Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town
The Beacon on the Hill
Mullins said afterward that it was ever so much easier than he thought it
would have been. The Dean, he said, was so quiet. Of course if Mr. Drone had
started to swear at Mullins, or tried to strike him, it would have been much
harder. But as it was he was so quiet that part of the time he hardly seemed to
follow what Mullins was saying. So Mullins was glad of that, because it proved
that the Dean wasn't feeling disappointed as, in a way, he might have.
Indeed, the only time when the rector seemed animated and excited in the
whole interview was when Mullins said that the campaign had been ruined by a lot
of confounded mugwumps. Straight away the Dean asked if those mugwumps had
really prejudiced the outcome of the campaign. Mullins said there was no doubt
of it, and the Dean enquired if the presence of mugwumps was fatal in matters of
endeavour, and Mullins said that it was. Then the rector asked if even one
mugwump was, in the Christian sense, deleterious. Mullins said that one mugwump
would kill anything. After that the Dean hardly spoke at all.
In fact, the rector presently said that he mustn't detain Mullins too long
and that he had detained him too long already and that Mullins must be weary
from his train journey and that in cases of extreme weariness nothing but a
sound sleep was of any avail; he himself, unfortunately, would not be able to
avail himself of the priceless boon of slumber until he had first retired to his
study to write some letters; so that Mullins, who had a certain kind of social
quickness of intuition, saw that it was time to leave, and went away.
It was midnight as he went down the street, and a dark, still night. That can
be stated positively because it came out in court afterwards. Mullins swore that
it was a dark night; he admitted, under examination, that there may have been
the stars, or at least some of the less important of them, though he had made no
attempt, as brought out on cross-examination, to count them: there may have
been, too, the electric lights, and Mullins was not willing to deny that it was
quite possible that there was more or less moonlight. But that there was no
light that night in the form of sunlight, Mullins was absolutely certain. All
that, I say, came out in court.
But meanwhile the rector had gone upstairs to his study and had seated
himself in front of his table to write his letters. It was here always that he
wrote his sermons. From the window of the room you looked through the bare white
maple trees to the sweeping outline of the church shadowed against the night
sky, and beyond that, though far off, was the new cemetery where the rector
walked of a Sunday (I think I told you why): beyond that again, for the window
faced the east, there lay, at no very great distance, the New Jerusalem. There
were no better things that a man might look towards from his study window, nor
anything that could serve as a better aid to writing.
But this night the Dean's letters must have been difficult indeed to write.
For he sat beside the table holding his pen and with his head bent upon his
other hand, and though he sometimes put a line or two on the paper, for the most
part he sat motionless. The fact is that Dean Drone was not trying to write
letters, but only one letter. He was writing a letter of resignation. If you
have not done that for forty years it is extremely difficult to get the words.
So at least the Dean found it. First he wrote one set of words and then he
sat and thought and wrote something else. But nothing seemed to suit.
The real truth was that Dean Drone, perhaps more than he knew himself, had a
fine taste for words and effects, and when you feel that a situation is entirely
out of the common, you naturally try, if you have that instinct, to give it the
right sort of expression.
I believe that at the time when Rupert Drone had taken the medal in Greek
over fifty years ago, it was only a twist of fate that had prevented him from
becoming a great writer. There was a buried author in him just as there was a
buried financier in Jefferson Thorpe. In fact, there were many people in
Mariposa like that, and for all I know you may yourself have seen such
elsewhere. For instance, I am certain that Billy Rawson, the telegraph operator
at Mariposa, could easily have invented radium. In the same way one has only to
read the advertisements of Mr. Gingham, the undertaker, to know that there is
still in him a poet, who could have written on death far more attractive verses
than the Thanatopsis of Cullen Bryant, and under a title less likely to offend
the public and drive away custom. He has told me this himself.
So the Dean tried first this and then that and nothing would seem to suit.
