Rev. Percy Ferguson

The Rev. Percy Ferguson, patrician         Vicar of Christ, companion of the strong,         And member of the inner shrine, where men         Observe the rituals of the golden calf;         A dilettante, and writer for the press         Upon such themes as optimism, order,         Obedience, beauty, law, while Elenor Murray's         Life was being weighed by Merival         Preached in disparagement of Merival         Upon a fatal Sunday, as it chanced,         Too near to doom's day for the clergyman.         For, as the word had gone about that waste         In lives preoccupied this Merival,         And many talked of waste, and spoke a life         Where waste had been in whole or part - the pulpit         Should take a hand, thought Ferguson. And so         The Reverend Percy Ferguson preached thus         To a great audience and fashionable:         "The hour's need is a firmer faith in Christ,         A closer hold on God, belief again         In sin's reality; the age's vice         Is laughter over sin, the attitude         That sin is not!" And then to prove that sin         Is something real, he spoke of money sins         That bring the money panics, of the beauty         That lust corrupts, wound up with Athen's story,         Which sin decayed. And touching on this waste,         Which was the current talk, what is this waste         Except a sin in life, the moral law         Transgressed, God mocked, the order of man's life,         And God's will disobeyed? Show me a life         That lives through Christ and none shall find a waste.         This clergyman some fifteen years before         Went on a hunt for Alma Bell, who taught         The art department of the school, and found         Enough to scare the school directors that         She burned with lawless love for Elenor Murray.         And made it seem the teacher's reprimand         In school of Elenor Murray for her ways         Of strolling, riding with young men at night,         Was moved by jealousy of Elenor Murray,         Being herself in love with Elenor Murray.         This clergyman laid what he found before         The school directors, Alma Bell was sent         Out of the school her way, and disappeared....         But now, though fifteen years had passed, the story         Of Alma Bell and Elenor Murray crept         Like poisonous mist, scarce seen, around LeRoy.         It had been so always. And all these years         No one would touch or talk in open words         The loathsome matter, since girls grown to women,         And married in the town might have their names         Relinked to Alma Bell's. And was it true         That Elenor Murray strayed as a young girl         In those far days of strolls and buggy rides?         But after Percy Ferguson had thundered         Against the inquest, Warren Henderson,         A banker of the city, who had dealt         In paper of the clergyman, and knew         The clergyman had interests near Victoria,         Was playing at the money game, and knew         He tottered on the brink, and held to hands         That feared to hold him longer - Henderson,         A wise man, cynical, contemptuous         Of frocks so sure of ways to avoid the waste,         So unforgiving of the tangled moods         And baffled eyes of men; contemptuous         Of frocks so avid for the downy beds,         Place, honors, money, admiration, praise,         Much wished to see the clergyman come down         And lay his life beside the other sinners.         But more he knew, admired this Alma Bell,         Did not believe she burned with guilty love         For Elenor Murray, thought the moral hunt         Or Alma Bell had made a waste of life,         As ignorance might pluck a flower for thinking         It was a weed; on Elenor Murray too         Had brought a waste, by scenting up her life         With something faint but ineradicable.         And Warren Henderson would have revenge,         And waited till old Jacob Bangs should fix         His name to paper once again of Ferguson's         To tell old Jacob Bangs he should be wary,         Since banks and agencies were tremulous         With hints of failure at Victoria.         So meeting Jacob Bangs the banker told him         What things were bruited, and warned the man         To fix his name no more to Ferguson's paper.         It was the very day the clergyman         Sought Jacob Bangs to get his signature         Upon a note for money at the bank.         And Jacob Bangs was silent and evasive,         Demurred a little and refused at last.         Which sent the anxious clergyman adrift         To look for other help. He looked and looked,         And found no other help. Associates         Depending more on men than God, fell down,         And in a day the bubble burst. The Times         Had columns of the story.             In a week,         At Sunday service Percy Ferguson         Stood in the pulpit to confess his sin,         The Murray jury sat and fed their joy         For hearing Ferguson confess his sin.         This is the way he did it:          "First, my friends,         I do not say I have betrayed the trust         My friends have given me. Some years ago         I thought to make provision for my wife,         I wished to start some certain young men right.         I had another plan I can't disclose,         Not selfish, you'll believe me. So I took         My savings made as lecturer and writer         And put them in this venture. I'm ashamed         To say how great those savings were, in view         Of what the poor earn, those who work with hands!         