Through the school: The experiences of a mill boy in securing an education

EVANGELICAL UNIVERSITY was founded by a minister of intense religious convictions and its policy was directed by a Board composed of men characterized by religious zeal. The University stood committed, also, to the Christianization as well as to the education of its students. In its advertisements, special emphasis was laid on “annual revivals,” “personal, religious work of students,” and other evidences of a flourishing religious atmosphere.

Now in this, Evangelical University stood in line with hundreds of efficient institutions, but it went a step farther, and not only made its boast in regard to its Christian background, but it also gained repute as the exponent of a particular, very sectarian, very dogmatic, and intense doctrine; namely, that not until a particular emotional experience had been secured was a Christian a substantial and serviceable Christian. “The triple-birth doctrine,” as Thropper christened it, “being natural birth, spiritual birth, and extra-spiritual birth.”

There were several students in the University who were there merely for its intellectual privileges and who did not believe in this intense doctrine of “the triple-birth.”

Thropper said to me, one night, when we were discussing this matter:

“Priddy, I’ll guarantee that out of all the students here, you will not find more than five in all that do not profess to have a religious experience. Now that ought to satisfy the University, but it won’t. That isn’t enough. Until every one believes heart and soul in its doctrine of the ‘triple-birth,’ and gets emotionalized, the whole place will be turned upside down. Now I have always thought myself a religious fellow. I belong to the church. I am trying to live a Christian life. I have a Christian home in which I have always been trained piously and well. But they have given me no rest since I came here. They pray for me every year and struggle with me, and quibble about me, all in order to get me to go through the ‘triple-birth,’ which may be all right for them, but does not appeal to me. Yet, because I don’t go over to their way of thinking, they can’t regard me as a religious man. I’m not the only one, either. There are others whom they bother in the same way. If we were out and out heathen, they couldn’t be more alarmed over us. If we were unsocial atheists and immoral beings, their enthusiasm and concern would be worth while, but when some of us are to be preachers and respect everything that is true and helpful and yet have to be prayed for in public and hounded from pillar to post by them, why—”

“Who do you mean by ‘they’ and ‘them,’ Thropper?” I asked.

“Oh, certain of the students who are enthusiasts on the ‘triple-birth’ doctrine,” he replied. “They mean well enough, and are good folks, but I can’t agree with their peculiar doctrines and I tell them so, right out.”

“But a few students can’t carry off the whole situation, Thropper.”

“Can’t, eh? Well, you see, as this is the particular doctrine for which the University officially stands, the few aggressive students who preach the idea are really in the majority. There’s a little set of them, led by Jason, the Poet, who roam through the life of this University like a little group of heretic hunters in some medieval community, with all power and authority back of them.” He sighed, deeply. “They make life miserable for many,” he said.

I laughed at him.

“Why, Thropper, don’t take it to heart so; just go along your own way, tolerantly, knowing that if some of us can’t actually agree, we can respect one another’s differences—if they’re not vicious.”

He regarded me as if I had lost my wit.

“That sounds nice, that does, Priddy, and it is good sense, too, but it’s wasted here, old boy. You and I and some others may find consolation in it, but Jason and his Board of Pharisees would have their tongues cut out and their right hands severed before they would rest easy with us differing from them, standing outside their particular doctrines. You don’t know Jason. Besides, wait till you have been here a year and then you will see so many things take place under the direction of the University that it will be impossible for you not to know that you are persona grata here only when you swing over to a full acceptance of the doctrine of the ‘triple-birth’: there’ll be the annual revival when a whole, intense week will be devoted to hardly anything else but a propaganda of that doctrine. There will come the weekly prayer-meetings, the talks from visiting exponents of the doctrine; oh, they won’t let you rest easy in your differences, Priddy. Wait till Jason and his crowd get on your track!”

“You talk as if they were going to be the worst sort of meddlers, Thropper.”

“Didn’t you hear me call them the Board of the Pharisees? Did you think I didn’t mean that for a good description, Priddy? Well, what were Pharisees always doing? Meddling. Telling the people to be holy by washing the dinner plates thus and so; telling the people that God was found by wearing this and that. Well, that’s what Jason and his crowd are busy doing about here, through the year. The sight of a gold ring on my finger fairly dilated the nostrils of one of them; he set about praying for me and urging me day after day to stop wearing it because it was the symbol of ‘carnal pride,’ and he quoted ever so much Scripture, too.”