First of all he wrote:
"It is now forty years since I came among you, a youth full of life and hope
and ardent in the work before me—" Then he paused, doubtful of the accuracy and
clearness of the expression, read it over again and again in deep thought and
then began again:
"It is now forty years since I came among you, a broken and melancholy boy,
without life or hope, desiring only to devote to the service of this parish such
few years as might remain of an existence blighted before it had truly begun—"
And then again the Dean stopped. He read what he had written; he frowned; he
crossed it through with his pen. This was no way to write, this thin egotistical
strain of complaint. Once more he started:
"It is now forty years since I came among you, a man already tempered and
trained, except possibly in mathematics—" And then again the rector paused and
his mind drifted away to the memory of the Anglican professor that I spoke of,
who had had so little sense of his higher mission as to omit the teaching of
logarithms. And the rector mused so long that when he began again it seemed to
him that it was simpler and better to discard the personal note altogether, and
"There are times, gentlemen, in the life of a parish, when it comes to an
epoch which brings it to a moment when it reaches a point—"
The Dean stuck fast again, but refusing this time to be beaten went
"—reaches a point where the circumstances of the moment make the epoch such
as to focus the life of the parish in that time."
Then the Dean saw that he was beaten, and he knew that he not only couldn't
manage the parish but couldn't say so in proper English, and of the two the last
was the bitterer discovery.
He raised his head, and looked for a moment through the window at the shadow
of the church against the night, so outlined that you could almost fancy that
the light of the New Jerusalem was beyond it. Then he wrote, and this time not
to the world at large but only to Mullins:
"My dear Harry, I want to resign my charge. Will you come over and help me?"
When the Dean at last rose from writing that, I think it was far on in the
night. As he rose he looked again through the window, looked once and then once
more, and so stood with widening eyes, and his face set towards what he saw.
What was that? That light in the sky there, eastward?—near or far he could
not say. Was it already the dawn of the New Jerusalem brightening in the east,
or was it—look—in the church itself,—what is that?—that dull red glow that
shines behind the stained-glass windows, turning them to crimson? that fork of
flame that breaks now from the casement and flashes upward, along the wood—and
see—that sudden sheet of fire that springs the windows of the church with the
roar of splintered glass and surges upward into the sky, till the dark night and
the bare trees and sleeping street of Mariposa are all illumined with its glow!
Fire! Fire! and the sudden sound of the bell now, breaking upon the night.
So stood the Dean erect, with one hand pressed against the table for support,
while the Mariposa fire bell struck out its warning to the sleeping town,—stood
there while the street grew loud with the tumult of voices,—with the roaring
gallop of the fire brigade,—with the harsh note of the gong—and over all other
sounds, the great seething of the flames that tore their way into the beams and
rafters of the pointed church and flared above it like a torch into the midnight
So stood the Dean, and as the church broke thus into a very beacon kindled
upon a hill,—sank forward without a sign, his face against the table, stricken.
You need to see a fire in a place such as Mariposa, a town still half of
wood, to know what fire means. In the city it is all different. To the onlooker,
at any rate, a fire is only a spectacle, nothing more. Everything is arranged,
organized, certain. It is only once perhaps in a century that fire comes to a
large city as it comes to the little wooden town like Mariposa as a great Terror
of the Night.
That, at any rate, is what it meant in Mariposa that night in April, the
night the Church of England Church burnt down. Had the fire gained but a hundred
feet, or less, it could have reached from the driving shed behind the church to
the backs of the wooden shops of the Main Street, and once there not all the
waters of Lake Wissanotti could stay the course of its destruction. It was for
that hundred feet that they fought, the men of Mariposa, from the midnight call
of the bell till the slow coming of the day. They fought the fire, not to save
the church, for that was doomed from the first outbreak of the flames, but to
stop the spread of it and save the town. They fought it at the windows, and at
the blazing doors, and through the yawning furnace of the open belfry; fought
it, with the Mariposa engine thumping and panting in the street, itself aglow
with fire like a servant demon fighting its own kind, with tall ladders reaching
to the very roof, and with hose that poured their streams of tossing water
foaming into the flames.
