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 L161— O-1096
 
 ANNALS OF A QUIET 
 NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 ^. ^ 
 
 
 ANNALS OF A QUIET 
 NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 By GEORGE MAC DONALD, M.A., 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DAVID ELGIXBROD," "ALEC FORBES OF HOWGLEN, 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. T. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCES.SORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13. CRE.\T MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1867. 
 
 T/ic right of Tj-anzlatioii is reserrcd.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION, 
 11. MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS, 
 ^ III. MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOW: 
 IV. THE COFFIN, .... 
 
 k^ V. VISITORS FROM THE HALL, . 
 
 . " VI. OLDCASTLE HALL, 
 
 VIL THE bishop's BASIN, 
 
 VIII. WHAT I PREACHED, 
 
 IX. THE ORGANIST, 
 
 X. MY CHRISTMAS PARTY, . 
 
 XL SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON, 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 5 
 
 
 29 
 
 ''l 
 
 
 40 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 
 
 88 
 
 • 
 
 
 112 
 
 • 
 
 
 150 
 
 
 
 212 
 
 
 
 226 
 
 
 
 283 
 
 . 
 
 
 315 
 
 A'Vl^oV
 
 ANNALS OF 
 A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 
 
 EFORE I begin to tell you some of 
 the things I have seen and heard, 
 in both of which I have had to 
 take a share, now from the compulsion of 
 my office, now from the leading of my own 
 heart, and now from that destiny which, in- 
 cluding both, so often throws the man who 
 supposed himself a mere on-looker, into the 
 very vortex of events — that destiny which 
 took form to the old pagans as a gray mist 
 high beyond the heads of their gods, but 
 
 VOL. I. A 
 
 
 01
 
 2 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 to US is known as an infinite love, re- 
 vealed in the mystery of man — I say before 
 I begin, it is fitting that, in the absence of 
 a common friend to do that ofiice for me, I 
 should introduce myself to your acquaintance, 
 and I hope coming friendship. Nor can there 
 be any impropriety in my telling you about 
 myself, seeing I remain concealed behind my 
 own words. You can never look me in the 
 eyes, though you may look me in the soul. 
 You may find me out, find my faults, my 
 vanities, my sins, but you will not see me, at 
 least in this world. To you I am but a voice 
 of revealing, not a form of vision ; therefore I 
 am bold behind the mask, to speak to you 
 heart to heart ; bold, I say, just so much the 
 more that I do not speak to you face to face. 
 And when we meet in heaven — Avell, there I 
 know there is no hiding ; there, there is no 
 reason for hiding anything ; there, the whole 
 desire will be alternate revelation and vision.
 
 DESPOXDEXCY AND COXSOLATIOX. 
 
 I am now o-ettino; old — faster and faster. I 
 cannot help my gray hairs, nor the wrinkles 
 that gather so slowly yet ruthlessly ; no, nor 
 the quaver that will come in my voice, nor 
 the sense of being feeble in the knees, even 
 when I walk only across the floor of my 
 study. But I have not got used to age yet. I 
 do not feel one atom older than I did at three- 
 and-twenty. Xay, to tell all the truth, I feel 
 a good deal younger. — For then I only felt 
 that a man had to take up his cross ; whereas 
 now I feel that a man has to follow Him ; and 
 that makes an unspeakable difference. — AYhen 
 my voice quavers, I feel that it is mine and 
 not mine ; that it just belongs to me like my 
 watch, which does not go well now, though 
 it went well thirty years ago — not more than 
 a minute out in a month. And when I feel 
 my knees shake, I think of them with a kind 
 of pity, as I used to think of an old mare of 
 my father's of which I was very fond when I
 
 4 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 was a lad, and which bore me across many a 
 field and over many a fence, but which at last 
 came to have the same weakness in her knees 
 that I have in mine ; and she knew it too, and 
 took care of them, and so of herself, in a wise 
 eqnine fashion. These things are not me — or 
 /, if the grammarians like it better, (I always 
 feel a strife between doing as the scholar does 
 and doing as other people do ;) they are not 
 me, I say ; I have them — and, please God, shall 
 soon have better. For it is nofc a pleasant 
 thing for a young man, or a young woman 
 either, I venture to say, to have an old voice, 
 and a wrinkled face, and weak knees, and gray 
 hair, or no hair at all. And if any moral 
 Philistine, as our queer German brothers over 
 the Northern fish-pond would call him, say 
 that this is all rubbish, for that we are old, I 
 would answer : " Of all children how can the 
 children of God be old 1 " 
 
 So little do I give in to calling this outside
 
 DESPOXDEXCY AND COXSOLATIOX, 
 
 of me, me, that I should not mind presenting 
 a minute description of my own person such 
 as would at once clear me from any suspicion 
 of vanity in so introducing myself. Not that 
 my honesty would result in the least from in- 
 difference to the external — but from compara- 
 tive indifference to the transitional ; not to 
 the transitional in itself, which is of eternal 
 significance and result, but to the particular 
 form of imperfection which it may have reached 
 at any individual moment of its infinite pro- 
 gression towards the complete. For no sooner 
 have I spoken the word noio, than that now is 
 dead and another is dying ; nay, in such a re- 
 gard, there is no now — only a past of which 
 we know a little, and a future of which we 
 know far less and far more. But I will not 
 speak at all of this body of my earthly taber- 
 nacle, for it is on the whole more pleasant to 
 forget all about it. And besides, I do not 
 want to set any of my readers to whom I would
 
 () ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 have the pleasure of speaking far more openly 
 and cordially than if they were seated on the 
 other side of my writing-table — I do not want 
 to set them wondering whether the vicar be 
 this vicar or that vicar ; or indeed to run the 
 risk of giving the offence I might give, if I 
 were anything else than "a wandering voice." 
 
 I did not feel as I feel now when first I 
 came to this parish. For, as I have said, I am 
 now getting old very fast. True, I was thirty 
 when I was made a vicar, an age at which a 
 man might be expected to be beginning to 
 grow wise ; but even then I had much yet to 
 learn. 
 
 I well remember the "first evening on which 
 I wandered out from the vicarage to take a 
 look about me — to find out, in short, where I 
 was, and what aspect the sky and earth here 
 presented. Strangely enough, I had never been 
 here before ; for the presentation had been 
 made me while I was abroad. — I was depressed.
 
 DESPOXDE^X•Y AND COXSOLATIOX. 
 
 It was depressing weather. Grave doubts as 
 to whether I was in my place in the Ciiurch, 
 would keep rising and floating about, like rain- 
 clouds within me. Not that I doubted about 
 the Church ; I only doubted about myself. 
 " Were my motives pure '? " " What were my 
 motives ? " And, to tell the truth, 1 did not 
 know what my motives were, and therefore I 
 could not answer about the purity of them. 
 Perhaps seeing we are in this world in order to 
 become pure, it would be expecting too much 
 of any young man that he should be absolutely 
 certain that he was pure in anything. But the 
 question followed very naturally : " Had I then 
 any right to be in the Church — to be eating 
 her bread and drinking her wine without know- 
 ing whether I was fit to do her work V To 
 which the only answer I could find was, *' The 
 Church is part of God's world. He makes men 
 to work ; and work of some sort must be done 
 by every honest man. Somehow or other I
 
 8 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 hardly know how, I find myself in the Church. 
 I do not know that I am fitter for any other 
 work. I see no other work to do. There is 
 work here which I can do after some fashion. 
 With God's help I will try to do it well." 
 
 This resolution brought me some relief, 
 but still I was depressed. It was depressing 
 weather. — I may as well say that I was not 
 married then, and that I firmly believed I 
 never should be married— not from any ambi- 
 tion taking the form of self-denial ; nor yet 
 from any notion that God takes pleasure in 
 being a hard master ; but there was a lady — 
 Well, I will be honest, as I would be. — I had 
 been refused a few months before, which I 
 think was the best thing ever happened to me 
 except one. That one, of course, was when 
 I was accepted. But this is not much to 
 the purpose now. Only it was depressing 
 weather. 
 
 For is it not depressing when the rain is
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 9 
 
 falling, and the steam of it is rising ? when 
 the river is crawling along muddily, and the 
 horses stand stock-still in the meadows with 
 their spines in a straight line from the ears to 
 where they fail utterly in the tails ^ I should 
 only put on goloshes now, and think of the 
 days when I despised damp. Ah ! it was 
 mental waterproof that I needed then ; for let 
 me despise damp as much as I would, I could 
 neither keep it out of my mind, nor help suf- 
 fering the spiritual rheumatism which it occa- 
 sioned. Now, the damp never gets farther 
 than my goloshes and my Mackintosh. And 
 for that worst kind of rheumatism — I never 
 feel it now. 
 
 But I had begun to tell you about that first 
 evening — I had arrived at the vicarage the 
 night before, and it had rained all day, and 
 was still raining, though not so much. I took 
 my umbrella and went out. 
 
 For as I wanted to do my work well (every-
 
 10 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 thing taking far more the shape of work to 
 me, then, and duty, than it does now — though, 
 even now, I must confess things have occa- 
 sionally to be done by the clergyman because 
 there is no one else to do them, and hardly 
 from other motive than a sense of duty, — a 
 man not being able to shirk work because it 
 may happen to be dirty) — I say, as I wanted 
 to do my work well, or rather, perhaps, be-^ 
 cause I dreaded drudgery as much as any poor 
 fellow who comes to the treadmill in conse- 
 quence — I wanted to interest myself in it ; 
 and therefore I would go and fall in love, first 
 of all, if I could, with the country round about. 
 And my first step beyond my own gate was 
 up to the ankles in mud. 
 
 Therewith, curiously enough, arose the dis- 
 tracting thought how I could possibly preach 
 two good sermons a Sunday to the same people, 
 when one of the sermons was in the afternoon 
 instead of the evening, to which latter I had
 
 DESPOXDE^X•y AND COXSOLATIOX. 11 
 
 been accustomed in the large to\Yn in Avhicli I 
 had formerly officiated as curate in a proprie- 
 tary chapel I, who had declaimed indignant- 
 ly against excitement from without, who had 
 been inclined to exalt the intellect at the ex- 
 pense even of the heart, began to fear that 
 there must be something in the darkness, and 
 the gas-lights, and the crowd of faces, to ac- 
 count for a man's being able to preach a better 
 sermon, and for servant-girls preferring to go 
 out in the evening. Alas ! I had now to 
 preach, as I might judge with all probability 
 beforehand, to a company of rustics, of thought 
 yet slower than of speech, unaccustomed in 
 fact to think at all, and that in the sleepiest, 
 deadest part of the day, when I could hardly 
 think* myself, and when, if the weather should 
 be at all warm, I could not expect many of 
 them to be awake. And what good might I 
 look for as the result of my labour 1 How 
 could I hope in these men and women to
 
 12 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 kindle that fire which in the old days of the 
 outpouring of the Spirit made men live with 
 the sense of the kingdom of heaven about 
 them, and the expectation of something glori- 
 ous at hand just outside that invisible door 
 which lay between the worlds 1 
 
 I have learned since that perhaps I over-"- 
 rated the spirituality of those times, and under- 
 rated not being myself spiritual enough to see 
 all about me, the spirituality of these times, 
 I think I have learned since, that the parson 
 of a parish must be content to keep the upper 
 windows of his mind open to the holy winds 
 and the pure lights of heaven ; and the side 
 windows of tone, of speech, of behaviour open 
 to the earth, to let forth upon his fellows-men 
 the tenderness and truth which those upper 
 influences bring forth in any region exposed to 
 their operation. Believing in his Master, such 
 a servant shall not make haste ; shall feel no 
 feverous desire to behold the work of his
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 13 
 
 hands ; shall be content to be as his Master, 
 who waiteth long for the fruits of His earth. 
 
 But surely I am getting older than I 
 thought ; for I keep wandering away from my 
 subject, which is this my first walk in my new 
 cure. My excuse is, that I want my reader to 
 understand something of the state of my mine!, 
 and the depression under which I was labour- 
 ing. He will perceive that I desired to do 
 some work worth calling by the name of work, 
 and that I did not see how to get hold of a 
 beo;innino:. 
 
 I had not gone far from my own gate before 
 the rain ceased, though it was still gloomy 
 enough for any amount to follow. I drew 
 down my umbrella, and began to look about 
 me. The stream on my left was so swollen 
 that I could see its brown in patches through 
 the green of the meadows along its banks. A 
 little in front of me, the road, rising quickly, 
 took a sharp turn to pass along an old stone
 
 14 . ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 bridge that spanned the water with a single 
 fine arch, somewhat pointed ; and through the 
 arch I could see the river stretching away up 
 through the meadows, its banks bordered with 
 pollards. Now pollards always made me 
 miserable. In the first place they look ill- 
 used ; in the next place, they look tame ; in 
 the third place, they look very ugly. I had not 
 learned then to honour them on the ground 
 that they yield not a jot to the adversity of 
 their circumstances ; that, if they must be 
 pollards, they still will be trees ; and what 
 they may not do with grace they will yet do 
 with bounty ; that, in short, their life bursts 
 forth, despite of all that is done to repress and 
 destroy their individuality. When you have 
 once learned to honour anything, love is not 
 very far ofi" ; at least that has always been my 
 experience. But, as I have said, I had not yet 
 learned to honour pollards, and therefore they 
 made me more miserable than I was already.
 
 DESPOXDEXCY AND CONSOLATIOX. 15 
 
 When, having followed the road, I stood at 
 last on the bridge, and, looking up and down 
 the river through the misty air, saw two long 
 rows of these pollards diminishing till they 
 vanished in both directions, the sight of them 
 took from me all power of enjoying the water 
 beneath me, the green fields around me, or 
 even the old-world beauty of the little bridge 
 upon which I stood, although all sorts of bridges 
 have been from very infancy a delight to me. 
 For I am one of those who never get rid of 
 their infantile predilections, and to have once 
 enjoyed making a mud bridge, was to enjoy all 
 bridges for ever. 
 
 I saw a man in a white smock-frock comins: 
 along the road beyond, but I turned my back 
 to the road, leaned my arms on the parapet of 
 the bridge, and stood gazing where I saw no 
 visions, namely, at those very poplars. I heard 
 the man's footsteps coming up the crown of 
 the arch, but I would not turn to greet him. I
 
 16 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 was in a selfish humour if ever I was ; for 
 surely if ever one man ought to greet another, 
 it was upon such a comfortless afternoon. The 
 footsteps stopped behind me, and I heard a 
 voice : — 
 
 " I beg yer pardon, sir ; but be you the new 
 vicar i 
 
 I turned instantly and answered, " I am. 
 Do you want me V 
 
 " I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, 
 if ye '11 not take it amiss." 
 
 Before me stood a tall old man with his hat 
 in his hand, clothed as I have said, in a white 
 smock-frock. He smoothed his short gray hair 
 with his curved palm down over his forehead 
 as he stood. His face was of a red brown, 
 from much exposure to the weather. There 
 was a certain look of roughness, without hard- 
 ness, in it, which spoke of endurance rather 
 than resistance, although he could evidently 
 set his face as a flint. His features were large
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 17 
 
 and a little coarse, but the smile that parted 
 his lips when he spoke, shone in his gray eyes 
 as well, and lighted up a countenance in which 
 a man might trust. 
 
 " I wanted to see yer face, sir, if you 11 not 
 take it amiss." 
 
 "Certainly not," I answered, pleased with 
 the man's address, as he stood square before 
 me, looking as modest as fearless. " The sight 
 of a man's face is what everybody has a right 
 to ; but, for all that, I should like to know why 
 you want to see my face." 
 
 "Why, sir, you be the new vicar. You 
 kindly told me so when I axed you.'' 
 
 " Well, then, you 11 see my face on Sunday 
 in church — that is, if you happen to be there." 
 
 For, although some might think it the more 
 dignified way, I could not take it as a matter 
 of course that he would be at church. A man 
 might have better reasons for staying away 
 from church than I had for going, even though 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 18 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I was the parson, and it was my business. 
 Some clergymen separate between themselves 
 and their office to a degree which I cannot un- 
 derstand. To assert the dignities of my office 
 seems to me very like exalting myself; and 
 when I have had a twinsfe of conscience about 
 it, as has happened more than once, I have 
 then found comfort in these two texts : " The 
 Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but 
 to minister ; " and " It is enough that the ser- 
 vant should be as his master.^^ Neither have I 
 ever been able to see the very great difference 
 between right and wrong in a clergyman, and 
 rio^ht and wrono; in another man. All that I can 
 pretend to have yet discovered comes to this : 
 that what is right in another man is right in 
 a clergyman ; and what is wrong in another 
 man is much worse in a clergyman. Here, 
 however, is one more proof of approaching age. 
 I do not mean the opinion, but the digression. 
 " Well, then," I said, " you '11 see my face
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 19 
 
 in cliurch on Sunday, if you happen to be 
 there." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but you see, sir, on the bridge 
 here, the parson is the parson like, and I 'm Old 
 Eogers ; and I looks in his face, and he looks 
 in mine, and I says to myself, ' This is my 
 parson/ But o' Sundays he 's nobody's parson : 
 he 's got his work to do, and it mun be done, 
 and there 's an end on 't." 
 
 That there was a real idea in the old man's 
 mind was considerably clearer than the logic 
 by which he tried to bring it out. 
 
 " Did you know parson that 's gone, sir ? '" 
 he went on. 
 
 "No,'* I answered. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! he wur a good parson. Many's 
 the time he come and sit at my son's bedside 
 — him that's dead and gone, sir — for a long 
 hour, on a Saturday night, too. And then 
 when I see him up in the desk the next mor- 
 nin,' I'd say to myself, 'Old Rogers, that's
 
 20 ANNALS OF A QUJET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 the same man as sat by your son's bedside last 
 night. Think o' that, Old Eogers!' But, 
 somehow, I never did feel right sure o' that 
 same. He didn't seem to have the same cut, 
 somehow ; and he didn't talk a bit the same. 
 And when he spoke to me after sermon, in the 
 churchyard, I was always of a mind to go into 
 the church again and look up to the pulpit to 
 see if he war really out ov it ; for this warn't 
 the same man, you see. But you '11 know all 
 about it, better than I can tell you, sir. Only 
 1 always likes parson better out o' the pulpit, 
 and that 's how I come to want to make you 
 look at me, sir, instead o' the water down 
 there, afore I see you in the church to-morrow 
 mornin'." 
 
 The old man laughed a kindly laugh ; but 
 he had set me thinking, and I did not know 
 what to say to him all at once. So after a 
 short pause, he resumed : 
 
 " You '11 be thinking me a queer kind of a
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 21 
 
 man, sir, to speak to my betters before my 
 betters speaks to me. But mayhap you don't 
 know what a parson is to us poor folk that 
 has ne'er a friend more larned than theirselves 
 but the parson. And, besides, sir, I 'm an old 
 salt, — an old man-o'-wars man, — and I've 
 been all round the world, sir ; and I ha' been 
 in all sorts o' company, pirates and al^ sir : 
 and I ain't a bit frightened of a parson. No ; 
 I love a parson, sir. And I '11 tell you for 
 why, sir. He's got a good telescope, and he 
 gits to the masthead, and he looks out. And 
 he sings out, ' Land ahead ! ' or ' Breakers 
 ahead ! ' and gives directions accordin . Only 
 I can't always make out what he says. But 
 when he shuts up his spyglass, and comes 
 down the riggin', and talks to us like one man 
 to another, then I don't know what I should 
 do without the parson. Good evenin' to you, 
 sir, and welcome to Marshmallows." 
 
 The pollards did not look half so dreary.
 
 22 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 The river began to glimmer a little ; and the 
 old bridge had become an interesting old 
 bridge. The country altogether was rather 
 nice than otherwise. I had found a friend 
 already ! — that is, a man to whom I might 
 possibly be of some .use ; and that was the 
 most precious friend I could think of in my 
 preseijt situation and mood. I had learned 
 something from him too ; and I resolved to 
 try all I could to be the same man in the 
 pulpit that I was out of it. Some may be 
 inclined to say that I had better have formed 
 the resolution to be the same man out of the 
 pulpit that I was in it. But the one will go 
 quite right with the other. Out of the pulpit 
 I would be the same man I was in it— seeing 
 and feeling the realities of the unseen ; and in 
 the pulpit I would be the same man I was out 
 of it — taking facts as they are, and dealing 
 with things as they show themselves in the 
 world.
 
 DESPOXDEXCY AND CONSOLATIOX. 
 
 One other occurrence before I went home 
 that evening, and 1 shall close the chapter. I 
 hope I shall not write another so dull as this. 
 I dare not promise, though ; for this is a new 
 kind of work to me. 
 
 Before I left the bridge, — while, in fact, I 
 was contemplating the pollards with an eye, if 
 not of favour, yet of diminished dismay, — the 
 sun, which, for anything I knew of his where- 
 abouts, either from knowledge of the country, 
 aspect of the evening, or state of my own feel- 
 in o;s, mio;ht have been down for an hour or 
 two, burst his cloudy bands, and blazed out as 
 if he had just risen from the dead, instead of 
 being just about to sink into the grave. Do 
 not tell me that my figure is untrue, for that 
 the sun never sinks into the grave, else I will 
 retort that it is just as true of the sun as of a 
 man ; for that no man sinks into the grave. 
 He only disappears. Life is a constant sun- 
 rise, which death cannot interrupt, any more
 
 24 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 than the night can swallow up the sun. " God 
 is not the God of the dead, but of the living ; 
 for all live unto him." 
 
 Well, the sun shone out gloriously. The 
 whole sweep of the gloomy river answered him 
 in gladness; the wet leaves of the pollards 
 quivered and glanced ; the meadows offered 
 up their perfect green, fresh and clear out of 
 the trouble of the rain ; and away in the dis^ 
 tance, upon a rising ground covered with trees, 
 glittered a weathercock. What if I found 
 afterwards that it was only on the roof of a 
 stable '? It shone, and that was enough. And 
 when the sun had gone below the horizon, and 
 the fields and the river Avere dusky once more, 
 there it glittered still over the darkening earth, 
 a symbol of that faith which is " the evidence 
 of things not seen." It made my heart swell 
 as at a chant from the prophet Isaiah. What 
 matter then whether it hung over a stable-roof 
 or a church-tower 1
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 25 
 
 I stood up and wandered a little farther — off 
 the bridge, and along the road. I had not 
 gone far before I passed a house, out of which 
 came a young woman leading a little boy. 
 They came after me, the boy gazing at the 
 red and gold and green of the sunset sky. As 
 they passed me the child said, — 
 
 "Auntie, I think I should like to be a 
 painter." 
 
 " Why 1 '' returned his companion. 
 
 " Because, then," answered the child, " I 
 could help God to paint the sky." 
 
 What his aunt replied I do not know ; for 
 they were presently beyond my hearing. But 
 I went on answering him myself all the way 
 home. Did God care to paint the sky of an 
 evening, that a few of His children might see 
 it, and get just a hope, just an aspiration, out 
 of its passing green, and gold, and purple, and 
 red ? and should I think my day's labour lost, 
 if it wrought no visible salvation in the earth 1
 
 26 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 But was the child's aspiration in vain 1 
 Could I tell him God did not want his help to 
 paint the sky ? True he could mount no scaf- 
 fold against the infinite of the glowing west. 
 But might he not with his little palette and 
 brush, when the time came, show his brothers 
 and sisters what he had seen there, and make 
 them see it too '? Might he not thus come, 
 after loug trying, to help God to paint this 
 glory of vapour and light inside the minds of 
 His children ? Ah ! if any man's work is not 
 with God, its results shall be burned, ruthlessly 
 burned, because poor and bad. 
 
 "So, for my part," I said to myself, as I 
 walked home, " if I can put one touch of a rosy 
 sunset into the life of anv man or woman of 
 my cure, I shall feel that I have worked with 
 God. He is in no haste ; and if I do what I 
 may in earnest, I need not mourn if I work no 
 great work in the earth. Let God make His 
 sunsets : I will mottle my little fading cloud.
 
 DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 27 
 
 To help the growth of a thought that struggles 
 towards the light ; to brush with gentle hand 
 the earth-stain from the white of one snow- 
 drop — such be my ambition 1 So shall I scale 
 the rocks in front, not leave my name carved 
 upon those behind me." 
 
 People talk about special providences. I 
 beheve in the providences, but not in the 
 specialty. I do not believe that God lets the 
 thread of my affairs go for six days, and on 
 the seventh evening takes it up for a moment. 
 The so-called special providences are no excep- 
 tion to the rule — they are common to all men 
 at all moments. But it is a fact that God's 
 care is more evident in some instances of it 
 than in others to the dim and often bewildered 
 vision of humanity. Upon such instances 
 men seize and call them providences. It is 
 well that they can ; but it would be glori- 
 ously better if they could believe that the 
 whole matter is one grand providence.
 
 28 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I was one of such men at the time, and could 
 not fail to see what I called a special provi- 
 dence in this, that on my first attempt to find 
 where I stood in the scheme of Providence, and 
 while I was discouraged with regard to the 
 work before me, I should fall in with these 
 two — an old man whom I could help, and a 
 child who could help me ; the one opening an 
 outlet for my labour and my love, and the 
 other remindiug me of the highest source of 
 the most humbling comfort, — that in all my 
 work I mififht be a fellow-worker with God.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MAKSHM ALLOWS. 
 
 ^HESE events fell on the Saturday 
 night. On the Sunday morning, I 
 read prayers and preached. Never 
 before had I enjoyed so much the petitions 
 of the Church, which Hooker calls " the 
 sending of angels upward," or the reading 
 of the lessons, which he calls "the receiving 
 of angels descended from above." And whe- 
 ther from the newness of the parson, or the 
 love of the ser^dce, certainly a congregation 
 more intent, or more responsive, a clergyman 
 will hardly find. But, as I had feared, it was
 
 30 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 different in the afternoon. The people had 
 dined, and the usual somnolence had followed ; 
 nor could I find in my heart to blame men and 
 women who worked hard all the week, for be- 
 ing drowsy on the day of rest So I curtailed 
 my sermon as much as I could, omitting page 
 after page of my manuscript ; and when I 
 came to a close, was rewarded by perceiving 
 an agreeable surprise upon many of the faces 
 round me. I resolved that, in the afternoons 
 at least, my sermons should be as short as heart 
 could wish. 
 
 But that afternoon there was at least one 
 man of the congregation who was neither 
 drowsy nor inattentive. Eepeatedly my eyes 
 left the page off which I was readiug and 
 iilanced towards him. Not once did I find his 
 eyes turned away from me. 
 
 There was a small loft in the west end of 
 the church, in which stood a little organ, whose 
 voice, weakened by years of praising and pos-
 
 Mr FIRST SUXDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 31 
 
 sibly of neglect, had yet among a good many 
 tones that were rough, wooden, and reedy, a 
 few remaining that were as mellow as ever 
 praiseful heart could wish to praise withal. 
 And these came in amongst the rest like trust- 
 ing thoughts amidst " eating cares ; *' like the 
 faces of children borne in the arms of a crowd 
 of anxious mothers ; like hopes that are young- 
 prophecies amidst the downward sweep of 
 events. For, though I do not understand 
 music, I have a keen ear for the perfection of 
 the single tone, or the completeness of the 
 harmony. But of this organ more by and by. 
 
 Now this little gallery was somethiug larger 
 than was just necessary for the organ and 
 its ministrants, and a few of the parishioners 
 had chosen to sit in its fore-front. Upon 
 this occasion there was no one there but the 
 man to whom I have referred. 
 
 The space below this gallery was not in- 
 cluded in the part of the church used for the
 
 32 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 service. It was claimed by the gardener of the 
 place, that is the sexton, to hold his garden- 
 ing tools. There were a few ancient carvings 
 in wood lying in it, very brown in the dusky 
 light that came through a small lancet win- 
 dow, opening not to the outside, but into the 
 tower, itself dusky with an enduring twilight. 
 And there were some broken old headstones, 
 and the kindly spade and pickaxe — but I have 
 really nothing to do with these now, for I am, 
 as it were, in the pulpit, whence one ought to 
 look beyond such things as these. 
 
 Eising against the screen which separated 
 this mouldy portion of the church from the 
 rest, stood an old monument of carved wood, 
 once brilliantly painted in the portions that 
 bore the arms of the family over whose vault 
 it stood, but now all bare and worn, itself 
 gently flowing away into the dust it com- 
 memorated. It lifted its gablet, carved to look 
 like a canopy, till its apex was on a level with
 
 MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 33 
 
 the book-board on the front of the organ-loft ; 
 and over — in fact upon this apex appeared 
 the face of the man whom I have mentioned. 
 It was a very remarkable countenance — pale, 
 and very thin, without any hair, except that of 
 thick eyebrows that far overhung keen Cjues- 
 tioning eyes. Short bushy hair, gray, not white, 
 covered a well-formed head with a high nar- 
 row forehead. As I have said, those keen eyes 
 kept looking at me from under their gray eye- 
 brows all the time of the sermon — intelligently 
 without doubt, but whether sympathetically 
 or otherwise I could not determine. And in- 
 deed I hardly know yet. 
 
 My vestry door opened upon a little group 
 of graves, simple and green, without headstone 
 or slab ; poor graves, the memory of whose 
 occupants no one had cared to preserve. Good 
 men must have preceded me here, else the 
 poor would not have lain so near the chancel 
 and the vestry-door. All about and beyond 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 34 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 were stones, with here and there a monument ; 
 for mine was a large parish, and there were 
 old and rich families in it, more of which 
 buried their dead here than assembled their 
 living. But close by the vestry-door, there was 
 this little billowy lake of grass. And at the 
 end of the narrow path leading from the door, 
 was the churchyard wall, with a few steps on 
 each side of it, that the parson might pass at 
 once from the churchyard into his own shrub- 
 bery, here tangled, almost matted, from luxu- 
 riance of growth. But I would not creep out 
 the back way from among my people. That 
 way might do very well to come in by ; but 
 to go out, I would use the door of the people. 
 So I went along the church, a fine old place, 
 such as I had never hoped to be presented to, 
 and went out by the door in the north side 
 into the middle of the churchyard. The door 
 on the other side was chiefly used by the few 
 gentry of the neighbourhood ; and the Lych-
 
 MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHSIALLOWS. 35 
 
 gate, with its covered way, (for the main road 
 had once passed on that side,) was shared be- 
 tween the coffins and the carriages, the dead 
 who had no rank but one, that of the dead, 
 and the living who had more money than 
 their neighbours. For let the old gentry dis- 
 claim it as they may, mere wealth, derived 
 from whatever source, will sooner reach their 
 level than poor antiquity, or the rarest refine- 
 ment of personal worth ; although, to be sure, 
 the oldest of them will sooner give to the rich 
 their sons or their daughters to wed, to love if 
 they can, to have children by, than they will 
 yield a jot of their ancestral pre-eminence, or 
 acknowledge any equality in their sons or 
 daughters-in-law. The carpenter's son is to 
 them an old myth, not an everlasting fact. 
 To Mammon alone will they yield a little of 
 their rank — none of it to Christ. Let me 
 glorify God that Jesus took not on Him the 
 nature of nobles, but the seed of Adam ; for
 
 36 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 what could I do without my poor brothers 
 and sisters *? 
 
 I passed along the church to the northern 
 door, and went out. The churchyard lay in 
 bright sunshine. All the rain and gloom were 
 gone. " If one could only bring this glory of 
 sun and grass into one's hope for the future ! '' 
 thought I ; and looking down I saw the little 
 boy who aspired to paint the sky, looking up 
 in my face with mingled confidence and awe. 
 
 " Do you trust me, my little man V thought 
 I. "You shall trust me then. But I won't be 
 a priest to you. I '11 be a big brother." 
 
 For the priesthood passes away, the brother- 
 hood endures. The priesthood passes away, 
 swallowed up in the brotherhood. It is be- 
 cause men cannot learn simple things, cannot 
 believe in the brotherhood, that they need a 
 priesthood. But as Dr Arnold said of the 
 Sunday, " They do need it." And I, for one, 
 am sure that the priesthood needs the people
 
 MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 37 
 
 much more than the people needs the priest- 
 hood. 
 
 So I stooped and lifted the child and held 
 him in my arms. And the little fellow looked 
 at me one moment longer, and then put his 
 arms gently round my neck. And so we were 
 friends. When I had set him down, which I 
 did presently, for I shuddered at the idea of 
 the people thinking that I was showing off the 
 clergyman, I looked at the boy. In his face 
 was great sweetness mingled with great rus- 
 ticity, and I could not tell whether he was the 
 child of gentlefolk or of peasants. He did not 
 say a word, but walked away to join his aunt, 
 who was waiting for him at the gate of the 
 churchyard. He kept his head turned towards 
 me, however, as he went, so that, not seeing 
 where he was going, he stumbled over the 
 grave of a child, and fell in the hollow on the 
 other side. I ran to pick him up. His aunt 
 reached him at the same moment.
 
 38 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, sir ! " she said, as I gave 
 him to her, with an earnestness which seemed 
 to me disproportionate to the deed, and car- 
 ried him away with a deep blush over all her 
 countenance. 
 
 At the churchyard-gate, the old man-of- 
 war's man was waiting to have another look at 
 me. His hat was in his hand, and he gave a 
 pull to the short hair over his forehead, as if 
 he would gladly take that off too, to show his 
 respect for the new parson. I held out my 
 hand gratefully. It could not close around 
 the hard unyielding mass of fingers which met 
 it. He did not know how to shake hands, 
 and left it all to me. But pleasure sparkled 
 in his eyes. 
 
 " My old woman would like to shake hands 
 with you, sir,'' he said. 
 
 Beside him stood his old woman in a por- 
 tentous bonnet, beneath whose gay yellow rib- 
 bons appeared a dusky old face wrinkled like
 
 MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 39 
 
 a ship's timbers, out of which looked a pair of 
 keen black eyes, where the best beauty, that of 
 loving-kindness, had not merely lingered, but 
 triumphed. 
 
 " I shall be in to see you soon," I said, as I 
 shook hands with her. " I shall find out where 
 you live." 
 
 " Down by the mill," she said ; " close by it, 
 sir. There's one bed in our garden that always 
 thrives, in the hottest summer, by the plash 
 from the mill, sir." 
 
 "Ask for Old Eogers, sir," said the man. 
 "Everybody knows Old Eogers. But if your 
 reverence minds what my wife says, you won't 
 go wrong. When you find the river, it takes 
 you to the mill ; and when you find the mill, 
 you find the wheel ; and when you find the 
 wheel, you haven't far to look for the cot- 
 tage, sir. It 's a poor place, but you 11 be 
 welcome, sir."
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 
 
 HE next day I miglit expect some 
 visitors. It is a fortunate thing ttiat 
 English society now regards the par- 
 son as a gentleman, else he would have little 
 chance of being useful to the upper classes. 
 But I wanted to get a good start of them, and 
 see some of my poor before my rich came to 
 see me. So after breakfast on as lovely a 
 Monday in the beginning of autumn as ever 
 came to comfort a clergyman in the reaction of 
 his efforts to feed his flock on the Sunday, I 
 walked out, and took my way to the village.
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 41 
 
 I strove to dismiss from my mind every feel- 
 ing of doing duty, of ijerforming my "part, and 
 all that. I had a horror of becoming a moral 
 policeman as much as of "doing church." I 
 would simply enjoy the privilege, more open to 
 me in virtue of my office, of ministering. But 
 as no servant has a right to force his service, 
 so I would be the neighbour only, until such 
 time as the opportunity of being the servant 
 should show itself. 
 
 The village was as irregular as a village 
 should be, partly consisting of those white 
 houses with intersecting parallelograms of 
 black which still abound in some regions of our 
 island. Just in the centre, however, grouping 
 about an old house of red brick, which had 
 once been a manorial residence, but was now 
 subdivided in all modes that analytic inge- 
 nuity could devise, rose a portion of it which, 
 from one point of view, might seem part of an 
 old town. But you had only to pass round
 
 42 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 any one of three visible corners to see stacks 
 of wheat and a farm-yard ; while in another 
 direction the houses went straggling away into 
 a wood that looked very like the beginning of 
 a forest, of which some of the village orchards 
 appeared to form part. From the street the 
 slow- winding, poplar-bordered stream was here 
 and there just visible. 
 
 I did not quite like to have it between me 
 and my village. I could not help preferring 
 that homely relation in which the houses are 
 built up like swallow-nests on to the very walls 
 of the cathedrals themselves, to the arrange- 
 ment here, where the river flowed, with what 
 flow there was in it, between the church and 
 the people. 
 
 A little way beyond the farther end of the 
 village appeared an iron gate, of considerable 
 size, dividing a lofty stone wall. And upon 
 the top of that one of the stone pillars sup- 
 porting the gate which I could see, stood a crea-
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 43 
 
 tiire of stone, whether natant, volant, ^passant, 
 coucliaiit, or rampant, I could not tell, only it 
 looked like something terrible enough for a 
 quite antediluvian heraldry. 
 
 As I passed along the street, wondering with 
 myself what relations between me and these 
 houses were hidden in the future, my eye was 
 caught by the window of a little shop, in which 
 strings of beads and elephants of gingerbread 
 formed the chief samples of the goods within. 
 It was a window much broader than it was 
 high, divided into lozenge-shaped panes. AVon- 
 dering what kind of old woman presided over 
 the treasures in this cave of Aladdin, I thought 
 to make a first of my visits by going in and 
 buying something. But I hesitated, because I 
 could not think of anything I was in want of 
 — at least that the old woman was likely to 
 have. To be sure I wanted a copy of BengeFs 
 " Gnomon ; " but she was not likely to have that. 
 I wanted the fourth plate in the third volume
 
 44 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 of Law's " Behmen ;'' she was not likely to have 
 that either. I did not care for gingerbread ; and 
 I had no little girl to take home beads to. 
 
