
The prayer of Uncle Lawrence was simple, but fervent, and while Major Gordon listened to it, he could not help saying to himself, “this is the religion of the primitive Christians.”
A doxology and benediction concluded the services, after which the congregation streamed out, the boys snatching their hats before the blessing was over, and rushing from the church, pell-mell.
Major Gordon lingered behind, not wishing to be jostled in the crowd, so that, when he reached the doorway, the Aylesfords were just driving off with the preacher, whom they were entertaining as was the patriarchal custom of Sweetwater. He remained a few moments, watching the congregation disperse. Here a good dame was climbing into a rude vehicle, there a small farmer was untying his plough-horse from a tree; here a group of damsels were glancing aside at the young men, and there the young men were sheepishly returning the glances. Finally, Major Gordon, mounting his horse, and bowing to the crowd, rode off.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE MEETING
My bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to human love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up. —Shakespeare.
In this
You satisfy your anger and revenge;
Suppose this, it will not
Repair your loss; and there was never yet
But shame and scandal in a victory,
When, rebels unto reason, passion fought it. —Massinger.
The next morning Major Gordon was early in the saddle. Like a brave man and a soldier, he resolved to see Kate at once, and know his fate.
But he was destined to meet with a disappointment. He had ridden about half a mile, when he was startled from a revery, in which she took a leading part, by the soft sound of hoofs advancing through the same path. He looked up, and recognized Kate’s cousin.