“I hesitate to reprove those who are inattentive and noisy. I will tell you why. Some years since, as I was preaching, a young man sat before me who was constantly laughing and making queer faces. It annoyed me very much, and I gave him a very severe rebuke. After the close of the services a gentleman said to one, ‘Sir, you made a great mistake; that young man is an idiot.’ Since that time I always hesitate to reprove those who misbehave in church, lest I should again find myself in the error of rebuking an idiot.” There was order during the rest of the service.
IT WOULDN’T WORK
Lazily sauntering along on the gay boardwalk, enjoying the stiff salt breeze and paying due attention to the merry throng always passing up and down, my attention was called to a certain rolling chair whose occupant I thought I knew. Wasn’t that Barney Schmitt? Barney, you must know, keeps one of the very best cafés in existence, up in one of the most flourishing towns in Eastern Pennsylvania. I knew he had been suffering greatly from rheumatism for a year past, but had lost track of him recently and supposed him to be in the doctor’s hands at some Water Cure up in New York State—and here he was, fat and puffy, all covered up with a big steamer rug in a rolling chair. I stopped the chair and said, “Hello, Barney, that you?”
“Yes,” said he, “diss iss me. I vish to Himmel it wass somepody else.”
“Well, how are you? Better I hope?”
Barney shook his head with a rueful countenance. “No, I’m no petter. I’ve tried everything in all greation from a lemon to Gristian Ziance, undt it all does no good.”
“Christian Science? So you tried that, did you? How did it work?”
“Let me tell you,” said the suffering Barney with a smile that might have been mistaken for a wince. “You know I went up to der Wasser-Cure, up dere in New York. I had plasters undt pads all ofer my pody, undt walked mit a pair of grutches. De first evening I got dere, I wass settin’ in der parlor tryin’ hard to keep from hollerin’ mit der pain, undt a woman come up to me—one of dese here Gristian Ziance women, you know, a mighty purty, sweet-faced woman she wass, too—undt she says to me, says she:
“‘Vat iss der matter mit you, Mr. Schmitt?’ Undt I toldt her apoudt my rheumatism, undt den she says:
“‘Mr. Schmitt, dere iss nodings der matter mit you. You only think dere iss. It iss all in your mindt. It issn’t in your pody. Your pody can’t feel noding. It iss your mindt vat feels. Your rheumatism iss all in your mindt. All you have got to do iss to get your mindt changed, you see, undt you vill be all right.