 But why should I not go in without an 
 ostensible errand ? For this reason : there are 
 dissenters everywhere, and I could not tell but 
 I might be going into the shop of a dissenter. 
 Now, though I confess nothing would have 
 pleased me better than that all the dissenters 
 should return to their old home in the Church, 
 I could not endure the suspicion of laying my- 
 self out to entice them back by canvassing or 
 using any personal influence. Whether they 
 returned or not, however, (and I did not expect 
 many would,) I hoped still, some day, to stand 
 towards every one of them in the relation of 
 the parson of the parish, that is, one of 
 whom each might feel certain that he was 
 ready to serve him or her at any hour when 
 he might be wanted to render a service. In 
 the meantime, I could not help hesitating.
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MAESHMALLOWS. 45 
 
 I had almost made up my mind to ask if she 
 had a small pocket compass, for I had seen 
 such things in little country shops — I am 
 afraid only in France, though — when the door 
 opened, and out came the little boy whom I 
 had already seen twice, and who was therefore 
 one of my oldest friends in the place. He 
 came across the road to me, took me by the 
 hand, and said — 
 
 " Come and see mother/' 
 
 "Where, my dearT' I asked. 
 
 " in the shop there," he answered. 
 
 " Is it your mother's shop 1 " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 1 said no more, but accompanied him. Of 
 course my expectation of seeing an old woman 
 behind the counter had vanished, but I was 
 not in the least prepared for the kind of 
 woman I did see. 
 
 The place was half a shop and half a kitchen. 
 A yard or so of counter stretched inwards from
 
 46 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 the door, just as a hint to those who might be 
 intrusively inclined. Beyond this, by the 
 chimney-corner, sat the mother, who rose as 
 we entered. She was certainly one — I do not 
 say of the most beautiful, but, until I have 
 time to explain further — of the most remark- 
 able women I had ever seen. Her face was 
 absolutely white — no, pale cream-colour — ex- 
 cept her lips and a spot upon each cheek, which 
 glowed with a deep carmine. You would have 
 said she had been painting, and painting very 
 inartistically, so little was the red shaded into 
 the surrounding white. Now this was cer- 
 tainly not beautiful. Indeed, it occasioned a 
 strange feeling, almost of terror, at first, for 
 she reminded one of the spectre woman in the 
 " Kime of the Ancient Mariner.'' But when 
 I got used to her complexion, I saw that 
 the form of her features was quite beautiful. 
 She might indeed have been lovely but for a 
 certain hardness which showed through the
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 47 
 
 beauty. This might have been the result of ill 
 health ill-endured ; but I doubted it. For there 
 was a certain modelling of the cheeks and lips 
 which showed that the teeth within were firmly 
 closed ; and, taken with the look of the eyes 
 and forehead, seemed the expression of a con- 
 stant and bitter self-command. But there 
 were indubitable marks of ill health upon 
 her, notwithstanding ; for not to mention her 
 complexion, her large dark eye was burning 
 as if the lamp of life had broken and the oil was 
 blazing ; and there was a slight expansion of the 
 nostrils, which indicated physical unrest. But 
 her manner was perfectly, almost dreadfully, 
 quiet ; her voice soft, low, and chiefly expres- 
 sive of indiflference. She spoke without look- 
 ing me in the face, but did not seem either shy 
 or ashamed. Her figure was remarkably grace- 
 ful, though too worn to be beautiful. — Here was 
 a strange parishioner for me ! — in a country 
 toy-shop, too !
 
 48 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 As soon as the little fellow had brought me 
 in, he shrank away through a half-^open door 
 that revealed a stair behind. 
 
 " What can I do for you, sir ? " said the 
 mother, coldly, and with a kind of book-pro- 
 priety of speech, as she stood on the other side 
 of the little counter, prepared to open box or 
 drawer at command. 
 
 " To tell the truth, I hardly know," I said. 
 '' I am the new vicar ; but I do not think that 
 I should have come in to see you just to-day, 
 if it had not been that your little boy there — 
 where is he gone to '? He asked me to come 
 in and see his mother." 
 
 " He is too ready to make advances to 
 strangers, sir." 
 
 She said this in an incisive tone. 
 
 " Oh, but," I answered, " I am not a 
 stranger to him. I have met him twice be- 
 fore. He is a little darling. I assure you he 
 has quite gained my heart."
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 49 
 
 No reply for a moment. Then just " In- 
 deed ! " and nothing more. 
 
 I could not understand it. 
 
 But a jar on a shelf, marked Tobacco, res- 
 cued me from the most pressing portion of 
 the perplexity, namely, what to say next. 
 
 " Will you give me a quarter of a pound of 
 tobacco 1" 1 said. 
 
 The woman turned, took down the jar, 
 arranged the scales, weighed out the quantity, 
 wrapped it up, took the money, — and all mth- 
 out one other word than, " Thank you, sir ; " 
 which was all I could return, with the addi- 
 tion of, " Good morning." 
 
 For nothing was left me but to walk away 
 with my parcel in my pocket. 
 
 The little boy did not show himself again. 
 I had hoped to find him outside. 
 
 Pondering, speculating, I now set out for 
 the mill, which, I had abeady learned, was 
 on the village side of the river. Coming to 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 a lane leading down to the river, I followed 
 it, and then walked np a path outside the row 
 of pollards, through a lovely meadow, where 
 brown and white cows were eating and shin- 
 ing all over the thick deep grass. Beyond 
 the meadow, a wood on the side of a rising 
 ground went parallel with the river a long 
 way. The river flowed on my right. That is, 
 I knew that it was flowing, but I could not 
 have told how I knew, it was so slow. Still 
 swollen, it was of a clear brown, in which you 
 could see the browner trouts darting to and 
 fro with such a slippery gliding that the 
 motion seemed the result of will, without any 
 such intermediate and complicate arrange- 
 ment as brain and nerves and muscles. The 
 water-beetles went spinning about over the 
 surface ; and one glorious dragon-fly made a 
 mist about him with his long wings. And 
 over all the sun hung in the sky, pouring 
 down life ; shining on the roots of the willows
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSH^HALLOWS. 51 
 
 at the bottom of the stream ; lighting up the 
 black head of the water-rat as he hurried 
 across to the opposite bank ; glorifying the 
 rich green lake of the grass ; and giving to 
 the whole an utterance of love and hope and 
 joy which was, to him who could read it, a 
 more certain and full revelation of God than 
 any display of power in thunder, in avalanche, 
 in stormy sea. Those with whom the feeling 
 of religion is only occasional, have it most 
 when the awful or grand breaks out of the 
 common ; the meek who inherit the earth, find 
 the God of the whole earth more evidently 
 present — I do not say more present, for there 
 is no measuring of His presence — more evi- 
 dently present in the commonest things. That 
 which is best He gives most plentifully, as is 
 reason with Him. Hence the quiet fulness of 
 ordinary nature ; hence the Spirit to them 
 that ask it. 
 
 I soon came within sound of the mill ; and
 
 52 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 presently, crossing the stream that flowed back 
 to the river after having done its work on the 
 corn, I came in front of the building, and 
 looked over the half-door into the mill. The 
 floor was clean and dusty. A few full sacks, 
 tied tight at the mouth — they always look to 
 me as if Joseph's silver cup were just inside — 
 stood about. In the farther corner, the flour 
 was trickling down out of two wooden spouts 
 into a wooden receptacle below. The whole 
 place was full of its own faint but pleasant 
 odour. No man was visible. The spouts went 
 on pouring the slow torrent of flour, as if every- 
 thing could go on with perfect propriety of 
 itself. I could not even see how a man could 
 get at the stones that I heard grinding away 
 above, except he went up the rope that hung 
 from the ceiling. So I walked round the cor- 
 ner of the place, and found myself in the 
 company of the water-wheel, mossy and green 
 with ancient waterdrops, looking so furred and
 
 MY FIRST :HOXDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 53 
 
 overgrown and lumpy, that one might have 
 thought the wood of it had taken to growing 
 again in its old days, and so the wheel was 
 losing by slow degrees the shape of a wheel, to 
 become some new awful monster of a pollard. 
 As yet, however, it was going round ; slowly, 
 indeed, and with the gravity of age, but doing 
 its work, and casting its loose drops in the 
 alms-giving of a gentle rain upon a little plot 
 of Master Eogers's garden, which was therefore 
 full of moisture-loving flowers. This plot was 
 divided from the mill-wheel by a small stream 
 which carried away the surplus water, and was 
 now full and running rapidly. 
 
 Beyond the stream, beside the flower bed, 
 stood a dusty young man, talking to a young 
 woman with a rosy face and clear honest eyes. 
 The moment they saw me they parted. The 
 young man came across the stream at a step, 
 and the young woman went up the garden 
 towards the cottage.
 
 54 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " That must Le Old Eogers's cottage 1 '' 1 
 said to the miller. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he answered, looking a little 
 sheepish. 
 
 "Was that his daughter — that nice-looking 
 young woman you were talking to 1 " 
 
 " YevS, sir, it was." 
 
 And he stole a shy pleased look at me out 
 of the corners of his eyes. 
 
 " It 's a good thing,^' I said, " to have an 
 honest experienced old mill like yours, that 
 can manao:e to efo on of itself for a little while 
 now and then.'' 
 
 This gave a great help to his budding confi- 
 dence. He laughed. 
 
 " Well, sir, it 's not very often it 's left to 
 itself. Jane isn't at her father's above once 
 or twice a week at most." 
 
 " She doesn't live with them, then 'i " 
 
 " No, sir. You see they 're both hearty, and 
 they ain't over well to do, and Jane lives up at
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 55 
 
 the Hall, sir. She 's upper housemaid, and 
 waits on one of the young ladies. — Old Eogers 
 has seen a great deal of the world, sir/' 
 
 "So I imagine. I am just going to see him. 
 Good morning." 
 
 I jumped across the stream, and went up a 
 little gravel- walk, which led me in a few yards 
 to the cottage-door. It was a sweet place to 
 live in, with honeysuckle growing over the 
 house, and the sounds of the softly-labouring 
 mill-wheel ever in its little porch and about 
 its windows. 
 
 The door was open, and Dame Eogers came 
 from within to meet me. She welcomed me. 
 and led the way into her little kitchen. As I 
 entered, Jane went out at the back-door. But 
 it was only to call her father, who presently 
 came in. 
 
 " I 'm glad to see ye, sir. This pleasure 
 comes of having no work to-day. After har- 
 vest there come slack times for the likes of me.
 
 5Q ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 People don't care about a bag of old bones 
 when they can get hold of young men. Well, 
 well, never mind, old woman. The Lord '11 
 take us through somehow. When the wind 
 blows, the ship goes ; when the wind drops, 
 the ship stops ; but the sea is His all the same, 
 for He made it ; and the wind is His all the 
 same too."' 
 
 He spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone, 
 unaware of anything poetic in what he said. 
 To him it was just common sense, and common 
 sense only. 
 
 "I am sorry you are out of work," I said. 
 " But my garden is sadly out of order, and I 
 must have something done to it. You don't 
 dislike gardening, do you '? " 
 
 " Well, I bean't a right good hand at garden- 
 work," answered the old man, with some em- 
 barrassment, scratching his gray head with a 
 troubled scratch. 
 
 There was more in this than met the ear ;
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHIklALLOWS. 57 
 
 but what, I could not conjecture. I would 
 press the point a little. So I took him at his 
 own word. 
 
 "I wont ask you to do any of the more 
 ornamental part," I said, — " only plain digging 
 and hoeino;/' 
 
 " I would rather be excused, sir." 
 
 " I am afraid I made you think " 
 
 "I thought nothing, sir. I thank you kindly, 
 sir." 
 
 " I assure you I want the work done, and I 
 must employ some one else if you don't under- 
 take it." 
 
 "Well, sir, my back's bad now — no, sir, I 
 won't tell a story about it. I would just 
 rather not, sir." 
 
 "Now," his wife broke in, "now. Old Eogers, 
 why won t 'ee tell the parson the truth, like a 
 man, downright ? If ye won't, 111 do it for 
 'ee. The fact is, sir," she went on, turning to 
 me, with a plate in her hand, which she was
 
 58 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 wiping, " the fact is, that the old parson's man 
 for that kind o' work was Simmons, t'other 
 end of the village ; and my man is so afeard 
 o' hurtin' e'er another, that he '11 turn the bread 
 away from his own mouth and let it fall in 
 the dirt." 
 
 "Now, now, old 'oman, don't 'ee belie me. 
 I m not so bad as that. You see, sir, I never 
 was good at knowin' right from wrong like. 
 I never was good, that is, at tellin' exactly 
 what I ought to do. So when anything 
 comes up, I just says to myself, *Now, Old 
 Eogers, what do you think the Lord would 
 best like you to do *? ' And as soon as I ax 
 myself that, I know directly what I Ve got to 
 do ; and then my old woman can't turn me 
 no more than a bull. And she don't like my 
 obstinate fits. But, you see, I daren't, sir, 
 once I axed myself that." 
 
 " Stick to that, Eogers," I said. 
 
 " Besides, sir," he went on, " Simmons wants
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 59 
 
 it more than I do. He 's got a sick wife ; and 
 my old woman, thank God, is hale and hearty. 
 And there is another thing besides, sir : he 
 might take it hard of you, sir, and think it 
 was turning away an old servant like ; and 
 then, sir, he wouldn't be ready to hear what 
 you had to tell him, and might, mayhap, lose 
 a deal o' comfort. And that I would take 
 worst of all, sir." 
 
 "AYell, well, Rogers, Simmons shall have 
 the job." 
 
 " Thank ye, sir," said the old man. 
 
 His wife, who could not see the thing quite 
 from her husband's point of view, was too 
 honest to say anything ; but she was none the 
 less cordial to me. The daughter stood look- 
 ing from one to the other with attentive face, 
 which took everything, but revealed nothing. 
 
 I rose to go. As I reached the door, I re- 
 membered the tobacco in my pocket. I had 
 not bought it for myself. I never could
 
 60 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 smoke. Nor do I conceive that smoking is 
 essential to a clergyman in the country ; 
 though I have occasionally envied one of my 
 brethren in London, who will sit down by the 
 fire, and, lighting his pipe, at the same time 
 please his host and subdue the bad smells of 
 the place. And I never could hit his way of 
 talking to his parishioners either. He could 
 put them at their ease in a moment. I think 
 he must have got the trick out of his pipe. 
 But in reality, I seldom think about how I 
 ought to talk to anybody I am with. 
 
 That I didn't smoke myself was no reason 
 why 1 should not help Old Eogers to smoke. 
 So I pulled out the tobacco. 
 
 " You smoke, don't you, Eogers V 1 said. 
 
 " Well, sir, I can't deny it. It 's not much 
 I spend on baccay, anyhow. Is it, dame '? " 
 
 " No, that it bean t," answered his wife. 
 
 " You don't think there 's any harm in 
 smoking a pipe, sir ? "
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHM ALLOWS. 61 
 
 "Not the least/' I answered, with emphasis. 
 
 "You see, sir," he went on, not giving me 
 time to prove how far I was from thinking- 
 there was any harm in it, " You see, sir, sailors 
 learns many ways they might be better with- 
 out. I used to take my pan o' grog with the 
 rest of them ; but I give that up quite, 'cause 
 as how I don't want it now." 
 
 " 'Cause as how," interrupted his vn.h, " you 
 spend the money on tea for me, instead. You 
 wicked old man to tell stories ! " 
 
 " Well, I takes my share of the tea, old 
 woman, and I 'm sure it 's a deal better for me. 
 But, to tell the truth, sir, I was a little troubled 
 in my mind about the baccay, not knowing 
 w^hether I ought to have it or not. For you 
 see, the parson that's gone didn't more than 
 half like it, as I could tell by the turn of his 
 hawse-holes when he come in at the door and 
 me a-smokin'. Not as he said anything ; for, 
 ye see, I was an old man, and I daresay that
 
 62 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 kep him quiet. But I did hear him blow up 
 a young chap i' the village he come upon pro- 
 miscus with a pipe in his mouth. He did give 
 him a thunderin' broadside ! to be sure ! So I 
 w^as in two minds whether I ought to go on 
 with my pipe or not.'' 
 
 " And how did you settle the question, 
 Eogers '? " 
 
 " Why I followed my own old chart, sir." 
 " Quite right. One mustn't mind too much 
 what other people think.'' 
 
 " That 's not exactly what I mean, sir." 
 " What do you mean then ? I should like to 
 know." 
 
 "Well, sir, I mean that I said to myself, 
 ' Now, Old Eogers, what do you think the Lord 
 would say about this here baccay business 1 ' " 
 " And what did you think He would say 1 " 
 "Why, sir, I thought He would say, *01d 
 Eogers, have yer baccay ; only mind ye don't 
 grumble when you ain't got none.' "
 
 MY FIRST MONDAY AT MAESHMALLOWS. 63 
 
 Something in this — I could not at the time 
 have told what — touched me more than I can 
 express. No doubt it was the simple reality 
 of the relation in which the old man stood to 
 his Father in heaven that made me feel as if 
 the tears would come in spite of me 
 
 "And this is the man/' I said to myself, 
 " whom I thought I should be able to teach ! 
 Well, the wisest learn most, and I may be use- 
 ful to him after all/^ 
 
 As I said nothing, the old man resumed — 
 
 "For you see, sir, it is not always a body 
 feels he has a right to spend his ha'pence on 
 baccay ; and sometimes, too, he ain't got none 
 to spend." 
 
 " In the meantime," I said^ " here is some 
 that I bought for you as I came along. I hope 
 you will find it good. I am no judge." 
 
 The old sailor's eyes glistened with gratitude. 
 
 " Well, who'd ha' thought it. You didn't 
 think I was beggin' for it, sir, surely 1 "
 
 64 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " You see T had it for you in my pocket." 
 
 " Well that is good o' you, sir ! " 
 
 " Why, Eogers, that '11 last you a month ! " 
 exclaimed his wife, looking nearly as pleased 
 as himself. 
 
 "Six weeks at least, wife,'' he answered. 
 " And ye don't smoke yourself, sir, and yet ye 
 bring baccay to me ! Well, it 's just like yer 
 Master, sir." 
 
 I went away resolved that Old Eogers should 
 have no chance of " grumbling " for want of 
 tobacco, if I could help it.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE COFFIN. 
 
 N the way back, my thoughts were 
 still occupied with the woman I had 
 seen in the little shop. The old 
 man-of-war's man was probably the nobler 
 being of the two ; and if I had had to choose 
 between them, I should no doubt have chosen 
 him. But I had not to choose between them ; 
 I had only to think about them ; and 1 thought 
 a great deal more about the one I could not 
 understand than the one I could understand. 
 For Old Kogers wanted little help from me ; 
 whereas the other was evidently a soul in pain. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 66 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 and therefore belonged to me in peculiar right 
 of my office ; while the readiest way in which 
 I could justify to myself the possession of that 
 office was to make it a shepherding of the 
 sheep. So I resolved to find out what I could 
 about her, as one having a right to know, that 
 I might see whether I could not help her. 
 From herself it was evident that her secret, if 
 she had one, was not to be easily gained. ; but 
 even the common reports of the village would 
 be some enlightenment to the darkness I was 
 in about her. 
 
 As I went again through the village, I ob- 
 served a narrow lane striking off to the left, 
 and resolved to explore in that direction. It 
 led up to one side of the large house of which 
 I have already spoken. As I came near, I 
 smelt what has been to me always a delightful 
 smell — that of fresh deals under the hands of 
 the carpenter. In the scent of those boards of 
 pine is enclosed aU the idea the tree could
 
 THE COFFIN. G7 
 
 gather of the world of forest where it was 
 reared. It speaks of many wild and bright but 
 chiefly clean and rather cold things. If I were 
 idling, it would draw me to it across many 
 fields. — Turning a corner, I heard the sound 
 of a saw. And this sound drew me yet more. 
 For a carpenter's shop was the delight of my 
 boyhood ; and after I began to read the his- 
 tory of our Lord with something of that sense 
 of reality with which we read other histories, 
 and which, I am sorry to think, so much of the 
 well-meant instruction we receive in our youth 
 tends to destroy, my feeling about such a 
 workshop grew stronger and stronger, till at 
 last I never could go near enough to see the 
 shavings lying on the floor of one, without a 
 spiritual sensation such as I have in entering 
 an old church ; which sensation, ever since 
 having been admitted on the usual conditions 
 to a Mohammedan mosque, urges me to pull 
 ofi*, not only my hat, but my shoes likewise.
 
 68 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 And the feeling has grown upon me, till now it 
 seems at times as if the only cure in the world 
 for social pride would be to go for five silent 
 minutes into a carpenter's shop. How one can 
 think of himself as above his neighbours, 
 within sight, sound, or smell of one, I fear I 
 am getting almost unable to imagine ; and one 
 ought not to get out of sympathy with the 
 wrong. Only as I am growing old now, it does 
 not matter so much, for I daresay my time 
 will not be very long. 
 
 So I drew near to the shop, feeling as if the 
 Lord might be at work there at one of the 
 benches. And when I reached the door, there 
 was my pale-faced hearer of the Sunday after- 
 noon, sawing a board for a coffin-lid. 
 
 As my shadow fell across and darkened his 
 work, he lifted his head and saw me. 
 
 I could not altogether understand the ex- 
 pression of his countenance as he stood upright 
 from his labour and touched his old hat with
 
 THE COFFIN. G9 
 
 rather a proud than a courteous gesture. And 
 I could not believe that he was glad to see me, 
 although he laid down his saw and advanced 
 to the door. It was the gentleman in him, not 
 the man, that sought to make me welcome, 
 hardly caring whether I saw through the cere- 
 mony or not. True, there was a smile on his 
 lips, but the smile of a man who cherishes a 
 secret grudge ; of one who does not altogether 
 dislike you, but who has a claim upon you — 
 say, for an apology, of which claim he doubts 
 whether you know the existence. So the smile 
 seemed tightened, and stopped just when it 
 got half-way to its width, and was about to 
 become hearty and begin to shine. 
 
 " May T come in V I said. 
 
 "Come in, sir," he answered. 
 
 " I am glad I have happened to come upon 
 you by accident," I said. 
 
 He smiled as if he did not quite believe in 
 the accident, and considered it a part of the
 
 70 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 play between us that I should pretend it. I 
 hastened to add — 
 
 " I was wandering about the place, mak- 
 ing some acquaintance with it, and with my 
 friends in it, when I came upon you quite un- 
 expectedly. You know I saw you in church 
 on Sunday afternoon." 
 
 "I know you saw me, sir," he answered, 
 w^ith a motion as if to return to his work ; 
 *'but, to tell the truth, I don't go to church 
 very often/^ 
 
 I did not quite know whether to take this 
 as proceeding from an honest fear of being 
 misunderstood, or from a sense of being in 
 general superior to all that sort of thing. But 
 I felt that it would be of no good to pursue 
 the inquiry directly. I looked therefore for 
 something to say. 
 
 "Ah! your work i& not always a pleasant 
 one," 1 said, associating the feelings of which 
 I have already spoken with the facts before
 
 THE COFFIX. 
 
 me, and looking at the coffin, the lower part 
 of which stood nearly finished upon trestles on 
 the floor. 
 
 "Well, there are unpleasant things in all 
 trades,'' he answered. " But it does not mat- 
 ter," he added, with an increase of bitterness 
 in his smile. 
 
 " I didn't mean," I said, " that the work 
 was unpleasant — only sad. It must always 
 be painful to make a coffin." 
 
 "A joiner gets used to it, sir, as you do to 
 the funeral service. But, for my part, I don't 
 see why it should be considered so unhappy 
 for a man to be buried. This isn't such a 
 good job, after all, this world, sir, you must 
 allow." 
 
 " Neither is that coffin," said I, as if by a 
 sudden inspiration. 
 
 The man seemed taken aback, as Old Eogers 
 might have said. He looked at the coffin and 
 then looked at me.
 
 72 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " Well, sir," he said, after a short pause, 
 which no doubt seemed longer both to him and 
 to me than it would have seemed to any third 
 person, " I don't see anything amiss with the 
 coffin. I don't say it '11 last till doomsday, as 
 the gravedigger says to Hamlet, because I 
 don't know so much about doomsday as some 
 people pretend to ; but you see, sir, it 's not 
 finished yet." 
 
 "Thank you," I said; "that's just what 
 I meant. You thought I was hasty in my 
 judgment of your coffin ; whereas I only said 
 of it knowingly Avhat you said of the world 
 thoughtlessly. How do you know that the 
 world is finished any more than your coffin 1 
 And how dare you then say that it is a bad 
 job?" 
 
 The same respectfully scornful smile passed 
 over his face, as much as to say, "Ah! it's 
 your trade to talk that way, so I must not be 
 too hard upon you."
 
 THE COFFIN. 
 
 " At any rate, sir," tie said, " whoever raade 
 it has taken long enough about it, a person 
 would think, to finish anything he ever meant 
 to finish." 
 
 "One day is with the Lord as a thousand 
 years, and a thousand years as one day,'' I 
 said. 
 
 " That 's supposing," he answered, " that the 
 Lord did make the world. For my part, I am 
 half of a mind that the Lord didn't make it 
 at all." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear you say so,'' I an- 
 swered. 
 
 Hereupon I found that we had changed 
 places a little. He looked up at me. The 
 smile of superiority was no longer there, and 
 a puzzled questioning, which might indicate 
 either " Who would have expected that from 
 you'?" or, " What can he meanT' or both at 
 once, had taken its place. I, for my part, knew 
 that on the scale of the man's judgment I had
 
 74 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 risen nearer to his own level. As he said no- 
 thing, however, and I was in danger of being 
 misunderstood, I proceeded at once. 
 
 " Of course it seems to me better that you 
 should not believe God had done a thing, than 
 that you should believe He had not done it 
 welir' 
 
 " Ah ! I see, sir. Then you will allow there 
 is some room for doubting whether He made 
 the world at all 1 '' 
 
 " Yes ; for I do not think an honest man, as 
 you seem to me to be, would be able to doubt 
 without any room whatever. That would be 
 only for a fool. But it is just possible, as we 
 are not perfectly good ourselves — ^you '11 allow- 
 that, won't you \ " 
 
 "That I will, sir ; God knows." 
 
 " Well, I say — as we 're not quite good our- 
 selves, it's just possible that things may be too 
 good for us to do them the justice of believing 
 in them."
 
 THE COFFIN. 75 
 
 "But there are things, you must allow, so 
 plainly wrong ! '' 
 
 " So much so, both in the world and in my- 
 self, that it would be to me torturing despair 
 to believe that God did not make the world ; 
 for then, how would it ever be put right *? 
 Therefore I prefer the theory that He has not 
 done making it yet." 
 
 " But wouldn't you say, sir, that God might 
 have managed it without so many slips in the 
 making as your way would suppose '? I should 
 think myself a bad workman if I worked after 
 that fash ion. '* 
 
 "I do not believe that there are any slips. 
 You know you are making a coffin ; but are 
 you sure you know what God is making of the 
 world 1 " 
 
 "That I can't tell, of course, nor anybody 
 else." 
 
 " Then you can't say that what looks like a 
 sHp is really a slip, either in the design or in
 
 76 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 the workmanship. You do not know what 
 end He has in view ; and you may find some 
 day that those slips were just the straight 
 road to that very end/' 
 
 " Ah ! maybe. But you can't be sure of it, 
 you see." 
 
 " Perhaps not, in the way you mean ; hut 
 sure enough, for all that, to try it upon life — 
 to order my way by it, and so find that it 
 works well. And I find that it explains every- 
 thing that comes near it. You know that no 
 engineer would be satisfied with his engine 
 on paper, nor with any proof whatever except 
 seeing how it will go." 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 It is a principle of mine never to push any- 
 thing over the edge. When 1 am successful 
 in any argument, my one dread is of humiliat- 
 ing my opponent. Indeed I cannot bear it. 
 It humiliates me. And if you want him to 
 think about anything, you must leave him
 
 THE COFFIX. 77 
 
 room, and not give him such associations with 
 the question that the very idea of it will be 
 painful and irritating to him. Let him have 
 a hand in the convincing of himself. I have 
 been surprised sometimes to see my own argu- 
 ments come up fresh and green, when I thought 
 the fowls of the air had devoured them up. 
 When a man reasons for victory and not for 
 the truth in the other soul, he is sure of just 
 one ally, the same that Faust had in fighting 
 Gretchen's brother — that is, the Devil. But 
 God and good men are against him. So I 
 never follow up a victory of that kind, for, as 
 I said, the defeat of the intellect is not the 
 object in fighting with the sword of the Spirit, 
 but the acceptance of the heart. In this case, 
 therefore, I drew back. 
 
 "May I ask for whom you are making that 
 coffin r' 
 
 " For a sister of my own, sir." 
 
 " I 'm sorry to hear that."
 
 78 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " There's no occasion. I can t say I 'm sorry, 
 tliougli sHe was one of tlie Lest women I ever 
 knew." 
 
 "Why are you not sorry, then^ Life's a 
 good thing in the main, you will allow." 
 
 "Yes, when it's endurable at all. But to 
 have a brute of a husband coming home at 
 any hour of the night or morning, drunk upon 
 the money she had earned by hard work, was 
 enough to take more of the shine out of things 
 than church-going on Sundays could put in 
 again, regular as she was, poor woman ! I 'm 
 as glad as her brute of a husband, that she 's 
 out of his way at last." 
 
 " How do you know he 's glad of it 1 " 
 
 "He's been drunk every night since she 
 died." 
 
 " Then he 's the worse for losing her 1 " 
 
 " He may well be. Crying like a hypocrite, 
 too, over his own work ! " 
 
 " A fool he must be. A hypocrite, perhaps
 
 THE COFFIN. 79 
 
 not. A hypocrite is a terrible name to give. 
 Perhaps her death will do him good." 
 
 "He doesn't deserve to be done any good to. 
 I would have made this coffin for him with a 
 world of pleasure." 
 
 "I never found that I deserved anything, 
 not even a coffin. The only claim that I could 
 ever lay to anything was that I was very much 
 in want of it." 
 
 The old smile returned — as much as to say, 
 " That 's your little game in the church." But 
 I resolved to try nothing more with him at 
 present ; and indeed was sorry that I had 
 started the new question at all, partly because 
 thus I had again given him occasion to feel 
 that he knew better than I did, which was not 
 good either for him or for me in our relation 
 to each other. 
 
 " This has been a fine old room once," I said, 
 looking round the workshop. 
 
 "You can see it wasn't a workshop always.
 
 80 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 sir. Many a grand dinner-party has sat down 
 in this room when it was in its glory. Look 
 at the chimney-piece there." 
 
 "I have been looking at it," I said, going 
 nearer. 
 
 " It represents the four quarters of the world, 
 you see." 
 
 I saw strange figures of men and women, 
 one on a kneeling camel, one on a crawling 
 crocodile, and others differently mounted ; with 
 various besides of Nature's bizarre productions 
 creeping and flying in stone-carving over the 
 huge fire-place, in which, in place of a fire, 
 stood several new and therefore brilliantly red 
 cart-wheels. The sun shone through the upper 
 part of a high window, of which many of the 
 panes were broken, right in upon the cart- 
 wheels, which, glowing thus in the chimney 
 under the sombre chimney-piece, added to the 
 grotesque look of the whole assemblage of con- 
 trasts. The coffin ano the carpenter stood in
 
 THE COFFIN. 81 
 
 the twilight occasioned by the sharp division of 
 light made by a lofty wing of the house that 
 rose flanking the other window. The room 
 was still wainscoted in panels, which, I pre- 
 sume for the sake of the more light required 
 for handicraft, had been washed all over with 
 white. At the level of labour they were 
 broken in many places. Somehow or other, 
 the whole reminded me of Albert Diirer's 
 " Melencholia." 
 
 Seeing I was interested in looking about his 
 shop, my new friend — for I could not help 
 feeling that we should be friends before all was 
 over, and so began to count him one already 
 — resumed the conversation. He had never 
 taken up the dropped thread of it before. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he said ; " the owners of the 
 place little thought it would come to this — the 
 deals growing into a coffin there on the spot 
 where the grand dinner was laid for them 
 and their guests ! But there is another thing 
 
 VOL, I. F
 
 82 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 about it that is odder still : my son is the last 
 male " 
 
 Here he stopped suddenly, and his face grew 
 very red. As suddenly he resumed — 
 
 " I 'm not a gentleman, sir ; but I will tell 
 the truth. Curse it ! — I beg your pardon, sir,'' 
 — and here the old smile — " I don't think I got 
 that from their side of the house. — My son 's 
 not the last male descendant." 
 
 Here followed another pause. 
 
 As to the imprecation, I knew better than 
 to take any notice of a mere expression of ex- 
 citement under a sense of some injury with 
 which I was not yet acquainted. If I could 
 get his feelings right in regard to other and 
 more important things, a reform in that matter 
 would soon follow ; whereas to make a moun- 
 tain of a mole-hill would be to put that very 
 mountain between him and me. Nor would I 
 ask him any questions, lest I should just happen 
 to ask him the wrong one ; for this parishioner
 
 THE COFFIN. S3 
 
 of mine evidently wanted careful handling, if I 
 would do him any good. And it will not do any 
 man good to fling even the Bible in his face. 
 Nay, a roll of bank-notes, which would be 
 more evidently a good to most men, would 
 carry insult with it if presented in that man- 
 ner. You cannot expect people to accept 
 before they have had a chance of seeing what 
 the offered gift really is. 
 
 After a pause, therefore, the carpenter had 
 once more to recommence, or let the conver- 
 sation lie. I stood in a waiting attitude. 
 And while I looked at him, I was reminded 
 of some one else whom I knew — with whom, 
 too, I had pleasant associations — though I 
 could not in the least determine who that 
 one might be. 
 
 " It 's very foolish of me to talk so to a 
 stranger," he resumed. 
 
 "It is very kind and friendly of you,'' 1 
 said, still careful to make no advances. '* And
 
 84 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 you yourself belong to the old family that 
 once lived in this old house 1 '' 
 
 "It would be no boast to tell the truth, sir, 
 even if it were a credit to me, which it is not. 
 That family has been nothing but a curse to 
 ours." 
 
 I noted that he spoke of that family as 
 different from his, and yet implied that he 
 belonged to it. The explanation would come 
 in time. But the man was again silent, plan- 
 ing away at half the lid of his sister's coffin. 
 And I could not help thinking that the closed 
 mouth meant to utter nothing more on this 
 occasion, 
 
 " I am sure there must be many a story to 
 tell about this old place, if only there were 
 any one to tell them,'' I said at last, looking 
 round the room once more. — "I think I see 
 the remains of paintings on the ceiling." 
 
 "You are sharp-eyed, sir. My father says 
 they were plain enough in his young days."
 
 THE COFFIX, 
 
 "Is your father alive, thenl" 
 
 " That he is, sir, and hearty too, though he 
 seldom goes out of doors now. Will you go 
 up stairs and see him 1 He 's past ninety, sir. 
 He has plenty of stories to tell about the old 
 place — before it began to fall to pieces, like." 
 
 " I won't go to-day," I said, partly because 
 I wanted to be at home to receive any one 
 who might call, and partly to secure an excuse 
 for calling again upon the carpenter sooner 
 than I should otherwise have liked to do. " I 
 expect visitors myself, and it is time I were at 
 home. Good morning." 
 
 " Good morning, sir.'* 
 
 And away home I went with a new wonder 
 in my brain. The man did not seem unknown 
 to me. I mean the state of his mind woke 
 no feeling of perplexity in me. I was certain 
 of understanding it thoroughly when I had 
 learned something of his history; for that 
 such a man must have a history of his own
 
 86 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 was rendered only the more probable from the 
 fact that he knew something of the history of 
 his forefathers, though indeed there are some 
 men who seem to have no other. It was 
 strange, however, to think of that man work- 
 ing away at a trade in the very house in 
 which such ancestors had eaten and drunk, 
 had married and given in marriage. The 
 house and family had declined together — in 
 outward appearance at least ; for it was quite 
 possible both might have risen in the moral 
 and spiritual scale in proportion as they sank 
 in the social one. And if any of my readers 
 are at first inclined to think that this could 
 hardly be, seeing that the man was little if 
 anything better than an infidel, I would just 
 like to hold one minute's conversation with 
 them on that subject. A man may be on the 
 way to the truth just in virtue of his doubt- 
 ing. I will tell you what Lord Bacon says, 
 and of all writers of English I delight in him :
 
 THE COFFIX. 87 
 
 " So it is in contemplation : if a man will 
 begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts ; 
 but if he will be content to begin with doubts, 
 he shall end in certainties." Now I could not 
 tell the kind of character of this man's doubt ; 
 but it was evidently real and not aflfected 
 doubt ; and that was much in his favour. 
 And I could see that he was a thinkino- man ; 
 just one of the sort I thought I should get on 
 with in time, because he was honest — notwith- 
 standing that unpleasant smile of his, which 
 did irritate me a little, and partly piqued me 
 into the determination to get the better of the 
 man, if I possibly could, by making friends 
 with him. At all events, here was another 
 strange parishioner. And who could it be 
 that he was like 1
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 
 
 HEN I came near my own gate, I saw 
 that it was open ; and when I came 
 in sight of my own door, I found 
 a carriage standing before it, and a footman 
 ringing the bell. It was an old-fashioned 
 carriage, with two white horses in it, yet 
 whiter by age than by nature. They looked 
 as if no coachman could get more than three 
 miles an hour out of them, they were so fat 
 and knuckle-kneed. But my attention could 
 not rest long on the horses, and I reached the 
 door just as my housekeeper was pronouncing
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 89 
 
 me absent. There were two ladies in the 
 carriage, one old and one young. 
 
 "Ah, here is Mr Walton!" said the old 
 lady, in a serene voice, with a clear hardness 
 in its tone ; and I held out my hand to aid 
 her descent. She had pulled oflf her glove to 
 get a card out of her card-case, and so put the 
 tips of two old fingers, worn very smooth, as 
 if polished with feeling what things were like, 
 upon the palm of my hand. I then offered 
 my hand to her companion, a girl apparently 
 about fourteen, who took a hearty hold of it, 
 and jumped down beside her with a smile. 
 As I followed them into the house, I took 
 their card from the housekeeper s hand, and 
 read Mrs Oldcastle and Miss Glctdwyn, 
 
 I confess here to my reader that these are 
 not really the names I read on the card. I 
 made these up this minute. But the names 
 of the persons of humble position in my story 
 are their real names. And my reason for
 
 90 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 making the difference will be plain enough. 
 You can never find out my friend Old Eogers : 
 you might find out the people who called on 
 me in their carriage with the ancient white 
 • horses. * 
 
 When they were seated in the drawing- 
 room, I said to the old lady — 
 
 "I remember seeing you in church on 
 Sunday morning. It is very kind of you to 
 call so soon/' 
 
 "You will always see me in church," she 
 returned with a stiff bow, and an expansion of 
 deadness on her face, which I interpreted into 
 an assertion of dignity, resulting from the 
 implied possibility that I might have passed 
 her over in my congregation, or might have 
 forgotten her after not passing her over. 
 
