POMPEY’S CONSCIENCE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 464, 9 December 1875, Page 3

POMPEY’S CONSCIENCE.

(Church Journal.) Several years ago, in a New-England village, might be found a very flourishing Congregational Church, which was served by an elderly pastor of great worth and of unusual ability as a preacher. It was as common then as it is now uncommon, for the pastoral relation among them to grow stronger with age, and not unfrequently to last a life time. “ But times change, and we change with them,” the Roman poet says ; and so our friend the pastor found. He was not at all disposed to yield up his position ; although he knew from cold looks of some, and averted faces of old friends, members of his congregation, that he did not stand so well with the “new set,” who had sprung up in the room of their fathers. “Coming events cast their shadows before,” and the good man felt in his bones that he was to see trouble ere long. Matters came to a crisis in the following fashion; The malcontents had for some time been finding fault—now with his doctrines, which were “ old fogy,” and “ out of date ;” now with his sermons, which were “ too long,” “too prosy,” without fire, and “not of a sort to touch the heart;” again with his manner, which was “cold,” “too grave and monotonous ” to suit the young people ; in fact, they had pretty much overhauled everything that could be made a handle of, to get the good parson out of his congregation. And he did not or would not pay any attention to what at last came to his ears, through some of the gossips. Finally they resolved to “bolt.” They had borne it as long as they could. They wouldn’t endure it any longer. They resolved on the “ next Sabbath ” to rise in a body and leave “ the meeting.” They did so, and took a pretty large proportion of the congregation, not all decidedly opposed to the parson, but several of them of that class who are ready to follow others to good or evil—mere “ wax noses.” One of these was named Pompey, shortened into Pomp, which, in fact, suited well with his character, for Pomp was a well-dressed negro on Sunday, and felt himself “as large as any white man,” Pomp had heard the conversations of his white brethren, and had determined to bolt with them, if they should leave the congregation, and he did. As Pomp joined the rebels on the outside, they were greatly taken aback. They did not evidently consider him of as much honor to their movement, as he judged himself. So one of them opened fire upon him : “ Pomp ! what are you doing out here ?” “ Me, sah ? I se got tired of de parson.” “ Tired I What have you to say against him ?” “ O nuffin special agin de man, but I dozzent like his teachins. His sermons is too long; I goes to sleep, ye see. I likes somfen more ’citing like ; and, de fact is, my conshuns won’t let me sit any longer under his preachin. ” “ Conscience, Pomp ! That’s too good !” “Yes, sah ! Can’t the gemman of colour hab conshuns, I’se like to know ?” “ Well, I ’spose he can, Pomp ; but what do you know about conscience ? What is conscience ?” “Conshuns, sah? I tink I knows what conshuns is. Conshuns, sah ; conshuns ! ahem !” {Pomp here drew himself up, put his hand upon his breast, with his finger pressed in firmly, and with his eyes rolled up in a sanctimonious fashion, said with great energy) : “ Conshuns is dat feelin in here, what says I won’t. Dat’s conshuns, sah !” There is a great deal in our day which is said and done under the sacred name of conscience, but when reduced to its true meaning, it is nothing more nor less than that feeling within of sheer self-will, which says emphatically, with eyes raised to heaven, hand upon the breast, and finger pressed to the heart, “ I won’t.” It’s Pomp’s conscience.