Most of all they fought to save the wooden driving shed behind the church
from which the fire could leap into the heart of Mariposa. That was where the
real fight was, for the life of the town. I wish you could have seen how they
turned the hose against the shingles, ripping and tearing them from their places
with the force of the driven water: how they mounted on the roof, axe in hand,
and cut madly at the rafters to bring the building down, while the black clouds
of smoke rolled in volumes about the men as they worked. You could see the fire
horses harnessed with logging chains to the uprights of the shed to tear the
building from its place.
Most of all I wish you could have seen Mr. Smith, proprietor, as I think you
know, of Smith's Hotel, there on the roof with a fireman's helmet on, cutting
through the main beam of solid cedar, twelve by twelve, that held tight still
when the rafters and the roof tree were down already, the shed on fire in a
dozen places, and the other men driven from the work by the flaming sparks, and
by the strangle of the smoke. Not so Mr. Smith! See him there as he plants
himself firm at the angle of the beams, and with the full impact of his two
hundred and eighty pounds drives his axe into the wood! I tell you it takes a
man from the pine country of the north to handle an axe! Right, left, left,
right, down it comes, with never a pause or stay, never missing by a fraction of
an inch the line of the stroke! At it, Smith! Down with it! Till with a shout
from the crowd the beam gapes asunder, and Mr. Smith is on the ground again,
roaring his directions to the men and horses as they haul down the shed, in a
voice that dominates the fire itself.
Who made Mr. Smith the head and chief of the Mariposa fire brigade that
night, I cannot say. I do not know even where he got the huge red helmet that he
wore, nor had I ever heard till the night the church burnt down that Mr. Smith
was a member of the fire brigade at all. But it's always that way. Your little
narrow-chested men may plan and organize, but when there is something to be
done, something real, then it's the man of size and weight that steps to the
front every time. Look at Bismarck and Mr. Gladstone and President Taft and Mr.
Smith,—the same thing in each case.
I suppose it was perfectly natural that just as soon as Mr. Smith came on the
scene he put on somebody's helmet and shouted his directions to the men and
bossed the Mariposa fire brigade like Bismarck with the German parliament.
The fire had broken out late, late at night, and they fought it till the day.
The flame of it lit up the town and the bare grey maple trees, and you could see
in the light of it the broad sheet of the frozen lake, snow covered still. It
kindled such a beacon as it burned that from the other side of the lake the
people on the night express from the north could see it twenty miles away. It
lit up such a testimony of flame that Mariposa has never seen the like of it
before or since. Then when the roof crashed in and the tall steeple tottered and
fell, so swift a darkness seemed to come that the grey trees and the frozen lake
vanished in a moment as if blotted out of existence.
When the morning came the great church of Mariposa was nothing but a ragged
group of walls with a sodden heap of bricks and blackened wood, still hissing
here and there beneath the hose with the sullen anger of a conquered fire. Round
the ruins of the fire walked the people of Mariposa next morning, and they
pointed out where the wreck of the steeple had fallen, and where the bells of
the church lay in a molten heap among the bricks, and they talked of the loss
that it was and how many dollars it would take to rebuild the church, and
whether it was insured and for how much. And there were at least fourteen people
who had seen the fire first, and more than that who had given the first alarm,
and ever so many who knew how fires of this sort could be prevented.
Most noticeable of all you could see the sidesmen and the wardens and
Mullins, the chairman of the vestry, talking in little groups about the fire.
Later in the day there came from the city the insurance men and the fire
appraisers, and they too walked about the ruins, and talked with the wardens and
the vestry men. There was such a luxury of excitement in the town that day that
it was just as good as a public holiday.