Ashamed too, when I think these savings grew         Because I spoke the things the rich desired.         And squared my words with what the strong would have -         Therein Christ was betrayed. The end has come.         I too have been betrayed, my confidence         Wronged by my fellows in the enterprise.         I hope to pay my debts. Hard poverty         Has come to me to bring me back to Christ."         "But listen now: These years I lived perturbed,         Lest this life which I grew into would mould         Young men and ministers, lead them astray         To public life, sensation, lecture platforms,         Prosperity, away from Christ-like service,         Obscure and gentle. To those souls I owe         My heart's confession: I have loved my books         More than the poor, position more than service,         Office and honor over love of men;         Lived thus when all my strength belonged to thought,         To work for schools, the sick, the poor, the friendless,         To boys and girls with hungry minds. My friends,         Here I abase my soul before God's throne,         And ask forgiveness for the pious zeal         With which I smote the soul of Alma Bell,         And smudged the robe of Elenor Murray. God,         Thou, who has taken Elenor Murray home,         After great service in the war, O grant         Thy servant yet to kneel before the soul         Of Elenor Murray. For who am I to judge?         What was I then to judge? who coveted honors,         When solitude, where I might dwell apart,         And listen to the voice of God was mine,         By calling and for seeking. I have broken         The oath I took to take no purse or scrip.         I have loved money, even while I knew         No servant of Christ can work for Christ and strive         For money. And if anywhere there be         A noble boy who would become a minister,         Who has heard me, or read my books, and grown         Thereby to cherish secular ideas         Of Christ's work in the world, to him I say:         Repent the thought, reject me; there are men         And women missionaries, here, abroad,         And nameless workers in poor settlements         Whose latchets to stoop down and to unloose         I am unworthy."          "Gift of life too short!         O, beautiful gift of God, too brief at best,         For all a man can do, how have I wasted         This precious gift! How wasted it in pride,         In seeking out the powerful, the great,         The hands with honors, gold to give - when nothing         Is profitable to a servant of the Christ         Except to shepherd Christ's poor. O, young men,         Interpret not your ministry in terms         Of intellect alone, forefront the heart,         That at the end of life you may look up         And say to God: Behind these are the sheep         Thou gavest me, and not a one is lost."         "As to my enemies, for enemies         A clergyman must have whose fault is mine,         Plato would have us harden hearts to sorrow.         And Zeno roofs of slate for souls to slide         The storm of evil - Christ in sorrow did         For evil good. For me, my prayer is this,         My faith as well, that I may be perfected         Through suffering."             That ended the confession.         Then "Love Divine, All Love Excelling" sounded.         The congregation rose, and some went up         To take the pastor's hand, but others left         To think the matter over.             For some said:         "He married fortunate." And others said:         "We know through Jacob Bangs he has investments         In wheat lands, what's the truth? In any case         What avarice is this that made him anxious         About the comfort of his wife and family?         The thing won't work. He's only middle way         In solving his soul's problem. This confession         Is just a poor beginning." Others said:         "He drove out Alma Bell, let's drive him out."         And others said: "you note we never heard         About this speculation till it failed,         And he was brought to grief. If it had prospered         The man had never told, what do you think?"         But in a year as health failed, Ferguson         Took leave of absence, and the silence of life         Which closes over men, however noisy         With sermons, lectures, covered him. His riffle         Died out in distant waters.         There was a Doctor Burke lived at LeRoy,         Neurologist and student. On a night         When Merival had the jury at his house,         Llewellyn George was telling of his travels         In China and Japan, had mutual friends         With Franklin Hollister, the cousin of Elenor,         And son of dead Corinne, who hid her letters         Under the eaves. The talk went wide and far.         For David Borrow, sunny pessimist,         Thrust logic words at Maiworm, the juryman;         And said our life was bad, and must be so,         While Maiworm trusted God, said life was good.         And Winthrop Marion let play his wit,         The riches of his reading over all.         Thus as they talked this Doctor Burke came in.         "You'll pardon this intrusion, I'll go on         If this is secret business. Let me say         This inquest holds my interest and I've come         To tell of Elenor's ancestry." Thus he spoke.         "There'll be another time if I must go."         And Merival spoke up and said: "why stay         And tell us what you know, or think," and so         The coroner and jury sat and heard: -