 " Except when you have a headache, 
 grannie," said Miss Gladwyn, with an arch 
 look first at her grandmother and then at me. 
 " Grannie has bad headaches sometimes.''
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 91 
 
 The deadness melted a little from Mrs Old- 
 castle's face, as she turned with half a smile to 
 her grandchild, and said — 
 
 "Yes, Pet. But you know that cannot be 
 an interesting fact to Mr Walton." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mrs Oldcastle," I said. 
 "A clergyman ought to know something, and 
 the more the better, of the troubles of his 
 flock. Sympathy is one of the first demands 
 he ought to be able to meet. — I know what a 
 headache is." 
 
 The former expression, or rather non-ex- 
 pression, returned ; this time unaccompanied 
 by a bow. 
 
 "I trust, Mr Walton, I trust I am above 
 any morbid necessity for sympathy. But, as 
 you say, amongst the poor of your flock, — it 
 is very desirable that a clergyman should be 
 able to sympathize." 
 
 " It 's quite true what grannie says, Mr 
 Walton, though you mightn't think it. When
 
 92 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 she has a headache, she shuts herself up in 
 her own room, and doesn't even let me come 
 near her — nobody but Sarah; and how she 
 can prefer her to me, I'm sure I don't know." 
 
 And here the girl pretended to pout, but 
 with a sparkle in her bright gray eye. 
 
 "The subject is not interesting to me. Pet. 
 Pray, Mr Walton, is it a point of conscience 
 with you to wear the surplice when you 
 preach 1 " 
 
 "Not in the least," I answered. "I think 
 I like it rather better on the whole. But 
 that 's not why I wear it." 
 
 " Never mind grannie, Mr Walton. / think 
 the surplice is lovely. I m sure it's much 
 liker the way we shall be dressed in heaven, 
 though I don't think I shall ever get there, if 
 I must read the good books grannie reads." 
 
 " I don't know that it is necessary to read 
 any good books but the good book," I said. 
 
 " There, grannie ! " exclaimed Miss Gladwyn,
 
 -1 
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 93 
 
 triumphantly, " I 'm so glad I 've got Mr 
 Walton on my side ! " 
 
 " Mr Walton is not so old as I am, my dear 
 and has much to learn yet." 
 
 I could not help feeling a little annoyed, 
 (which was very foolish, I know,) and saying 
 to myself, " If it's to make me like you, I had 
 rather not learn any more ; " but I said nothing 
 aloud, of course. 
 
 "Have you got a headache to-day, gran- 
 nie 1" 
 
 "No, Pet. Be quiet. I wish to ask Mr 
 Walton ivliy he wears the surplice." 
 
 "Simply," I replied, "because I was told 
 the people had been accustomed to it under 
 my predecessor." 
 
 "But that can be no good reason for doing 
 what is not right — that people have been 
 accustomed to it." 
 
 " But I don't allow that it 's not right. I 
 think it is a matter of no consequence what-
 
 94 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 ever. If I find that the people don't like it, 
 I will give it up with pleasure." 
 
 " You ought to have principles of your own, 
 Mr Walton." 
 
 " I hope I have. And one of them is, not 
 to make mountains of molehills ; for a molehill 
 is not a mountain. A man ought to have too 
 much to do in obeying his conscience and 
 keeping his soul's garments clean, to mind 
 whether he wears black or white when telling 
 his flock that God loves them, and that they 
 will never be happy till they believe it." 
 
 " They may believe that too soon." 
 
 " I don't think any one can believe the truth 
 too soon." 
 
 A pause followed, during which it became 
 evident to me that Miss Gladwyn saw fun 
 in the whole affair, and was enjoying it 
 thoroughly. Mrs Oldcastle's face, on the con- 
 trary, was illegible. She resumed in a mea- 
 sured still voice, which she meant to be meek,
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 95 
 
 I daresay, but which was really authorita- 
 tive — 
 
 " I am sorry, Mr Walton, that your principles 
 are so loose and unsettled. You will see my 
 honesty in saying so when you find that, ob- 
 jecting to the surplice, as I do, on Protestant 
 grounds, I yet warn you against making any 
 change because you may discover that your 
 parishioners are against it. You have no idea, 
 Mr Walton, what inroads Eadicalism, as they 
 call it, has been making in this neighbourhood. 
 It is quite dreadful. Everybody, down to the 
 poorest, claiming a right to think for himself, 
 and set his betters right ! There 's one worse 
 than any of the rest — but he 's no better than 
 an atheist — a carpenter of the name of W^eir, 
 always talking to his neighbours against the 
 proprietors and the magistrates, and the clergy 
 too, Mr W^alton, and the game-laws, and what 
 nof? And if you once show them that you 
 are afraid of them by going a step out of your
 
 96 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 way for their opinion about anything, there 
 will be no end to it ; for the beginning of 
 strife is like the letting out of water, as you 
 know. / should know nothing about it, but 
 that my daughter's maid — I came to hear of it 
 through her — a decent girl of the name of 
 Eogers, and born of decent parents, but un- 
 fortunately attached to the son of one of your 
 churchwardens, who has put him into that mill 
 on the river you can almost see from here." 
 "Who put him in the mill \ " 
 " His own father, to whom it belongs." 
 " "Well, it seems to me a very good match 
 for her." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, and for him too. But his 
 foolish father thinks the match below him, as 
 if there were any diflference between the posi- 
 tions of people in that rank of life! Every 
 one seems striving to tread on the heels of 
 every one else, instead of being content with 
 the station to which God has called them. I
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL, 97 
 
 am content with mine. 1 bad no thin 2; to do 
 with putting myself there. Why should they 
 not be content with theirs '? They need to be 
 taught Christian humility and respect for their 
 superiors. That's the virtue most w^anted at 
 present. The poor have to look up to the 
 rich " 
 
 " That 's right, grannie ! And the rich have 
 to look down on the poor." 
 
 "No, my dear. I did not say that. The 
 rich have to be hind to the poor.'' 
 
 *' But, grannie, why did you marry Mr Old- 
 castle 1 '' 
 
 *' What does the child mean ? " 
 
 "Uncle Stoddart says you refused ever so 
 many offers when you were a girl." 
 
 "Uncle Stoddart has no business to be 
 talking about such things to a chit like you," 
 returned the grandmother, smiling, hoAvever, 
 at the charge, which so far certainly contained 
 no reproach. 
 
 VOL. 1. G
 
 98 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 "And grandpapa was the ugliest and the 
 richest of them all— wasn't he, grannie 1 and 
 Colonel Markham the handsomest and the 
 poorest V 
 
 A flush of anger crimsoned the old lady's 
 pale face. It looked dead no longer. 
 
 "Hold your tongue," she said. "You are 
 rude." 
 
 And Miss Gladvvyn did hold her tongue, but 
 nothino; else, for she was lauo:hino; all over. 
 
 The relation between these two was evi- 
 dently a very odd one. It was clear that 
 Miss Gladwyn was a spoiled child, though I 
 could not help thinking her very nicely 
 spoiled, as far as I saw ; and that the old 
 lady persisted in regarding her as a cub, 
 although her claws had grown quite long 
 enough to be dangerous. Certainly, if things 
 went on thus, it was pretty clear which of 
 them would soon have the upper hand, for 
 ofrannie was vulnerable, and Pet was not.
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 9!) 
 
 It really began to look as if there were 
 none but characters in my parish. I began 
 to think it must be the strangest parish in 
 England, and to wonder that I had never 
 heard of it before. " Surely it must be in 
 some story-book at least ! '' I said to myself. 
 
 But her grand-daughter's tiger-cat-play 
 drove the old lady nearer to me. She rose 
 and held out her hand, saying, with some 
 kindness : 
 
 " Take my advice, my dear Mr Walton, and 
 don't make too much of your poor, or they '11 
 soon be too much for you to manage. — Come, 
 Pet : it 's time to go home to lunch. — And for 
 the surplice, take your own way and wear it. 
 / shan't say anything more about it." 
 
 " I wdll do what I can see to be rio;ht in 
 the matter," I answered as gently as I could ; 
 for I did not want to quarrel with her, 
 although I thought her both presumptuous 
 and rude.
 
 100 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " I 'm on your side, Mr Walton/' said the 
 girl, with a sweet comical smile, as she 
 squeezed my hand once more. 
 
 I led them to the carriage, and it was with 
 a feeling of relief that I saw it drive off. 
 
 The old lady certainly was not pleasant. 
 She had a white smooth face over which the 
 skin was drawn tight, gray hair, and rather 
 lurid hazel eyes. I felt a repugnance to her 
 that was hardly to be accounted for by her 
 arrogance to me, or by her superciliousness to 
 the poor ; although either would have ac- 
 counted for much of it. For I confess that I 
 have not yet learned to bear presumption and 
 rudeness with all the patience and forgiveness 
 with which I ought by this time to be able 
 to meet them. And as to the poor, I am 
 afraid I was always in some danger of being 
 a partizan of theirs against the rich ; and that 
 a clergyman ought never to be. And indeed 
 the poor rich have more need of the care of
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 101 
 
 the cleryman than the others, seeing it is 
 hardly that the rich shall enter into the king- 
 dom of heaven, and the poor have all the 
 advantage over them in that respect. 
 
 " Still," I said to myself, " there must be 
 some good in the woman — she cannot be 
 altogether so hard as she looks, else how 
 should that child dare to take the liberties of 
 a kitten with her"? She doesn't look to me 
 like one to make game of ! However, I shall 
 know a little more about her when I return 
 her call, and I will do my best to keep on 
 good terms with her." 
 
 I took down a volume of Plato to comfort 
 me after the irritation which my nerves had 
 undergone, and sat down in an easy-chair 
 beside the open window of my study. And 
 with Plato in my hand, and all that outside 
 my window, I began to feel as if after all a 
 man might be happy, even if a lady had 
 refused him. And there I sat, without open-
 
 102 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 ing my favourite vellum-bound volume, gaz- 
 ing out on the l^appy world, whence a gentle 
 wind came in as if to bid me welcome with a 
 kiss to all it had to give me. And then I 
 thought of the wind that bloweth where it 
 listeth, which is everywhere, and I quite forgot 
 to open my Plato, and thanked God for the 
 Life of life whose story and whose words are 
 in that best of books, and who explains every- 
 thing to us, and makes us love Socrates and 
 David and all good men ten times more ; and 
 who follows no law but the law of love, and 
 no fashion but the will of God ; for where did 
 ever one read words less like moralizing and 
 more like simple earnestness of truth than all 
 those of Jesus 1 And I prayed my God that 
 He would make me able to speak good com- 
 mon heavenly sense to my people, aud for- 
 give me for feeling so cross and proud to- 
 wards the unhappy old lady — for 1 was sure 
 she was not happy — and make ^me into a
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 103 
 
 ■rock which swallowed up the waves of wrong 
 in its great caverns, and never threw them 
 back to swell the commotion of the angry sea 
 whence they came. Ah, what it would be 
 actually to annihilate wrong in this way ! — to 
 be able to say it shall not be wrong against 
 me, so utterly do I forgive it ! How much 
 sooner, then, would the WTong-doer repent, 
 and get rid of the wrong from his side also ! 
 But the painful fact will show itself, not less 
 curious than painful, that it is more difficult 
 to forgive small wrongs than great ones. Per- 
 haps, however, tlie forgiveness of the great 
 WTongs is not so true as it seems. For do we 
 not think it is a fine thins; to foroive such 
 wrongs, and so do it rather for our own sakes 
 than for the sake of the wrong-doer ? It is 
 dreadful not to be good, and to have bad ways 
 inside one. 
 
 Such thoughts passed through my mind. 
 And once more the great light went up on me
 
 104 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 with regard to my office, namely, that just be- 
 cause I was parson to the parish, I must not 
 be the "person to myself. And I prayed God 
 to keep me from feeling stu7ig and proud, how- 
 ever any one might behave to me ; for all my 
 value lay in being a sacrifice to Him and the 
 people. 
 
 So when Mrs Pearson knocked at the door, 
 and told nie that a lady and gentleman had 
 called, I shut my book which I had just opened, 
 and kept down as well as I could the rising 
 grumble of the inhospitable Englishman, who 
 is apt to be forgetful to entertain strangers, at 
 least in the parlour of his heart. And I cannot 
 count it perfect hospitality to be friendly and 
 plentiful towards those whom you have in- 
 vited to your house — what thank has a man 
 in that \ — while you are cold and forbidding 
 to those who have not that claim on your 
 attention. That is not to be perfect as our 
 Father in heaven is perfect. By all means
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 105 
 
 tell people, when you are busy about something 
 that must be done, that you cannot spare the 
 time for them except they want you upon 
 something of yet more pressing necessity ; but 
 tell them, and do not get rid of them by the 
 use of the instrument commonly called the 
 cold shoulder. It is a wicked instrument that, 
 and ought to have fallen out of use by this 
 time. 
 
 1 went and received Mr and Miss Boulder- 
 stone, and was at least thus far rewarded — 
 that the eerie feeling as the Scotch would call 
 it, which I had about my parish, as containing 
 none but characters, and therefore not being 
 cannie, was entirely removed. At least there 
 was a wholesome leaven in it of honest stupid- 
 ity. Please, kind reader, do not fancy I am 
 sneering. I declare to you I think a sneer the 
 v/orst thing God has not made. A curse is 
 nothing in wickedness to it, it seems to me. 
 I do mean that honest stupidity I respect
 
 106 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 heartily, and do assert my conviction that I 
 do not know how England at least would get 
 on without it. But I do not mean the stupid- 
 ity that sets up for teaching itself to its neigh- 
 bour, thinking itself wisdom all the time. 
 That I do not respect. 
 
 Mr and Miss Boulderstone left me a little 
 fatigued, but in no way sore or grumbling. 
 They only sent me back with additional zest 
 to my Plato, of which I enjoyed a hearty page 
 or two before any one else arrived. The only 
 other visitors I had that day were an old sur- 
 geon in the navy who since his retirement had 
 practised for many years in the neighbour- 
 hood, and was still at the call of any one who 
 did not think him too old-fashioned — for even 
 here the fashions, though decidedly elderly 
 young ladies by the time they arrived, held 
 their sway none the less imperiously — and Mr 
 Brownrigg, the churchwarden. More of Dr 
 Duncan by and by. .
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 107 
 
 Except Mr and Miss Boulders tone, I had 
 not yet seen any common people. They were 
 all decidedly uncommon, and, as regarded 
 most of them, I could not think I should have 
 any difficulty in preaching to them. For, 
 whatever place a man may give to preaching 
 •in the ritual of the Church — indeed it does not 
 properly belong to the ritual at all — it is yet 
 the part of the so-called service with which his 
 personality has most to do. To the influences 
 of the other parts he has to submit himself, 
 ever turning the openings of his soul towards 
 them, that he may not be a mere praying- 
 machine ; but with the sermon it is otherwise. 
 That he produces. For that he is responsible. 
 And therefore, I say, it was a great comfort to 
 me to find myself amongst a people from which 
 my spirit neither shrunk in the act of preach- 
 ing, nor with regard to which it was likely to 
 feel that it was beating itself against a stone 
 wall. There was some good in preaching to
 
 108 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 a man like Weir or Old Kogers. Whether 
 there was any good in preaching to a woman 
 like Mrs Oldcastle I did not know. 
 
 The evening I thought I might give to my 
 books, and thus end my first Monday in my 
 parish ; but, as I said, Mr Brownrigg, the 
 churchwarden, called and stayed a whole 
 weary hour, talking about matters quite un- 
 interesting to any who may hereafter peruse 
 what I am now writing. Keally he was not 
 an interesting man : short, broad, stout, red- 
 faced, with an immense amount of mental 
 inertia, discharging itself in constant lingual 
 activity about little nothings. Indeed, when 
 there was no new nothing to be had, the old 
 nothing would do over again to make a fresh 
 fuss about. But if you attempted to convey 
 a thought into his mind which involved the 
 moving round half a degree from where he 
 stood, and looking at the matter from a point 
 even so far new, you found him utterly, totally
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 109 
 
 impenetrable, as pachydermatous as any rhin- 
 oceros or behemoth. One other corporeal fact 
 I could not help observing, was, that his cheeks 
 rose at once from the collar of his green coat, 
 his neck being invisible, from the hollow be- 
 tween it and the jaw being filled up to a level. 
 The conformation was just what he himself 
 delighted to contemplate in his pigs, to which 
 his resemblance was greatly increased by un- 
 wearied endeavours to keep himself close 
 shaved. — I could not help feeling anxious 
 about his son and Jane Eogers. — He gave a 
 quantity of gossip about various people, evi- 
 dently anxious that I should regard them as he 
 regarded them ; but in all he said concerning 
 them I could scarcely detect one point of sig- 
 nificance as to character or history. I was very 
 glad indeed when the waddling of hands — for 
 it was the perfect imbecility of hand-shaking — 
 was over, and he was safely out of the gate. 
 He had kept me standing on the steps for full
 
 110 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 five minutes, and I did not feel safe from liim 
 till I was once more in my study with the 
 door shut. 
 
 I am not going to try my reader's patience 
 with anything of a more detailed account of 
 my introduction to my various parishioners. 
 I shall mention them only as they come up in 
 the course of my story. Before many days 
 had passed I had found out my poor, who I 
 thought must be somewhere, seeing the Lord 
 had said we should have them with us al- 
 ways. There was a workhouse in the village, 
 but there were not a great many in it ; for 
 the poor were kindly enough handled who be- 
 longed to the place, and were not too severely 
 compelled to go into the house; though I be- 
 lieve in this house they would have been more 
 comfortable than they weie in their own 
 houses. 
 
 I cannot imagine a much greater misfor- 
 tune for a man, not to say a clergyman, than
 
 VISITORS FROM THE HALL. Ill 
 
 not to know, or knowing, not to minister to 
 any of the poor. And I did not feel that I 
 knew in the least where I was until I had 
 found out and conversed with almost the 
 whole of mine. 
 
 After I had done so, I be^an to thick it 
 better to return Mrs Oldcastle's visit, though I 
 felt greatly disinclined to encounter that tight- 
 skinned nose again, and that mouth whose 
 smile had no light in it, except when it re- 
 sponded to some nonsense of her grand- 
 daughter's.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 
 
 [BOUT noon, on a lovely autumn clay, 
 I set out for Oldcastle Hall. The 
 keenness of the air had melted away 
 with the heat of the sun, yet still the air was 
 fresh and invigorating. Can any one tell me 
 why it is that when the earth is renewing her 
 youth in the spring, man should feel feeble 
 and low-spirited, and gaze with bowed head, 
 though pleased heart, on the crocuses ; where- 
 as on the contrary in the autumn, when nature 
 is dying for the winter, he feels strong and 
 hopeful, holds his head erect, and walks with
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 113 
 
 a vigorous step, though the flaunting dahlias 
 discourage him greatly ? I do not ask for the 
 physical causes : those I might be able to find 
 out for myself ; but I ask, Where is the right- 
 ness and fitness in the thing? Should not 
 man and nature go together in this world 
 which was made for man — not for science, but 
 for man ? Perhaps I have some glimmerings 
 of where the answer lies. Perhaps " I see 
 a cherub that sees it." And in many of our 
 questions we have to be content with such an 
 approximation to an answer as this. And for 
 my part I am content with this. With less, I 
 am not content. 
 
 Whatever that answer may be, I walked 
 over the old Gothic brido^e with a heart strono: 
 enough to meet Mrs Oldcastle without flinch- 
 ing. I might have to quarrel with her — 1 
 coukl not tell : she certainly was neither safe 
 nor wholesome. But this I was sure of, that I 
 would not quarrel with her without being 
 
 VOL. L H
 
 114 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 quite certain that I ought. I wish it were 
 ■never one's duty to quarrel with anybody : I 
 do so hate it. But not to do it sometimes is 
 to smile in the devil's face, and that no one 
 ought to do. However, I had not to quarrel 
 this time. 
 
 The woods on the other side of the river 
 from my house, towards which I was now 
 walking, were of the most sombre rich colour 
 — sombre and rich, like a life that has laid 
 up treasure in heaven, locked in a casket of 
 sorrow. I came nearer and nearer to them 
 through the village, and approached the great 
 iron gate with the antediluvian monsters on 
 the top of its stone pillars. And awful mon- 
 sters they were — are still ! I see the tail of 
 one of them at this very moment. But they 
 let me through very quietly, notwithstanding 
 their evil looks : I thought they were saying 
 to each other across the top of the gate, 
 '* Never mind ; he '11 catch it soon enough."
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 115 
 
 But, as I said, I did not catch it that day ; 
 and I could not have caught it that day ; 
 it was too lovely a day to catch any hurt even 
 from that most hurtful of all beings under the 
 sun, an unwomanly woman. 
 
 I Avandered up the long winding road, 
 through the woods which I had remarked 
 flanking the meadow on my first walk up the 
 river. These woods smelt so sweetly — their 
 dead and dying leaves departing in sweet 
 odours — that they quite made up for the 
 absence of the flow^ers. And the w^ind — no, 
 there w^as no wdnd — there was only a memory 
 of wdnd that woke now and then in the bosom 
 of the wood, shook down a few leaves, like the 
 thoughts that flutter away in sighs, and then 
 was still ao^ain. 
 
 I am getting old, as I told you, my friends, 
 (See there, you seem my friends already. Do 
 not despise an old man because he cannot help 
 loving people he never saw or even heard of.)
 
 116 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 I say I am getting old — (is it hut or therefore? 
 I do not know which) — but, therefore, I shall 
 never forget that one autumn day in those 
 grandly fading woods. 
 
 Up the slope of the hillside they rose like 
 one great rainbow-billow of foliage — bright 
 yellow, red-rusty and bright fading green, all 
 kinds and shades of brown and purple. Mul- 
 titudes of leaves lay on the sides of the path, 
 so many that I betook myself to my old child- 
 ish amusement of walking in them without 
 lifting my feet, driving whole armies of them 
 with ocean-like rustling before. I did not 
 do so as I came back. I walked in the middle, 
 of the way then, and I remember stepping over 
 many single leaves, in a kind of mechanico- 
 merciful way, as if they had been living 
 creatures — as indeed who can tell but they 
 are, only they must be pretty nearly dead when 
 they are on the ground. 
 
 At length the road brought me up to the
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 11' 
 
 house. It did not look sucli a large house as 
 I have since found it to be. And it certainly 
 was not an interesting house from the outside, 
 though its surroun dings of o;reen o-rass and 
 trees would make any whole beautiful. In- 
 deed the house itself tried hard to look uoiy 
 not quite succeeding only because of the kind 
 foiling of its efforts by the Virginia creepers 
 and ivy, which, as if ashamed of its staring 
 countenance, did aU they could to spread their 
 hands over it and hide it. But there was one 
 charming group of old chimneys, belonging to 
 some portion behind, which indicated a very 
 different, namely, a very much older, face upon 
 the house once — a face that had passed away 
 to give place to this. Once inside, I found 
 there were more remains of the olden time 
 than I had expected. I was led up one of 
 those grand square oak staircases, which look 
 like a portion of the house to be dwelt in, and 
 not like a ladder for getting from one part of
 
 118 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 the habitable regions to another. On the top 
 was a fine expanse of landing, another hall, in 
 fact, from wliich I was led towards the back of 
 the house by a narrow passage, and shown 
 into a small dark drawing-room with a deep 
 stone-mnllioned window, wainscoted in oak 
 simply carved and panelled. Several doors 
 around indicated communication with other 
 parts of the house. Here I found Mrs Old- 
 castle, reading what I judged to be one of the 
 cheap and gaudy religious books of the pre- 
 sent day. She rose and received me, and hav- 
 ing motioned me to a seat, began to talk about 
 the parish. You would have perceived at once 
 from her tone that she recognized no other 
 bond of connexion between us but the parish. 
 
 '* I hear you have been most kind in 
 visiting the poor, Mr Walton. You must 
 take care that they don't take advantage 
 of your kindness, though. I assure you 
 you will find some of them very grasping
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 119 
 
 indeed. And you need not expect that they 
 will give you the least credit for good inten- 
 tions." 
 
 " I have seen nothing yet to make me uneasy 
 on that score. But certainly my testimony is 
 of no weight yet." 
 
 " Mine is. I have proved them. The poor 
 of this neighbourhood are very deficient in 
 gratitude." 
 
 " Yes, grannie, " 
 
 I started. But there was no interruption, 
 such as I have made to indicate my surprise ; 
 although, when I looked half-round in the 
 direction whence the voice came, the words 
 that followed were all rippled with a sweet 
 lauo-h of amusement. 
 
 "Yes, grannie, you are right. You re- 
 member how old dame Hope wouldn't take 
 the money you offered her, and dropped such 
 a disdainful courtesy. It was so greedy of 
 her, wasn't it 1 "
 
 120 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear of any disdainful re- 
 ception of kindness," I said. 
 
 "Yes, and she had the coolness, within a 
 fortnight, to send up to me and ask if I wouLi 
 be kind enough to lend her half-a-crown for a 
 few weeks." 
 
 " And then it was your turn, grannie ! You 
 .^ent her five shillings, didn't you ? — Oh no ; 
 I 'm wrong. That was the other woman." 
 
 "Indeed, I did not send her anything but 
 a rebuke. I told her that it would be a very 
 wrong thing in me to contribute to the sup- 
 port of such an evil spirit of unthankfulness 
 as she indulged in. When she came to see 
 her conduct in its true light, and confessed 
 that she had behaved very abominably, I 
 would see what I could do for her." 
 
 "And meantime she was served out, 
 Avasn't she 1 AVith her sick boy at home, 
 and nothing to give him 1 " said Miss Glad- 
 wyn.
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 121 
 
 " She made her own bed, and had to lie 
 on it/' 
 
 "Don't you think a little kindness might 
 have had more effect in bringing her to see 
 that she was wrong ? " 
 
 "Grannie doesn't believe in kindness, ex- 
 cept to me — dear old grannie ! She spoils me. 
 I 'm sure I shall be ungrateful some day ; and 
 then she '11 begin to read me long lectures, and 
 prick me with all manner of headless pins. 
 But I won't stand it, I can tell you, grannie I 
 I 'm to much spoiled for that." 
 
 Mrs Oldcastle was silent — why, I could not 
 tell, except it was that she knew she had no 
 chance of quieting the girl in any other way. 
 
 I may mention here, lest I should have no 
 opportunity afterwards, that I inquired of 
 dame Hope as to her version of the story, and 
 found that there had been a great misunder- 
 standing, as I had suspected. She was really 
 in no want at the time, and did not feel that
 
 122 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 it would be quite honourable to take the 
 money when she did not need it — (some poor 
 people are capable of such reasoning,) and so 
 had refused it, not without a feeling at the 
 same time that it was more pleasant to refuse 
 than to accept from such a giver ; some stray 
 sparkle of which feeling, discovered by the 
 keen eye of Miss Gladwyn, may have given 
 that appearance of disdain to her courtesy to 
 which the girl alluded. When, however, her 
 boy in service was brought home ill, she had 
 sent to ask for what she now required, on the 
 very ground that it had been offered to her 
 before. The misunderstanding had arisen 
 from the total incapacity of Mrs Oldcastle to 
 enter sympathetically into the feelings of one 
 as superior to herself in character as she was 
 inferior in worldly condition. 
 
 But to return to Oldcastle Hall. 
 
 I wished to change the subject, knowing 
 that blind defence is of no use. One must
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 123 
 
 have definite points for defence, if one has not 
 a thorouo;h understandino: of the character in 
 question ; and I had neither. 
 
 "This is a beautiful old house," I said. 
 " There must be strange places about it." 
 
 Mrs Oldcastle had not time to reply, or at 
 least did not reply, before Miss Gladwyn 
 said, 
 
 "Oh, Mr Walton, have you looked out of 
 the window yet 1 You don't know what a 
 lovely place this is, if you haven t." 
 
 And as she spoke, she emerged from a recess 
 in the room, a kind of dark alcove, where she 
 had been amusing herself with what I took to 
 be some sort of puzzle, but which I found 
 afterwards to be the bit and curb-chain of her 
 pony's bridle which she was polishing up to her 
 own bright mind, because the stable-boy had 
 not pleased her in the matter, and she wanted 
 both to get them brilliant and to shame the 
 lad for the future. I followed her to the win-
 
 124 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 dow, where I was indeed as mucli surprised 
 and pleased as she could have wished. 
 
 " There ! " she said, holding back one of the 
 dingy heavy curtains with her small childish 
 hand. 
 
 And there indeed I saw an astonishment. 
 It did not lie in the lovely sweeps of hill and 
 hollow stretching away to the horizon, richly 
 wooded, and — though I saw none of them — 
 sprinkled, certainly, with sweet villages full of 
 human thoughts, loves, and hopes ; the aston- 
 ishment did not lie in this — though all this 
 was really much more beautiful to the higher 
 imagination — but in the fact that, at the first 
 glance, I had a vision properly belonging to a 
 rugged or mountainous country. For I had 
 approached the house by a gentle slope, which 
 certainly was long and winding, but had 
 occasioned no feeling in my mind that I had 
 reached any considerable height. And I had 
 come up that one beautiful staircase ; no
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 125 
 
 more ; and vet now, when I looked from this 
 window, I found myself on the edge of a pre- 
 cipice — not a very deep one, certainly, yet 
 with all the eflfect of many a deeper. For be- 
 low the house on this side lay a great hollow, 
 with steep sides, up which, as far as they could 
 reach, the trees were climbing. The sides 
 were not all so steep as the one on which the 
 house stood, but they were all rocky and steep, 
 with here and there slopes of green grass. 
 And down in the bottom, in the centre of 
 the hollow, lay a pool of water. I knew it 
 only by its slaty shimmer through the fading 
 green of the tree-tops between me and it. 
 
 " There ! " again exclaimed Miss Gladwyn ; 
 " isnt't hat beautiful 1 But you haven t seen 
 the most beautiful thing yet. Grannie, 
 where 's — ah ! there she is ! There 's auntie ! 
 Don't you see her down there, by the side of 
 the pond ? That pond is a hundred feet deep. 
 If auntie were to fall in she would be drowned
 
 126 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 before you could jump down to get her out. 
 Can you swim 1 " 
 
 Before I had time to answer, she was off 
 again. 
 
 " Don't you see auntie down there 1 '' 
 
 "No, I don't see her. I have been trying 
 very hard, but I can't." 
 
 "Well, I daresay you can't. Nobody, I 
 think, has got eyes but myself. Do you see 
 a big stone by the edge of the pond, with an- 
 other stone on the top of it, like a big potato 
 with a little one grown out of it '? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, auntie is under the trees on the 
 opposite side from that stone. Do you see 
 her yet "i " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then you must come down with me, and 
 I will introduce you to her. She's much the 
 prettiest thing here. Much prettier than 
 grannie."
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 1:27 
 
 Here she looked over lier shoulder at 
 grannie, who, instead of being angry, as, from 
 what I had seen on our former iDterview, I 
 feared she would be, only said, without even 
 looking up from the little blue-boarded book 
 she was ao-ain readino- — 
 
 " You are a saucy child/' 
 
 Whereupon Miss Gladwyn laughed merrily. 
 
 " Come along," she said, and, seizing me by 
 the hand, led me out of the room, down a back- 
 staircase, across a piece of grass, and then down 
 a stair in the face of the rock, towards the 
 pond below. The stair went in zigzags, and, 
 although rough, was protected by an iron 
 balustrade, without vfhich, indeed, it would 
 have been very dangerous. 
 
 " Isn't your grandmamma afraid to let you 
 run up and down here. Miss Gladwyn 1 " I 
 said. 
 
 "Me!" she exclaimed, apparently in the 
 utmost surprise. " That ivould be fun ! For
 
 V28 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 you know, if she tried to liinrler me — but she 
 knows it 's no use ; I taught her that long ago 
 — let me see how lono; : oh ! I don't know — I 
 should think it must be ten years at least. I 
 ran away, and they thought I had drowned 
 myself in the pond. And I saw them, all the 
 time, poking with a long stick in the pond, 
 which, if I had been drowned there, never 
 could have brought me up, for it is a hundred 
 feet deep, I am sure. How I hurt my sides 
 trying to keep from screaming with laughter ! 
 I fancied I heard one say to the other, ' We 
 must wait till she swells and floats ! ' '' 
 
 " Dear me ! what a peculiar child ! " I said 
 to myself. 
 
 And yet somehow, whatever she said — even 
 when she was most rude to her grandmother — 
 she was never offensive. No one could have 
 helped feeling all the time that she was a little 
 lady. — I thought I would venture a question 
 with her. I stood still at a turn of the zigzag, and
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 129 
 
 looked down into the hollow, still a good way 
 below us, where I could now distinguish the 
 form, on the opposite side of the pond, of a 
 woman seated at the foot of a tree and stoop- 
 ins; forward over a book. 
 
 "May I ask you a question, Miss Glad- 
 
 " Yes, twenty if you like ; but I won't 
 answer one of them till you give up calling 
 me Miss Gladwyn. We can't be friends, you 
 know, so long as you do that/' 
 
 " What am I to call you, then ? I never 
 heard you called by any other name than Pet, 
 and that would hardly do, would it 1 " 
 
 " Oh, just fancy if you called me Pet before 
 grannie ! That 's grannie's name for me, and 
 nobody dares to use it but grannie — not even 
 auntie ; for, between you and me, auntie is 
 afraid of grannie ; I can't think why. I never 
 was afraid of anybody — except, yes, a little 
 afraid of old Sarah. She used to be my nurse 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 130 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 you know ; and grandmamma and everybody 
 is afraid of lier, and that's just why I never 
 do one thing she wants me to do. It would 
 never do to give in to being afraid of her, you 
 know. — There's auntie, you see, down there, 
 just where I told you before/' 
 
 " Oh yes ! I see her now. — What does your 
 aunt call you, then ? " 
 
 "Why, what you must call me — my own 
 name, of course/' 
 
 " What is that 1 " 
 
 "Judy/' 
 
 She said it in a tone which seemed to indi- 
 cate surprise that I should not know her name 
 — perhaps read it off her face, as one ought to 
 know a flower's name by looking at it. But 
 she added instantly, glancing up in my face 
 most comically. 
 
 " I wish yours was Punch." 
 
 " Why, Judy 1 " 
 
 " It would be such fun, you know."
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 131 
 
 "Well, it would be odd, I must confess. 
 What is your aunt's name 1 '* 
 
 " Oh, such a funny name ! — much funnier 
 than Judy : Ethelwyn, It sounds as if it 
 ouo;ht to mean somethino;, doesn't it 1 " 
 
 " Yes. It is an Anglo-Saxon word, without 
 doubt." 
 
 " What does it mean V 
 
 " I 'm not sure about that. I will try to find 
 out when I go home — if you would like to know." 
 
 " Yes, that I should. I should like to know 
 everything about auntie. Ethelwyn. Isn't it 
 pretty 1 " 
 
 " So pretty that I should like to know some- 
 thing more about Aunt Ethelwyn. What is 
 her other name 1 " 
 
 " Why, Ethelwyn Oldcastle, to be sure. 
 What else could it be 1 " 
 
 " Why, you know% for anything I knew, 
 Judy, it might have been Gladwyn. She 
 might have been your father's sister."
 
 132 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 *' Might she '? I never thought of that. 
 Oh, I suppose that is because I never think 
 about my father. And now I do think of it, 
 I wonder why nobody ever mentions him to 
 me, or my mother either. But I often think 
 auntie must be thinking about my mother. 
 Something in her eyes, when they are sadder 
 than usual, seems to remind me of my mother." 
 
 " You remember your mother, then 1 " 
 
 "No, I don't think I ever saw her. But 
 I. 've answered plenty of questions, haven't 1 1 
 I assure you, if you want to get me on to 
 the Catechism, I don't know a word of it. 
 Come along." 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 " What !" she said, pulling me by the hand, 
 "you a clergyman, and laugh at the Cate- 
 chism ! I didn't know that." 
 
 "I 'm not laughing at the Catechism, Judy. 
 I 'm only laughing at the idea of putting Cate- 
 chism questions to you."
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 133 
 
 " You know I didn't mean it," she said, with 
 some indignation. 
 
 "I know now," I answered. "But you 
 haven't let me put the only question I wanted 
 to put." 
 
 "AYhatisitr' 
 
 " How old are you \ " 
 
 " Twelve. Come alone^." 
 
 And away we went down the rest of the 
 stair. 
 
 When we reached the bottom, a winding 
 path led us through the trees to the side of 
 the pond, along which we passed to get to the 
 other side. 
 
 And then all at once the thought struck me 
 — why was it that I had never seen this auntie 
 with the lovely name at church '? Was she go- 
 ing to turn out another strange parishioner 1 
 
 There she sat, intent on her book. As we 
 drew near she looked up and rose, but did not 
 come forward.
 
 134 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 "Aunt Winnie, here's Mr Walton," said 
 Judy. 
 
 I lifted my hat and held out my hand. Be- 
 fore our hands met, however, a tremendous 
 splash reached my ears from the pond. I 
 started round. Judy had vanished. I had 
 my coat half off, and was rushing to the pool, 
 when Miss Oldcastle stopped me, her face un- 
 moved, except by a smile, saying, "It's only 
 one of that frolicsome child's tricks, Mr Wal- 
 ton. It is well for you that I was here, 
 though. Nothing would have delighted her 
 more than to have you in the water too." 
 
 " But," I said, bewildered, and not half com- 
 prehending, " where is she 1 " 
 
 "There," returned Miss Oldcastle, pointing 
 to the pool, in the middle of which arose a 
 heaving and bubbling, presently yielding pass- 
 age to the laughing face of Judy. 
 
