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A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's and Other Stories by Bret Harte
page 155 of 200 (77%)
mere wasted "letter of the Word," or the rotten and withered husks of
it, into the highways and byways, where the "blazin'" scorn of the World
would finish it. A low, penitential groan from Deacon Shadwell followed
this accusing illustration. But the preacher would tell them that the
only way was to boldly attack this rankly growing World around them;
to clear out fresh paths for the Truth, and let the sunlight of Heaven
stream among them.

There was little doubt that the congregation was moved. Whatever they
might have thought of the application, the fact itself was patent. The
rheumatic Beaseleys felt the truth of it in their aching bones; it came
home to the fever and ague stricken Filgees in their damp seats against
the sappy wall; it echoed plainly in the chronic cough of Sister Mary
Strutt and Widow Doddridge; and Cissy Appleby, with her round brown eyes
fixed upon the speaker, remembering how the starch had been taken out of
her Sunday frocks, how her long ringlets had become uncurled, her frills
limp, and even her ribbons lustreless, felt that indeed a prophet had
arisen in Israel!

One or two, however, were disappointed that he had as yet given no
indication of that powerful exhortatory emotion for which he was famed,
and which had been said to excite certain corresponding corybantic
symptoms among his sensitive female worshipers. When the service was
over, and the congregation crowded around him, Sister Mary Strutt, on
the outer fringe of the assembly, confided to Sister Evans that she had
"hearn tell how that when he was over at Soquel he prayed that pow'ful
that all the wimmen got fits and tremblin' spells, and ole Mrs. Jackson
had to be hauled off his legs that she was kneelin' and claspin' while
wrestling with the Sperit."

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