 Part 3, Chapter 6 of Rubble and Rose Leaves and Things of that Kind. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lawrence Trask, Mount Vernon, Ohio. 1 What do you say to a day or two together at the nuggets? asked John Broadbanks one summer's evening. I was just returning from a long round of visitation among the outlying farms, and, driving into Mosgile in the dusk, met him on his way home to Silverstream. We reigned up for a moment to exchange greetings, and he made the suggestion I have just recorded. The prospect was certainly very alluring. We had neither of us been away for some time. There is no wilder or more romantic bit of scenery on the New Zealand coast, and a visit to the stately old lighthouse, birched on its rugged and precipitous cliffs, was always a delightful and bracing experience. We will drive down, he continued, seeing my hesitation that any resistance on my part would be extremely feeble. Sidwell of Baclutha has often urged us to spend a night at his mats. We will break our journey there. We can slip our guns into the spring cart, and the driving and the shooting will be half of the fun of the frolic, and we may have time to explore the coast a bit. I should like to see the reef on which the queen of the Amazons was wrecked last week, and if we are lucky enough to strike a low tide, we may be able to scramble on board. Are you on? He found me very pliable, as on such occasions he usually did, and we spent a memorable week together. On the Sunday there being no service at the nuggets, we walked along the wet sands to Port Molenew, and joined a little group of settlers who met for worship in the schoolhouse. We rested on the beach during the afternoon, and in the evening set out to walk to the lighthouse. It was a glorious moonlight night. We could see the rabbits scurrying across the road half a mile ahead. When we reached the crest of that bold promontory on the extremity of which the lighthouse stands, we found ourselves surveying a new stretch of coast. The cliffs at our feet were almost perpendicular, and far below us the wild waves breaking madly over her lay all that was left of the queen of the Amazons. We spread out a coat on the edge of the cliff, and sat for some time in silent contemplation of this weird and romantic spectacle. Well, I said at least, and how did you enjoy the service this morning? The moon was shining full upon his face, and I could see at a glance he was reluctant to reply. I was afraid you would ask me that, he said at length. Well, frankly, I was disappointed. It may have been because I was in a holiday mood, or perhaps our long walk on such a lovely morning had unfitted me for thinking on the sadder side of things. But however that may be, I found the service depressing. It checked the gaiety of my spirit, and deadened the acceleration which I took to it. I went in singing, I came out sighing. I felt somehow that the preaching was mostly pie-crust. Obviously the fellow was not well, and he allowed his dyspepsia to darken his doctrine. Indigestion was never intended to be an infectious disease. But he made it so by sending us all away suffering from the after-effects of his unwholesome breakfast. I usually jot down a preacher's heads or divisions, but I didn't trouble to make a note of his. It was, firstly, pie-crust, and secondly, pie-crust, and thirdly, pie-crust, and pie-crust all the way through. John was not usually a caustic critic. He saw the best in most of us and magnified it. His outburst that night on the cliff was, therefore, the more startling and the more memorable. I had quite forgotten what the preacher said at Port Mollinieu in the morning, but as long as I live I shall remember what John said as we sat in the silvery moonlight that summer's evening, looking down at the great ship being torn to pieces by the waves on the cruel reef just below. Two. Why, bless me, I heard a man exclaim yesterday in the course of an animated discussion at the street corner. If things go on like this I shan't have a soul to call my own, as though any man had. No man living has a soul to call his own, or a stomach to call his own. The preacher at Port Mollinieu assumed, as he sat at breakfast, that his digestive organs were his own property, and Port John Broadbanks and I, as well as all the other members of the Schoolhouse congregation, were penalized in consequence. Carlisle used to argue, more or less seriously, that the whole course of human history has been repeatedly deflected by blunders of this kind. The world has never known a more decisive battle than the battle of Waterloo, but why did the Duke of Wellington win it? All authorities agree that Napoleon was the greater general. Lord Roberts declares that the schemes of Napoleon were more comprehensive, his genius more dazzling, and his imagination more vivid than Wellington's. Yet on that fateful day that decided the destinies of Europe, Napoleon descended to absolute mediocrity, while Wellington rose to surpassing brilliance. The Emperor was never so agitated, the Duke was never so calm. Napoleon, with all the chances in his favor, perpetrated blunder after blunder. The Duke seemed omniscient and infallible. Why? Carlisle used to say that Napoleon threw his brain out of action by eating a hearty breakfast of fried potatoes. In one respect, at any rate, Carlisle knew what he was talking about. As a student, he says, I discovered that I was the owner of a diabolical arrangement called a stomach, and I have never been free from the knowledge that from that hour to this, and I suppose I shall never until I am laid away in the grave, warned, however, by the melancholy fate which he believed Napoleon to have suffered, he guarded against any overflow of his distress. His readers rarely suffer from the after-effects of his indiscreet breakfasts. We read Sardar Resardis, Heroes and Hero Worship, and Past and Present, and never once think of pie crust or of fried potatoes. It is true, I