 " Why don't you help me out, Mr Walton ? 
 You said you could swim."
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 135 
 
 " No, I did not," I answered, coolly. " You 
 talked so fast, you did not give me time to 
 say so." 
 
 *' It 's very cold,'*' she returned. 
 
 "Come out, Judy dear," said her aunt. 
 " Run home and change your clothes. There 's 
 a dear." 
 
 Judy swam to the opposite side, scrambled 
 out, and was off like a spaniel through the 
 trees and up the stairs, dripping and raining 
 as she went. 
 
 "You must be very much astonished at the 
 little creature, Mr Walton." 
 
 "I find her very interesting. Quite a 
 study." 
 
 "There never was a child so spoiled, and 
 never a child on whom it took less effect to 
 hurt her. I suppose such things do happen 
 sometimes. She is really a good girl ; though 
 mamma, who has done all the spoiling, will 
 not allow me to say she is good."
 
 136 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 Here followed a pause, for, Judy disposed of, 
 what should J say next. And the moment 
 her mind turned from Judy, I saw a certain 
 stillness — not a cloud, but the shadow of a 
 cloud — come over Miss Oldcastle's face, as if 
 she, too, found herself uncomfortable, and did 
 not know what to say next. I tried to get a 
 glance at the book in her hand, for I should 
 know something about her at once if I could 
 only see what she was reading. She never 
 came to church, and I wanted to arrive at 
 some notion of the source of her spiritual life ; 
 for that she had such, a single glance at her 
 face was enough to convince me. This, I 
 mean, made me even anxious to see what the 
 book was. But I could only discover that it 
 was an old book in very shabby binding, not 
 in the least like the books that young ladies 
 generally have in their hands. 
 
 And now my readers will possibly be think- 
 ing it odd that I have never yet said a word
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 13 i 
 
 about what either Judy or Miss Oldcastle was 
 like. If there is one thing I feel more inade- 
 quate than another, in taking upon me to 
 relate — it is to describe a lady. But 1 will 
 try the girl first. 
 
 Judy was rosy, gray-eyed, auburn-haired, 
 sweet-mouthed. She had confidence in her 
 chin, assertion in her nose, defiance in her eye- 
 brows, honesty and friendliness over all her 
 face. Ko one, evidently, could have a warmer 
 friend; and to an enemy she would be dan- 
 gerous no longer than a fit of passion might 
 last. There was nothing acrid in her ; and 
 the reason, I presume, was, that she had never 
 yet hurt her conscience. That is a very differ- 
 ent thing from saying she had never done 
 wrong, you know. She was not tall, even for 
 her age, and just a little too plump for the 
 immediate suggestion of grace. Yet every 
 motion of the child would have been graceful, 
 except for the fact that impulse was always
 
 138 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 predominant, giving a certain jerkiness, like 
 the hopping of a bird, instead of the gliding 
 of one motion into another, such as you might 
 see in the same bird on the wing. 
 
 There is one of the ladies. 
 
 But the other— how shall I attempt to de- 
 scribe her 1 
 
 The first thing I felt was, that she was a 
 lady-woman. And to feel that is almost to 
 fall in love at first sight. And out of this 
 whole, the first thing you distinguished would 
 be the grace over all. She was rather slender, 
 rather tall, rather dark-haired, and quite blue- 
 eyed. But I assure you it was not upon that oc- 
 casion that I found out the colour of her eyes. 
 I Avas so taken with her whole that I knew 
 nothing about her parts. Yet she was blue- 
 eyed, indicating northern extraction — some 
 centuries back perhaps. That blue was the 
 blue of the sea that had sunk through the eyes 
 of some sea rover's wife and settled in those
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 139 
 
 of her child, to be born when the voyage was 
 over. It had been dyed so deep ingrayne, as 
 Spenser would say, that it had never been 
 worn from the souls of the race since, and so 
 was every now and then shining like heaven 
 out at some of its eyes. Her features were 
 what is called regular. They were delicate 
 and brave. — After the grace, the dignity was 
 the next thing you came to discover. And 
 the only thing you would not have liked, you 
 would have discovered last. For when the 
 shine of the courtesy with which she received 
 me had faded away, a certain look of negative 
 haughtiness, of withdrawal, if not of repulsion, 
 took its place, a look of consciousness of her 
 own high breeding — a pride, not of life, but of 
 circumstance of life, which disappointed me in 
 the midst of so much that was very lovely. 
 Her voice was sweet, and I could have fancied 
 a tinge of sadness in it, to which impression 
 her slowness of speech, without any drawl in
 
 140 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 it, contributed. But I am not doing well as 
 an artist in describing her so fully before my 
 reader bas become in the least degree inter- 
 ested in her. I was seeing her, and no words 
 can make him see her. 
 
 Fearing lest some such fancy as had pos- 
 sessed Judy should be moving in her mind, 
 namely, that I was, if not exactly going to put 
 her through her Catechism, yet going in some 
 way or other to act the clergyman, I hastened 
 to speak. 
 
 "This is a most romantic spot, Miss Old- 
 castle," I said ; " and as surprising as it is ro- 
 mantic. I could hardly believe my eyes when 
 I looked out of the window and saw it first." 
 
 "Your surprise was the more natural that 
 the place itself is not properly natural, as you 
 must have discovered." 
 
 This was rather a remarkable speech for a 
 young lady to make. I answered : 
 
 " I only know that such a chasm is the last
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 141 
 
 thing I should have expected to find in this 
 gently undulating country. That it is arti- 
 ficial I was no more prepared to hear than I 
 was to see the place itself." 
 
 " It looks pretty, but it has not a very poetic 
 origin," she returned. " It is nothing but the 
 quarry out of which the old house at the top 
 of it was built." 
 
 " I must venture to difi'er from you entirely 
 in the aspect such an origin assumes to me," 
 I said. " It seems to me a more poetic origin 
 than any convulsion of nature whatever would 
 have been ; for, look you," I said — being as a 
 young man too much inclined to the didactic, 
 "for, look you/' I said — and she did look at 
 me — " from that buried mass of rock has arisen 
 this livino' house with its histories of ao-es and 
 generations ; and " 
 
 Here I saw a change pass upon her face : it 
 grew almost pallid. But her large blue eyes 
 were still fixed on mine.
 
 142 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 "And it seems to me" I went on, "that 
 such a chasm made by the uplifting of a house 
 therefrom, is therefore in itself more poetic 
 than if it were even the mouth of an extinct 
 volcano. For, grand as the motions and deeds 
 of Nature are, terrible as is the idea of the fiery 
 heart of the earth breaking out in convulsions, 
 yet here is something greater ; for human will, 
 human thought, human hands in human labour 
 and effort, have all been employed to build 
 this house, making not only the house beauti- 
 ful, but the place whence it came beautiful 
 too. It stands on the edge of what Shelley 
 would call its ' antenatal tomb ' — now beau- 
 tiful enough to be its mother — filled from 
 generation to generation '' 
 
 Her face had grown still paler, and her lips 
 moved as if she would speak ; but no sound 
 came from them. I had gone on, thinking it 
 best to take no notice of her paleness ; but 
 now I could not help expressing concern.
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 143 
 
 " I am afraid you feel ill, Miss Oldcastle." 
 
 "Not at all/' she answered, more quickly 
 than she had yet spoken. 
 
 " This place must be damp," I said. " I fear 
 you have taken cold." 
 
 She drew herself up a little haughtily, think- 
 ing no doubt that after her denial I was impro- 
 perly pressing the point. So I drew back to 
 the subject of our conversation. 
 
 " But I can hardly think," I said, " that all 
 this mass of stone could be required to build 
 the house, large as it is. A house is not solid, 
 you know." 
 
 " No," she answered. " The original buildin 
 was more of a castle, with walls and battle- 
 ments. I can show^ you the foundations of 
 them still ; and the picture, too, of what the 
 place used to be. We are not what we were 
 then. Many a cottage, too, has been built out 
 of this old quarry. Not a stone has been taken 
 from it for the last fifty years, though. Just
 
 144 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 let me show you one thing, Mr Walton, and 
 then I must leave you." 
 
 "Do not let me detain you a moment. I 
 will go at once," I said ; " though, if you would 
 allow me, I should be more at ease if I might 
 see you safe at the top of the stair first." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " Indeed, I am not ill," she answered ; " but 
 I have duties to attend to. Just let me show 
 you this, and then you shall go with me back 
 to mamma." 
 
 She led the way to the edge of the pond and 
 looked into it. I followed, and gazed down 
 into its depths, till my sight was lost in them. 
 I could see no bottom to the rocky shaft. 
 
 *' There is a strong spring down there," she 
 said, "Is it not a dreadful placed Such a 
 depth!" 
 
 " Yes," I answered ; " but it has not the 
 horror of dirty water ; it is as clear as crystal. 
 How does the surplus escape ? "
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 145 
 
 " On the opposite side of the hill you came 
 up, there is a well with a strong stream from 
 it into the river." 
 
 "I almost wonder at your choosing such a 
 place to read in. I should hardly like to be so 
 near this pond," said I, laughing. 
 
 "Judy has taken all that away. Nothing 
 in nature, and everything out of it, is strange 
 to Judy, poor child ! But just look down a 
 little way into the water on this side. Do you 
 see anything 1 " 
 
 " Nothing," I answered. 
 
 " Look again, against the wall of the pond," 
 she said. 
 
 "I see a kind of arch or opening in the 
 side," I answered. 
 
 "That is what I wanted you to see. Now, 
 do you see a little barred window, there, in the 
 face of the rock, through the trees V 
 
 " I cannot say I do," I replied. 
 
 "No. Except you know where it is — and 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 even then — it is not so easy to find it. I find 
 it by certain trees/' 
 
 "What is it r' 
 
 "It is the window of a little room in the 
 rock, from which a stair leads down through 
 the rock to a sloping passage. That is the 
 end of it you see under the water.'' 
 
 "Provided, no doubt," I said, "in case of 
 siege, to procure water." 
 
 "Most likely; but not, therefore, confined 
 to that purpose. There are more dreadful 
 stories than I can bear to think of " 
 
 Here she paused abruptly, and began anew. 
 
 " As if that house had brought death 
 
 and doom out of the earth with it. There 
 was an old burial-ground here before the Hall 
 was built." 
 
 "Have you ever been down the stair you 
 speak ofV I asked. 
 
 "Only part of the way," she answered. 
 " But Judy knows every step of it. If it were
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 147 
 
 not that the door at the top is locked, she 
 would have dived through that archway now, 
 and been in her own room in half the time. 
 The child does not know what fear means." 
 
 We now moved away from the pond, towards 
 the side of the quarry and the open-air stair- 
 case, which I thought must be considerably 
 more pleasant than the other. I confess I 
 longed to see the gleam of that water at the 
 bottom of the dark sloping passage, though. 
 
 Miss Oldcastle accompanied me to the room 
 where I had left her mother, and took her 
 leave with merely a bow of farewell. I saw 
 the old lady glance sharply from her to me 
 as if she were jealous of what we might have 
 been talking about. 
 
 " Grannie, are you afraid Mr Walton has 
 been saying pretty things to Aunt Winnie ? I 
 assure you he is not of that sort. He doesn't 
 understand that kind of thing. But he would 
 have jumped into the pond after me and got
 
 148 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 his death of cold if auntie would have let him* 
 It was cold. I think I see you dripping now, 
 Mr Walton." 
 
 There she was in her dark corner, coiled up 
 on a couch, and laughing heartily ; but all as 
 if she had done nothing extraordinary. And, 
 indeed, estimated either by her own notions 
 or practices, what she had done was not in 
 the least extraordinary. 
 
 Disinclined to stay any longer, I shook 
 hands with the grandmother, with a certain 
 invincible sense of slime, and with the grand- 
 child with a feeling of mischievous health, as 
 if the girl might soon corrupt the clergyman 
 into a partnership in pranks as well as in 
 friendship. She followed me out of the room, 
 and danced before me down the oak staircase, 
 clearing the portion from the first landing at 
 a bound. Then she turned and waited for me, 
 who came very deliberately, feeling the unsure 
 contact of sole and wax. As soon as I reached
 
 OLDCASTLE HALL. 149 
 
 her, she said, in a half-whisper, reaching up 
 towards me on tiptoe — 
 
 " Isn't she a beauty '? " 
 
 " Who 1 your grandmamma V 1 returned. 
 
 She gave me a little push, her face glowing 
 with fun. But I did not expect she would 
 take her revenge as she did. 
 
 " Yes, of course," she answered, quite gravely. 
 " Isn't she a beauty '? " 
 
 And then, seeing that she had put me hors 
 de combat, she burst into loud laughter, and, 
 opening the hall-door for me, let me go with- 
 out another word. 
 
 I went home very quietly, and, as I said, 
 stepping with curious care — of which, of 
 course, I did not think at the time — over the 
 yellow and brown leaves that lay in the 
 middle of the road.
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 THE BISHOP^S BASIN. 
 
 WENT home very quietly, as I say, 
 thinking about the strange elements 
 that not only combine to make life, 
 but must be combined in our idea of life, 
 before we can form a true theory about it. 
 Now-a-days, the vulgar notion of what is life- 
 like in any annals is to be realized by sternly 
 excluding everything but the commonplace ; 
 and the means at least are often attained, with 
 this much of the end as well — that the appear- 
 ance life bears to vulgar minds is represented 
 with a wonderful deOTee of success. But I
 
 THE bishop's BASIX. 151 
 
 believe that this is at least quite as unreal a 
 mode of representing life as the other extreme, 
 wherein the unlikely, the romantic, and the 
 uncommon predominate. I doubt whether 
 there is a single history — if one could only get 
 at the whole of it — in which there is not a 
 considerable admixture of the unlikely become 
 fact, including a few strange coincidences ; of 
 the uncommon, which, although striking at 
 first, has grown common from familiarity with 
 its presence as our own ; with even at least 
 some one more or less rosy touch of what we 
 call the romantic. My own conviction is, that 
 the poetry is far the deepest in us, and that 
 the prose is only broken-down poetry ; and 
 likewise that to this our lives correspond. 
 The poetic region is the true one, and just 
 therefore the incredible one to the lower order 
 of mind ; for although every mind is capable 
 of the truth, or rather capable of becoming 
 capable of the truth, there may lie ages be-
 
 152 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 tween its capacity and the truth. As you 
 will hear some people read poetry so that no 
 mortal could tell it was poetry, so do some 
 people read their own lives and those of 
 others. 
 
 I fell into these reflections from comparing 
 in my own mind my former experiences in 
 visiting my parishioners with those of that 
 day. True, I had never sat down to talk with 
 one of them without finding that that man or 
 that woman had actually a history, the most 
 marvellous and important fact to a human 
 being ; nay, I had found something more or 
 less remarkable in every one of their histories, 
 so that I was more than barely interested in 
 each of them. And as I made more acquaint- 
 ance with them, (for I had not been in the 
 position, or the disposition either, before I 
 came to Marshmallows, necessary to the 
 gathering of such experiences,) I came to the 
 conclusion — not that I had got into an extra-
 
 THE bishop's basix. 153 
 
 ordinary parish of characters — but that every 
 parish must be more or less extraordinary 
 from the same cause. Why did I not use to 
 see such people about me before 1 Surely I 
 had undergone a change of some sort. Could 
 it be that the trouble I had been o'oincr 
 through of late had opened the eyes of my 
 mind to the understanding, or rather the 
 simple seeing, of my fellow-men 1 
 
 But the people among whom I had been 
 to-day belonged rather to such as might be 
 put into a romantic story. Certainly I could 
 not see much that was romantic in the old 
 lady ; and yet those eyes and that tight- 
 skinned face — what might they not be capable 
 of in the working out of a story '? And then 
 the place they lived in ! Why, it would hardly 
 come into my ideas of a nineteenth-century 
 country parish at all. I was tempted to try 
 to persuade myself that all that had happened, 
 since I rose to look out of the window in the
 
 154 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 old house, had been but a dream. For how- 
 could that wooded dell have come there after 
 all? It was much too large for a quarry. 
 And that madcap girl — she never flung herself 
 into the pond ! — it could not be. And what 
 could the book have been that the lady with 
 the sea-blue eyes was reading ? Was that a 
 real book at all 1 No. Yes. Of course it 
 was. But what was it ? What had that to 
 do with the matter 1 It might turn out to be 
 a very commonplace book after all. No ; for 
 commonplace books are generally new, or at 
 least in fine bindings. And here was a shabby 
 little old book, such as, if it had been common- 
 place, would not have been likely to be the 
 companion of a young lady at the bottom of 
 a quarry — 
 
 " A savage place, as holy and enchanted 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 By woman wailing for her demon lover." 
 
 I know all this will sound ridiculous, es-
 
 THE bishop's basin. 155 
 
 pecially that quotation from Kuhlci Khan 
 coming after the close of the preceding sen- 
 tence ; but it is only so much the more like 
 the jumble of thoughts that made a chaos of 
 my mind as I went home. And then for that 
 terrible pool, and subterranean passage, and all 
 that — what had it all to do with this broad 
 daylight, and these dying autumn leaves 1 
 No doubt there had been such places. No 
 doubt there were such places somewhere yet. 
 No doubt this was one of them. But, some- 
 how or other, it would not come in well. I 
 had no intention of gomg in for — that is the 
 phrase now — going in for the romantic. I 
 would take the impression off by going to see 
 Weir the carpenter's old father. Whether my 
 plan was successful or not, I shall leave my 
 reader to judge. 
 
 I found Weir busy as usual, but not with a 
 coffin this time. He was working at a win- 
 dow-sash. " Just like life," I thought — tritely
 
 156 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 perhaps. " The other day he was closing up in 
 the outer darkness, and now he is letting in 
 the light." 
 
 " It 's a long time since you was here last, 
 sir," he said, but without a smile. 
 
 Did he mean a reproach 1 If so, I was more 
 glad of that reproach than I would have been 
 of the warmest welcome, even from Old 
 Eogers. The fact was that, having a good 
 deal to attend to besides, and willing at the 
 same time to let the man feel that he was in 
 no danger of being bored by my visits, I had 
 not made use even of my reserve in the shape 
 of a visit to his father. 
 
 "Well," I answered, "I wanted to know 
 something about all my people, before I paid 
 a second visit to any of them." 
 
 "All right, sir. Don't suppose I meant to 
 complain. Only to let you know you was 
 welcome, sir." 
 
 " I 've just come from my first visit to Old-
 
 THE bishop's basin. 157 
 
 castle Hall. And, to tell the truth, for I don't 
 like pretences, my visit to-day was not so 
 much to you as to your father, whom, per- 
 haps, I ought to have called upon before, only 
 I was afraid of seeming to intrude upon you, 
 seeing we don't exactly think the same way 
 about some things," I added — with a smile, I 
 know, which was none the less genuine that I 
 remember it yet. 
 
 And what makes me remember it yet ? It 
 is the smile that lighted up his face in response 
 to mine. For it was more than I looked for. 
 And his answer helped to fix the smile in my 
 memory. 
 
 "You made me think, sir, that perhaps, 
 after all, we were much of the same way of 
 thinking, only perhaps you was a long way 
 ahead of me." 
 
 Now the man was not right in saying that 
 we were much of the same way of thinking ; 
 for our opinions could hardly do more than
 
 158 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 come within sight of each other ; but what he 
 meant was right enough. For I was certain, 
 from the first, that the man had a regard for 
 the downright, honest way of things, and I 
 hoped that I too had such a regard. How 
 much of selfishness and of pride in one's own 
 judgment might be mixed up with it, both in 
 his case and mine, I had been too often taken 
 in — by myself, I mean — to be at all careful to 
 discriminate, provided there was a proportion 
 of real honesty along with it, which, I felt 
 sure, would ultimately eliminate the other. 
 For in the moral nest, it is not as with the 
 sparrow and the cuckoo. The right, the origi- 
 nal inhabitant is the stronger ; and, however 
 unlikely at any given point in the history it 
 may be, the sparrow will grow strong enough 
 to heave the intruding cuckoo overboard. So 
 I was pleased that the man should do me the 
 honour of thinking I was right as far as he 
 could see, which is the greatest honour one
 
 THE bishop's basix. 159 
 
 man can do another ; for it is setting him on 
 his own steed, as the eastern tyrants used to 
 do. And I was delighted to think that the 
 road lay open for further and more real com- 
 munion between us in time to come. 
 
 " Well," I answered, " I think we shall un- 
 derstand each other perfectly before long. But 
 now I must see your father, if it is convenient 
 and agreeable." 
 
 " My father will be delighted to see you, I 
 know, sir. He can t get so far as the church 
 on Sundays ; but you 'U find him much more 
 to your mind than me. He's been putting 
 ever so many questions to me about the new 
 parson, wanting me to try whether I couldn't 
 get more out of you than the old parson. 
 That's the way we talk about you, you see, 
 sir. You '11 understand. And I 've never told 
 him that I 'd been to church since you came — 
 I suppose from a bit of pride, because I had 
 so lon^ refused to g-o ; but I don't doubt some
 
 160 AJ^NALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 of the neighbours have told him, for he never 
 speaks about it now. And I know he \s been 
 looking out for you ; and I fancy he 's begun 
 to wonder that the parson was going to see 
 everybody but him. It will be a pleasure to 
 the old man, sir, for he don't see a great many 
 to talk to ; and he 's fond of a bit of gossip, is 
 the old man, sir." 
 
 So saying, Weir led the way through the 
 shop into a lobby behind, and thence, up what 
 must have been a back stair of the old house, 
 into a large room over the workshop. There 
 were bits of old carving about the walls of 
 the room yet, but, as in the shop below, all had 
 been whitewashed. At one end stood a bed 
 with chintz curtains and a warm-looking coun- 
 terpane of rich faded embroidery. There was 
 a bit of carpet by the bedside, and another 
 bit in front of the fire ; and there the old man 
 sat, on one side, on a high-backed not very 
 easy-looking chair. With a great effort he
 
 THE bishop's BASIX. IGl 
 
 managed to rise as I ajiproached him, not with- 
 standing my entreaties that he would not 
 move. He looked much older when on his 
 feet, for he was bent nearly double, in which 
 posture the marvel was how he could walk at 
 all. For he did totter a few steps to meet me, 
 without even the aid of a stick, and, holding 
 out a thin, shaking hand, welcomed me with 
 an air of breeding rarely to be met with in his 
 station in society. But the chief part of this 
 polish sprung from the inbred kindliness of 
 his nature, which was manifest in the expres- 
 sion of his noble old countenance. Ag-e is 
 such a different thing in different natures ! 
 One man seems to grow more and more selfish 
 as he grows older ; and in another the slow 
 fire of time seems only to consume, with fine, 
 imperceptible gradations, the yet lingering 
 selfishness in him, letting the light of the kino-- 
 dom, which the Lord says is within, shine out 
 more and more, as the husk grows thin and is 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 162 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 ready to fall off, that the man, like the seed 
 sown, may pierce the earth of this world and 
 rise into the pure air and wind and dew of 
 the second life. The face of a loving old man 
 is always to me like a morning moon, reflect- 
 ing the yet unrisen sun of the other world, 
 yet fading before its approaching light, until, 
 when it does rise, it pales and withers away 
 from our gaze, absorbed in the source of its 
 own beauty. This old man, you may see, 
 took my fancy wonderfully ; for even at this 
 distance of time, when I am old myself, the 
 recollection of his beautiful old face makes me 
 feel as if I could write poetry about him. 
 
 " I 'm blithe to see ye, sir,'^ said he. " Sit 
 ye down, sir/' 
 
 And, turning, he pointed to his own easy- 
 chair ; and I then saw his profile. It was 
 delicate as that of Dante, which in form it 
 marvellously resembled. But all the sternness 
 which Dante's evil times had generated in his
 
 THE bishop's basix. 163 
 
 prophetic face was in this old man's replaced 
 by a sweetness of hope that was lovely to 
 behold. 
 
 "No, Mr Weir/' I said, "I cannot take 
 your chair. The Bible tells us to rise up be- 
 fore the aged, not to turn them out of their 
 seats." 
 
 " It would do me good to see you sitting in 
 my cheer, sir. The pains that my son Tom 
 there takes to keep it up as long as the old 
 man may want it ! It 's a good thing I bred 
 him to the joiner's trade, sir. Sit ye down, 
 sir. The cheer '11 hold ye, though I warrant 
 it won't last that long after I be gone home. 
 Sit ye down, sir." 
 
 Thus entreated, I hesitated no longer, but 
 took the old man's seat. His son brought an- 
 other chair for him, and he sat down oppo- 
 site the fire and close to me. Thomas then 
 went back to his work, leaving us alone. 
 
 " Ye 've had some speech wi' my son Tom,"
 
 164 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 said the old man, the moment he was gone, 
 leaning a little towards me. " It ^s main kind 
 o' you, sir, to take up kindly wi' poor folks 
 like us." 
 
 " You don't say it 's kind of a person to do 
 what he likes best/' I answered. "Besides, 
 it 's my duty to know all my people.'' 
 
 " Oh yes, sir, I know that. But there 's a 
 thousand ways ov doin' the same thing. I ha' 
 seen folks, parsons and others, 'at made a great 
 show ov bein' friendly to the poor, ye know, 
 sir ; and all the time you could see, or if you 
 couldn't see you could tell without seein', that 
 they didn't much regard them in their hearts ; 
 but it was a sort of accomplishment to be able 
 to talk to the poor, like, after their own 
 fashion. But the minute an ould man sees 
 you, sir, he believes that you mean it, sir, 
 whatever it is. For an ould man somehow 
 comes to know things like a child. They call 
 it a second childhood, don't they, sir? And
 
 16o 
 
 there are some things worth growin' a child 
 again to get a hould ov again," 
 
 " I only hope what you say may be true — 
 about me, I mean." 
 
 "Take my word for it, sir. You have no 
 idea how that boy of mine, Tom there, did 
 hate all the clergy till you come. Not that 
 he 's anyway favourable to them yet, only he '11 
 say nothin again' you, sir. He 's got an un- 
 fortunate gift o' seein' all the faults first, sir ; 
 and when a man is that way given, the faults 
 always hides the other side, so that there 's 
 nothing but faults to be seen.'' 
 
 " But I find Thomas quite open to reason." 
 
 " That 's because you understand him, sir, 
 and know how to give him head. JLe tould 
 me of the talk you had with him. You don t 
 bait him. You don't say, 'You must come 
 along wi' me,' but you turns and goes along wi' 
 him. He 's not a bad fellow at all, is Tom ; but 
 he will have the reason for every think. Now
 
 166 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I never did want tlie reason for everything. I 
 was content to be tould a many things. But 
 Tom, yon see, he was born with a sore bit in 
 him somewheres, I don't rightly know wheres ; 
 and I don't think he rightly knows what 's the 
 matter ^rith him himself.'' 
 
 " I dare say you have a guess, though, by 
 this time, Mr Weir," I said ; " and I think I 
 have a guess too." 
 
 " Well, sir, if he 'd only give in, I think he 
 would be far happier. But he can t see his way 
 clear." 
 
 " You must give him time, you know. The 
 fact is, he doesn't feel at home yet. And how 
 can he, so long as he doesn't know his own 
 father V 
 
 "I'm not sure that I rightly understand 
 you," said the old man, looking bewildered 
 and curious. 
 
 "I mean," I answered, "that till a man 
 knows that he is one of God's family, living
 
 THE bishop's basix. 167 
 
 in God's house, with God up-stairs, as it were, 
 while he is at his work or his play in a nursery 
 below-stairs, he can't feel comfortable. For 
 a man could not be made that should stand 
 alone, like some of the beasts. A man must 
 feel a head over him, because he 's not enouo;h 
 to satisfy himself, you know. Thomas just 
 wants faith ; that is, he wants to feel that 
 there is a loving Father over him, who is doing 
 things all well and right, if we could only un- 
 derstand them, though it really does not look 
 like it sometimes.'^ 
 
 "Ah, sir, I might have understood you well 
 enough, if my poor old head hadn't been 
 started on a wrong track. For I fancied for 
 the moment that you were just putting your 
 finger upon the sore place in Tom's mind. 
 There 's no use in keeping family misfortunes 
 from a friend like you, sir. That boy has 
 known his father all his life ; but I was nearly 
 half his age before I knew mine/'
 
 1G8 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " Strange I '' I said, involuntarily almost. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; strange you may well say. A 
 strange story it is. The Lord help my 
 mother ! I beg yer pardon, sir. I 'm no 
 Catholic. But that prayer will come of itself 
 sometimes. As if it could be of any use now ! 
 God forgive me 1 " 
 
 "Don't you be afraid, Mr Weir, as if God 
 was ready to take offence at what comes natur- 
 ally, as you say. An ejaculation of love is not 
 likely to offend Him who is so grand that He 
 is always meek and lowly of heart, and whose 
 love is such that ours is a mere faint light — • 
 ' a little glooming ligbt much like a shade ' — 
 as one of our own poets says, beside it." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr Walton. That's a real 
 comfortable word, sir. And I am heart-sure 
 it 's true, sir. God be praised for evermore ! 
 He is good, sir ; as I have known in my poor 
 time, sir. I don't believe there ever was one 
 that just lifted his eyes and looked up'ards,
 
 THE bishop's basix. 169 
 
 instead of looking down to the ground, that 
 didn't get some comfort, to go on with, as it 
 were — the ready-money of comfort, as it were 
 — though it might be none to put in the bank, 
 sir." 
 
 " That 's true enough," I said. " Then your 
 father and mother V 
 
 And here I hesitated. 
 
 " Were never married, sir," said the old man 
 promptly, as if he would relieve me from an 
 embarrassing position. "/ couldnt help it. 
 And I'm no less the child of my Father in 
 heaven for it. For if He hadn't made me, I 
 couldn't ha' been their son, you know, sir So 
 that He had more to do wi' the makin' o' me 
 than they had ; though mayhap, if He had 
 had His way all out, I might ha' been the son 
 o' somebody else. But, now that things be 
 so, I wouldn't have liked that at all, sir ; 
 -and bein once born so, I would not have e'er 
 another couple of parents in all England, sir,
 
 170 Ai^NALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 though I ne'er knew one o' them. And I do 
 love my mother. And Pm so sorry for my 
 father that I love him too, sir. And if I could 
 only get my boy Tom to think as I do, I 
 would die like a psalm-tune on an organ, sir.*' 
 
 " But it seems to me strange,'' I said, " that 
 your son should think so much of what is so far 
 gone by. Surely he would not want another 
 father than you, now. He is used to his posi- 
 tion in life. And there can be nothing cast 
 up to him about his birth or descent." 
 
 " That 's all very true, sir, and no doubt it 
 would be as you say. But there has been 
 other things to keep his mind upon the old 
 affair. Indeed, sir, we have had the same 
 misfortune all over again among the young 
 people. And I mustn't say anything more 
 about it; only my boy Tom has a sore heart." 
 
 I knew at once to what he alluded ; for I 
 could not have been about in my parish all 
 this time without learning that the strange
 
 THE bishop's basin. 171 
 
 handsome woman in the little shop was the 
 daughter of Thomas Weir, and that she was 
 neither wife nor widow. And it now occurred 
 to me for the first time that it was a likeness 
 to her little boy that had afiected me so pleas- 
 antly when I first saw Thomas, his grand- 
 father. The likeness to his great-grandfather, 
 which I saw plainly enough, was what made 
 the other fact clear to me And at the same 
 moment I began to be haunted with a flicker- 
 ing sense of a third likeness which I could not 
 in the least fix or identify. 
 
 " Perhaps,'' I said, " he may find some good 
 come out of that too." 
 
 " Well, who knows, sir 1 " 
 
 " I think," I said, " that if we do evil that 
 good may come, the good we looked for will 
 never come thereby. But once evil is done, we 
 may humbly look to Him who bringeth good 
 out of evil, and wait. Is your grand-daughter 
 Catherine in bad health 1 She looks so delicate ! "
 
 172 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 "She always had an uncommon look. But 
 what she looks like now, I don't know. I 
 hear no complaints ; but she has never crossed 
 this door since we got her set up in that shop. 
 She never comes near her father or her sister, 
 though she lets them, leastways her sister, go 
 and see her. I 'm afraid Tom has been rayther 
 unmerciful with her. And if ever he put a 
 bad name upon her in her hearing, I know 
 from what that lass used to be as a young one, 
 that she wouldn't be likely to forget it, and 
 as little likely to get over it herself or pass it 
 over to another, even her own father. I don't 
 believe they do more nor nod to one another 
 when they meet in the village. It 's well even 
 if they do that much. It 's my belief there 's 
 some people made so hard that they never can 
 forgive anythink." 
 
 " How did she get into the trouble *? Who 
 is the father of her child 1" 
 
 " Nay, that no one knows for certain ;
 
 THE bishop's basin. 173 
 
 though there be suspicions, and one of them 
 no doubt correct. But I belieTe fire wouldn't 
 drive his name out at her mouth. I know 
 my lass. When she says a thing she '11 stick 
 to it." 
 
 I asked no more questions. But after a 
 short pause the old man went on. 
 
 " I shan't soon forget the night I first heard 
 about my father and mother. That was a 
 night ! The wind was roaring like a mad 
 beast about the house ; — not this house, sir, 
 but the great house over the way." 
 
 " You don't mean Oldcastle Hall '? '' I said. 
 
 "'Deed I do, sir," returned the old man. 
 " This house here belonged to the same family 
 at one time ; though when I was born it was 
 another branch of the family, second cousins 
 or something, that lived in it. But even then 
 it was something on to the downhill road, I 
 believe." 
 
 "But," I said, fearing my question might
 
 174 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 have turned the old man aside from a story 
 worth hearing, "never mind all that now, if 
 you please. I am anxious to hear all about 
 that night. Do go on. You were saying the 
 wind was blowing about the old house." 
 
 "Eh, sir, it was roaring! — roaring as if it 
 was mad with rage ! And every now and 
 then it would come down the chimley like out 
 of a gun, and blow the smoke and a'most the 
 fire into the middle of the housekeeper's room. 
 For the housekeeper had been giving me my 
 supper. I called her auntie, then ; and didn't 
 know a bit that she wasn't my aunt really. 
 I was at that time a kind of a under-game- 
 keeper upon the place, and slept over the stable. 
 But I fared of the best, for I was a favourite 
 with the old woman — I suppose because I had 
 given her plenty of trouble in my time. 
 That's always the way, sir. — Well, as I was 
 a-saying, when the wind stopped for a moment, 
 down came the rain with a noise that sounded
 
 THE bishop's basin. 175 
 
 like a regiment of cavalry on tlie turnpike 
 road t'other side of tlie hill. And then up the 
 wind got again and swept the rain away, and 
 took it all in its own hand again, and went on 
 roaring worse than ever. ' You '11 be wet afore 
 you get across the yard, Samuel,' said auntie, 
 looking very prim in her long white apron, as 
 she sat on the other side of the little round 
 table before the fire, sipping a drop of hot rum 
 and water, which she always had before she 
 went to bed. 'You'll be wet to the skin, 
 Samuel,' she said. 'Never mind,' says I. 
 ' I 'm not salt nor yet sugar ; and I '11 be go- 
 ing, auntie, for you '11 be wanting your bed.' — 
 ' Sit ye still,' said she. ' I don't want my bed 
 yet.' And there she sat, sipping at her rum 
 and water ; and there I sat, o' the other side, 
 drinking the last of a pint of October she 
 had gotten me from the cellar — for I had been 
 out in the wind all day. ' It was just such a 
 night as this,' said she, and then stopped again.
 
 176 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUHHOOD. 
 
 — But I 'm wearying you, sir, with my long 
 story." 
 
 *' Not in the least," I answered. " Quite the 
 contrary. Pray tell it out your own way. 
 You won't tire me, I assure you." 
 
 So the old man went on. 
 
