He was a stern, deeply
religious Scotchman, with a horror of the emotional form of
religion. As long as Uncle Jerry's spare, ascetic form and
deeply-graved square-jawed face filled his accustomed corner by
the northwest window of Avonlea church no revivalist might
venture therein, although the majority of the congregation,
including the minister, would have welcomed one warmly.
But now Uncle Jerry was sleeping peacefully under the tangled
grasses and white snows of the burying ground, and, if dead
people ever do turn in their graves, Uncle Jerry might well have
turned in his when the revivalist came to Avonlea church, and
there followed the emotional services, public testimonies, and
religious excitement which the old man's sturdy soul had always
abhorred.
Avonlea was a good field for an evangelist. The Rev. Geoffrey
Mountain, who came to assist the Avonlea minister in revivifying
the dry bones thereof, knew this and reveled in the knowledge.
It was not often that such a virgin parish could be found
nowadays, with scores of impressionable, unspoiled souls on which
fervid oratory could play skillfully, as a master on a mighty
organ, until every note in them thrilled to life and utterance.
The Rev. Geoffrey Mountain was a good man; of the earth, earthy,
to be sure, but with an unquestionable sincerity of belief and
purpose which went far to counterbalance the sensationalism of
some of his methods.
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