But the strangest part of it was the unexpected sequel. I don't know through
what error of the Dean's figures it happened, through what lack of mathematical
training the thing turned out as it did. No doubt the memory of the mathematical
professor was heavily to blame for it, but the solid fact is that the Church of
England Church of Mariposa turned out to be insured for a hundred thousand, and
there were the receipts and the vouchers, all signed and regular, just as they
found them in a drawer of the rector's study. There was no doubt about it. The
insurance people might protest as they liked. The straight, plain fact was that
the church was insured for about twice the whole amount of the cost and the debt
and the rector's salary and the boarding-school fees of the littlest of the
Drones all put together.
There was a Whirlwind Campaign for you! Talk of raising money,—that was
something like! I wonder if the universities and the city institutions that go
round trying to raise money by the slow and painful method called a Whirlwind
Campaign, that takes perhaps all day to raise fifty thousand dollars, ever
thought of anything so beautifully simple as this.
The Greater Testimony that had lain so heavily on the congregation went
flaming to its end, and burned up its debts and its obligations and enriched its
worshippers by its destruction. Talk of a beacon on a hill! You can hardly beat
I wish you could have seen how the wardens and the sidesmen and Mullins, the
chairman of the vestry, smiled and chuckled at the thought of it. Hadn't they
said all along that all that was needed was a little faith and effort? And here
it was, just as they said, and they'd been right after all.
Protest from the insurance people? Legal proceedings to prevent payment? My
dear sir! I see you know nothing about the Mariposa court, in spite of the fact
that I have already said that it was one of the most precise instruments of
British fair play ever established. Why, Judge Pepperleigh disposed of the case
and dismissed the protest of the company in less than fifteen minutes! Just what
the jurisdiction of Judge Pepperleigh's court is I don't know, but I do know
that in upholding the rights of a Christian congregation—I am quoting here the
text of the decision—against the intrigues of a set of infernal skunks that make
too much money, anyway, the Mariposa court is without an equal. Pepperleigh even
threatened the plaintiffs with the penitentiary, or worse.
How the fire started no one ever knew. There was a queer story that went
about to the effect that Mr. Smith and Mr. Gingham's assistant had been seen
very late that night carrying an automobile can of kerosene up the street. But
that was amply disproved by the proceedings of the court, and by the evidence of
Mr. Smith himself. He took his dying oath,—not his ordinary one as used in the
License cases, but his dying one,—that he had not carried a can of kerosene up
the street, and that anyway it was the rottenest kind of kerosene he had ever
seen and no more use than so much molasses. So that point was settled.
Dean Drone? Did he get well again? Why, what makes you ask that? You mean,
was his head at all affected after the stroke? No, it was not. Absolutely not.
It was not affected in the least, though how anybody who knows him now in
Mariposa could have the faintest idea that his mind was in any way impaired by
the stroke is more than I can tell. The engaging of Mr. Uttermost, the curate,
whom perhaps you have heard preach in the new church, had nothing whatever to do
with Dean Drone's head. It was merely a case of the pressure of overwork. It was
felt very generally by the wardens that, in these days of specialization, the
rector was covering too wide a field, and that if he should abandon some of the
lesser duties of his office, he might devote his energies more intently to the
Infant Class. That was all. You may hear him there any afternoon, talking to
them, if you will stand under the maple trees and listen through the open
windows of the new Infant School.
And, as for audiences, for intelligence, for attention—well, if I want to
find listeners who can hear and understand about the great spaces of Lake Huron,
let me tell of it, every time face to face with the blue eyes of the Infant
Class, fresh from the infinity of spaces greater still. Talk of grown-up people
all you like, but for listeners let me have the Infant Class with their
pinafores and their Teddy Bears and their feet not even touching the floor, and
Mr. Uttermost may preach to his heart's content of the newer forms of doubt
revealed by the higher criticism.
So you will understand that the Dean's mind is, if anything, even keener, and
his head even clearer than before. And if you want proof of it, notice him there
beneath the plum blossoms reading in the Greek: he has told me that he finds
that he can read, with the greatest ease, works in the Greek that seemed
difficult before. Because his head is so clear now.
And sometimes,—when his head is very clear,—as he sits there reading beneath
the plum blossoms he can hear them singing beyond, and his wife's voice.