 " ' It was just such a night as this,' she be- 
 gan again — * leastways it was snow and not 
 rain that was coming down, as if the Almighty 
 was a-going to spend all His winter-stock at 
 oncet.' — 'What happened such a night, 
 auntie 1 ' I said. ^ Ah, my lad ! ' said she, ' ye 
 may well ask what happened. None has a 
 better right. You happened. That's all/— 
 ' Oh, that 's all, is it, auntie 1 ' I said, and 
 laughed. * Nay, nay, Samuel,' said she, quite 
 solemn, * what is there to laugh at, then 1 I 
 assure you, you was anything but welcome.' — 
 " And why wasn't I welcome 1 ' I said. ' I 
 couldn't help it, you know. I'm very sorry 
 to hear I intruded/ I said, still making game
 
 THE bishop's basin. 177 
 
 of it, you see ; for I always did like a joke. 
 ' Well/ she said, * you certainly wasn't wanted. 
 But I don't blame you, Samuel, and I hope 
 you won't blame me.' — ' What do you mean, 
 auntie '? ' 'I mean this, that it 's my fault, if 
 so be that fault it is, that you 're sitting there 
 now, and not lying, in less bulk by a good 
 deal, at the bottom of the Bishop's Basin.' 
 That 's what they call a deep pond at the foot 
 of the old house, sir ; though why or where- 
 fore, I 'm sure I don't know. * Most extra- 
 ordinary, auntie ! ' I said, feeling very queer, 
 and as if I really had no business to be there. 
 •Never you mind, my dear,' says she; 'there 
 you are, and you can take care of yourself now 
 as well as anybody.' — 'But who wanted to 
 drown me '? ' * Are you sure you can forgive 
 him, if I tell you \ ' — ' Sure enough, suppose he 
 was sitting where you be now,' I answered. 
 * It was, I make no doubt, though I can't prove 
 it, — I am morally certain it was your own 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 father/ I felt the skin go creepin together 
 upon my head, and I couldn't speak. 'Yes, it 
 was, child ; and it 's time you knew all about it. 
 Why, you don't know who your own father 
 was ! ' — * No more I do,' I said ; * and I never 
 cared to ask, somehow. I thought it was all 
 right, I suppose. But I wonder now that I 
 never did/ — 'Indeed you did many a time, 
 when you was a mere boy, like ; but I sup- 
 pose, as you never was answered, you give it 
 up for a bad job, and forgot all about it, like 
 a wise man. You always was a wise child, 
 Samuel.' So the old lady always said, sir. 
 And I was willing to believe she was right, if 
 I could, ' * But now,' said she, * it 's time you 
 knew all about it. — Poor Miss Wallis ! — I 'm 
 no aunt of yours, my boy, though I love you 
 nearly as well, I think, as if I was ; for dearly 
 did I love your mother. She was a beauty, 
 and better than she was beautiful, whatever 
 folks may say. The only wrong thing, I 'm
 
 THE bishop's basix. 179 
 
 certain, that she ever did, was to trust your 
 father too much. But I must see and mve 
 you the story right through from beginning to 
 end. — Miss Wallis, as I came to know from 
 her own lips, was the daughter of a country 
 attorney, who had a good practice, and was 
 likely to leave her well off. Her mother died 
 when she was a little girl. It 's not easy get- 
 ting on without a mother, my boy. So she 
 wasn't taught much of the best sort, I reckon. 
 When her father died early, and she was left 
 alone, the only thing she could do was to take 
 a governess's place, and she came to us. She 
 never got on well with the children, for they 
 were young and self-willed and rude, and 
 would not learn to do as they were bid. I 
 never knew one o' them shut the door when 
 they went out of this room. And, from 
 having had all her own way at home, with 
 plenty of servants, and money to spend, it was 
 a sore change to her. But she was a sweet
 
 180 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 creature, that she was. She did look sorely 
 tried when Master Freddy would get on the 
 back of her chair, and Miss Gusta would lie 
 down on the rug, and never stir for all she 
 could say to them, but only laugh at her. — To 
 be sure ! ' And then auntie would take a sip 
 at her rum and water, and sit considering old 
 times like a static. And I sat as if all my 
 head was one great ear, and I never spoke a 
 word. And auntie began again. * The way I 
 come to know so much about her was this. 
 Nobody, you see, took any notice or care of 
 her. For the children were kept away with 
 her in the old house, and my lady wasn't one 
 to take trouble about anybody till once she 
 stood in her way, and then she would just 
 shove her aside or crush her like a spider, and 
 ha' done with her.' — They have always been a 
 proud and a fierce race, the Oldcastles, sir," 
 said Weir, taking up the speech in his own 
 person, "and there's been a deal o' breedin'
 
 THE bishop's BASIX. 181 
 
 in-and-in amongst them, and that has kept 
 up the worst of them. The men took to the 
 women of their own sort somehow, you see. 
 The lady up at the old Hall now is a Crowfoot. 
 1 11 just tell you one thing the gardener told me 
 about her years ago, sir. She had a fancy for 
 hyacinths in her rooms in the sp)ring, and she 
 had some particular fine ones ; and a lady of her 
 acqifaintance begged for some of them. And 
 what do you think she did 1 She couldn't 
 refuse them, and she couldn't bear any one 
 to have them as good as she. And so she 
 sent the hyacinth-roots — but she boiled 'em 
 first. The gardener told me himself, sir. — 
 * And so, when the poor thing,' said auntie, 
 ' was taken with a dreadfid cold, which was 
 no wonder if you saw the state of the window 
 in the room she had to sleep in, and which I 
 got old Jones to set to rights and paid him for 
 it out of my own pocket, else he wouldn't ha' 
 done it at all, for the family wasn't too much
 
 182 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 in the way or the means either of paying 
 their debts — well, there she was, and nobody 
 minding her, and of course it fell to me to 
 look after her. It would have made your 
 heart bleed to see the poor thing flung all of a 
 heap on her bed, blue with cold and coughing. 
 " My dear ! " I said ; and she burst out cry- 
 ing, and from that moment there was confi- 
 dence between us. I made her as warm and 
 as comfortable as I could, but I had to nurse 
 her for a fortnight before she was able to do 
 anything again. She didn't shirk her work 
 though, poor thing. It was a heartsore to me 
 to see the poor young thing with her sweet 
 eyes and her pale face, talking away to those 
 children that were more like wild cats than 
 human beings. She might as well have talked 
 to v/ild cats, I 'm sure. But I don't think she 
 was ever so miserable again as she must have 
 been before her illness ; for she used often to 
 come and see me of an evening, and she would
 
 THE bishop's basix. 183 
 
 sit there where you are sitting now for an 
 hour at a time, without speaking, her thin 
 white hands lying folded in her lap, and her 
 eyes fixed on the fire. I used to wonder what 
 she CO old be thinking about, and I had made 
 up my mind she was not long for this world ; 
 when all at once it was announced that Miss 
 Oldcastle, who had been to school for some 
 time, was coming home ; and then we began 
 to see a great deal of company, and for 
 month after month the house was more or less 
 filled with visitors, so that my time was con- 
 stantly taken up, and I saw much less of poor 
 Miss Wallis than I had seen before. But 
 when we did meet on some of the back stairs, 
 or w^hen she came to my room for a few 
 minutes before going to bed, we were just as 
 good friends as ever. And I used to say, " I 
 wish this scurry was over, my dear, that we 
 might have our old times again." And she 
 would smile and say something sweet. But I
 
 184 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 was surprised to see that her health began to 
 come back — at least so it seemed to me, for 
 her eyes grew brighter and a flush came upon 
 her pale face, and though the children were as 
 tiresome as ever, she didn't seem to mind it so 
 much. But indeed she had not very much to 
 do with them out of school hours now ; for 
 when the spring came on, they would be out 
 ^nd about the place with their sister or one of 
 their brothers ; and indeed, out of doors it 
 would have been impossible for Miss "Wallis to 
 do anything with them. Some of the visitors 
 would take to them too, for they behaved so 
 badly to nobody as to Miss Wallis, and indeed 
 they were clever children, and could be en- 
 gaging enough when they pleased. — But then 
 I had a blow, Samuel. It was a lovely spring 
 night, just after the sun was down, and I 
 W' anted a drop of milk fresh from the cow for 
 something that I was making for dinner the 
 next day ; so I went through the kitchen-
 
 THE BISHOPS BASIN. 185 
 
 garden and through the belt of young larches 
 to go to the shippen. But when I got among 
 the trees, who should I see at the other end of 
 the path that went along, but Miss Wallis 
 walking arm-in-arm with Captain Crowfoot, 
 who was just home from India, where he had 
 been with Lord Clive. The captain was a 
 man about two or three and thirty, a relation 
 of the family, and the son of Sir Giles Crow- 
 foot ' — who lived then, in this old house, sir, 
 and had but that one son, my father, you see, 
 sir. — 'And it did give me a turn,' said my 
 aunt, *to see her walking with him, for I felt 
 as sure as judgment that no good could come 
 of it. For the captain had not the best of 
 characters — that is, when people talked about 
 him in chimney-corners, and such like, though 
 he was a great favourite with everybody that 
 knew nothing about him. He was a fine, 
 manly, handsome fellow, with a smile that, as 
 people said, no woman could resist, though
 
 186 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I 'm sure it would have given me no trouble 
 to resist it, whatever they may mean by that, 
 for I saw that that same smile was the falsest 
 thing of all the false things about him. All 
 ' the time he was smiling, you would have 
 thought he was looking at himself in a glass. 
 He was said to have gathered a power of 
 money in India, somehow or other. But I 
 don't know, only I don't think he would have 
 been the favourite he was with my lady if he 
 hadn't. And reports were about, too, of the 
 Ways and means by which he had made the 
 money ; some said by robbing the poor heathen 
 creatures ; and some said it was only that his 
 brother officers didn't quite approve of his 
 speculating as he did in horses and other 
 thino-s. I don't know whether officers are so 
 particular. At all events, this was a fact, for 
 it was one of his own servants that told me, 
 not thinking any harm or any shame of it. 
 He had quarrelled with a young ensign in the
 
 THE bishop's basix. 187 
 
 regiment. On which side the wrong was, I 
 don't know. But he first thrashed him most 
 unmercifully, and then called him out, as they 
 say. And when the poor fellow appeared, he 
 could scarcely see out of his eyes, and certainly 
 couldn't take anything like an aim. And he 
 shot him dead, did Captain Crowfoot.' — Think 
 of hearing that about one's own father, sir ! 
 But I never said a ^'ord, for I hadn't a word 
 to say. — 'Think of that, Samuel,' said my 
 aunt, 'else you won't believe what I am going 
 to tell you. And you won't even then, I dare 
 say. But I must tell you, nevertheless and 
 notwithstanding. — Well, I felt as if the earth 
 was sinking away from under the feet of me, 
 and I stood and stared at them. And they 
 came on, never seeing me, and actually went 
 close past me and never saw me ; at least, if 
 he saw me he took no notice, for I don't sup- 
 pose that the angel with the flaming sword 
 would have put him out. But for her, I know
 
 188 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 she didn't see me, for her face was down, burn- 
 ing and smiling at once/ — I'm an old man 
 now, sir, and I never saw my mother; but 
 I can't tell you the story without feeling as if 
 my heart would break for the poor young 
 lady. — 'I went back to my room,' said my 
 aunt, 'with my empty jug in my hand, and I 
 sat down as if I had had a stroke, and I 
 never moved till it was pitch dark and my 
 fire out. It was a marvel to me afterwards 
 that nobody came near me, for everybody 
 was calling after me at that time. And 
 it was days before I caught a glimpse of 
 Miss Wallis again, at least to speak to her. 
 At last, one night she came to my room ; 
 and without a moment of parley, I said to 
 her, "Oh, my dear! what was that wretch 
 'saying to jonV — " What wretch ? " says she, 
 quite sharp like. " Why, Captain Crowfoot," 
 says I, " to be sure." — " What have you to say 
 against Captain Crowfoot T' says she, quite
 
 THE BISHOPS BASIN. 189 
 
 scornful like. So I tumbled out ail I had 
 against him in one breath. She turned awful 
 pale, and she shook from head to foot, but she 
 was able for all that to say, " Indian servants 
 are known liars, Mrs Prendergast," says she, 
 " and I don t believe one word of it all. But 
 1 11 ask him, the next time I see him." — " Do 
 so, my dear,'^ I said, not fearing for myself, for 
 I knew he would not make any fuss that 
 might bring the thing out into the air, and 
 hoping that it might lead to a quarrel between 
 them. And the next time I met her, Samuel 
 — it was in the gallery that takes to the west 
 turret, she passed me with a nod just, and a 
 blush instead of a smile on her sweet face. 
 And I didn't blame her, Samuel ; but I knew 
 that that villain had gotten a hold of her. 
 And so I could only cry, and that I did. 
 Things went on like this for some months. 
 The captain came and went, stopping a week 
 at a time. Then he stopped for a whole
 
 190 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 month, and this was in the first of the sum- 
 mer ; and then he said he was ordered abroad 
 again, and went away. But he didn't go 
 abroad. He came again in the autumn for the 
 shooting, and began to make up to Miss Old- 
 castle, who had grown a fine young woman 
 by that time. And then Miss Wallis began to 
 pine. The captain went away again. Before 
 long I was certain that if ever young creature 
 was in a consumption, she was ; but she never 
 said a word to me How ever the poor thing 
 got on with her work, I can't think, but she 
 grew weaker and weaker. I took the best 
 care of her she would let me, and contrived 
 that she should have her meals in her own 
 room ; but something was between her and 
 me that she never spoke a word about herself, 
 and never alluded to the captain. By and by 
 came the news that the captain and Miss Old- 
 castle were to be married in the spring. And 
 Miss Wallis took to her bed after that ; and
 
 THE bishop's basin. 191 
 
 my lady said slie had never been of much use, 
 and wanted to send her away. But Miss Old-^ 
 castle, who was far superior to any of the rest 
 in her disposition, spoke up for her. She had 
 been to ask me about her, and I told her the 
 poor thing must go to a hospital if she was 
 sent away, for she had ne'er a home to go to. 
 And then she went to see the governess, poor 
 thing ! and spoke very kindly to her ; but 
 never a word would Miss Wallis answer ; she 
 only stared at her, with great, big, wild-like 
 eves. And Miss Oldcastle thouo;ht she was 
 out of her mind, and spoke of an asylum. 
 But I said she hadn't long to live, and if 
 she would get my lady her mother to con- 
 sent to take no notice, I would take all the 
 care and trouble of her. And she promised, 
 and the poor thing was left alone. I be- 
 gan to think myself her mind must be 
 going, for not a word would she speak, even 
 to me, though every moment I could spare I
 
 192 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 was up with her in her room. Only I was 
 forced to be careful not to be out of the way 
 when my lady wanted me, for that would have 
 tied me more. At length one day, as I was 
 settling her pillow for her, she all at once 
 threw her arms about my neck, and burst into 
 a terrible fit of crying. She sobbed and 
 panted for breath so dreadfully, that I put 
 my arms round her and lifted her up to give 
 her relief; and when I laid her down again, 
 I whispered in her ear, " I know now, my dear. 
 I '11 do all I can for you.'' She caught hold 
 of my hand and held it to her lips, and then 
 to her bosom, and cried again, but more 
 quietly, and all was right between us once 
 more. It was well for her, poor thing, that 
 she could go to her bed. And I said to my- 
 self, " Nobody need ever know about it ; and 
 nobody ever shall if I can help it." To tell 
 the truth, my hope was that she would die 
 before there was any need for further conceal-
 
 THE bishop's basin. 193 
 
 ment. But people in that condition seldom 
 die, they say, till all is over ; and so she lived 
 on and on, though plainly getting weaker and 
 weaker. — At the captain's next visit, the wed- 
 ding-day was fixed. And after that a circum- 
 stance came about that made me uneasy. A 
 Hindoo servant — the captain called him his 
 nigger always — had been constantly in attend- 
 ance upon him. I never could abide the 
 snake-look of the fellow ; nor the noiseless way 
 he went about the house. But this time the 
 captain had a Hindoo woman with him as 
 well. He said that this man had fallen in with 
 her in London; that he had known her be- 
 fore ; that she had come home as nurse with 
 an English family, and it would be very nice 
 for his wife to take her back with her to India, 
 if she could only give her house-room, and 
 make her useful till after the wedding. This 
 was easily arranged, and he went away to 
 return in three weeks, when the wedding was 
 
 VOL. I. v
 
 194 ANNA.LS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 to take place. Meantime poor Emily grew 
 fast worse, and how she held out with that 
 terrible cough of hers I never could under- 
 stand — and spitting blood, too, every other 
 hour or so, though not very much. And now, 
 to my great trouble, with the preparations for 
 the wedding, I could see yet less of her than 
 before; and when Miss Oldcastle sent tlie 
 Hindoo to ask me if she might not sit in the 
 room with the" poor girl, I did not know how 
 to object, though I did not at all like her be- 
 ing there. I felt a great mistrust of the woman 
 somehow or other. I never did like blacks, 
 and I never shall. So she went, and sat by 
 her, and waited on her very kindly — at least 
 poor Emily said so. I called her Emily be- 
 cause she had begged me, that she might feel 
 as if her mother were with her, and she was 
 a child ao;ain. I had tried before to find out 
 from her when greater care would be neces- 
 sary, but she couldn't tell me anything. I
 
 THE bishop's basin. 195 
 
 doubted even if she understood me. I longed 
 to have the wedding over that I might get 'rid 
 of the black woman, and have time to take her 
 place, and get everything prepared. The cap- 
 tain arrived, and his man with him. And 
 twice I came upon the two blacks in close con- 
 versation. — "Well, the wedding-day came. The 
 people went to church ; and w^hile they were 
 there a terrible storm of wind and snow 
 came on, such that the horses would hardly 
 face it. The captain was going to take his 
 bride home to his father, Sir Giles's ; but, short 
 as the distance was, before the time came the 
 storm got so dreadful that no one could think 
 of leaving the house that night. The wind 
 blew for all the world just as it blows this 
 night, only it was snow in its mouth, and not 
 rain. Carriage and horses and all would have 
 been blown off the road for certain. It did 
 blow, to be sure ! After dinner was over and 
 the ladies were gone to the dramng-room, and
 
 196 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 the gentlemen had been sitting over their wine 
 for some time, the butler, William Weir — an 
 honest man, whose wife lived at the lodge — • 
 came to my room looking scared. "Lawks, 
 William ! " says I,' said my aunt, sir, " ' what 
 ever is the matter with youV' — "Well, Mrs 
 Prendergast ! " says he, and said no more. 
 "Lawks, William," says I, "speak out." — 
 "Well," says he, "Mrs Prendergast, it's a 
 strange wedding, it is ! There 's the ladies all 
 alone in the withdra wing-room, and there's 
 the gentlemen calling for more wine, and 
 cursing and swearing that it 's awful to hear. 
 It 's my belief that swords 11 be drawn afore 
 long."— " Tut ! " says I, "William, it'll come 
 the sooner if you don't give them what they 
 want. Go and get it as fast as you can." — " I 
 don't a most like goin down them stairs alone 
 in sich a night, ma'am," says he. " Would you 
 mind coming with m.e 1 " — " Dear me, Wil- 
 liam," says I, "a pretty story to tell your
 
 THE bishop's basin. 197 
 
 wife" — she was my own half-sister, and 
 younger than me — "a pretty story to tell your 
 wife, that you wanted an old body Hke me to 
 go and take care of you in your own cellar," 
 says I. " But 1 11 go with you, if you like ; 
 for, to tell the truth, it's a terrible night/' 
 And so down we went, and brought up six 
 bottles more of the best port. And I really 
 didn t wonder, when I was down there, and 
 heard the dull roar of the wind against the 
 rock below, that William didn't much like to 
 go alone. — When he went back with the wine, 
 the captain said, " William, what kept you so 
 long 1 Mr Centlivre says that you were afraid 
 to Q-o down into the cellar." Now wasn't that 
 odd, for it was a real fact '? Before William 
 could reply, Sir Giles said, "A man might 
 well be afraid to go anywhere alone in a 
 night like this.'' Whereupon the captain 
 cried, with an oath, that he would go down 
 the underground stair, and into every vault on
 
 198 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 the way, for the wager of a guinea. And 
 there the matter, according to William, 
 dropped, for the fresh wine was put on the 
 table. But after they had drunk the most of 
 it — the captain, according to William, drink- 
 ing less than usual — it was brought up again, 
 he couldn't tell by which of them. And in 
 five minutes after, they were all at my door, 
 demanding the key of the room at the top of 
 the stair. I was just going up to see poor 
 Emily when I heard the noise of their unsteady 
 feet coming along the passage to my door ; 
 and I gave the captain the key at once, wish- 
 ing with all my heart he might get a good 
 fright for his pains. He took a jug with him, 
 too, to bring some water up from the well, as 
 a proof he had been down. The rest of the 
 gentlemen went with him into the little cellar- 
 room ; but they wouldn't stop there till he 
 came up again, they said it was so cold. They 
 all came into my room, where they talked as
 
 THE bishop's basin. 199 
 
 gentlemen wouldn't do if the wine hadn't got 
 uppermost. It was some time before the cap- 
 tain returned. It's a good way down and 
 back. When he came in at last, he looked as 
 if he had got the fright I wished him, he had 
 such a scared look. The candle in his lantern 
 was out, and there was no water in the jug. 
 " There 's your guinea, Centlivre," says he, 
 throwing it on the table. "You needn't ask 
 me any questions, for I won't answer one of 
 them." — "Captain," says I, as he turned to 
 leave the room, and the other gentlemen rose 
 to follow him, " I '11 just hang up the key 
 again." — " By all means," says he. " Where is 
 it, then ?" says I. He started and made as if 
 he searched his pockets all over for it. " I 
 must have dropped it," says he ; " but it 's of 
 no consequence ; you can send William to look 
 for it in the morning. It can't be lost, you 
 know." — "Very well, captain," said I. But I 
 didn't like being without the key, because of
 
 200 ANNALS OF A QUIET NETGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 course he hadn't locked the door, and that 
 part of the house has a bad name, arid no 
 wonder. It wasn't exactly pleasant to have 
 the door left 023en. All this time I couldn't 
 get to see how Emily was. As often as I 
 looked from my window, I saw her light in the 
 old west turret out there, Samuel. You know 
 the room where the bed is still. The rain and 
 the wind will be blowing right through it to- 
 night. That's the bed you was born upon, 
 Samuel.' — It 's all gone now, sir, turret and all, 
 like a good deal more about the old place ; but 
 there's a story about that turret afterwards, 
 only I mustn't try to tell you two things at 
 once.— 'Now I had told the Indian woman 
 that if anything happened^ if she was worse, 
 or wanted to see me, she must put the candle 
 on the right side of the window, and I should 
 always be looking out, and would come di- 
 rectly, whoever might wait. For I was ex- 
 pecting you some time soon, and nobody knew
 
 THE bishop's basix. 201 
 
 anything about when you might come. But 
 there the blind continued drawn down as be- 
 fore. So I thought all was going on right. 
 And w^hat with the storm keeping Sir Giles 
 and so many more that would have gone home 
 that night, there was no end of w^ork, and 
 some contrivance necessary, I can tell you, to 
 get them all bedded for the night, for we were 
 nothing too well provided w^ith blankets and 
 linen in the house. There was always more 
 room than money in it. So it was past twelve 
 o'clock before I had a minute to mj'self, and 
 that was only after they had all gone to bed 
 — the bride and bridegroom in the crimson 
 chamber of course. Well, at last I crept 
 quietly into Emily's room. I ought to have 
 told you that I had not let her know any- 
 thing about the wedding being that day, and 
 had enjoined the heathen w^oman not to say 
 a word ; for I thought she might as well die 
 without hearing about it. But I believe the
 
 202 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 vile wretch did tell her. When I opened the 
 room-door, there was no light there. I spoke, 
 but no one answered. I had my own candle 
 in my hand, but it had been blown out as I 
 came up the stair. I turned and ran along the 
 corridor to reach the main stair, which was the 
 nearest way to my room, when all at once I 
 heard such a shriek from the crimson chamber 
 as I never heard in my life. It made me all 
 creep like worms. And in a moment doors 
 and doors were opened, and lights came out, 
 everybody looking terrified ; and what with 
 drink, and horror, and sleep, some of the 
 gentlemen were awful to look upon. And the 
 door of the crimson chamber opened too, and 
 the captain appeared in his dressing-gown, 
 bawling out to know what was the matter ; 
 though 1 'm certain, to this day, the cry did 
 come from that room, and that he knew more 
 about it than any one else did. As soon as I 
 got a light, however, which I did from Sir
 
 THE bishop's basin. 203 
 
 Giles's candle, I left them to settle it amongst 
 them, and ran back to the west turret. When 
 I entered the room, there was my dear girl 
 lying white and motionless. There could be 
 no doubt a baby had been born, but no baby 
 was to be seen. I rushed to the bed; but 
 though she was still warm, your poor mother 
 was quite dead. There was no use in thinking 
 about helping her; but what could have be- 
 come of the child '? As if by a light in my 
 mind, I saw it all. I rushed down to my 
 room, got my lantern, and, without waiting to 
 be afraid, ran to the underground stairs, where 
 I actually found the door standing open. I 
 had not gone down more than three turnings, 
 when I thought I heard a cry, and I sped 
 faster still. And just about half-way down, 
 there lay a bundle in a blanket. And how 
 ever you got over the state I found you in, 
 Samuel, I can't think. But I caught you up 
 as you was, and ran to my own room with
 
 204 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 you ; and I locked the door, and there being 
 a kettle on the fire, and some conveniences in 
 the place, I did the best for you I could. For 
 the breath wasn t out of you, though it well 
 might have been. And then I laid you before 
 the fire, and by that time you had begun to 
 cry a little, to my great pleasure, and then I 
 got a blanket off my bed, and wrapt you up in 
 it ; and, the storm being abated by this time, 
 made the best of my way with you through 
 the snow to the lodge, where William's wife 
 lived. It was not so far off then as it is now. 
 But in the midst of my trouble the silly body 
 did make me laugh when he opened the door 
 to me, and saw the bundle in my arms. " Mrs 
 Prendergast," says he, "I didn't expect it of 
 you." — "Hold your tongue," I said. "You 
 would never have talked such nonsense if you 
 had had the grace to have any of your own,'' 
 says I. And with that I into the bedroom 
 and shut the door, and left him out there in
 
 THE bishop's basin. 205 
 
 his shirt. My sister and I soon got everything 
 arranged, for there was no time to lose. And 
 before morning I had all made tidy, and your 
 poor mother lying as sweet a corpse as ever 
 angel saw. And no one could say a word 
 against her. And it's my belief that that 
 villain made her believe somehow or other that 
 she was as good as married to him. She was 
 buried down there in the churchyard, close by 
 the vestry-door,' said my aunt, sir ; and all of 
 our family have been buried there ever since, 
 my son Tom's wife among them, sir." 
 
 " But what was that cry in the house V I 
 asked. "And what became of the black 
 woman \ " 
 
 " The woman was never seen again in our 
 quarter ; and what the cry was my aunt never 
 would say. She seemed to know though ; 
 notwithstanding, as she said, that captain and 
 Mrs Crowfoot denied all knowledge of it. But 
 the lady looked dreadful, she said, and never
 
 206 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 was well ao-ain, and died at the birth of her 
 first child. That was the present Mrs Old- 
 castle's father, sir.'' 
 
 " But why should the woman have left you 
 on the stair, instead of drowning you in the 
 well at the bottom. \ " 
 
 " My aunt evidently thought there was some 
 mystery about that as well as the other, for 
 she had no doubt about the woman's intention. 
 But all she would ever say concerning it was, 
 *The key was never found, Samuel. You see 
 I had to get a new one made.' And she 
 pointed to where it hung on the wall. 'But 
 that doesn't look new now,' she would say. 
 'The lock was very hard to fit again.' And 
 so you see, sir, I was brought up as her 
 nephew, though people were surprised, no 
 doubt, that William Weir's wife should have a 
 child, and nobody know she was expecting. — 
 Well, with all the reports of the captain's 
 money, none of it showed in this old place,
 
 THE bishop's basin. 207 
 
 which from that day began, as it were, to 
 crumble away. There 's been little repair done 
 upon it since then. If it hadn't been a well- 
 built place to begin with, it wouldn't be stand- 
 ing now, sir. But it 's a very different place, 
 I can tell you. Why, all behind was a garden 
 with terraces, and fruit trees, and gay flowers, 
 to no end. I remember it as well as yester- 
 day; nay, a great deal better, for the matter 
 of that. For I don t remember yesterday at 
 all, sir." 
 
 I have tried a little to tell the story as he 
 told it. But I am aware that I have suc- 
 ceeded very badly ; for I am not like my 
 friend in London, who, I verily believe, could 
 give you an exact representation of any dialect 
 he ever heard. I wish I had been able to give 
 a little more of the form of the old man's 
 speech ; all I have been able to do is to show 
 a difference from my own way of telling a 
 story. But in the main, I think, I have re-
 
 208 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 ported it correctly. I believe if the old man 
 was correct in representing his aunt's account, 
 the story is very little altered between us. 
 But why should I tell such a story at all 1 
 I am willing to allow, at once, that I have 
 very likely given it more room than it de- 
 serves in these poor Annals of mine ; but the 
 reason why I tell it at all is simply this, that, 
 as it came from the old man's lips, it interested 
 me greatly. It certainly did not produce the 
 effect I had hoped to gain from an interview 
 with him, namely, a reduction to the common 
 and present For all this ancient tale tended 
 to keep up the sense of distance between my 
 day's experience at the Hall and the work I 
 had to do amongst my cottagers and trades- 
 people. Indeed it came very strangely upon 
 that experience. 
 
 "But surely you did not believe such an 
 extravasfant tale '? The old man was in his 
 dotase, to be^in with."
 
 THE bishop's basin. 209 
 
 Had the old man been in his dotao-e, which 
 he was not, my answer would have been a 
 more triumphant one. For when was dotage 
 consistently and imaginatively inventive 1 But 
 why should I not beheve the story 1 There are 
 people who can never believe anything that is 
 not (I do not say merely in accordance with 
 their own character, but) in accordance with 
 the particular mood they may happen to be in 
 at the time it is presented to them. They 
 know nothing of human nature beyond their 
 own immediate preference at the moment for 
 port or sherry, for vice or virtue. To tell me 
 there could not be a man so lost to shame, if 
 to rectitude, as Captain Crowfoot, is simply to 
 talk nonsense. Nay, gentle reader, if you — 
 and let me suppose I address a lady — if you 
 will give yourself up for thirty years to doing 
 just whatever your lowest self and not your 
 best self may like, I will warrant you capable, 
 by the end of that time, of child-murder at 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 210 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 least. I do not think the descent to Avernns 
 is always easy ; but it is always possible. 
 Many and many such a story was fact in old 
 times ; and human nature being the same still, 
 though under different restraints, equally hor- 
 rible things are constantl};^ in progress towards 
 the windows of the newspapers. 
 
 " But the whole tale has such a melo- 
 dramatic air!'' 
 
 That argument simply amounts to this : 
 that, because such subjects are capable of 
 being employed with great dramatic effect, 
 and of being at the same time very badly re- 
 presented, therefore they cannot take place in 
 real life. But ask any physician of your 
 acquaintance, whether a story is unlikely 
 simply because it involves terrible things such 
 as do not occur every day. The fact is, that 
 such things, occurring monthly or yearly only, 
 are more easily hidden away out of sight. 
 Indeed we can have no sense of security for
 
 THE bishop's basin. 211 
 
 ourselves except in the knowledge that we are 
 striving up and away, and therefore cannot be 
 sinkino; nearer to the reofion of such awful 
 possibilities. 
 
 Yet, as I said before, I am afraid I have 
 given it too large a space in my narrative. 
 Only it so forcibly reminded me at the time of 
 the expression I could not understand upon 
 Miss Oldcastle's face, and since then has been 
 so often recalled by circumstances and events, 
 that I felt impelled to record it in full. And 
 now I have done with it. 
 
 I left the old man with thanks for the kind 
 reception he had given me, and walked home, 
 revolving many things with which I shall not 
 detain the attention of my reader. Indeed 
 my thoughts were confused and troubled, and 
 would ill bear analysis or record. I shut my- 
 self up in my study, and tried to read a sermon 
 of Jeremy Taylor. But it would not do. I fell 
 fast asleep over it at last, and woke refreshed.
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 WHAT I PEEACHED. 
 
 UEING the suffering which accom- 
 panied the disappointment at which 
 I have already hinted, I did not 
 think it inconsistent with the manly spirit in 
 which I was resolved to endure it, to seek con- 
 solation from such a source as the New Testa- 
 ment — if mayhap consolation for such a 
 trouble was to be found there. Whereupon, 
 a little to my surprise, I discovered that I 
 could not read the Epistles at all. For I did 
 not then care an atom for the theological dis- 
 cussions in which I had been interested before, 
 and for the sake of which I had read those
 
 WHAT I PREACHED. 213 
 
 epistles. Now that I was in trouble, what to 
 me was that philosophical theology staring me 
 in the face from out the sacred page 1 Ah ! 
 reader, do not misunderstand me. All read- 
 ing of the Book is not reading of the Word. 
 And many that are first shall be last, and the 
 last first. I know now that it was Jesus 
 Christ and not theology that filled the hearts 
 of the men that wrote those epistles — Jesus 
 Christ, the living, loving God-Man, whom I 
 found — not in the Epistles, but in the Gospels. 
 The Gospels contain what the apostles preached 
 — the Epistles what they wrote after the 
 preaching. And until we understand the 
 Gospel, the good news of Jesus Christ our 
 brother-king — until we understand Him, until 
 we have His Spirit, promised so freely to them 
 that ask it — all the Epistles, the words of men 
 who were full of Him, and wrote out of that 
 fulness, who loved Him so utterly that by that 
 very love they were lifted into the air of pure
 
 214 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 reason and right, and would die for Him, 
 and did die for Him, without two thoughts 
 about it, in the very simplicity of no choice 
 —the Letters, I say, of such men are to 
 us a sealed book. Until we love the Lord 
 so as to do what He tells us, we have no 
 right to have an opinion about what one 
 of those men meant ; for all they wrote is 
 about things beyond us. The simplest woman 
 who tries not to judge her neighbour, or not 
 to be anxious for the morrow, will better know 
 what is best to know, than the best-read bishop 
 without that one simple outgoing of his highest 
 nature in the effort to do the will of Him who 
 thus spoke. 
 
 But I have, as is too common with me, been 
 led away by my feelings from the path to the 
 object before me. What I wanted to say was 
 this : that, although I could make nothing of 
 the epistles, could see no possibility of consola- 
 tion for my distress springing from them, I
 
 WHAT I PREACHED. 215 
 
 found it altogether differeDt when I tried the 
 Gospel once more. Indeed, it then took such a 
 hold of me as it had never taken before. Only 
 that is simply saying nothing. I found out 
 that I had known nothing at all about it ; that 
 I had only a certain surface-knowledge, which 
 tended rather to ignorance, because it fostered 
 the delusion that I did know. Know that 
 man, Christ Jesus ! Ah ! Lord, I would go 
 through fire and water to sit the last at Thy 
 table in Thy kingdom ; but dare I say now I 
 hnoiv Thee ! — But Thou art the Gospel, for 
 Thou art the Way, the Truth, and the Life ; 
 and I have found Thee the Gospel. For I 
 found, as I read, that Thy very presence in my 
 thoughts, not as the theologians show Thee, 
 but as Thou showed st thyself to them who 
 report Thee to us, smoothed the troubled 
 waters of my spirit, so that, even while the 
 storm lasted, I was able to walk upon them to 
 go to Thee. And when those waters became
 
 216 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 clear, I most rejoiced in their clearDess because 
 they mirrored Thy form — because Thou wert 
 there to my vision — the one Ideal, the perfect 
 man, the God perfected as king of men by 
 working out his Godhood in the work of man ; 
 revealing that God and man are one ; that to 
 serve God, a man must be partaker of the 
 Divine nature ; that for a man's work to be 
 done thoroughly, God must come and do it 
 first Himself ; that to help men, He must be 
 what He is — man in God, God in man — 
 visibly before their eyes, or to the hearing of 
 their ears. So much I saw. 
 
 And therefore, when I was once more in a 
 position to help my fellows, what could I want 
 to give them but that which was the very 
 bread and water of life to me — the Saviour 
 himself? And how was I to do this ? — By 
 trying to represent the man in all the sim- 
 plicity of his life, of his sayings and doings, of 
 his refusals to say or do. — I took the story
 
 WHAT I PEEACHED. 217 
 
 from the beginning, and told them about the 
 Baby ; trying to make the fathers and mothers, 
 and all whose love for children supplied the 
 lack of fatherhood and motherhood, feel that 
 it was a real baby-boy. And I followed the 
 life on and on, trying to show them how He 
 felt, as far as one might dare to touch such 
 sacred things, when He did so and so, or said 
 so and so ; and what His relation to His father 
 and mother and brothers and sisters was, and 
 to the different kinds of people who came 
 about Him. And I tried to show them what 
 His sayings meant, as far as I understood them 
 myself, and where I could not understand 
 them I just told them so, and said I hoped for 
 more light by and by to enable me to under- 
 stand them ; telling them that that hope was 
 a sharp goad to my resolution, driving me on 
 to do my duty, because I knew that only as I 
 did my duty would light go up in my heart, 
 making me wise to understand the precious
 
 218 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 words of my Lord. And I told them that if 
 they would try to do their duty, they would 
 find more understanding from that than from 
 any explanation I could give them. 
 
 And so I went on from Sunday to Sunday. 
 And the number of people that slept grew less 
 and less, until at last it was reduced to the 
 churchwarden, Mr Brown rigg, and an old 
 washerwoman, who, poor thing, stood so much 
 all the week, that sitting down with her was 
 like going to bed, and she never could do it, as 
 she told me, without going to sleep. I, there- 
 fore, called upon her every Monday morning, 
 and had ^ve minutes' chat with her as she 
 stood at her wash-tub, wishing to make up to 
 her for her drowsiness ; and thinking that if I 
 could once get her interested in anything, she 
 might be able to keep awake a little while at 
 the beginning of th.e sermon ; for she gave 
 me no chance of interesting her on Sundays — 
 going fast asleep the moment I stood up to
 
 WHAT I PREACHED. 219 
 
 preach. I never got so far as that, however ; 
 and the only fact that showed me I had made 
 any impression npon her, beyond the pleasure 
 she always manifested when I appeared on the 
 Monday, was, that, whereas all my linen had 
 been very badly washed at first, a decided im- 
 provement took place after a while, beginning 
 with my surplice and bands, and gradually ex- 
 tending itself to my shirts and handkerchiefs ; 
 till at last even Mrs Pearson was unable to find 
 any fault with the poor old sleepy woman's 
 work. For Mr Brownrigg, I am not sure that 
 the sense of any one sentence I ever uttered, 
 down, to the day of his death, entered into his 
 brain— I dare not say his mind or heart. 
 AYith regard to him, and millions besides, I 
 am more than happy to obey my Lords com- 
 mand, and not judge. 
 
 But it was not long either before my con- 
 gregations began to improve, whatever might 
 be the cause. I could not help hoping that it
 
 220 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 was really because they liked to hear the Gos- 
 pel, that is, the good news about Christ him» 
 self. And I always made use of the know- 
 ledge I had of my individual hearers, to say 
 what I thought would do them good. Not 
 that I ever preached at anybody ; I only sought 
 to explain the principles of things in which I 
 knew action of some sort was demanded from 
 them. For I remembered how our Lord's ser- 
 mon against covetousness, with the parable of 
 the rich man with the little barn, had for 
 its occasion the request of a man that our 
 Lord would interfere to make his brother share 
 with him ; which He declining to do, yet gave 
 both brothers a lesson such as, if they wished 
 to do what was right, would help them to see 
 clearly what was the right thing to do in this 
 and every such matter. Clear the mind's eye, 
 by washing away the covetousne.ss, and the 
 whole nature would be full of light, and the 
 right walk would speedily follow.
 
 WHAT I PREACHED. 221 
 
 Before long, likewise, I was as sure of seeing 
 the pale face of Thomas Weir perched, like 
 that of a man beheaded for treason, upon the 
 apex of the gablet of the old tomb, as I was 
 of hearing the wonderful playing of that 
 husky old organ, of which I have spoken once 
 before. I continued to pay him a visit every 
 now and then ; and I assure you, never was 
 the attempt to be thoroughly honest towards 
 a man better understood or more appreciated 
 than my attempt was by the atheistical car- 
 penter. The man was no more an atheist than 
 David was when he saw the wicked spreading 
 like a green bay-tree, and was troubled at the 
 sight. He only wanted to see a God in whom 
 he could trust. And if I succeeded at all in 
 making him hope that there might be such a 
 God, it is to me one of the most precious seals 
 of my ministry. 
 