dare say, that all the people in the schoolhouse were not affected as John Broadbanks was. Indeed, I heard next day of one lady who thought the sermon very affecting. It nearly made her cry, she said, and she felt sure that the preacher was not long for this world. I would not on any consideration deprive this excellent creature of her lacrimal felicity, but if her well-meant econiums reached the preacher's ears, I hope he did not take them too seriously. Lots of people are fond of pie crust, but it does not follow that it is good for them. The sort of sermon that would have stimulated the faith of John Broadbanks might not have brought tears to the eyes of the lady who was moved to such a compassionate ecstasy, but it might have been better for her in the long run. John Broadbanks found the pie crust sermon depressing, yet to a certain type of mind few things are more attractive than sadness. We all remember Macaulay's observations on the inordinate popularity of Byron. It is, he says, without a parallel in history. To people who are unacquainted with real calamity, nothing is so dainty and sweet as lovely melancholy, and he goes on to apply this to the pessimism of Byron. People brought pictures of him. They treasured up the smallest relics of him. They learned his poems by heart. They did their best to write like him and to look like him. Many of them practiced in the glass, in the hope of catching the curl of the upper lip and the scowl of the brow which appear in his portraits. The number of hopeful undergraduates and medical students who became things of dark imaginings, on whom the freshness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, and to whom the relief of tears was denied passes all calculation. Clearly this is the lady with the tears, indefinitely multiplied. Now by way of contrast turn for a moment from Byron to Browning. Professor Phelps of Yale says that Browning was too healthy to be popular. He was robust and vigorous and therefore optimistic, but he is slowly winning his way. His star waxes as Byron's wanes. People find sooner or later that they cannot live forever on pie crust. Mr. Chesterson says that the bravest thing about Robert Louis Stevenson is that he never allowed his manuscripts to smell of his medicines. The tortures that wracked his frame never passed down his pen to the paper spread out before him. You read his sprightly and stirring romances. You live for the time being among pirates and smugglers and corsairs. You catch the breath of the hills and the tang of the sea, and it never occurs to you that you are the guest of a man who is terribly ill. You hear him laugh. You never hear him cough. You do not see his sunken eyes, his hectic cheek, his spectral forms supported by a pile of pillows. You reflect with astonishment when you lay aside the book that the story was written by a creature so pitifully frail that on all the earth's broad surface he could only find one outlandish spot, a lonely hilltop in the Pacific in which he could contrive to breathe. By this time we may hope that our preacher at Port Mollinua has read the life of Stevenson. And as he did he must have resolved that, however excruciating his dyspepsia, his congregation at least, shall never be infected by it. I regret now that I did not ask the preacher's name. If only I knew his address I should find pleasure in posting him a copy of the autocrat of the breakfast table. For the autocrat knew something about pie crust. The pie at the boarding-house looked one day particularly attractive, and things happened in consequence. I took more of it than was good for me, says the autocrat, and had an indigestion in consequence. While I was suffering from it I wrote some sadly desponding poems and a theological essay which took a very melancholy view of creation. When I got better I labelled them all, pie crust, and laid them by as scarecrow's and solemn warnings. I have a number of books on my shelves that I should like to label with some such title, but as they have great names on their title pages, Doctors of Divinity, some of them, it wouldn't do. I should have been tempted to mark this passage before posting the book to Port Mollinieu. But the real extraordinary thing about pie crust is that the quality with which it is most frequently taunted is its one redeeming feature, the feature that makes it sublime. Promises, they say, are like pie crust made to be broken. The most beautiful and sacred things in life are made to be broken. Upon all extraordinary things, breakage comes as the climax of disaster. Upon a select few, breakage comes as the climax of destiny. The fountain pen that I hold in my hand, the pen with which, without so much as a change of nib, all my books have been written, will lie broken before me one of these days? It was made, it will be broken, but it was not made to be broken. The enjoyment ends with the breakage. But with those other things, the things of the pie crust class, the enjoyment begins with the breakage. When I was a small boy I indulged in bird-nesting, and I never looked upon a cluster of delicately tinted, prettily specked eggs without feeling that each egg was the most consummate piece of workmanship that I had ever seen. Its shape, its color, and its pattern were alike perfect. Indeed I silenced my conscience as I bore the nest home by amplifying this very argument. If I leave the nest in the tree, I said to myself, these pretty things will all be broken. When the birds are hatched, the eggs will be smashed. They are far too pretty for that. I will take them home and keep them. I am really saving them by stealing them. I now know that I was wrong. My argument was made up of casuistry and special pleading. In reality I destroyed the eggs by preserving them. They were made to be broken, and I cheated destiny by preventing the breakage. I have traveled a good many miles since, but every step of the way I have learned in some new form the same great lesson. And when with reverent footsteps I have climbed the loftiest summits of all, the truth that I first discovered in the English hedgerows has become most radiantly clear. The two greatest events in the history of this planet are the incarnation and the crucifixion. It is Christmas time, and we think with wonder and awe of the mystery of that holy body's making. It is Easter time, and we think with wonder and awe of the mystery of that holy body's breaking. It is communion time. This is my body which is broken for you, he said. And in the making of that body and the breaking of that body, the body that was made to be broken, a lost world has found salvation. End of Part 3, Chapter 6, recording by Lawrence Trask, Mount Vernon, Ohio, interfaceaudio.com. Part 3, Chapter 7, of Rebel and Rose Leaves and Things of That Kind. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. Rebel and Rose Leaves by Frank W. Borum. Balls well that ends well. It was a cruel winter's night. An icy wind was howling across the plain. A glorious fire was blazing in the dining room great, and happily I had no engagements. To add to our felicity, the San Francisco Mail had arrived that morning, bringing our monthly budget of news from home. The letters had, of course, been devoured upon delivery, but the papers and magazines had been laid aside for evening consumption. We had just opened the packages and arranged the journals in order of publication when there came a ring at the front doorbell. We glanced at each other meaningly and at the papers regretfully. All kinds of visions presented themselves. Visions of a garrulous visitor who, with business over, would not go. Visions of a long drive across the plain in the biting wind. Visions of everything but an evening with each other, a roaring fire, and the English mail. As though to rebuke our inhospitable and ungracious thoughts, however, it was only Elsie Hammond. Elsie often dropped in of an evening. She usually brought her fancy work, and in her presence we were perfectly at our ease. Every manse has one or two such visitors. Every red, worked or chatted when Elsie came, just as we should have done if she had not dropped in. Why, Elsie, I exclaimed, as soon as, divested of her hat and cloak, she entered the dining room and took her usual chair. Whatever brings you out on a wild night like this? Well, she replied, I wanted to see you about the young people's missionary union. You remember that they made me secretary last month, and we are arranging for the annual meeting. We have invited Mr. Hereford Johnson of the North Africa Evangelization Society to give an address, and I received his reply this morning. He will be coming out from town by the five-twenty train, and I wonder if you could let him come to the manse to tea, and if needs be, stay the night. I put Elsie at her ease by telling her that she might leave the matter of Mr. Johnson's reception and entertainment entirely in my hands. And then, resuming the pile of papers, we had a royal evening with the English news. The day of the missionary meeting arrived, and as the clock struck five I set out for the station. Quite a number of people were moving in the same direction, among them the Reverend J. M. Maccarro, my Presbyterian neighbor. We walked towards the station together. On the platform, however, he recognized a lady friend from a distance. He moved away to speak to her, and in the bustle of the train's arrival we saw each other no more. I had never met Mr. Johnson, nor had any description of his personal appearance been given me. For some reason I had pictured to myself a tall, cadaverous man in a severe garb, bearing upon him the signs of the ravages wrought by a variety of tropical diseases. And contrary to one's usual experience, a gentleman roughly according with his prognostication stepped from the train and began to look aimlessly about him. Mr. Johnson, I inquired, approaching him. Ah! he replied, and you are from the manse. I admitted the impeachment, and we set off together for home. On the way we chatted about the weather, the place, the crops, the people, the church, the services, and things in general. He was a vivacious conversationalist, and exhibited a remarkably alert and hungry mind. He wanted to know all about everything. And when we discussed my own work, its difficulties, and its encouragements, he showed a genuine interest and a delightful sympathy. We'd invited several of the leading missionary spirits of the congregation to meet him at tea. In order that the conversation at table might be generally enjoyable, I had stored my mind with a fine assortment of questions concerning conditions in Northern Africa, which, like a quiver full of arrows, I intended firing at our guest as opportunity offered. But opportunity did not offer. Mr. Johnson was so interested in the work of the various organizations represented round the table that he made it impossible for us to inquire about his own. Moreover, our visitor chanced to discover that one of our guests had in his home a little boy who was afflicted with blindness. On eliciting this information, Mr. Johnson lapsed into sudden silence and looked, I thought, as though he had been hurt. But after tea, he drew the father of the blind boy aside and explained to him that he himself had but one child, a little girl of ten, and she was similarly afflicted. As he spoke of her, his vivacity vanished and a great depth of tenderness revealed itself. I wondered, but did not care to ask, if the blindness of his child was part of the price that he had been compelled to pay for residence in tropical Africa. After telling us of his little daughter and of the comfort that she was to him, Mr. Johnson looked at his watch. We have nearly an hour, he said, before meeting time. May I peep into your sanctum? I love to glance over a man's books. Rarely have I spent an hour in the study so delightfully. All his enthusiasm awoke again at sight of the shelves. He