After that I noted with especial interest the monopoly exercised by Jason and a small number of the students—male and female—over the multitude of religious meetings that embroidered the week of study. The two noon prayer-meetings, the after-supper services, the Thursday evening university service, the many missionary meetings, the Bible study classes, the Sunday morning “search” services: in all these the tone was given by the fervid and dogmatic Jason and his followers. Wherever a religious interest of any sort chanced to be organized, one was certain to find on its list of officers some representative of Jason, the Poet. Thropper and I, and several others among the students, formed “independent” circles for prayer and Bible study, where we could, for once a week, at least, have our own, special beliefs prevail.

One November morning, as I was leaving the dining-hall, Jason met me at the door.

“I should like to have a word with you, Brother Priddy,” he announced.

“Certainly,” I replied.

“I have been considerably burdened for you, lately, Brother Priddy.”

“Eh?”

“You have been the subject of my prayers.”

“How is that?”

“Because I think, though you may not realize it, that Satan is trying to lead you astray,” he answered, solemnly.

“That’s interesting, I’m sure.”

“It’s terrible!” he half shuddered.

“But—er—what especial act of mine, Jason, has brought out this—er—burden for me?”

“Carnal pride!” he exclaimed.

“Pride?” I gasped. “I didn’t think I had anything or had done anything to be proud over—that I know of.”

“I thought you did not see it,” he announced; “that is the deceitfulness of sin, it blinds us. That is why I came to you—to warn, you understand.”

“Then you will relieve the tension I am suffering from at this minute,” I retorted, “by telling me just what it is to which I am blind, and which is sinful. I am sure I stand ready to renounce anything that is liable to stand between me and God, Jason.”

His severe, but intensely spiritualized features relaxed at that declaration. He nodded his head and rubbed his pale hands.

“I am glad that you are open to the truth, Brother Priddy,” he crooned, with satisfaction. “I have especial reference to that watch-chain of yours and to that scarf-pin.”

“What!”

“That and that,” he reiterated, pointing first to my watch-chain and then to my scarf-pin.

“Nonsense,” I exclaimed. “What in the world are you making this bother over?”

“That watch-chain and the pin are ornaments and personal adornments, not necessary to the person. They are expressions of pride which lies in the heart to corrupt it. Therefore you will never find peace with God until you have discarded them.”

“Those things expressions of pride?” I gasped, “why, that chain is gold-plated and didn’t cost more than a dollar and a half, and as for the tie-pin!” I laughed. “Well, I paid ten cents for it, opals and all, in a Five and Ten Cent Store, Jason. Not much to grow proud over.”

“It is not the price, Brother Priddy, but the principle.”

“But I swear to you, Jason, that I don’t give those things a thought.”

“No, granting that they don’t hurt you,” went on Jason, persistently, “they are liable to lead others into pride. It is the weak brother you must think of.”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of others finding much to emulate in my jewelry or dress,” I answered. “I do recognize the force of what you have to say about the weak brother, Jason, and if, for a minute, I imagined I was doing anything or wearing anything that would hurt the life of another in any appreciable degree, why I’d renounce it quickly enough, you can wager!”

“I never indulge in wagers,” protested the literalist, “it is ungodly. I still persist in asking you to give up that jewelry on the ground that in all things we should walk soberly, as the Bible enjoins.”

“Well, I’ll think it over, Jason,” I said, walking hurriedly away.

When Thropper returned from his trigonometry, I recounted my experience with Jason.

“Well, your days of quietness are gone now, Priddy,” he declared. “You’ve got a Pharisee on your trail who will keep it until your days are made miserable.”

“But why doesn’t he cut off his beautiful curls and be consistent?” I protested. “Why doesn’t he throw off that peculiar vest and that military coat? He’d be consistent if he did! Talk about offending the weak brother! If a dude wouldn’t be jealous of those finely cultivated curls, I don’t know a dude. I’ll wager Jason is always looking in the glass, at himself!”

“Oh,” smiled my roommate, “you just tell him about his coat and his curls and he’ll have his explanation ready. Those curls are sent by the Lord. As for his coat and vest; they are simple, without the fancy incidents common to our coats! Don’t try to beat him in a quibble, Priddy. He’s got you before you start. Can you quote over half the Bible word for word without once looking at it?”