 But it was now getting very near Christ- 
 mas, and there was one person whom I had
 
 222 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 never yet seen at church : that was Catherine 
 Weir. I thought, at first, it could hardly be 
 that she shrunk from being seen ; for how 
 then could she have taken to keeping a shop, 
 where she must be at the beck of every one '? 
 I had several times gone and bought tobacco 
 of her since that first occasion ; and I had 
 told my housekeeper to buy whatever she 
 could from her, instead of going to the larger 
 shop in the place ; at which Mrs Pearson had 
 grumbled a good deal, saying how could the 
 things be so good out of a poky shop like 
 that ? But I told her T did not care if the 
 things were not quite as good ; for it would 
 be of more consequence to Catherine to have 
 the custom, than it would be to me to have 
 the one lump of sugar I put in my tea of a 
 morning one shade or even two shades whiter. 
 So I had contrived to keep up a kind of con- 
 nexion with her, although I saw that any at- 
 tempt at conversation was so distasteful to her.
 
 WHAT I PREACHED. 223 
 
 that it must do harm until something should 
 have brought about a change in her feelings ; 
 though what feeling wanted changing, I could 
 not at first tell. I came to the conclusion 
 that she had been wronged grievously, and 
 that this wrong operating on a nature similar 
 to her father's, had drawn all her mind to 
 brood over it. The world itself, the whole 
 order of her life, everything about her,- would 
 seem then to have wronged her ; and to speak 
 to her of religion would only rouse her scorn, 
 and make her feel as if God himself, if there 
 were a God, had wronged her too. Evidently, 
 likewise, she had that peculiarity of strong un- 
 developed natures, of being unable, once pos- 
 sessed by one set of thoughts, to get rid of it 
 again, or to see anything except in the shadow 
 of those thoughts. I had no doubt, however, 
 at last, that she was ashamed of her position 
 in the eyes of society, although a hitherto in- 
 domitable pride had upheld her to face it so
 
 224 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 far as was necessary to secure her independ- 
 ence ; both of which — pride and shame — ^pre- 
 vented her from appearing where it was un- 
 necessary, and especially in church. I could 
 do nothing more than wait for a favourable 
 opportunity. I could invent no way of reach- 
 ing her yet, for I had soon found that kind- 
 ness to her boy was regarded rather in the 
 light of an insult to her. I should have been 
 greatly puzzled to account for his being such 
 a sweet little fellow, had I not known that he 
 was a great deal with his aunt and grand- 
 father. A more attentive and devout wor- 
 shipper was not in the congregation than that 
 little boy. 
 
 Before going on to speak of another of the 
 most remarkable of my parishioners, whom I 
 have just once mentioned I believe already, I 
 should like to say that on three several occa- 
 sions before Christmas I had seen Judy look 
 grave. She was always quite well-behaved in
 
 WHAT I PREACHED. 225 
 
 church, though restless, as one might expect. 
 But on these occasions she was not only atten- 
 tive, but grave, as if she felt something or 
 other. I will not mention what subjects I was 
 upon at those times, because the mention of 
 them would not, in the minds of my readers, 
 at all harmonize with the only notion of Judy 
 they can yet by possibility have. 
 
 For Mrs Oldcastle, I never saw her change 
 countenance or even expression at anything — 
 I mean in church. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 THE ORGANIST. 
 
 N the afternoon of my second Sunday 
 at Marshmallows, I was standing 
 in the churchyard, casting a long 
 shadow in the light of the declining sun. I 
 was reading the inscription upon an old head- 
 stone, for I thought everybody was gone ; 
 when I heard a door open, and shut again 
 before I could turn. I saw at once that it 
 must have been a little door in the tower, 
 almost concealed from where I stood by a 
 deep buttress. I had never seen the door 
 open, and I had never inquired anything 
 
 i J .JO^
 
 THE ORGANIST. 227 
 
 about it, supposing it led merely into the 
 tower. 
 
 After a moment it opened again, and, to my 
 surprise, out came, stooping his tall form to 
 get his gray head clear of the low archway, a 
 man whom no one could pass without looking 
 after him. Tall, and strongly built, he had 
 the carriage of a military man, without an 
 atom of that sternness wdiich one generally 
 finds in the faces of those accustomed to com- 
 mand. He had a large face, with large 
 regular features, and large clear gray eyes, 
 all of which united to express an exceeding 
 placidity or repose. It shone with intelli- 
 gence — a mild intelligence — no way sugges- 
 tive of profundity, although of geniality. 
 Indeed, there was a little too much expression. 
 The face seemed to express all that lay be- 
 neath it. 
 
 I was not satisfied with the countenance; 
 and yet it looked quite good. It was some-
 
 228 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 how a too well-ordered face. It was quite 
 Greek in its outline ; and marvellously well 
 kept and smooth, considering that the beard, 
 to which razors were utterly strange, and 
 which descended half-way down his breast, 
 would have been as white as snow except for 
 a slight yellowish tinge. His eyebrows were 
 still very dark, only just touched with the 
 frost of winter. His hair, too, as I saw when 
 he lifted his hat, was still wonderfully dark for 
 the condition of his beard. — It flashed into my 
 mind, that this must be the organist who 
 played so remarkably. Somehow I had not 
 happened yet to inquire about him. But 
 there was a stateliness in this man amounting 
 almost to consciousness of dignity ; and I was 
 a little bewildered. His clothes were all of 
 black, very neat and clean, but old-fashioned 
 nd threadbare. They bore signs of use, but 
 more signs of time and careful keeping. I 
 would have spoken to him, but something in
 
 THE ORGANIST. 229 
 
 the manner in which he bowed to me as he 
 passed, prevented me, and I let him go unac- 
 costed. 
 
 The sexton coming out directly after, and 
 proceeding to lock the door, I was struck by 
 the action. "What is he locking the door 
 for '? " I said to myself. But I said nothing to 
 him, because I had not answered the question 
 myself yet. 
 
 "Who is that gentleman," I asked, "who 
 came out just now 1 " 
 
 " That is Mr Stoddart, sir," he answered. 
 
 I thought I had heard the name in the 
 neighbourhood before. 
 
 " Is it he who plays the organ ? " I asked. 
 
 "That he do, sir. He's played our organ 
 for the last ten year, ever since he come to 
 live at the Hall." 
 
 "What HaUr' 
 
 " Why the Hall, to be sure,— Oldcastle Hall, 
 you know."
 
 230 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 And then it dawned on my recollection that 
 I had heard Judy mention her uncle Stoddart. 
 But how could he be her uncle '? 
 
 *' Is he a relation of the family V 1 asked. 
 
 " He 's a brother-in-law, I believe, of the old 
 lady, sir, but how ever he come to live there I 
 don't know. It ^s no such binding connexion, 
 you know, sir. He 's been in the milintairy 
 line, I believe, sir, in the Ingies, or some- 
 wheres.'' 
 
 I do not think I shall have any more strange 
 parishioners to present to my readers ; at least 
 I do not remember any more just at this 
 moment. And this one, as the reader will see, 
 I positively could not keep out. 
 
 A military man from India ! a brother-in- 
 law of Mrs Oldcastle, choosing to live with 
 her I an entrancing performer upon an old, 
 asthmatic, dry-throated church organ I taking 
 no trouble to make the clergyman's acquaint- 
 ance, and passing him in the churchyard with
 
 THE ORGANIST. 231 
 
 a courteous bow, altliougli his face was 
 full of kindliness, if not of kindness ! I 
 could not kelp tkinking all tkis strange. 
 And yet — will tke reader cease to accord 
 me credit when I assert if? — altkough I 
 kad quite intended to inquire after kim 
 wken I left tke vicarao-e to o-o to tke Hall, and 
 
 CD O ' 
 
 kad even tkouo-kt of kim wken sittino; witk 
 Mrs Oldcastle, I never tkougkt of kim again 
 after going witk Judy, and left tke kouse 
 witkout kaving made a single inquiry after 
 kim. Nor did I tkink of kira again till just 
 as I was passing under tke outstretcked neck 
 of one of tkose serpivolants on tke gate ; and 
 wkat made me tkink of kim tken, I cannot in 
 tke least imagine ; but I resolved at once tkat 
 I would call upon kim tke following week, lest 
 he skould tkink tkat tke fact of kis kaving 
 omitted to call upon me kad been tke occa- 
 sion of suck an apparently pointed omission 
 on my part. For I kad long ago determined
 
 232 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 to be no further guided by the rules of society 
 than as they might aid in bringing about true 
 neighbourliness, and if possible friendliness 
 and friendship. Wherever they might inter- 
 fere with these, I would disregard them — as 
 far on the other hand as the disregard of 
 them might tend to bring about the results I 
 desired. 
 
 When, carrying out this resolution, I rang 
 the door-bell at the Hall, and inquired whether 
 Mr Stoddart was at home — the butler stared ; 
 and, as I simply continued gazing in return, 
 and waiting, he answered at length, with some 
 hesitation, as if he were picking and choosing 
 his words : 
 
 " Mr Stoddart never calls upon any one, 
 sir." 
 
 " I am not complaining of Mr Stoddart," I 
 answered, wishing to put the man at his ease. 
 
 " But nobody calls upon Mr Stoddart," he 
 returned.
 
 THE ORGANIST. 233 
 
 "That's very unkind of somebody, surely," 
 I said. 
 
 " But he doesn't want anybody to call upon 
 him, sir." 
 
 "Ah ! that's another matter. I didn't know 
 that. Of course, nobody has a right to in- 
 trude upon anybody. However, as I happen 
 to have come without knowing his dislike to 
 being visited, perhaps you wdll take him my 
 card, and say that if it is not disagreeable to 
 him, I should like exceedingly to thank him in 
 person for his sermon on the organ last 
 Sunday." 
 
 He had played an exquisite voluntary in the 
 morning. 
 
 " Give my message exactly, if you please," I 
 said, as I followed the man into the hall. 
 
 "I will try, sir," he answered. "But won't 
 you come up-stairs to mistress's room, sir, 
 while I take this to Mr Stoddart V 
 
 "No, I thank you," I answered. "I came
 
 234 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 to call upon Mr Stoddart only, and I will wait 
 the result of your mission here in the hall." 
 
 The man withdrew, and I sat down on a 
 bench, and amused myself with looking at the 
 portraits about me. I learned afterwards that 
 they had hung, till some thirty years before, 
 in a long gallery connecting the main part of 
 the house with that portion to which the 
 turret referred to so often in old Weir's story 
 was attached. One particularly pleased me. 
 It was the portrait of a young woman — very 
 lovely — but with an expression both sad and 
 — scared, I think, would be the readiest word 
 to communicate what I mean. It was indu- 
 bitably, indeed remarkably, like Miss Old- 
 castle. And I learned afterwards that it was 
 the portrait of Mrs Oldcastle's grandmother, 
 that very Mrs Crowfoot mentioned in Weir's 
 story. It had been taken about six months 
 after her marriage, and about as many before 
 her death.
 
 THE ORGANIST. 235 
 
 The butler returned, with the request that I 
 would follow him. He led me up the grand 
 staircase, through a passage at right angles to 
 that which led to the old lady's room, up a 
 narrow circular staircase at the end of the 
 passage, across a landing, then up a straight 
 steep narrow stair, upon which two people 
 could not pass without turning sideways and 
 then squeezing. At the top of this I found 
 myself in a small cylindrical lobby, papered in 
 blocks of stone. There was no door to be 
 seen. It was lighted by a conical skylight. 
 My conductor gave a push against the wall. 
 Certain blocks yielded, and others came for- 
 ward. In fact a door revolved on central 
 pivots, and we were admitted to a chamber 
 crowded with books from floor to ceiling, 
 arranged with wonderful neatness and solidity. 
 From the centre of the ceilino;, whence huns; a 
 globular lamp, radiated what I took to be a 
 number of strong beams supporting a floor
 
 236 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 above ; for our ancestors put the ceiling above 
 the beams, instead of below them as we do, 
 and gained in space if they lost in quietness. 
 But I soon found out my mistake. Those 
 radiating beams were in reality book-shelves. 
 For on each side of those I passed under I 
 could see the gilded backs of books standing 
 closely ranged together. I had never seen the 
 contrivance before, nor, I presume, was it to 
 be seen anywhere else. 
 
 " How does Mr Stoddart reach those books'?" 
 I asked my conductor. 
 
 "I don't exactly know, sir," whispered the 
 butler. " His own man could tell you, I dare 
 say. But he has a holiday to-day ; and I do 
 not think he would explain it either ; for he 
 says his master allows no interference with his 
 contrivances. I believe, however, he does not 
 use a ladder." 
 
 There was no one in the room, and I saw no 
 entrance but that by which we had entered.
 
 THE ORGANIST. 237 
 
 The next moment, however, a nest of shelves 
 revolved in front of me, and there Mr Stod- 
 dart stood with outstretched hand. 
 
 "You have found me at last, Mr Walton, 
 and I am glad to see you," he said. 
 
 He led me into an inner room, much larger 
 than the one I had passed through. 
 
 ** I am glad,'' I replied, " that I did not know, 
 till the butler told me, your unwillingness to be 
 intruded upon ; for I fear, had I known it, I 
 should have been yet longer a stranger to you.'' 
 
 " You are no stranger to me. I have heard 
 you read prayers, and I have heard you 
 preach." 
 
 " And I have heard you play ; so you are no 
 stranger to me either." 
 
 "AYell, before we say another word," said 
 Mr Stoddart, " I must just say one word about 
 this report of my unsociable disposition. — I 
 encourage it ; but am very glad to see you 
 notwithstanding. — Do sit down."
 
 238 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I obeyed, and waited for the rest of his 
 word. 
 
 "I was so bored with visits after I came, 
 visits which were to me utterly uninteresting, 
 that I was only too glad when the unusual 
 nature of some of my pursuits gave rise to 
 the rumour that I was mad. The more people 
 say I am mad, the better pleased I am, so long 
 as they are satisfied with my own mode of 
 shutting myself up, and do not attempt to 
 carry out any fancies of their own in regard 
 to my personal freedom." 
 
 Upon this followed some desultory conver- 
 sation, during which I took some observations 
 of the room. Like the outer room, it was full 
 of books from floor to ceiling. But the ceiling 
 was divided into compartments, harmoniously 
 coloured. 
 
 " What a number of books you have ! " I ob- 
 served. 
 
 " Not a great many," he answered. " But I
 
 THE ORGANIST. 239 
 
 think there is hardly one of them with which 
 I have not some kind of personal acquaint- 
 ance. I think I could almost find you any 
 one you wanted in the dark, or in the twilight 
 at least, which would allow me to distinguish 
 whether the top edge was gilt, red, marbled, 
 or uncut. I have bound a couple of hundred 
 or so of them myself. I don't think you could 
 tell the work from a tradesman's. I'll give 
 you a guinea for the poor-box if you pick out 
 three of my binding consecutively." 
 
 I accepted the challenge ; for although I 
 could not bind a book, I considered myself to 
 have a keen eye for the outside finish. After 
 looking over the backs of a great many, I took 
 one down, examined a little further, and pre- 
 sented it. 
 
 "You are right. Now try again." 
 
 Again I was successful, although I doubted. 
 
 " And now for the last,'' he said. 
 
 Once more I was right.
 
 240 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 *' There is your guinea," said he, a little mor- 
 tified. 
 
 " No," I answered. " I do not feel at liberty 
 to take it, because, to tell the truth, the last 
 was a mere guess, nothing more." 
 
 Mr Stoddart looked relieved. 
 
 "You are more honest than most of your 
 profession," he said. "But I am far more 
 pleased to offer you the guinea upon the 
 smallest doubt of your having won it." 
 
 " I have no claim upon it." 
 
 " What ! Couldn't you swallow a small 
 scruple like that for the sake of the poor 
 evenl Well, I don't believe you could. — 
 Oblige me by taking this guinea for some one 
 or other of your poor people. But I am glad 
 you w^eren t sure of that last book. I am in- 
 deed." 
 
 I took the guinea, and put it in my purse. 
 
 "But," he resumed, "you won't do, Mr 
 Walton. You're not fit for your profession.
 
 THE ORGANIST. 241 
 
 You won't tell a lie for God's sake. You 
 won't dodge about a little to keep all right 
 between Jove and his weary parishioners. 
 You won't cheat a little for the sake of the 
 poor ! You wouldn't even bamboozle a little 
 at a bazaar ! " 
 
 " I should not like to boast of my prin- 
 ciples," I answered ; " for the moment one 
 does so, they become as the apples of Sodom. 
 But assuredly I would not favour a fiction to 
 keep a world out of hell. The hell that a lie 
 would keep any man out of is doubtless the 
 very best place for him to go to. It is truth, 
 yes, The Truth that saves the world.'' 
 
 " You are right, I daresay. You are more 
 sure about it than I am though." 
 
 ^' Let us agree where we can," I said, " first 
 of all ; and that will make us able to disagree, 
 where we must, without quarrelling." 
 
 " Good," he said — " Would you like to see 
 my workshop 1 " 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " Very mncli, indeed," I answered, heartily. 
 
 '* Do you take any pleasure in applied me- 
 clianics 'i " 
 
 " I used to do so as a boy. But of course I 
 have little time now for anything of the sort.'' 
 
 " Ah ! of course." 
 
 He pushed a compartment of books. It 
 yielded, and we entered a small closet. In 
 another moment I found myself leaving the 
 floor, and in yet a moment we were on the 
 floor of an upper room. 
 
 " What a nice way of getting up stairs ! '* I 
 said. 
 
 " There is no other way of getting to this 
 room/' answered Mr Stoddart. " I built it 
 myself; and there was no room for stairs. 
 This is my shop. In my library I only read 
 my favourite books. Here I read anything I 
 want to read ; write anything I want to write ; 
 bind my books ; invent machines ; and amuse 
 myself generally. Take a chair."
 
 THE ORGANIST. 243 
 
 I obeyed, and began to look about me. 
 
 The room had many books in detached book- 
 cases. There were various benches ao;ainst the 
 walls between, — one a bookbinder's ; another 
 a carpenter's ; a third had a turning-lathe ; a 
 fourth had an iron vice fixed on it, and was 
 evidently used for working in metal. Besides 
 these, for it was a large room, there were 
 several tables with chemical apparatus upon 
 them, Florence-flasks, retorts, sand-baths, and 
 such like ; while in a corner stood a furnace. 
 
 " What an accumulation of ways and means 
 you have about you ! " I said ; " and all, ap- 
 parently, to different ends." 
 
 "All to the same end, if my object were 
 understood." 
 
 " I presume I must ask no questions as to 
 that object '? " 
 
 " It would take time to explain. I have 
 theories of education. I think a man has to 
 educate himself into harmonv. Therefore he
 
 244 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 must open every possible window by which 
 the influences of the All may come in upon 
 him. I do not think any man complete with- 
 out a perfect development of his mechanical 
 faculties, for instance, and I encourage them to 
 develop themselves into such windows." 
 
 " I do not object to your theory, provided 
 you do not put it forward as a perfect scheme 
 of human life. If you did, I should have 
 some questions to ask you about it, lest I 
 should misunderstand you." 
 
 He smiled what I took for a self-satisfied 
 smile. There w^as nothing offensive in it, but 
 it left me without anything to reply to. No 
 embarrassment followed, however, for a rust- 
 lino; motion in the room the same instant 
 attracted my attention, and I saw, to my sur- 
 prise, and I must confess, a little to my con- 
 fusion. Miss Oldcastle. She was seated in a 
 corner, reading from a quarto lying upon her 
 knees.
 
 THE ORGANIST. 245 
 
 " Oh ! you didn't know mj niece was here 1 
 To tell the truth, I fomot her when I brouo-ht 
 you up, else I would have introduced you." 
 
 " That is not necessary, uncle," said Miss 
 Oldcastle, closino; her book. 
 
 I was by her instantly. She slipped the 
 quarto from her knee, and took my offered 
 hand. 
 
 "Are you fond of old books'? " I said, not 
 having anything better to say. 
 
 " Some old books," she answered. 
 
 "May I ask what book you were read- 
 ingl" 
 
 "I will answer you — under protest," she 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 "I withdraw the question at once," I re- 
 turned. 
 
 " I will answer it notwithstanding. It is a 
 volume of Jacob Behmen." 
 
 " Do you understand him ? " 
 
 " Yes. Don't you 1 "
 
 246 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 "Well, I have made but little attempt," I 
 answered. " Indeed, it was only as I passed 
 through London last that I bought his works ; 
 and I am sorry to find that one of the plates 
 is missing from my copy." 
 
 *' Which plate is it ? It is not very easy, I 
 understand, to procure a perfect copy. One of 
 my uncle's copies has no two volumes bound 
 alike. Each must have belonged to a different 
 set." 
 
 "I can't tell you what the plate is. But 
 there are only three of those very curious un- 
 folding ones in my third volume, and there 
 should be four." 
 
 " I do not think so. Indeed, I am sure you 
 are wrong." 
 
 "I am glad to hear it — though to be glad 
 that the world does not possess what I thought 
 I only was deprived of, is selfishness, cover it 
 over as one may with the fiction of a perfect 
 copy."
 
 THE ORGANTIST. 247 
 
 " I don't know," she returned, without any 
 response to what I said. " I should always 
 like things perfect myself/' 
 
 "Doubtless," I answered; and thought it 
 better to try another direction. 
 
 " How is Mrs Oldcastle V 1 asked, feelino; 
 in its turn the reproach of hypocrisy ; for 
 though I could have suffered, I hope, in my 
 person and goods and reputation, to make that 
 woman other than she was, I could not say 
 that I cared one atom whether she was in 
 health or not. Possibly I should have pre- 
 ferred the latter member of the alternative ; 
 for the suffering of the lower nature is as a fire 
 that drives the higher nature upward. So I 
 felt rather hypocritical when I asked Miss Old- 
 castle after her. 
 
 " Quite well, thank you," she answered, in a 
 tone of indifference, which implied either that 
 she saw through me, or shared in my Id differ- 
 ence. I could not tell which.
 
 248 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 , " And how is Miss Judy V 1 inquired. 
 
 " A little savage, as usual/' 
 
 " Not the worse for her wetting, I hope." 
 
 *' Oh ! dear no. There never was health to 
 equal that child's. It belongs to her savage 
 nature." 
 
 " I wish some of us were more of savages, 
 then," I returned ; for I saw signs of ex- 
 haustion in her eyes which moved my sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 "You don't mean me, Mr Walton, I hope. 
 For if you do, I assure you your interest is 
 quite thrown away. Uncle will tell you I am 
 as strong as an elephant." 
 
 But here came a slight elevation of her 
 person ; and a shadow, at the same mo- 
 ment, passed over her face. I saw that she 
 felt she ought not to have allowed herself to 
 become the subject of conversation. 
 
 Meantime her uncle was busy at one of his 
 benches filing away at a piece of brass fixed in
 
 THE ORGANIST. 249 
 
 the vice. He had thick gloves on. And indeed 
 it had puzzled me before to think how he could 
 have so many kinds of work and yet keep his 
 hands so smooth and white as they were. I 
 could not help thinking the results could 
 hardly be of the most useful description if 
 they were all accomplished without some loss 
 of whiteness and smoothness in the process. 
 Even the feet that keep the garments clean 
 must be washed themselves in the end. 
 
 When I glanced away from Miss Oldcastle 
 in the embarrassment produced by the repul- 
 sion of her last manner, I saw Judy in the 
 room. At the same moment Miss Oldcastle 
 rose. 
 
 " What is the matter, Judy 1 " she said. 
 
 " Grannie wants you," said Judy. 
 
 Miss Oldcastle left the room, and Judy 
 turned to me. 
 ' " How do you do, Mr Walton '? '' she said. 
 
 " Quite well, thank you, Judy," I answered.
 
 250 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 "Your uncle admits you to liis workshop, 
 then ? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed. He would feel rather dull, 
 sometimes, without me. Wouldn't you, Uncle 
 Stoddart 1 '' 
 
 " Just as the horses in the field would feel 
 dull without the gad-fly, Judy," said Mr Stod- 
 dart, laughing. 
 
 Judy, however, did not choose to receive 
 the laugh as a scholium explanatory of the 
 remark, and was gone in a moment, leaving 
 Mr Stoddart and myself alone. I must say 
 he looked a little troubled at the precipitate 
 retreat of the damsel ; but he recovered him- 
 self with a smile, and said to me, 
 « 
 
 " I wonder what speech I shall make next 
 to drive you away, Mr Walton." 
 
 " I am not so easily got rid of, Mr Stod- 
 dart," I answered. " And as for taking offence, 
 I don't like it, and therefore I never take it. 
 But tell me what you are doing now."
 
 THE ORGANIST. 251 
 
 "I have been working for some time at 
 an attempt after a perpetual motion, but, 
 I must confess, more from a metaphysical 
 or logical point of view than a mechanical 
 one." 
 
 Here he took a drawing from a shelf," ex- 
 planatory of his plan. 
 
 " You see," he said, " here is a top, made of 
 platinum, the heaviest of metals, except iri- 
 dium — which it would be impossible to pro- 
 cure enough of, and which w^ould be difficult 
 to work into the proper shape. It is sur- 
 rounded, you will observe, by an air-tight re- 
 ceiver, communicating by this tube with a 
 powerful air-pump. The plate upon which the 
 point of the top rests and revolves is a dia- 
 mond ; and I ought to have mentioned that 
 the peg of the top is a diamond likewise. This 
 is of course for the sake of reducing the fric- 
 tion. By this apparatus communicating wdth 
 the top, through the receiver, I set the top in
 
 252 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 motion — after exhausting the air as far as 
 possible. Still there is the difficulty of the 
 friction of the diamond point upon the dia- 
 mond plate, which must ultimately occasion 
 repose. To obviate this, I have constructed 
 here, underneath, a small steam-engine, which 
 shall cause the diamond plate to revolve at 
 precisely the same rate of speed as the top 
 itself. This, of course, will prevent all fric- 
 tion." 
 
 " Not that with the unavoidable remnant of 
 air, however,^' I ventured to suggest. 
 
 " That is just my weak point,'^ he answered. 
 " But that will be so very small ! " 
 
 *' Yes ; but enough to deprive the top of 
 perpetual motion.^' 
 
 " But suppose I could get over that diffi- 
 culty, would the contrivance have a right to 
 the name of a perpetual motion 1 For you 
 observe that the steam-engine below would 
 not be the cause of the motion. That comes
 
 THE ORGANIST. 253 
 
 from above, here, and is withdrawn, finally- 
 withdrawn." 
 
 "I understand perfectly," I answered. "At 
 least I think I do. But I return the question 
 to you : Is a motion which, although not 
 caused, is enabled by another motion, worthy 
 of the name of a perpetual motion ; seeing the 
 perpetuity of motion has not to do merely with 
 time, but with the indwelling of self-generative 
 power — renewing itself constantly with the 
 process of exhaustion '? " 
 
 He threw down his file on the bench. 
 "I fear you are right," he said. "But you 
 will allow it would have made a very pretty 
 machine." 
 
 "Pretty, I will allow," I answered, "as dis- 
 tinguished from beautiful. For I can never 
 dissociate beauty from use." 
 
 " You say that ! with all the poetic things 
 you say in your sermons ! For I am a sharp 
 listener, and none the less such that you do
 
 254 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 not see me. I have a loophole for seeing you. 
 And I flatter myself, therefore, I am the only 
 person in the congregation on a level with you 
 in respect of balancing advantages. I cannot 
 contradict you, and you cannot address me.'' 
 
 *^Do you mean, then, that whatever is 
 poetical is useless V 1 asked. 
 
 "Do you assert that whatever is useful is 
 beautiful 1" he retorted. 
 
 "A full reply to your question would need 
 a ream of paper and a quarter of quills,'' I 
 answered ; " but I think I may venture so far 
 as to say that whatever subserves a noble end 
 must in itself be beautiful." 
 
 " Then a gallows must be beautiful because 
 it subserves the noble end of ridding the world 
 of malefactors '?" he returned promptly. 
 
 I had to think for a moment before I could 
 reply. 
 
 " I do not see anything noble in the end," I 
 answered. "If the machine got rid of male-
 
 THE ORGANIST. 255 
 
 faction, it would indeed have a noble end. 
 But if it only compels it to move on, as a con- 
 stable does — from this world into another — I 
 do not, I say, see anything so noble in that 
 end. The gallows cannot ba beautiful." 
 
 "Ah, I see. You don^t approve of capital 
 punishments." 
 
 "I do not say that. An inevitable neces- 
 sity is something very different from a noble 
 end. To cure the diseased mind is the noblest 
 of ends ; to make the sinner forsake his ways, 
 and the unrighteous man his thoughts, the 
 loftiest of designs ; but to punish him for 
 being wrong, however necessary it may be for 
 others, cannot, if dissociated from the object of 
 bringing good out of evil, be called in any 
 sense a nohle end. I think now, however, it 
 would be but fair in you to give me some 
 answer to my question. Do you think the 
 poetic useless 1 '' 
 
 '•'I think it is very like my machine. It
 
 256 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 may exercise the faculties without subserving 
 any immediate progress." 
 
 " It is so difficult to get out of the region 
 of the poetic, that I cannot think it other than 
 useful : it is so wide-spread. The useless 
 could hardly be so nearly universal. But I 
 should like to ask you another question : "What 
 is the immediate effect of anything poetic upon 
 your mind V 
 
 "Pleasure/^ he answered. 
 
 " And is pleasure good or bad ? '^ 
 
 " Sometimes the one, sometimes the other. ^' 
 
 "In itself?" 
 
 " I should say so.'' 
 
 " I should not." 
 
 " Are you not, then, by your very profession, 
 more or less an enemy of pleasure 1 " 
 
 " On the contrary, I believe that pleasure is 
 good, and does good, and urges to good. Care 
 is the evil thing." 
 
 " Strange doctrine for a clergyman."
 
 THE ORGANIST. 257 
 
 " Now, do not misunderstand me, Mr Stod- 
 dart. That might not hurt you, but it would 
 distress me. Pleasure, obtained by wrong, is 
 poison and horror. But it is not the pleasure 
 that hurts, it is the wrong that is in it that 
 hurts ; the pleasure hurts only as it leads to 
 more wrong. I almost think myself, that if 
 you could make e^'erybody happy, half the evil 
 would vanish from the earth/' 
 
 " But you believe in God "? " 
 
 " I hope in God I do." 
 
 "How can you then think that He would 
 not destroy evil at such a cheap and pleasant 
 rate '^ " 
 
 " Because He wants to destroy all the evil, 
 not the half of it ; and destroy it so that it 
 shall not grow again ; which it would be sure 
 to do very soon if it had no antidote but hap- 
 piness. As soon as men got used to happiness, 
 they would begin to sin again, and so lose it 
 all. But care is distrust. I wonder now if 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 258 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 ever there was a man who did his duty, and 
 took no thought. I wish I could get the testi- 
 mony of such a man. Has anybody actually 
 tried the plan '? " 
 
 But here I saw that I was not taking Mr 
 Stoddart with me, (as the old phrase was.) 
 The reason I supposed to be, that he had never 
 been troubled with much care. But there re- 
 mained the question, whether he trusted in 
 God or the Bank ? 
 
 I went back to the original question. 
 
 "But I should be very sorry you should 
 think, that to give pleasure was my object in 
 saying poetic things in the pulpit. If I do so, 
 it is because true things come to me in their 
 natural garments of poetic forms. What you 
 call the poetic is only the outer beauty that 
 belongs to all inner or spiritual beauty — just 
 as a lovely face — mind, I say lovely, not pretty, 
 not handsome — is the outward and visible pre- 
 sence of a lovely mind. Therefore, saying I
 
 THE ORGAXIST. 259 
 
 cannot dissociate beauty from use, I am free 
 to say as many poetic things — though, mind, 
 I don't claim them : you attribute them to 
 me — as shall be of the highest use, namely, to 
 embody and reveal the true. But a machine 
 has material use for its end. The most gro- 
 tesque machine I ever saw that did something, 
 I felt to be in its own kind beautiful ; as God 
 called many fierce and grotesque things good 
 when He made the world — good for their good 
 end. But your machine does nothing more 
 than raise the metaphysical doubt and ques- 
 tion, whether it can with propriety be called a 
 perpetual motion or not '? " 
 
 To this Mr Stoddart making no rej)ly, I 
 take the opportunity of the break in our con- 
 versation to say to my readers, that I know 
 there was no satisfactory following out of an 
 argument on either, side in the passage of 
 words I have just given. Even the closer.t 
 reasoner finds it next to impossible to attend
 
 260 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 to all the suggestions in his OAvn mind, not 
 one of which he is willing to lose, to attend 
 at the same time to everything his antagonist 
 says or suggests, that he may do him justice, 
 and to keep an even course towards his goal 
 — each having the opposite goal in view. In 
 fact, an argument, however simply conducted, 
 and honourable, must just resemble a game at 
 football ; the unfortunate question being the 
 ball, and the numerous and sometimes conflict- 
 ing thoughts which arise in each mind forming 
 the two parties whose energies are spent in 
 a succession of kicks. In fact, I don't like 
 argument, and I don't care for the victory. If 
 I had my way, I would never argue at all. I 
 would spend my energy in setting forth what 
 I believe — as like itself as I could represent it, 
 and so leave it to work its own way, which, 
 if it be the right way, it must work in the 
 right mind,— for Wisdom is justified of her 
 children; while no one who loves the truth
 
 THE ORGANIST. 261 
 
 can be other than anxious, that if he has 
 spoken the evil thing it may return to him 
 void : that is a defeat he may well pray for. 
 To succeed in the wrong is the most dreadful 
 punishment to a man who, in the main, is 
 honest. But I beg to assure my reader I 
 could write a long treatise on the matter be- 
 tween Mr Stoddart and myself ; therefore, if 
 he is not yet interested in such questions, let 
 him be thankful to me for considering such a 
 treatise out of place here. I will only say in 
 brief, that I believe with all my heart that the 
 true is the beautiful, and that nothing evil 
 can be other than ugly. If it seems not so, 
 it is in virtue of some good mingled with the 
 evil, and not in the smallest degree in virtue 
 of the evil. 
 
 I thought it was time for me to take my 
 leave. But I could not bear to run away with 
 the last word, as it w^ere : so I said, 
 
 " You put plenty of poetry yourself into
 
 262 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 that voluntary you played last Sunday. I am 
 so much obliged to you for it ! " 
 
 " Oh ! that fugue. You liked it, did you 1 '' 
 
 " More than I can tell you.'' 
 
 " I am very glad.'' 
 
 " Do you know those two lines of Milton in 
 which he describes such a performance on the 
 organ ? " 
 
 " No. Can you repeat them *? " 
 
 " ' His volant touch, 
 Instinct through all proportions, low and high, 
 Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.' " 
 
 " That is wonderfully fine. Thank you. 
 That is better than my fugue by a good deal. 
 You have cancelled the obligation." 
 
 " Do you think doing a good turn again is 
 cancelling an obligation '? I don't think an 
 obligation can ever be returned in the sense 
 of being got rid of. But I am being hyper- 
 critical."
 
 THE ORGA^'IST. 263 
 
 "Not at all. — Shall I tell you what I was 
 thinking of while playing that fagiie 1 " 
 
 " I should like much to hear." 
 
 " I had been thinking, while you were 
 preaching, of the many fancies men had wor- 
 shipped for the truth ; now following this, 
 now following that ; ever believing they were 
 on the point of laying hold upon her, and 
 going down to the grave empty-handed as 
 they came." 
 
 " And empty-hearted, too 1 " I asked ; but 
 he went on Avithout heeding me. 
 
 "And I saw a vision of multitudes follow- 
 ing, following where nothing was to be seen, 
 with arms outstretched in all directions, some 
 clasping vacancy to their bosoms, some reach- 
 ing on tiptoe over the heads of their neigh- 
 bours, and some with hanging heads, and 
 hands clasped behind their backs, retiring 
 hopeless from the chase." 
 
 "Strano;e!" I said; "for I felt so fall of
 
 264 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 liope while you played, that I never doubted 
 it was hope you meant to express." 
 
 " So I do not doubt I did ; for the multi- 
 tude was full of hope, vain hope, to lay hold 
 upon the truth. And you, being full of the 
 main expression, and in sympathy with it, did 
 not heed the undertones of disappointment, 
 or the sighs of those who turned their backs 
 on the chase. Just so it is in life." 
 
 " I am no musician," I returned, " to give 
 you a musical counter to your picture. But I 
 see a grave man tilling the ground in peace, and 
 the form of Truth standing behind him, and fold- 
 ing her wings closer and closer over and around 
 him as he works on at his day's labour." 
 
 " Very pretty," said Mr Stoddart, and said 
 no more. 
 
 " Suppose," I went on, " that a person knows 
 that he has not laid hold on the truth, is that 
 sufficient ground for his making any further 
 assertion than that he has not found it ? "
 
 THE ORGAXIST. 265 
 
 " No. But If he has tried hard and has not 
 found anything that he can say is true, he 
 cannot help thinking that most likely there is 
 no such thing/' 
 
 "Suppose," I said, "that nobody has found 
 the truth, is that sufficient ground for saying 
 that nobody ever will find it \ or that there is 
 no such thino' as truth to be found ? Are the 
 ages so nearly done that no chance yet re- 
 mains *? Surely if God has made us to desire 
 the truth, He has got some truth to cast into 
 the gulf of that desire. Shall God create 
 hunger and no food 1 But possibly a man 
 may be looking the wrong way for it. You 
 may be using the microscope, when you ought 
 to open both eyes and lift up your head. Or 
 a man may be finding some truth which is 
 feeding his soul, when he does not think he is 
 finding any. You know the Fairy Queen, 
 Think how long the Eedcross Knight travelled 
 with the Lady Truth — Una, you know — with-
 
 266 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 out learning to believe in her ; and how much 
 longer still without ever seeing her face. For 
 my part, may God give me strength to follow 
 till I die. Only I will venture to say this, 
 that it is not by any agony of the intellect 
 that I expect to discover her." 
 