took down volume after volume, handling each with affectionate reverence, and making each the text of a running comment of a most fascinating character. Amusing anecdotes about the author, an outline of the singular circumstances under which certain of the books were written, illuminating criticisms by eminent authorities, sparkling quotations of out of the way passages, there seemed to be no end to his fund of lively and original observations. But I say, he suddenly ejaculated, that conversation at table was most interesting and valuable. I had no idea that so much excellent work was being done. I have often wondered. But at that moment the mistress of the mence intervened. Excuse me, she said, as she opened the study door. But Mr. MacCaro and another gentleman wished to see you at once in the drawing-room. To the drawing-room I accordingly repaired, and there I found my companion of the afternoon, accompanied by a short, ready, thick-set man, who was laughing very heartily. This is an extraordinary situation, my friend began. You will have discovered by this time that we jumped to conclusions too hurriedly this afternoon. This is Mr. Hereford Johnson of the North Africa Evangelization Society, who is, I believe, to lecture for you tonight, and I think you must have walked off with Mr. Douglas E. Johnson, M.A., who is to address our teachers this evening on the kindergarten method as applied to Sunday school work. Mrs. MacCaro and I had invited the superintendent of our Sunday school and the teachers of the primary classes to meet Mr. Johnson at T. at the mance, and we got into a beautiful tangle. It was like playing a game of cross-questions and crooked answers. The young people were asking Mr. Johnson's advice on technical matters connected with their classes, and Mr. Johnson was modestly disclaiming all knowledge of the subject and was telling us of his experiences in Central Africa. We were all beginning to feel that the world had suddenly turned topsy-turvy when Mr. Johnson suddenly asked how long ago the young people's missionary union was established and seemed surprised that a Miss Elsie Hammond was not present. Then the truth broke upon us and we have all been laughing ever since. I cordially welcomed Mr. Johnson, and then we all three went through to the dining room in which by this time the whole of our party was assembled. Mr. Johnson was holding the company's spellbound. I briefly introduced our two visitors and explained the position. The announcement was received with bursts of merriment, although our tea-table guest was covered with confusion and full of apologies. However, he quickly entered into the humor of the situation, and after promising to return to lunch with the African Mr. Johnson next day, he went off with Mr. McKero laughing heartily. Both meetings were a great success. The comedy of errors may have had something to do with it. In comparing notes next morning, both speakers declared that they felt very much at home with their audiences. The joke had quickly spread and created an atmosphere of sympathy and familiarity. Henry Drummond used to say that he never could get on with people until he had laughed with them. Both meetings opened that evening with a bond already established between speaker and audience, and that stands for a good deal. We had a very happy time, too, at lunch next morning. Our visitors were both pleased that the mistake had been made. It's very nice, said Mr. Harryford Johnson, to have gotten to touch with two ministers and two congregations instead of one. I am thankful to have been able to say a word for Africa to the young people with whom I had tea at Mr. McCarrows. And for my part, added Mr. Douglas Johnson, I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. The conversation at the tea-table last evening was a perfect revelation to me. I have often heard about foreign missions, and I suppose I ought to have interested myself in them. But one has his own line of things, and is apt to get into grooves. I had no idea until yesterday that the movement was so orderly and systematic, nor that the operations were so extensive. It was like being taken into the confidence of a military commander and shown his strategy. I go back, feeling that my mind has been fitted with a new set of windows, and I am able to look out upon the world in a way that was impossible before. I am delighted, too, to have met my namesake, Mr. Harryford Johnson. He has given me, taking a pamphlet from his pocket, a copy of the last annual report of the North Africa Evangelization Society, and I shall always think more kindly of Africa, because of this singular experience at Mosgiel. It was years before I heard of either of our visitors again. Mr. Harryford Johnson, it is true, posted me each year a copy of the report of his work. In 1899, however, he enclosed the pamphlet in a note, saying that he had found some of the hints that he had picked up in his conversation with Mr. McHarrows' kindergarten teachers, very useful to his native school. There is something in the idea, he wrote, that appeals to the African mind, and I am sending to London for some literature on the subject with a view to applying the system more extensively. The mistakes that we all made that evening at the Mosgiel Railway Station have proved, to me, very profitable ones. I never heard directly from Mr. Douglas Johnson, but about five years afterwards I noticed in an Auckland paper the announcement of the death of his little blind girl, and a year or two later I saw in the annual report of Mr. Harryford Johnson's mission the acknowledgement of handsome donation from D.E.J., in loving memory of one who, though spending all her days in darkness, now sees, and desires that Africa shall have the light of life. Of all the things that are made in a world like this, mistakes are by no means the worst. End of Part 3, Chapter 7 End of Rubble and Rose Leaves and Things of That Kind by Frank W. Borum.