“No-o!”

“Jason can! Are you able to read it in Hebrew and in Greek?”

“No-o-o!”

“Jason is! He’s got you when it comes to Biblical quotation and can fit a passage even to so common an act as eating a dish of creamed toast!”

“But I shan’t give in to him—that is, unless I really see the force of his arguments, Thropper.”

“Oh,” smiled Thropper, “he’ll give you forceful arguments enough, that’s the hang of the fellow. He knows so much! I tell you, Priddy, when you employ logic, biblical lore, and a fanatical sincerity in trying to persuade an innocent little greenhorn like you—to give up a watch-chain and a tie-pin, why, the greenhorn is bound to go under!”

“We’ll see!” I declared, as the conclusion of the subject.

The next day, Jason found me in a corner of the library busy with my Latin. Without a word he edged over to me, pulled a little black book from his pocket, opened it at a marked place, fixed it on the chair handle before me, indicated the marked passage with one of his long, white fingers and left me to myself. I put aside my Latin and investigated.

The book was the writing of John Wesley, and the place marked was a passage in a sermon on “The Wearing of Ornaments” or some such theme. In any case, that was the subject treated in the marked passage. It was a reiteration of the arguments Jason had advanced, but coming from so noted and often quoted an authority as the founder of the Methodists, it considerably sobered my impressionable senses. I had no sooner closed the book, than out of the unseen the Poet flitted to my side, and with a whispered, “Forceful, isn’t it?” Jason took up the book and returned to his study.

A day or two later he brought into the dining-hall a little green bound book, printed on cheap paper and entitled, “The Victory of Selina Bostwick—Evangelist.” As he handed it to me, Jason said,

“Sister Bostwick is well known to me. I have sung for her in tent meetings, near Chicago. She is a saint of God. I want you to read the place I have marked, if you cannot find time to go through the whole book.”

In the privacy of my room, when Thropper chanced not to be around—for I did not want him to see me reading Jason’s book—I read the extract. It recounted, in a very rambling manner, the “third-birth” of Miss Bostwick—who, by the way, had been so inconsiderable a person as a seamstress who exhorted in revival services. The tale went on to show how, as a young girl, Selina had been especially addicted to wearing gaudy jewelry: stone-tipped hat-pins, glass ornamented combs, two rings, one with a cluster of imitation rubies, the other a plain band, which had been her mother’s wedding-ring, and various brooches and fancy studs. These, it seemed, had entirely prevented Selina from entering into the deeper faith in God, and for proof argued that so long as she fastened her heart on those trinkets she had never once been able to preach or exhort in meeting or revival. Then the day came when she plucked them from her and threw them in her trunk. From that day on, she had gone into the world preaching and exhorting successfully!

When I returned the book to Jason, he entered into a long discussion with me, and by the subconscious seriousness he had created in my heart over the question of ornaments and the kingdom, and because I was getting weary of the theme, and also because the tie-pin and the watch-chain were becoming eyesores to me, I finally said,

“Oh, I’ll stop wearing them, I guess!”

Jason rubbed his white hands and patted me on the shoulders.

“There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth,” he quoted.

“I’m not a sin—Oh, don’t let us get into any more arguments over the matter,” I corrected, eager to be out of the reach of my persecutor. “Here they are; both of them to be put in a drawer—or something.”

I pulled out the tie-pin and unfastened the watch-chain. Then I was perplexed.

“But, Jason,” I remonstrated, “I have to carry this watch, you know. The watch-chain was handy. It kept me from losing the watch. What am I to do, if I don’t have this chain? It seems to me that I had best keep wearing it. What do you do for your watch?”

As he pulled out a gold Waltham I felt like asking him if it would not be more consistent for him to wear a nickel-plated one, but remembering Thropper’s comments, I expected Jason would argue that it was more economical to buy a gold watch on account of its wearing qualities and reliability, so I kept the protest to myself. Jason’s watch was attached to a woven black chain, which, he said, he had made from a long shoe-lace!

“I’ll make one for you, too,” he added generously, “if you’ll get a long lace.”

The next day I gave him the lace, and after dinner, we sat in the reception room, where in ten minutes, he wove for my watch a chain as artistic as a shoe-string chain may be. After he had fastened it in my button-hole and to my watch, he said:

“Well, Brother Priddy, the weak brother will not have cause to stumble now, will he?”