 Mr Stoddart sat drumming silently with his 
 fingers, a half-smile on his face, and his eyes 
 raised at an angle of forty-five degrees. I felt 
 that the enthusiasm with which I had spoken 
 was thrown away upon him. But I was not 
 going to be ashamed therefore. I would put 
 some faith in his best nature. 
 
 "But does not," he said, gently lowering his 
 eyes upon mine after a moment's pause — 
 *' does not your choice of a profession imply 
 that you have not to give chase to a fleeting 
 phantom '? Do you not profess to have, and 
 hold, and therefore teach the truth V 
 
 " I profess only to have caught glimpses of 
 her white garments, — those, I mean, of the
 
 THE ORGANIST. 267 
 
 abstract truth of wliicli you speak. But I 
 Lave seen that which is eternally beyond her : 
 the ideal in the real, the living truth, not the 
 truth that I can thinh, but the truth that 
 thinks itself, that thinks me, that God has 
 thought, yea, that God is, the truth heing true 
 to itself and to God and to man — Christ Jesus, 
 my Lord, who knows, and feels^ and does the 
 truth. I have seen Him, and I am both con- 
 tent and unsatisfied. For in Him are hid all 
 the treasures of wisdom and knowledo'e. 
 Thomas ^ Kempis says : ' Cui seternum Yer- 
 bum loquitur, ille a multis opinionibus expe- 
 ditur.'" (He to whom the eternal Word speaks, 
 is set free from a press of opinions.) 
 
 I rose, and held out my hand to Mr Stod- 
 dart. He rose likewise, and took it kindly, con- 
 ducted me to the room below, and riDo-ino; the 
 bell, committed me to the care of the butler. 
 
 As I approached the gate, I met Jane
 
 268 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 Kogers coming back from the Yillage. I 
 stopped and spoke to her. Her eyes were 
 very red. 
 
 " Nothing amiss at home, Jane T' I said. 
 " No, sir, thank you,^' answered Jane, and 
 burst out crying. 
 
 " What is the matter, then 1 Is your " 
 
 " Nothing 's the matter with nobody, sir.'' 
 " Something is the matter with you." 
 " Yes, sir. But I 'm quite welL" 
 " I don t want to pry into your affairs ; but 
 if you think I can be of any use to you, mind 
 you come to me." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, sir," said Jane ; and, drop- 
 ping a courtesy, walked on with her basket. 
 
 I went to her parents' cottage. As I came 
 near the mill, the young miller was standing 
 in the door with his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 while the mill went on hopping behind him. 
 But when he caught sight of me, he turned, 
 and went in as if he had not seen me.
 
 THE ORGANIST. 2G9 
 
 " Has lie been belia\dng ill to Jane 1 " 
 thought I. 
 
 As he evidently wished to avoid me, I 
 passed the mill ^^ithout looking in at the 
 door, as I was in the habit of doing, and went 
 on to the cottage, where I lifted the latch, 
 and walked in. Both the old people were 
 there, and both looked troubled, though they 
 welcomed me none the less kindly. 
 
 " I met Jane," I said, " and she looked un- 
 happy ; so I came on to hear what was the 
 matter." 
 
 " You oughtn't to be troubled with our small 
 affairs," said Mrs Eogers. 
 
 " If the parson wants to know, why, the 
 parson must be told," said Old Eogers, smiling 
 cheerily, as if he at least would be relieved by 
 telling me. 
 
 " I don't want to know," I said, " if you 
 don't want to tell me. But can I be of any 
 use 1 "
 
 270 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " I don't think you can, sir, — leastways, I 'm 
 afraid not," said the old woman. 
 
 " I am sorry to say, sir, that Master Brown- 
 rigg and his son has come to words about our 
 Jane ; and it 's not agreeable to have folk's 
 daughter quarrelled over in that way," said 
 Old Eogers. " What '11 be the upshot on it, I 
 don't know, but it looks bad now. For the 
 father he tells the son that if ever he hear of 
 him saying one word to our Jane, out ov the 
 mill he goes, as sure as his name's Dick. 
 Now, it 's rather a good chance, I think, to see 
 what the young fellow 's made of, sir. So I 
 tells my old 'oman here ; and so I told Jane. 
 But neither on 'em seems to see the comfort 
 of it somehow. But the New Testament do 
 say a man shall leave father and mother, and 
 cleave to his wife." 
 
 " But she ain't his wife yet," said Mrs 
 Eogers to her husband, whose drift was not 
 yet evident.
 
 THE ORGANIST. 271 
 
 "No more she can be, 'cept lie leaves his 
 father for her." 
 
 " And what '11 become of them then, without 
 the mill?" 
 
 " You and me never had no mill, old 'oman,' 
 said Eogers ; " yet here we be, very nearly 
 ripe now,- — ain't us, wife 1 " 
 
 " Medlar-like, Old Eogers, I doubt, — rotten 
 before we 're ripe," replied his wife, quoting a 
 more humorous than refined proverb. 
 
 " Nay, nay, old 'oman. Don t 'e say so. 
 The Lord won't let us rot before we 're ripe, 
 anyhow. That I be sure on." 
 
 "But, anyhow, it's all very well to talk. 
 Thou knowest how to talk, Eogers. But how 
 will it be when the children comes, and no 
 mill 1 " 
 
 " To grind 'em in, old 'oman '? " 
 
 Mrs Eogers turned to me, who was listening 
 with real interest, and much amusement. 
 
 " I wish you would speak a word to Old
 
 272 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 Eogers, sir. He never will speak as he 's 
 spoken to. He 's always over merry, or over 
 serious. He either takes me up short with a 
 sermon, or he laughs me out of countenance 
 that I don't know where to look.'' 
 
 Now I was pretty sure that Eogers's conduct 
 was simple consistency, and that the difficulty 
 arose from his always acting upon one or two 
 of the plainest principles of truth and right ; 
 whereas his wife, good woman — for the bad, 
 old leaven of the Pharisees could not rise much 
 in her somehow — was always reminding him 
 of certain precepts of behaviour to the oblivion 
 of principles. " A bird in the hand/' &c. — 
 " Marry in haste," &c. — " "When want comes in 
 at the door, love flies out at the window," were 
 amongst her favourite sayings ; although not 
 one of them was supported by her own expe- 
 rience. For instance, she had married in haste 
 herself, and never, I believe, had once thought 
 of repenting of it, although she had had far
 
 THE ORGANIST. 273 
 
 more than the requisite leisure for doing so. 
 And many was the time that want had come 
 in at her door, and the first thing it always did 
 was to clip the wings of Love and make him 
 less flighty, and more tender and serviceable. 
 So I could not even pretend to read her hus- 
 band a lecture. 
 
 " He 's a curious man, Old Eogers/' I said. 
 " But as far as I can see, he 's in the right, in 
 the main. Isn't he now 1 '' 
 
 " Oh, yes, I daresay. I think he 's always 
 rio'ht about the rig;hts of the thino;, you know. 
 But a body may go too far that way. It 
 won't do to starve, sir.'' 
 
 Strange confusion — or, ought I not rather to 
 say "? — ordinary and common-place confusion 
 of ideas ! 
 
 " I don't think," I said, " any one can go too 
 far in the right way.'* 
 
 " That 's just what I want my old 'oman to 
 see, and I can't get it into her, sir. If a 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 274 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 thing 's right, it 's right, and if a thing 's 
 wrong, why, wrong it is. The helm must 
 either be to starboard or port, sir." 
 
 " But why talk of starving V I said. 
 "Can't Dick work 1 "Who could think of 
 starting that nonsense '? " 
 
 " Why, my old 'oman here. She wants 'em 
 to give it up and wait for better times. The 
 fact is, she don't want to lose the girl." 
 
 " But she hasn't got her at home now." 
 
 " She can have her when she wants her, 
 though — leastways after a bit of warning. 
 Whereas if she was married, and the conse- 
 quences a foUerin' at her heels, like a man-o'- 
 war with her convoy, she would find she was 
 chartered for another port, she would." 
 
 " Well, you see, sir, Rogers and me 's not so 
 young as we once was, and we 're likely to be 
 growing older every day. And if there 's a 
 difficulty in the way of Jane's marriage, why, 
 I take it as a Godsend."
 
 THE OEGAXIST. 275 
 
 " How would you have liked sucli a God- 
 send, Mrs Kogers, when you were going to be 
 married to your sailor here *? What would 
 you have done '? " 
 
 " Why, whatever he liked, to be sure. But 
 then, you see, Dick 's not my Eogers/' 
 
 " But your daughter thinks about him much 
 in the same way as you did about this dear 
 old man here when he was young/' 
 
 " Young people may be in the wrong. / see 
 nothing in Dick Brownrigg.^' 
 
 " But young people may be right sometimes, 
 and old people may be wrong sometimes.'' 
 
 " I can t be wrong about Eogers." 
 
 " No, but you may be wrong about Dick." 
 
 '•' Don't you trouble yourself about my old 
 ^oman, sir. She alius was awk'ard in stays, 
 but she never missed them yet. When she 's 
 said her say, round she comes in the wind like 
 a bird, sir." 
 
 " There 's a good old man to stick up for
 
 276 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 your old wife ! Still I say, they may as well 
 wait a bit. It would be a pity to anger the 
 old gentleman." 
 
 " What does the young man say to it 1 " 
 
 " Why, he says like a man, he can work 
 for her as well 's the mill, and he 's ready, if 
 she is/^ 
 
 " I am very glad to hear such a good ac- 
 count of him. I shall look in, and have a 
 little chat with him. I always liked the look 
 of him. Good morning, Mrs Kogers.^' 
 
 " 1 11 see you across the stream, sir," said the 
 old man, following me out of the house. 
 
 " You see, sir," he resumed, as soon as we were 
 outside, " I 'm always afeard of taking things 
 out of the Lord's hands. It 's the right way, 
 surely, that when a man loves a woman, and 
 has told her so, he should act like a man, and 
 do as is right. And isn't that the Lord's way ? 
 And can't He give them what 's good for them. 
 Mayhap they won't love each other the less in
 
 THE ORGANIST. 277 
 
 the end if Dick has a little bit of the hard 
 work that many a man that the Lord loved 
 none the less has had before him. I wouldn't 
 like to auger the old gentleman, as my wife 
 says ; but if I was Dick, I know what I would 
 do. But don't 'e think hard of my wife, sir, 
 for I believe there *s a bit of pride in it. She 's> 
 afeard of bein' supposed to catch at Eichard 
 Brownrigg, because he 's above us, you know, 
 sir. And I can't altogether blame her, only we 
 ain't o-ot to do with the look o' thino-s, but 
 with the things themselves.'' 
 
 " I understand you quite, and I 'm very 
 much of your mind. You can trust me to 
 have a little chat with him, can't you 1 " 
 
 " That I can, sir." 
 
 Here we had come to the boundary of his 
 garden — the busy stream that ran away as if it 
 was scared at the labour it had been compelled 
 to go through, and was now making the best of 
 its speed back to its mother-ocean, to tell sad
 
 278 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 tales of a world where every little brook must 
 do some work ere it gets back to its rest. I 
 bade him good day, jumped across it, and went 
 into the mill, where Eichard was tying the 
 mouth of a sack as gloomily as the brothers 
 of Joseph must have tied their sacks after his 
 silver cup had been found. 
 
 " Why did you turn away from me, as I 
 passed half-an-hour ago, Eichard VI said, 
 cheerily. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't think 
 you saw me." 
 
 " But supposing I hadn't ? — But I won't 
 tease you. I know all about it. Can I do 
 anything for you '? " 
 
 " No, sir. You can't move my father. It 's 
 no use talking to him. He never hears a word 
 anybody says. He never hears a word you 
 say o' Sundays, sir. He won't even believe 
 the Mark Lane Express about the price of 
 corn. It 's no use talking to him, sir."
 
 THE ORGANIST. 279 
 
 " You woiilcln't mind if I were to try 1 " 
 
 "No, sir. You can't make matters worse. 
 No more can you make them any better, sir.'' 
 
 " I don't say I shall talk to him ; but I may 
 try it, if I find a fitting opportunity." 
 
 " He 's always worse — more obstinate, that 
 is, when he 's in a good temper. So you may 
 choose your opportunity wrong. But it 's all 
 the same. It can make no difference." 
 
 " What are you going to do, then 1 " 
 
 " I would let him do his worst. But Jane 
 doesn't like to go against her mother. I 'm 
 sure I can't think how she should side with 
 my father against both of us. He never laid 
 her under any such obligation, I 'm sure." 
 
 "There may be more ways than one of 
 accounting for that. You must mind, how- 
 ever, and not be too hard upon your father. 
 You 're quite right in holding fast to the girl ; 
 but mind that vexation does not make you 
 unjust."
 
 280 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " I wish my mother were alive. She was 
 the only one that ever could manage him. 
 How she contrived to do it nobody could 
 think ; but manage him she did, somehow or 
 other. There ^s not a husk of use in talking 
 to him!' 
 
 " I daresay he prides himself on not being 
 moved by talk. But has he ever had a chance 
 of knowing Jane — of seeing what kind of a 
 girl she is '? '' 
 
 " He 's seen her over and over." 
 
 " But seeing isn't always believing." 
 
 " It certainly isn't with him." 
 
 " If he could only know her ! But don't 
 you be too hard upon him. And don't do 
 anything in a hurry. Give him a little time, 
 you know. Mrs Eogers won't interfere be- 
 tween you and Jane, I am pretty sure. But 
 don't push matters till we see. Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye, and thank you kindly, sir. — 
 Ain't I to see Jane in the meantime ? "
 
 THE ORGANIST. 281 
 
 "If I were you, I would make no difference. 
 See her as often as you used, which I suppose 
 was as often as you could. I don't think, I 
 say, that her mother will interfere. Her 
 father is all on your side/' 
 
 I called on Mr Brownrigg ; but, as his son 
 had forewarned me, I could making nothing 
 of him. He didn't see, when the mill was 
 his property, and Dick was his son, why he 
 shouldn't have his way with them. And he 
 was going to have his way with them. His son 
 might marry any lady in the land ; and he 
 wasn't going to throw himself away that way. 
 
 I will not weary my readers with the con- 
 versation we had together. All my missiles 
 of argument were lost as it were in a bank of 
 mud, the weight and resistance of which they 
 only increased. My experience in the attempt, 
 however, did a little to reconcile me to his 
 going to sleep in church ; for I saw that it 
 could make little difference whether he was
 
 282 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 asleep or awake. He, and not Mr Stoddart in 
 his organ sentry-box, was the only person 
 whom it was absolutely impossible to preach 
 to. You might preach at him ; but to him 1 
 — no.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PAHTY. 
 
 S Christmas Day drew nearer and 
 nearer, my heart glowed with the 
 more gladness ; and the question 
 came more and more pressingly — Could I not 
 do something to make it more really a holiday 
 of the Church for my parishioners ^ That most 
 of them would have a little more enjoyment on 
 it than they had had all the year through, I had 
 ground to hope ; but I wanted to connect this 
 gladness — in their minds, I mean, for who could 
 dissever them in fact '? — with its source, the 
 love of God, that love manifested unto men in
 
 284 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 the birth of the Human Babe, the Son of Man. 
 But I would not interfere with the Christmas 
 Day at home. I resolved to invite as many 
 of my parishioners as would come, to spend 
 Christmas Eve at the Vicarage. 
 
 I therefore had a notice to that purport 
 affixed to the church door ; and resolved to 
 send out no personal invitations whatever, so 
 that I might not give offence by accidental 
 omission. The only person thrown into per- 
 plexity by this mode of proceeding was Mrs 
 Pearson, 
 
 "How many am I to provide for, sir T' she 
 said, with an injured air. 
 
 " For as many as you ever saw in church at 
 one time," I said. " And if there should be too 
 much, why so much the better. It can go to 
 make Christmas Day the merrier at some of 
 the poorer houses." 
 
 She looked discomposed, for she was not of 
 an easy temper. But she never acted from
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 285 
 
 her temper ; she only looked or spoJce from 
 it. 
 
 " I shall want help," she said, at length. 
 
 " As much as vou like, Mrs Pearson. I can 
 trust you entirely." 
 
 Her face brightened ; and the end showed 
 that I had not trusted her amiss. 
 
 I was a little anxious about the result of the 
 invitation — partly as indicating the amount of 
 confidence my people placed in me. But 
 although no one said a word to me about it 
 beforehand except Old Eogers, as soon as 
 the hour arrived, the people began to come. 
 And the first I welcomed was Mr Brown- 
 rigg. 
 
 I had had all the rooms on the ground-floor 
 prepared for their reception. Tables of provi- 
 sion were set out in every one of them. My 
 visitors had tea or cofiee, with plenty of bread 
 and butter, when they arrived ; and the more 
 solid supplies were reserved for a latter part of
 
 286 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 the evening. I soon found myself with enough 
 to do. But before long, I had a very efficient 
 staff. For after having had occasion, once or 
 twice, to mention something of my plans for 
 the evening, I found my labours gradually 
 diminish, and yet everything seemed to go 
 right ; the fact being that good Mr Boulder- 
 stone, in one part, had cast himself into the 
 middle of the flood, and stood there immovable 
 both in face and person, turning its waters into 
 the right channel, namely, towards the barn, 
 which I had fitted up for their reception in a 
 body ; while in another quarter, namely, in 
 the barn, Dr Duncan was doing his best, and 
 that was simply something first-rate, to enter- 
 tain the people till all should be ready. From 
 a kind of instinct these gentlemen had taken 
 upon them to be my staff, almost without 
 knowing it, and very grateful I was. I found, 
 too, that they soon gathered some of the young 
 and more active spirits about them, whom they
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 287 
 
 employed in various ways for the good of the 
 comraunity. 
 
 When I came in and saw the goodly assem- 
 blage, for 1 had been busy receiving them in 
 the house, I could not help rejoicing that my 
 predecessor had been so fond of farming that 
 he had rented land in the neighbourhood of 
 the vicarage, and built this large barn, of 
 which I could make a hall to entertain my 
 friends. The night was frosty — the stars shin- 
 ing brilliantly overhead — so that, especially 
 for country people, there was little danger in 
 the short passage to be made to it from the 
 house. But, if necessary, I resolved to have a 
 covered-way built before next time. For how 
 can a man be the person of a parish, if he 
 never entertains his parishioners '? And really, 
 though it was lighted only with candles round 
 the walls, and I had not been able to do much for 
 the decoration of the place, I thought it looked 
 very well, and my heart was glad that Christ-
 
 288 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 mas Eve — just as if the Babe had been coming 
 again to us that same night. And is He not 
 always coming to us afresh in every childlike 
 feeling that awakes in the hearts of His people 1 
 I walked about amongst them, greeting 
 them, and greeted everywhere in turn with 
 kind smiles and hearty shakes of the hand. As 
 often as I paused in my communications for a 
 moment, it was amusing to watch Mr Boulder- 
 stone's honest, though awkward endeavours to 
 be at ease with his inferiors ; but Dr Duncan 
 was just a sight worth seeing. Very tall and 
 very stately, he was talking now to this old 
 man, now to that young woman, and every 
 face glistened towards which he turned. There 
 was no condescension about him. He was as 
 polite and courteous to one as to another, and 
 the smile that every now and then lighted up 
 his old face, was genuine and sympathetic. 
 No one could have known by his behaviour 
 that he was not at court. And I thought —
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 289 
 
 Surely even the contact witli such a man will 
 do something to refine the taste of my people. 
 I felt more certain than ever that a free ming- 
 ling of all classes would do more than anything 
 else towards binding us all into a wise patriotic 
 nation ; would tend to keep down that foolish 
 emulation which makes one class ape another 
 from afar, like Ben Jonson's Fiingoso, "still 
 lighting short a suit ; '' would refine the rough- 
 ness of the rude, and enable the polished to 
 see with what safety his just share in public 
 matters might be committed into the hands of 
 the honest workman. If we could once leave 
 it to each other to give what honour is due ; 
 knowing that honour demanded is as worth- 
 less as insult undeserved is hurtless ! What 
 has one to do to honour himself ? That is and 
 can be no honour. When one has learned to 
 seek the honour that cometh from God only, 
 he will take the withholding of the honour 
 that comes from men very quietly indeed. 
 
 VOL. L T
 
 290 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 The only thing that disappointed me was, 
 that there was no one there to represent Old- 
 castle Hall. But how could I have everything 
 a success at once '? — And Catherine Weir was 
 likewise absent. 
 
 After we had spent a while in pleasant talk, 
 and when I thought nearly all were with us, I 
 got up on a chair at the end of the barn and 
 said : — 
 
 "Kind friends, — I am very grateful to you 
 for honouring my invitation as you have done. 
 Permit me to hope that this meeting will be 
 the first of many, and that from it may grow 
 the yearly custom in this parish of gathering 
 in love and friendship upon Christmas Eve. 
 "When God comes to man, man looks round for 
 his neighbour. When man departed from 
 God in the Garden of Eden, the only man in 
 the world ceased to be the friend of the only 
 woman in the world ; and, instead of seeking 
 to bear her burden, became her accuser to God,
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 291 
 
 in whom he saw only the Judge, unable to 
 perceive that the infinite love of the Father 
 had come to punish him in tenderness and 
 grace. But when God in Jesus comes back to 
 men, brothers and sisters spread forth their 
 arms to embrace each other, and so to embrace 
 Him. This is, when He is born ao-ain in our 
 souls. For, dear friends, what we all need is 
 just to become little children like Him ; to 
 cease to be careful about many things, and 
 trust in Him, seeking only that He should 
 rule, and that we should be made good like 
 Him. AYhat else is meant by ' Seek ye first 
 the kingdom of God and his righteousness, 
 and all these things shall be added unto you I ' 
 Instead of doino; so, we seek the thinos God 
 has promised to look after for us, and refuse 
 to seek the thing He wants us to seek — a 
 thing that cannot be given us, except we seek 
 it. We profess to think Jesus the grandest 
 and most glorious of men, and yet hardly care
 
 292 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 to be like Him ; and so when we are offered 
 His Spirit, that is, His very nature within us, 
 for the asking, we will hardly take the trouble 
 to ask for it. But to-night, at least, let all 
 unkind thoughts, all hard judgments of one 
 another, all selfish desires after oiir own way, 
 be put from us, that we may welcome the 
 Babe into our very bosoms ; that when He 
 comes amongst us — for is He not like a child 
 still, meek and lowly of heart '? — He may not 
 be troubled to find that we are quarrelsome, 
 and selfish, and unjust." 
 
 I came down from the chair, and Mr Brown- 
 rigg being the nearest of my guests and wide 
 awake, for he had been standing, and had in- 
 deed been listening to every word according 
 to his ability, I shook Lands with him. And 
 positively there was some meaning in the grasp 
 with which he returned mine. 
 
 I am not going to record all the proceedings 
 of the evening ; but I think it may be interest-
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 293 
 
 iug to my readers to know soraetliing of how 
 we spent it. First of all, we sang a hymn 
 about the Nativity. And then I read an ex- 
 tract from a book of travels, describing the 
 interior of an Eastern cottage, probably much 
 resembling 'the inn in which our Lord was 
 born, the stable being scarcely divided from 
 the rest of the house. For I felt that to open 
 the inner eyes even of the brain, enabling 
 people to see in some measure the reality of 
 the old lovely story, to help them to have what 
 the Scotch philosophers call a true conception 
 of the external conditions and circumstances 
 of the events, might help to open the yet 
 deeper spiritual eyes which alone can see the 
 meaning and truth dwelling in and giving 
 shape to the outward facts. And the extract 
 was listened to with all the attention I could 
 wish, except, at first, from some youngsters at 
 the further end of the barn, who became, how- 
 ever, perfectly still as I proceeded.
 
 294 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 After tliis followed conversation, during 
 which I talked a good deal to Jane Eogers, 
 paying her particular attention indeed, with 
 the hope of a chance of bringing old Mr 
 Brownrigg and her together in some way. 
 
 " How is your mistress, Jane *? '' '1 said. 
 
 " Quite well, sir, thank you. I only wish she 
 was here/' 
 
 " I wish she were. But perhaps she will 
 come next year.'' 
 
 "I think she will. I am almost sure she 
 would have liked to come to-night ; for I 
 heard her say" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Jane, for interrupting 
 you ; but I would rather not be told anything 
 you may have happened to overhear," I said, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " returned Jane, blushing a dark 
 crimson ; " it wasn't anything particular." 
 
 " Still, if it was anything on which a wrong 
 conjecture might be built " — I wanted to soften
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 295 
 
 it to her — " it is better that one should not be 
 told it. Thank you for your kind intention, 
 though. And now, Jane/' I said, " will you do 
 me a favour ? " 
 
 "That I will, sir, if I can." 
 
 " Sing that Christmas carol I heard you sing 
 last night to your mother." 
 
 "I didn't know any one was listening, 
 sir.'' 
 
 " I know you did not. I came to the door 
 with your father, and we stood and listened." 
 
 She looked very frightened. But I would 
 not have asked her had I not known that she 
 could sing like a bird. 
 
 " I am afraid I shall make a fool of myself," 
 she said. 
 
 " We should all be willing to run that risk 
 for the sake of others," I answered. 
 
 '•' I will try then, sir." 
 
 So she sang, and her clear voice soon silenced 
 the speech all round.
 
 296 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " Babe Jesus lay on Mary's lap ; 
 The sun shone in His hair ; 
 And so it was she saw, mayhap, 
 The crown already there. 
 
 " For she sang : ' Sleep on, my little king ! 
 Bad Herod dares not come ; 
 Before Thee, sleeping, holy thing. 
 Wild winds would soon be dumb. 
 
 « < I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet, 
 My King, so long desired ; 
 Thy hands shall never be soil'd, my sweet, 
 Thy feet shall never be tired. 
 
 " ' For Thou art the King of men, my son ; 
 Thy crown I see it plain ; 
 And men shall worship Thee, every one, 
 And cry, Glory ! Amen.' 
 
 " Babe Jesus open'd his eyes so wide ! 
 At Mary look'd her Lord. 
 And Mary stinted her song and sigh'd. 
 Babe Jesus said never a word." 
 
 When Jane had done singing, I asked her 
 where she had learned the carol ; and she 
 answered, — 
 
 "My mistress gave it me. There was a 
 picture to it of the Baby on His mother's 
 knee/'
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 297 
 
 "I never saw it," I said. "Where did yoa 
 get the tune r^ 
 
 " I thought it would go with a tune I knew ; 
 and I tried it, and it did. But I was not fit 
 to sing to you, sir." 
 
 " You must have quite a gift of song, Jane ! " 
 I said. 
 
 "My father and mother can both sing." 
 
 Mr Brownrio-D; was seated on the other side 
 of me, and had apparently listened with some 
 interest. His face w^as ten degrees less stupid 
 than it usually was. I fancied I saw even a 
 glimmer of some satisfaction in it. I turned 
 to Old Kogers. 
 
 " Sing us a song, Old Kogers," I said. 
 
 " I 'm no canary at that, sir ; and besides, 
 my singing days be over. I advise you to ask 
 Dr Duncan there. He can sing.'' 
 
 I rose and said to the assembly : 
 
 "My friends, if I did not think God w^as 
 pleased to see us enjoying ourselves, I should
 
 298 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 have no heart for it myself. I am going to 
 ask our dear friend Dr Duncan to give us a 
 song. — If you please, Dr Duncan.^' 
 
 " I am very nearly too old," said the doctor ; 
 " but I will try." 
 
 His voice was certainly a little feeble ; but 
 the song was not much the worse for it. And 
 a more suitable one for all the company he 
 could hardly have pitched upon. 
 
 " There is a plough that has no share, 
 But a coulter that parteth keen and fair. 
 But the furrows they rise 
 To a terrible size, 
 
 Or ever the plough hath touch'd them there. 
 'Gainst horses and plough in wrath they shake : 
 The horses are fierce ; but the plough will break. 
 
 " And the seed that is dropt in those furrows of fear, 
 Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear. 
 Down it drops plumb. 
 Where no spring times come ; 
 And here there needeth no harrowing gear : 
 Wheat nor poppy nor any leaf 
 Will cover this naked ground of grief. 
 
 " But a harvest-day will come at last 
 When the watery winter all is past ;
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 299 
 
 The waves so gray 
 
 Will be shorn away 
 
 By the angels' sickles keen and fast ; 
 
 And the buried harvest of the sea 
 
 Stored in the barns of eternity." 
 
 Genuine applause followed the good doctor s 
 song. I turned to Miss Boulderstone, from 
 whom I had borro^yed a piano, and asked her 
 to play a country dance for us. But first I 
 said — not getting up on a chair this time : — 
 
 **'Some people think it is not proper for a 
 clergyman to dance. I mean to assert my 
 freedom from any such law. If our Lord chose 
 to represent, in His parable of the Prodigal Son, 
 the joy in Heaven over a repentant sinner by 
 the figure of * music and dancing,' I will 
 hearken to Him rather than to men, be they 
 as good as they may.'^ 
 
 For I had long thought that the way to 
 make indifferent things bad, was for good 
 people not to do them. 
 
 And so saying, I stepped up to Jane Eogers,
 
 300 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 and asked her to dance with me. She blushed 
 so dreadfully that, for a moment, I was almost 
 sorry I had asked her. But she put her hand 
 in mine at once ; and if she was a little clumsy, 
 she yet danced very naturally, and I had the 
 satisfaction of feeling that I had an honest girl 
 near me, who I knew was friendly to me in her 
 heart. 
 
 But to see the faces of the people ! While 
 I had been talking, Old Kogers had been 
 drinking in every word. To him it was milk 
 and strong meat in one. But now his face 
 shone with a father's gratification besides. 
 And Eichard's face was glowing too. Even 
 old Brownrigg looked with a curious interest 
 upon us, I thought. 
 
 Meantime Dr Duncan was dancing with one 
 of his own patients, old Mrs Trotter, to whose 
 wants he ministered far more from his table 
 than his surgery. I have known that man, 
 hearing of a case of want from his servant.
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 301 
 
 send the fowl he was about to dine upon, un- 
 touched, to those whose necessity was greater 
 than his. 
 
 And Mr Boulderstone had taken out old Mrs" 
 Eogers ; and young Brownrigg had taken Mary 
 Weir. Thomas Weir did not dance at all, but 
 looked on kindly. 
 
 " Why don t you dance. Old Eogers 1 '' I said, 
 as I placed his daughter in a seat beside him. 
 
 " Did your honour ever see an elephant go 
 up the futtock-shrouds 1 " 
 
 " No. I never did." 
 
 " I thought you must, sir, to ask me why I 
 don't dance. You won't take my fun ill, sir ? 
 I 'm an old man-o'-war's man, you know, sir 1 " 
 
 " I should have thought, Eogers, that you 
 would have knowru better by this time, than 
 make such an apology to me." 
 
 *' God bless you, sir. An old man 's safe 
 with you — or a young lass, either, sir," he 
 added, turning with a smile to his daughter.
 
 302 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I turned, and addressed Mr Boulderstone. 
 
 " I am greatly obliged to you, Mr Boulder- 
 stone, for the help you have given me this 
 evening. I Ve seen you talking to everybody, 
 just as if you had to entertain them all/' 
 
 " I hope I haven't taken too much upon me. 
 But the fact is, somehow or other, I don't 
 know how, I got into the spirit of it." 
 
 " You got into the spirit of it because you 
 wanted to help me, and I thank you heartily/' 
 
 " Well, I thought it wasn't a time to mind 
 ones peas and cues exactly. And really it 's 
 wonderful how one gets on without them. I 
 hate formality myself." 
 
 The dear fellow was the most formal man I 
 had ever met. 
 
 " Why don't you dance, Mr Brownrigg ^ " 
 
 "Who'd care to dance with me, sir'? I 
 don't care to dance with an old woman ; and 
 a young woman won't care to dance with 
 me."
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 303 
 
 " 1 11 find you a partner, if you will put 
 yourself in my hands." 
 
 " I don't mind trusting myself to you, sir." 
 
 So I led liim to Jane Eogers. She stood up 
 in respectful awe before the master of her des- 
 tiny. There were signs of calcitration in the 
 churchwarden, when he perceived whither I 
 was leading him. But when he saw the girl 
 stand trembling before him, whether it was 
 that he was flattered by the signs of his own 
 power, accepting them as homage, or that his 
 hard heart actually softened a little, I cannot 
 tell, but, after just a perceptible hesitation, he 
 said : 
 
 '* Come along, my lass, and let 's liave a hop 
 together.'' 
 
 She obeyed very sweetly. 
 
 " Don't be too shy," I whispered to her as 
 she passed me. 
 
 And the churchwarden danced very heartily 
 with the lady's-maid.
 
 304 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I then asked him to take her into the house, 
 and give her something to eat in return for 
 her song. He yielded somewhat awkwardly, 
 and what passed between them I do not know. 
 But when they returned, she seemed less 
 frightened at him than when she heard me 
 make the proposal. And when the company 
 was parting, I heard him take leave of her 
 wdth the words — 
 
 " Give us a kiss, my girl, and let bygones 
 be bygones." 
 
 Which kiss I heard with delight. For had 
 I not been a peacemaker in this matter 1 And 
 had I not then a right to feel blessed 1 — But 
 the understanding was brought about simply 
 by making the people meet — compelling them, 
 as it were, to know something of each other 
 really. Hitherto this girl had been a mere 
 name, or phantom at best, to her lover's 
 father ; and it was easy for him to treat her 
 as such, that is, as a mere fancy of his son's
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 305 
 
 The idea of her had passed through his mind ; 
 but with what vividness any idea, notion, or 
 conception could be present to him, my readers 
 must judge from my description of him. So 
 that obstinacy was a ridiculously easy accom- 
 plishment to him. For he never had any 
 notion of the matter to which he was opposed 
 — only of that which he favoured. It is very 
 easy indeed for such people to stick to their 
 point. 
 
 " But I took care that we should have danc- 
 ing in moderation. It would not do for people 
 either to get weary with recreation, or excited 
 with what was not worthy of producing such 
 an effect. Indeed we had only six country 
 dances during the evening. That was all. 
 And between the dances I read two or three 
 of Wordsworth's ballads to them, and they 
 listened even with more interest than I had 
 been able to hope for. The fact was that the 
 happy and free-hearted mood they were in 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 306 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 *' enabled the judgment." I wish one knew 
 always by what musical spell to produce the 
 right mood for receiving and reflecting a 
 matter as it really is. Every true poem carries 
 this spell with it in its ow^n music, which it 
 sends out before it as a harbinger, or properly 
 a herberger, to prepare a harbour or lodging 
 for it. But then it needs a quiet mood first 
 of all, to let this music be listened to. 
 
 For I thought with myself, if I could get 
 them to like poetry and beautiful things in 
 words, it would not only do them good, but help 
 them to see what is in the Bible, and therefore 
 to love it more. For I never could believe that 
 a man who did not find God in other places 
 as well as in the Bible ever found Him there 
 at all. And I always thought, that to find 
 God in other books enabled us to see clearly 
 that He was more in the Bible than in any 
 other book, or all other books put together. 
 
 After supper we had a little more singing.
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 307 
 
 And to my satisfaction nothing came to my 
 eyes or ears, during the whole evening, that 
 was undignified or ill-bred. Of course, I knew 
 that many of them must have two behaviours, 
 and that now they were on their good be- 
 haviour. But I thought the oftener such were 
 put on their good behaviour, giving them the 
 opportunity of finding out how nice it was, 
 the better. It mio;ht make them ashamed of 
 the other at last. 
 
 There were many little bits of conversation 
 I overheard, which T should like to give my 
 readers ; but I cannot dwell longer upon this 
 part of my Annals. Especially I should have 
 enjoyed recording one piece of talk, in which 
 Old Rogers was evidently trying to move a 
 more directly religious feeling in the mind of 
 Dr Duncan. I thought I could see that the 
 difficulty with the noble old gentleman was 
 one of expression. But after all the old fore- 
 mast-man was a seer of the King-dom : and the
 
 308 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 other, with all his refinement and education, 
 and goodness too, was but a child in it. 
 
 Before we parted, I gave to each of my 
 guests a sheet of Christmas Carols, gathered 
 from the older portions of our literature. For 
 most of the modern hymns are to my mind 
 neither milk nor meat — mere wretched imita- 
 tions. There were a few curious words and 
 idioms in these, but I thought it better to 
 leave them as they were ; for they might set 
 them inquiring, and give me an opportunity 
 of interesting them further, some time or other, 
 in the history of a word ; for, in their ups and 
 downs of fortune, words fare very much like 
 human beings. 
 
 And here is my sheet of Carols : — 
 
 AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 blessed Well of Love ! Floure of Grace ! 
 glorious Morning-Starre ! O Lampe of Light ! 
 Most lively image of thy Father's face, 
 Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might, 
 Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight,
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 309 
 
 How can we Thee requite for all this good ? 
 
 Or what can prize that Thy most precious blood ? 
 
 Yet nought Thou ask'st in lieu of all this love, 
 
 But love of us, for guerdon of Thy paine : 
 
 Ay me ! what can us lesse than that behove ? 
 
 Had He required life of us againe, 
 
 Had it beene wrong to ask His owne with gaine ? 
 
 He gave us hfe, He it restored lost; 
 
 Then life were least, that us so little cost. 
 
 But He our life hath left unto us free. 
 
 Free that was thrall, and blessed that was bann'd ; 
 
 iSTe ought demaunds but that we loving bee. 
 
 As He Himselfe hath lov'd us afore-hand, 
 
 And bound therto with an eternall band. 
 
 Him first to love that us so dearely bought, 
 
 And next our brethren, to His image wrought. 
 
 Him first to love great right and reason is. 
 Who first to us our life and being gave. 
 And after, when we fared had amisse, 
 Us wretches from the second death did save ; 
 And last, the flood of life, which now we have, 
 Even He Himselfe, in His dear sacrament. 
 To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent. 
 
