Mr. Clare now prayed and preached in the hall every Sunday night, and all the Emperor’s power was insufficient to prevent him, since the president and a majority of the board of managers were on the side of peace and order. The Herr Pastor meanwhile seemed to have picked up the other’s cast-off mantle; for he came out strongly in favor of Communism, which he found plenty of texts to justify, failing not to lay great stress on the sudden deaths of Ananias and Sapphira, the first renegades from that early Commune. And though he duly ascribed these to the hand of God, and even quoted “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,” it was a material vengeance, which his hearers were quite able to appreciate, and, if need were, to imitate; therefore, it filled the church, and largely increased the pastor’s popularity.
Mr. Clare, however he might feel at having his own artillery thus turned against him,—or, rather, against the banner of the Prince of Peace,—gave no sign to the world; and, while he watched intently for an opportunity to conciliate his opponents, exhorted his followers to peace, with such words as “Love your enemies,” “Render unto Cæsar the things that be Cæsar’s,” and “The powers that be are ordained of God,” therefore their power can only be restricted or withdrawn by methods which are according to God’s will. And as His will is our individual sanctification, anything, any political measure,—such as bribery, conspiracy, or violence,—which tends to make individuals worse men rather than better, is not according to that will, and in the long-run is destructive of the very ends which it is supposed to promote.
There were not wanting instances from history to support this view, of which perhaps the strongest, next to the abolition of slavery in America, was the first, contrasted with the second, expulsion of the Stuarts from the throne of England. For he showed that, great as was Cromwell, and thorough as has been the victory in our times of the principles which he espoused, his mistaken method of advocating them, while it won a brief victory, secured as speedy a reverse. The beheading of Charles I. contained in itself the seed of the Restoration; but in 1688 the people had learned wisdom. The Seven Bishops unwittingly inaugurated a bloodless revolution when they preached, by word and example, the doctrine of passive resistance; and the dynasty then installed still holds possession of the English throne. “It is a great mistake in statecraft,” he ended, “to give a bad cause the advantage of a martyr.”
But it may be readily imagined that to men blinded by anger, and quivering from personal wrongs, such doctrines as these were eminently unpalatable. Even Father McClosky, though in public he stood by his friend stanchly, shook his head in private over the reference to James II., who was, he said, “a true son of the Church.”
Mr. Clare, however, admitted this point so immediately that the Father finally compromised upon the assurance—given and received by himself—that “many a big fool was in the bosom of Holy Church; but, sure, he’d be a bigger fool entirely if he wasn’t!”
One pleasant incident had broken the strain and stress of these days of trial. For more than forty-eight hours Micklegard had been cut off from the outside world. The railways were under water, the telegraph lines were down; the gas and water works were flooded; not a drop of milk was to be had, and a famine was threatened; but by prompt industry the last calamity was averted; and when a train at last rolled into the city, supplies had been gathered from “over the hills and far away,” to meet the demands, not only of home consumption, but also of the just arrived extra mouths.
The food question was naturally the all-important one at “Prices,” and in Miss Sally’s department, and was undergoing a thorough though informal discussion in that lady’s little sitting-room on the day of the arrival of the beforementioned train. The baby, whom Mr. Clare had rescued and Louis had brought home, contributed very decidedly to the informality of the proceedings, since he lay, peaceful and happy, upon the wide, calico-covered lounge, while Miss Sally, with the devoted air of a troubadour serenading his lady, ground out, from a very small, round music-box, held close at his ear, the mournful strains of “Home, sweet home!”
Nobody seemed to consider the situation at all a comical one. Karl Metzerott occupied his favorite position on the side of the table, and Polly was almost hidden by the huge account-book wherefrom she was reading the receipts and expenditures of the last week.
“The thing of it is, we’ve fed half of South Micklegard without charging a cent,” she concluded, “so, of course, we’ve lost by it considerable already, and the question is, how much longer we can keep the thing up.”
“You can’t let people starve,” said Miss Sally, looking round from her music.