 Then next, to love our brethren, that were made 
 Of that selfe mould, and that self Maker's hand. 
 That we, and to the same againe shall fade, 
 Where they shall have like heritage of land. 
 However here on higher steps we stand. 
 Which also were with selfe-same price redeemed 
 That we, however of us light esteemed.
 
 310 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHCOD. 
 
 Then rouze thy selfe, Earth ! out of thy soyle, 
 In which thou wallowest like to filthy swyne, 
 And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle, 
 Unmindful of that dearest Lord of thyne ; 
 Lift up to Him thy heavie clouded eyne, 
 That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold, 
 And read, through love. His mercies manifold. 
 
 Beginne from first, where He encradled was 
 In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay, 
 Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse, 
 And in what rags, and in how base array, 
 The glory of our heavenly riches lay, 
 When Him the silly shepheards came to see. 
 Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. 
 
 From thence reade on the storie of His life. 
 His humble carriage, His unfaulty wayes, 
 His cancred foes, His fights, His toyle. His strife, 
 His paines. His povertie. His sharpe assayes. 
 Through which He past His miserable dayes. 
 Offending none, and doing good to all. 
 Yet being malist both by great and small. 
 
 With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, 
 Thou must Him love, and His beheasts embrace ; 
 All other loves, with which the world doth blind 
 Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, 
 Thou must renounce and utterly displace, 
 And give thy selfe unto Him full and free, 
 That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee. 
 
 Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee 
 
 With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil.
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 311 
 
 And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see 
 Th' idee of His pure glorie present still 
 Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill 
 With sweete enragement of celestial love, 
 Kindled through sight of those faire things above. 
 
 Spexser. 
 
 NE\Y PRINCE, NEW POMP. 
 Behold a silly tender Babe, 
 
 In freezing winter night, 
 In homely manger trembling lies ; 
 
 Alas ! a piteous sight. 
 
 The inns are full, no man will yield 
 
 This little Pilgrim bed ; 
 But forced He is with silly beasts 
 
 In crib to shroud His head. 
 
 Desjiise Him not for lying there. 
 
 First what He is inquire ; 
 An orient pearl is often found 
 
 In depth of dirty mire. 
 
 Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish 
 
 Nor beast that by Him feed ; 
 Weigh not His mother's poor attire, 
 
 Nor Joseph's simple weed. 
 
 This stable is a Prince's court, 
 
 The crib His chair of state ; 
 The beasts are parcel of His pomp. 
 
 The wooden dish His plate. 
 
 The persons in that poor attire 
 
 His royal liveries wear ; 
 The Prince himself is come from heaven — 
 
 This pomp is praised there.
 
 312 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 With joy approach, Christian wight ! 
 
 Do homage to thy King ; 
 And highly praise this humble pomp 
 
 Which He from heaven doth bring. 
 
 Southwell. 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THEEE SHEPHERDS. 
 
 1. Where is this blessed Babe 
 That hath made 
 All the world so full of joy 
 And expectation ; 
 That glorious Boy 
 
 That crowns each nation 
 With a triumphant wreath of blessedness 1 
 
 2. Where should He be but in the throng, 
 
 And among 
 His angel-ministers, that sing 
 
 And take wing 
 
 Just as may echo to His voice, 
 
 And rejoice, 
 When wing and tongue and all 
 May so procure their happiness ? 
 
 3. But He hath other waiters now. 
 
 A poor cow. 
 An ox and mule stand and behold. 
 
 And wonder 
 That a stable should enfold 
 
 Him that can thunder. 
 Chorus. what a gracious God have we ! 
 
 How good ! How great ! Even as our misery. 
 
 Jeremy Taylor.
 
 MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 313 
 
 A SOXG OF PRAISE FOR THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. 
 
 Away, dark thoughts ; awake, my joy ; 
 
 Awake, my glory ; sing ; 
 Sing songs to celebrate the birth 
 
 Of Jacob's God and King. 
 happy night, that brought forth light, 
 
 Which makes the bhnd to see ! 
 The day spring from on high came down 
 
 To cheer and visit thee. 
 
 The wakeful shepherds, near their flocks, 
 
 • "Were watchful for the morn ; 
 But better news from heaven was brought. 
 
 Your Saviour Christ is born. 
 In Bethlem-iovfn the infant lies, 
 
 "Within a place obscure, 
 O little Bethlem, poor in walls, 
 
 But rich in furniture ! 
 
 Since heaven is now come down to earth. 
 
 Hither the angels fly ! 
 Hark, how the heavenly choir doth sing 
 
 Glor?/ to God on High ! 
 The news is spread, the church is glad, 
 
 Simeon, o'ercome with joy. 
 Sings with the infant in his arms, 
 
 Now let thy servant die. 
 
 Wise men from far beheld the star, 
 
 Which was their faithful guide. 
 Until it pointed forth the Babe, 
 
 And Him they glorified.
 
 314 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing — 
 
 Shall we our Christ deny ? 
 He 's born for us, and we for Him : 
 
 Glory to God on High. 
 
 John Mason.
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 
 
 NEVER asked questions alDOiit the 
 private affairs of any of my parish- 
 ioners, except of themselves indi- 
 vidually upon occasion of their asking me for 
 advice, and some consequent necessity for 
 knowing more than they told me. Hence, I 
 believe, they became the more willing that I 
 should know. But I heard a good many things 
 from others, notwithstanding, for I could not 
 be constantly closing the lips of the communi- 
 cative as I had done those of Jane Eogers. 
 And amongst other thino;s, I learned that Miss
 
 316 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 Oldcastle went most Sundays to the neighbour- 
 ing town of Addicehead to church. Now I 
 had often heard of the ability of the rector, 
 and although I had never met him, was pre- 
 pared to find him a cultivated if not an ori- 
 ginal man. Still, if I must be honest, which I 
 hope I must, I confess that I heard the news 
 with a pang, in analysing which I discovered 
 the chief component to be jealousy. It was no 
 use asking myself why I should be jealous : 
 there the ugly thing was. So I went and told 
 God I was ashamed, and begged Him to deli- 
 ver me from the evil, because His was the king- 
 dom and the power and the glory. And He 
 took my part against myself, for He waits to 
 be gracious. Perhaps the reader may, how- 
 ever, suspect a deeper cause for this feeling (to 
 which I would rather not give the true name 
 again) than a merely professional one. 
 
 But there was one stray sheep of my flock 
 that appeared in church for the first time on
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 317 
 
 the morning of Christmas Day — Catherine 
 "Weir. She did not sit beside her father, but 
 in the most shadowy corner of the chnrch — 
 near the organ loft, however. She could have 
 seen her father if she had looked up, but she 
 kept her eyes down the whole time, and never 
 even lifted them to me. The spot on one 
 cheek was much brighter than that on the 
 other, and made her look very ill. 
 
 I prayed to our God to grant me the honour 
 of speaking a true word to them all ; which 
 honour I thought I was right in asking, be- 
 cause the Lord reproached the Pharisees for 
 not seeking the honour that cometh from God. 
 Perhaps I may have put a wrong interpretation 
 on the passage. It is, however, a joy to think 
 that He will not give you a stone, even if you 
 should take it for a loaf and ask for it as such. 
 Nor is He, like the scribes, lying in wait to 
 catch poor erring men in their words or their 
 prayers, however mistaken they may be.
 
 318 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I took my text from the Sermon on the 
 Mount. And as the magazine for which these 
 Annals were first written was intended chiefly 
 for Sunday reading, I wrote my sermon just as 
 if I were preaching it to my unseen readers as 
 I spoke it to my present parishioners. And 
 here it is now : — 
 
 The Gospel according to St Matthew, the 
 sixth chapter, and part of the twenty-fourth 
 and twenty-fifth verses : — 
 
 " * Ye cannot serve God and Mammon. 
 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for 
 your life! 
 
 " When the Child whose birth we celebrate 
 with glad hearts this day, grew up to be a 
 man, He said this. Did He mean it '? — He 
 never said what He did not mean. Did He 
 mean it wholly '? — He meant it far beyond 
 what the words could convey. He meant it 
 altogether and entirely. When people do not
 
 SERMOX ON GOD AND MAMMON. 319 
 
 understand what the Lord says, when it seems 
 to them that His advice is impracticable, in- 
 stead of searching deeper for a meaning which 
 will be evidently true and wise, they comfort 
 themselves by thinking He could not have 
 meant it altogether, and so leave it. Or they 
 think that if He did mean it. He could not 
 expect them to carry it out. And in the fact 
 that they could not do it perfectly if they were 
 to try, they take refuge from the duty of try- 
 ing to do it at all ; or, oftener, they do not 
 think about it at all as anything that in the 
 least concerns them. The Son of our Father 
 in heaven may have become a child, may have 
 led the one life which belongs to every man 
 to lead, may have suffered because we are sin- 
 ners, may have died for our sakes, doing the 
 will of His Father in heaven, and yet we have 
 nothing to do with the words He spoke out of 
 the midst of His true, perfect knowledge, feel- 
 ing, and action! Is it not strange that it
 
 320 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 should be so '? Let it not be so with us this 
 day. Let us seek to find out what our Lord 
 means, that we may do it ; trying and failing 
 and trying again — verily to be victorious at 
 last — what matter when, so long as we are trj- 
 ing, and so coming nearer to our end ! 
 
 " Mammon, you know, means riches, Now, 
 riches are meant to be the slave — not even 
 the servant of man, and not to be the master. 
 If a man serve his own servant, or in a word 
 any one who has no just claim to be his master, 
 he is a slave. But here he serves his own 
 slave. On the other hand, to serve God, the 
 source of our being, our own glorious Father, 
 is freedom ; in fact, is the only way to get rid 
 of all bondage. So you see plainly enough 
 that a man cannot serve God and Mammon. 
 For how can a slave of his own slave be the 
 servant of the God of freedom, of Him who 
 can have no one to serve Him but a free man ? 
 His service is freedom. Do not, I pray you,
 
 SERMON OX GOD AND MAMMON. 321 
 
 make any confusion between service and sla- 
 very. To serve is the highest, noblest calling 
 in creation. For even the Son of man came 
 not to be ministered unto, but to minister, yea, 
 with Himself. 
 
 " But how can a man serve riches '? Why, 
 when he says to riches, *Ye are my good.' 
 When he feels he cannot be happy without 
 them. When he puts forth the energies of his 
 nature to get them. When he schemes and 
 dreams and lies awake about them. When he 
 will not D;ive to his neio;hbour for fear of be- 
 coming poor himself. When he wants to have 
 more, and to know he has more, than he can 
 need. When he wants to leave money behind 
 him, not for the sake of his children or rela- 
 tives, but for the name of the wealth. When 
 he leaves his money, not to those who need 
 it, even of his relations, but to those who are 
 rich like himself, making them yet more of 
 slaves to the overgrown monster they worship 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 322 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 for his size. When he honours those who 
 have money because they have money, irre- 
 spective of their character ; or when he 
 honours in a rich man what he would not 
 honour in a poor man. Then is he the slave 
 of Mammon. Sfcill more is he Mammons 
 slave when his devotion to his god makes him 
 oppressive to those over whom his wealth 
 gives him power ; or when he becomes unjust 
 in order to add to his. stores. — How will it be 
 with such a man when on a sudden he finds 
 that the world has vanished, and he is alone 
 with God 1 There lies the body in v/hich he 
 used to live, whose poor necessities first made 
 money of value to him, but with which itself 
 and its fictitious value are both left behind. 
 He cannot now even try to bribe God with a 
 cheque. The angels will not bow down to 
 him because his property, as set forth in his 
 will, takes five or six figures to express its 
 amount. It makes no difierence to them that
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 323 
 
 he lias lost it, though ; for they never re- 
 spected him. And the poor souls of Hades, 
 who envied him the wealth they had lost 
 before, rise up as one man -to welcome him, 
 not for love of him — no worshipper of Mam- 
 mon loves another — but rejoicing in the mis- 
 chief that has befallen him, and savins;, "Art 
 thou also become one of us \ " And Lazarus 
 in Abraham's bosom, however sorry he may 
 be for him, however grateful he may feel to 
 him for the broken victuals and the penny, 
 cannot with one drop of the water of Paradise 
 cool that man's parched tongue. 
 
 "Alas, poor Dives! poor server of Mam- 
 mon, whose vile god can pretend to deliver 
 him no longer! Or rather, for the blockish 
 god never pretended anything — it was the 
 man's own doing — Alas for the Mammon- 
 worshipper! he can no longer deceive himself 
 in his riches. And so even in hell he is some- 
 thing nobler than he was on earth ; for he
 
 324 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 worships his riches no longer. He cannot. 
 He curses them. 
 
 " Terrible things to say on Christmas Day ! 
 But if Christmas Day teaches us anything, it 
 teaches us to worship God and not Mammon ; 
 to worship spirit and not matter ; to worship 
 love and not power. 
 
 " Do I now hear any of my friends saying 
 in their hearts : Let the rich take that ! It 
 does not apply to us. We are poor enough 1 
 Ah, my friends, I have known a light-hearted, 
 liberal rich man lose his riches, and be liberal 
 and light-hearted still. I knew a rich lady 
 once, in giving a large gift of money to a poor 
 man, say apologetically, 'I hope it is no dis- 
 grace in me to be rich, as it is none in you to 
 be poor.^ It is not the being rich, that is 
 wrong, but the serving of riches, instead of 
 making them serve your neighbour and your- 
 self — your neighbour for this life, yourself for 
 the everlasting habitations. God knows it is
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 325 
 
 hard for the rich man to enter into the kins:- 
 dom of heaven ; but the rich man does some- 
 times enter in ; for God hath made it possible. 
 And the greater the victory, A\'hen it is the 
 rich man that overcometh the world. It is 
 easier for the poor man to enter into the 
 kingdom, yet many of the poor have failed to 
 enter in, and the greater is the disgrace of 
 their defeat. For the poor have more done 
 for them, as far as outward things go, in the 
 way of salvation than the rich, and have a 
 beatitude all to themselves besides. For in 
 the making of this world as a school of salva- 
 tion, the poor, as the necessary majority, have 
 been more regarded than the rich. Do not 
 think, my poor friend, that God will let you 
 off. He lets nobody off. You, too, must pay 
 the uttermost farthing. He loves you too 
 well to let you serve Mammon a whit more 
 than your rich neighbour. * Serve Mammon ! ' 
 do you say '? * How can I serve Mammon 1
 
 326 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 I have no Mammon to serve/ — Would you 
 like to have riches a moment sooner than God 
 gives them ? Would you serve Mammon if 
 you had him '? — ' Who can tell 1 ' do you 
 answer 1 ' Leave those questions till I am 
 tried/ But is there no bitterness in the tone 
 of that response ? Does it not mean, ' It will 
 be a long time before I have a chance of trying 
 ihatf^ — But I am not driven to such ques- 
 tions for the chance of convicting; some of vou 
 of Mammon-worship. Let us look to the text. 
 Eead it again. 
 
 " ' Ye cannot serve God and Mammon. 
 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for 
 your life.' 
 
 "Why are you to take no thought? Be- 
 cause you cannot serve God and Mammon. 
 Is taking thought, then, a serving of Mam- 
 mon '? Clearly! — Where are you now, poor 
 man 1 Brooding over the frost ? Will it 
 harden the ground so that the God of the
 
 SERMON OX GOD AXD MAMMOX. 327 
 
 sparrows cannot find food for His sons ? Where 
 are you now, poor woman '? Sleepless over the 
 empty cupboard and to-morrow's dinner ? ' It 
 is because we have no bread '? ' do you answer 1 
 Have you forgotten the five loaves among the 
 five thousand, and the fragments that were 
 left '? Or do you know nothing of your Father 
 in heaven, who clothes the lilies and feeds the 
 birds 1 ye of little faith ! ye poor- 
 spirited Mammon- worshippers ! who worship 
 him not even because he has given you any- 
 thing, but in the hope that he may some future 
 day benignantly regard you. But I may be 
 too hard upon you. I know well that our 
 Father sees a great difference between the man 
 who is anxious about his children's dinner, or 
 even about his own, and the man who is only 
 anxious to add another ten thousand to his 
 much goods laid up for many years. But you 
 ought to find it easy to trust in God for such 
 a matter as your daily bread, whereas no man
 
 328 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 can by any possibility trust in God for ten 
 thousand pounds. The former need is a God- 
 ordained necessity ; the latter desire a man- 
 devised appetite at best — possibly swinish 
 greed. Tell me, do you long to be rich 1 
 Then you worship Mammon. Tell me, do you 
 think you w^ould feel safer if you had money 
 in the bank '? Then you are Mammon- wor- 
 shippers ; for you would trust the barn of the 
 rich man rather than the God who makes the 
 corn to grow. Do you say — * What shall we 
 eat 1 and what shall we drink '? and where- 
 withal shall we be clothed '? ' Are ye thus of 
 doubtful mind 1 — Then you are Mammon- wor- 
 shippers. 
 
 " But how is the work of the world to be 
 done if we take no thought 1 — We are nowhere 
 told not to take thought. We must take 
 thought. The question is — What are we to 
 take or not to take thought about '? By some 
 who do not know God, little work would be
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 329 
 
 done if they were not driven by anxiety of 
 some kind. But you, friends, are you content 
 to go with tlie nations of the earth, or do you 
 seek a better way — the way that the Father of 
 the nations would have you walk in ? 
 
 " What then are we to take thought about 1 
 Whv, about our work. "What are we not to 
 take thought about ? Why, about our life. 
 The one is our business : the other is God's. 
 But you turn it the other way. You take no 
 thought of earnestness about the doing of your 
 duty ; but you take thought of care lest God 
 should not fulfil His part in the goings on of 
 the world. A man s business is just to do his 
 duty : God takes upon Himself the feeding and 
 the clothino;. Will the work of the world be 
 neglected if a man thinks of his work, his 
 duty, God's will to be done, instead of what 
 he is to eat, what he is to drink, and where- 
 withal he is to be clothed ? And remember 
 all the needs of the world come back to these
 
 330 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 three. You will allow, I think, that the work 
 of the world will be only so much the better 
 done ; that the -very means of procuring the 
 raiment or the food will be the more thorough- 
 ly used. What, then, is the only region on 
 which the doubt can settle 1 Why, God. He 
 alone remains to be doubted. Shall it be so 
 with you '? Shall the Son of man, the baby 
 now born, and for ever with us, find no faith 
 in you ? Ah, my poor friend, who canst not 
 trust in God — I was going to say you deserve 
 — but what do I know of you to condemn and 
 judge you 1 — I was going to say, you deserve 
 to be treated like the child who frets and com- 
 plains because his mother holds him on her 
 knee and feeds him mouthful by mouthful with 
 her own lovins; hand. I meant — vou deserve 
 to have your own way for a while ; to be set 
 down, and told to help yourself, and see what 
 it will come to ; to have your mother open the 
 cupboard -door for you, aud leave you alone
 
 SERMON OX GOD AXD MAilMOX. 331 
 
 to your pleasures. Alas ! poor child 1 When 
 the sweets begin to pall, and the twilight 
 begins to come duskily into the chamber, and 
 you look about all at once and see no mother, 
 how will your cupboard comfort you then ? 
 Ask it for a smile, for a stroke of the o;entle 
 hand, for a word of love. All the full-fed 
 Mammon can give you is what your mother 
 would have given you without the consequent 
 loathing, with the light of her countenance 
 upon it all, and the arm of her love around 
 you. — And this is what God does sometimes, 
 I think, with the Mammon - vrorshippers 
 amongst the poor. He says to them, Take 
 your Mammon^ and see what he is worth. 
 Ah, friends, the children of God can never be 
 happy serving other than Him. The prodigal 
 might fill his belly with riotous living or with 
 the husks that the swine ate. It was all one, 
 so long as he was not with his father. His 
 soul was wretched. So would you be if you
 
 332 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 liad wealth, for I fear you would only be worse 
 Mammon-worsliippers than now, and might 
 well have to thank God for the misery of any 
 swine-trough that could bring you to your 
 senses. 
 
 "But we do see people die of starvation 
 sometimes \ — Yes. But if you did your work 
 in God's name and left the rest to Him, that 
 would not trouble you. You would say, If it 
 be God's will that I should starve, I can starve 
 as well as another. And your mind would be 
 at ease. ' Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace 
 whose mind is stayed upon Thee, because he 
 trusteth in Thee.' Of that I am sure. It may 
 be good for you to go hungry and bare=foot ; 
 but it must be utter death to have no faith in 
 God. It is not, however, in God's way of 
 things that the man who does his work shall 
 not live by it. We do not know why here and 
 there a man may be left to die of hunger, but 
 •I do believe that they who wait upon the Lord
 
 SERMOX ON GOD AND MAMMON. 333 
 
 shall not lack any good. \Yliat it may be good 
 to deprive a man of till he knows and acknow- 
 ledges whence it comes, it may be still better 
 to give him when he has learned that every 
 good and every perfect gift is from above, and 
 cometh down from the Father of lig-lits. 
 
 " I should like to know a man who just 
 minded his duty and troubled himself about 
 nothing ; who did his own work and did not 
 interfere with God's. How nobly he would 
 work — working not for reward, but because it 
 was the will of God ! How hap23ily he w^ould 
 receive his food and clothing, receiving them 
 as the gifts of God ! What peace would be 
 his ! What a sober gaiety ! How hearty and 
 infectious his laughter ! What a friend he 
 would be ! How sweet his sympathy ! And 
 his mind would be so clear he w^ould under- 
 stand everything. His eye being single, his 
 whole body would be full of light. No fear of 
 his ever doing a mean thing. He would die
 
 334 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 in a ditch rather. It is this fear of want that 
 makes men do mean things. They are afraid 
 to part with their precious lord — Mammon. 
 He gives no safety against such a fear. One 
 of the richest men in England is haunted with 
 the dread of the workhouse. This man whom 
 I should like to know, would be sure that God 
 would have him liberal, and he would be what 
 God would have him. Kiches are not in the 
 least necessary to that. Witness our Lord's 
 admiration of the poor widow with her great 
 farthing, 
 
 " But I think I hear my troubled friend who 
 does not love money, and yet cannot trust in 
 God out and out, though she fain would, — I 
 think I hear her ^ay, * I believe I could trust 
 Him for myself, or at least 1 should be ready 
 to dare the worst for His sake ; but my chil- 
 dren — it is the thought of my children that 
 is too much for me.' Ah, woman ! she whom 
 the Saviour praised so pleasedly, was one who
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 335 
 
 trusted Him for her daughter. What an 
 honour she had ! ' Be it unto thee even as 
 thou wilt.' Do you think you love your chil- 
 dren better than He who made them '? Is not 
 your love what it is because He put it into 
 your heart first ? Have not you often been 
 cross with them 1 Sometimes unjust to them '? 
 Whence came the returning love that rose from 
 unknown depths in your being, and swept 
 away the anger and the injustice 'i You did 
 not create that love. Probably you were not 
 good enough to send for it by prayer. But it 
 came. God sent it. He makes you love your 
 children ; be sorry when you have been cross 
 with them ; ashamed when you have been un- 
 just to them ; and yet you won't trust Him to 
 give them food and clothes ! Depend upon it, 
 if He ever refuses to give them food and 
 clothes, and you knew all about it, the why 
 and the wherefore, you would not dare to give 
 them food or clothes either. He loves them a
 
 336 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 thousand times better than you do — be sure of 
 that — and feels for their sufferiDgs, too, when 
 He cannot give them just what He would like 
 to give them — cannot for their good, I mean. 
 
 " But as your mistrust will go further, I can 
 go further to meet it. You will say, ' Ah ! 
 yes ' — in your feeling, I mean, not in words, — 
 you will say, ' Ah ! yes — food and clothing of 
 a sort ! Enough to keep life in and too much 
 cold out! But I want my children to have 
 plenty of good food, and nice clothes.' 
 
 " Faithless mother ! Consider the birds of 
 the air. They have so much that at least they 
 can sing ! Consider the lilies — they were red 
 lilies, those. Would you not trust Him who 
 delights in glorious colours — more at least 
 than you, or He would never have created 
 them and made us to delight in them '? I do 
 not say that your children shall be clothed in 
 scarlet and fine linen ; but if not, it is not be- 
 cause God despises scarlet and fine linen or
 
 SERMOX OX GOD AXD MAMMON. 337 
 
 does not love your children. He loves them, 
 I say, too much to give them everything all 
 at once. But He would make them such that 
 they may have everything without being the 
 worse, and with being the better for it. And 
 if you cannot trust him yet, it begins to be a 
 shame, I think. 
 
 "It has been well said that no man ever 
 sank under the burden of the day. It is when 
 to-morrow's burden is added to the burden of 
 to-day, that the weight is more than a man 
 can bear. Kever load yourselves so, my 
 friends. If you find yourselves so loaded, at 
 least remember this : it is your own doing, not 
 God's. He begs you to leave the future to 
 Him, and mind the present. A^liat more or 
 what else could He do to take the burden off 
 you '? Nothing else would do it. Money in the 
 bank wouldn't do it. He cannot do to-mor- 
 row's business for you beforehand to save you 
 from fear about it. That would derange every- 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 338 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 thing. What else is there but to tell you to 
 trust in Him, irrespective of the fact that no- 
 thing else but such trust can put our heart at 
 peace, from the very nature of our relation to 
 Him as well as the fact that we need these 
 thino-s. We think that we come nearer to God 
 than the lower animals do by our foresight. 
 But there is another side to it. We are like 
 to Him with whom there is no past or future, 
 with whom a day is as a thousand years, and 
 a thousand years as one day, when we live with 
 large bright spiritual eyes, doing our work in 
 the great present, leaving both past and future 
 to Him to whom they are ever present, and 
 fearing nothing, because He is in our future, 
 as much as He is in our past, as much as, and 
 far more than, we can feel Him to be in our 
 present. Partakers thus of the divine nature, 
 resting in that perfect All-in-all in whom our 
 nature is eternal too, we walk without fear, 
 full of hope and courage and strength to do
 
 SERMOX OX GOD AXD ilAMMOX. 339 
 
 His will, waitiug for the endless good which 
 He is always giving as fast as He can get us 
 able to take it in. Would not this be to be 
 more of gods than Satan promised to Eve ? 
 To live carelessly-divine, duty-doing, fearless, 
 loving, self-forgetting lives — is not that more 
 than to know both good and evil — lives in 
 which the good, like Aaron's rod, has swallowed 
 up the evil, and turned it into good '? For pain 
 and hunger are evils ; but if faith in God 
 swallows them up, do they not so- turn into 
 good ? I say they do. And I am glad to 
 believe that I am not alone in my parish in 
 this conviction. I have never been too hungry, 
 but I have had trouble which I would gladly 
 have exchano-ed for hung;er and cold and weari- 
 ness. Some of you have known hunger and 
 cold and weariness. Do you not join with me 
 to say : It is well, and better than well — what- 
 ever helps us to know the love of Him who is 
 our God ^-
 
 340 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " But there has been just one man who has 
 acted thus. And it is His Spirit in our hearts 
 that makes us desire to know or to be another 
 such — who woukl do the will of God for God, 
 and let God do God's will for Him. For His 
 will is all. And this man is the baby whose 
 birth we celebrate this day. Was this a con- 
 dition to choose — that of a baby — by one who 
 thought it part of a man's high calling to take 
 care of the morrow '? Did He not thus cast 
 the whole matter at once upon the hands and 
 heart of His Father '? Sufficient unto the 
 baby's day is the need thereof ; he toils not, 
 neither does he spin, and yet he is fed and 
 clothed, and loved, and rejoiced in. Do you 
 remind me that sometimes even his mother for- 
 gets him- — a mother, most likely, to whose self- 
 indulgence or weakness the child owes his birth 
 as hers '? Ah ! but he is not therefore forgotten, 
 however like it things may look to our half- 
 seeing eyes, by his Father in heaven. One of
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 341 
 
 the highest benefits we can reap from under- 
 standing the way of God with ourselves is, 
 that we become able thus to trust Him for 
 others with whom we do not understand His 
 ways. 
 
 " But let us look at what will be more easily 
 shown — how, namely, He did the will of His 
 Father, and took no thought for the morrow^ 
 after He became a man. Eemember how He 
 forsook His trade when the time came for Him 
 to preach. Preaching was not a profession 
 then. There were no monasteries, or vicar- 
 ages, or stipends, then. Yet witness for the 
 Father the garment woven throughout ; the 
 ministering of women ; the purse in common ! 
 Hard-working men and rich ladies were ready 
 to help Him, and did help Him with all that 
 He needed. — Did He then never want ^ Yes ; 
 once at least — for a little while only. 
 
 "He was a-hungered in the wilderness. 
 * Make bread,' said Satan. ' No,' said our
 
 342 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 Lord. — He could starve ; but He could not 
 eat bread that His Father did not give Him, 
 even thou oh He could make it Himself. He 
 had come hither to be tried. But when the 
 victory was secure, lo ! the augels brought 
 Him food from His Father. — Which was 
 better '? To feed Himself, or be fed by His 
 Father 1 Judge yourselves, anxious people. 
 He sou2;ht the kino-dom of God and His 
 righteousness, and the bread was added unto 
 Him. 
 
 " And this gives me occasion to remark that 
 the same truth holds with regard to any por- 
 tion of the future as well as the morrow. It is 
 a principle, not a command, or an encourage- 
 ment, or a promise merely. In respect of it 
 there is no difference between next day and 
 next year, next hour and next century. You 
 will see at once the absurdity of taking no 
 thought for the morrow, and taking thought 
 for next year. But do you see likewise that
 
 SERMON OX GOD AND MAMMON. 343 
 
 it is equally reasonable to trust God for the 
 next momeut, and equally unreasonable not to 
 trust Him 1 The Lord was hungry and needed 
 food no^v, though He could still go without 
 for a while. He left it to His Father. And so 
 He told His disciples to do when they were 
 called to answer before judges and rulers. 
 ' Take no thought. It shall be given you what 
 ye shall say.' You have a disagreeable duty 
 to do at twelve o'clock. Do not blacken nine 
 and ten aud eleven, and all between, with the 
 colour of twelve. Do the work of each, and 
 reap your reward in peace. So when the 
 dreaded moment in the future becomes the 
 present, you shall meet it walking in the light, 
 and that light will overcome its darkness. 
 How often do men who have made up their 
 minds what to say and do under certain ex- 
 pected circumstances, forget the words and 
 reverse the actions ! The best preparation is 
 the present well seen to, the last duty done.
 
 344 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 For this will keep tlie eye so clear and the 
 body so full of light that the right action will 
 be perceived at once, the right words will rush 
 from the heart to the lips, and the man full of 
 the spirit of God because he cares for nothing 
 but the will of God, will trample on the evil 
 thing in love, and be sent, it may be, in a 
 chariot of fire to the presence of his Father, or 
 stand unmoved amid the cruel mockings of the 
 men he loves. 
 
 " Do you feel inclined to say in your hearts : 
 * It was easy for Him to take no thought, for 
 He had the matter in His own hands 1 ' But 
 observe there is nothing very noble in a man's 
 taking no thought except it be from faith. If 
 there were no God to take thought for us, we 
 should have no right to blame any one for 
 taking thought. You may fancy the Lord 
 had His own power to fall back upon. But 
 that would have been to Him just the one 
 dreadful thing. That His Father should forget
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 345 
 
 Him ! — no power in Himself could make np 
 for that. He feared nothing for Himself ; and 
 never once employed His divine power to save 
 Him from His human fate. Let God do that 
 for Him if He saw fit. He did not come into 
 the world to take care of Himself. That would 
 not be in any way divine. To fall back on 
 Himself, God failing Him — how could that 
 make it easy for Him to avoid care 1 The 
 very idea would be torture. That would be 
 to declare heaven void, and the world without 
 a God. He would not even pra}^ to His Father 
 for what He knew He should have if He did 
 ask it. He would just wait His will. 
 
 "But see how the fact of His own power 
 adds tenfold significance to the fact that He 
 trusted in God. We see that this power would 
 not serve His need — His need not beino; to be 
 
 CD 
 
 fed and clothed, but to be one with the Father, 
 to be fed by His hand, clothed by His care. 
 This was what the Lord wanted — and we
 
 346 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 need, alas ! too often without wanting it. He 
 never once, I rejDeat, used His power for Him- 
 self. That was not His business. He did not 
 care about it. His life was of no value to Him 
 but as His Father cared for it. God would 
 mind all that was necessary for Him, and He 
 would mind the work His Father had given 
 Him to do. And, my friends, this is just the 
 one secret of a blessed life, the one thing every 
 man comes into this w^orld to learn. With 
 what authority it comes to us from the lips of 
 Him who knew all about it, and ever did as 
 He said ! 
 
 " Now you see that He took no thought for 
 the morrow. And in the name of the holy 
 child Jesus, I call upon you, this Christmas 
 Day, to cast care to the winds, and trust in 
 God ; to receive the message of peace and 
 good-will to men ; to yield yourselves to the 
 spirit of God, that you may be taught what 
 He wants you to know ; to remember that the
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 347 
 
 one gift promised without reserve to those 
 who ask it — the one gift worth having — the 
 gift which makes all other gifts a thousand- 
 fold in value, is the gift of the Holy Spirit, 
 the spirit of the child Jesus, who will take of 
 the things of Jesus and show them to you — 
 make you understand them, that is — so that 
 you shall see them to be true, and love Him 
 with all your heart and soul, and your neigh- 
 bour as yourselves/' 
 
 And here, having finished my sermon, I will 
 give my reader some lines with which he may 
 not be acquainted, from a writer of the Eliza- 
 bethan time. I had meant to introduce them 
 into my sermon, but I was so carried away 
 with my subject that I forgot them. For I 
 always preached extempore^ which phrase I 
 beg my reader will not misinterpret as mean- 
 ing on the spur of the momenty or ivithout the 
 due preparcdion of much thought.
 
 348 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUEHOOD. 
 
 " man ! thou image of thy Maker's good, 
 What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy blood 
 His Spirit is that built thee ? What dull sense 
 Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence 
 Who made the morning, and who placed the light 
 Guide to thy labours ; who called up the night, 
 And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers, 
 In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers ; 
 Who gave thee knowledge ; who so trusted thee 
 To let thee grow so near Himself, the Tree ? 
 Must He then be distrusted ? Shall His frame 
 Discourse with Him why thus and thus I am ? 
 He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all ; 
 Nay even thy servants, when devotions call. 
 Oh ! canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, 
 To seek a saving* influence, and lose Him ? 
 Can stars protect thee ? Or can poverty, 
 Which is the light to heaven, put out His eye ? 
 He is my star ; in Him all truth I find, 
 All influence, all fate. And when my mind 
 Is furnished with His fulness, my poor story 
 Shall outlive all their age, and all their glory. 
 The hand of danger cannot fall amiss, 
 When I know what, and in whose power, it is. 
 Nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan: 
 A holy hermit is a mind alone. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Afiliction, when I know it, is but this, 
 A deep alloy whereby man tougher is 
 To bear the hammer ; and the deeper sUYl, 
 We still arise more image of His will ; 
 
 * Many, in those days, believed in astrology.
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 349 
 
 Sickness, an humorous cloud 'twixt us and light ; 
 And death, at longest, but another night." 
 
 I had more than ordinary attention during 
 my discourse, at one point in which I saw the 
 down-bent head of Catherine Weir sink yet 
 lower upon her hands. After a moment, how- 
 ever, she sat more erect than before, thouo'h 
 she never lifted her eyes to meet mine. I 
 need not assure my reader that she was not 
 present to my mind when I spoke the words 
 that so far had moved her. Indeed, had I 
 thought of her, I could not have spoken them. 
 
 As I came out of the church, my people 
 crowded about me with outstretched hands 
 and good wishes. One woman, the aged wife 
 of a more ag;ed labourer, who could not o-et 
 near me, called from the outskirts of the little 
 crowd — 
 
 " May the Lord come and see ye every day, 
 sir. And may ye never know the hunger and 
 cold as me and Tomkins has come throusch."
 
 350 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 "Amen to tlie first of your blessing, Mrs 
 Tomkins, and hearty thanks to you. But I 
 daren't say Amen to the other part of it after 
 what I Ve been preaching, you know." 
 
 " But there 11 be no harm if I say it for ye, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " No, for God will give me what is good, 
 even if your kind heart should pray against it." 
 
 " Ah, sir, ye don't know what it is to be 
 hungry and cold." 
 
 " Neither shall you any more, if I can help 
 it." 
 
 " God bless ye, sir. But we re pretty tidy 
 just in the meantime." 
 
 I walked home, as usual on Sunday morn- 
 ings, by the road. It was a lovely day. The 
 sun shone so warm that you could not help 
 thinking of what he would be able to do be- 
 fore long — draw primroses and buttercups out 
 of the earth by force of sweet persuasive influ- 
 ences. But in the shadows lay fine webs and
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 351 
 
 laces of ice, so delicately lovely that one could 
 not but be glad of the cold that made the 
 water able to please itself by taking such 
 graceful forms. And I wondered over again 
 for the hundredth time what could be the 
 principle which, in the wildest, most lawless, 
 fantastically chaotic, apparently capricious 
 work of nature, always kept it beautiful. The 
 beauty of holiness must be at the heart of it 
 somehow, I thought. Because our God is so 
 free from stain, so loving, so unselfish, so good, 
 so altogether what He wants us to be, so holy, 
 therefore all His works declare Him in beauty ; 
 His fino'ers can touch nothino; but to mould it 
 into loveliness ; and even the play of His ele- 
 ments is in grace and tenderness of form. 
 
 And then I thought how the sun, at the 
 farthest point from us, had begun to come 
 back towards us ; looked upon us with a hope- 
 ful smile ; was like the Lord wlien He visited 
 His people as a little one of themselves, to
 
 352 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 grow upon the earth till it should blossom as 
 the rose in the light of His presence. " Ah ! 
 Lord," I said, in my heart, "draw near unto 
 Thy people. It is spring-time with Thy 
 world, but yet we have cold winds and 
 bitter hail, and pinched voices forbidding 
 them that follow Thee and follow not with 
 us. Draw nearer, Sun of Righteousness, and 
 make the trees bourgeon, and the flowers 
 blossom, and the voices grow mellow and 
 glad, so that all shall join in praising Thee, 
 and find thereby that harmony is better 
 than unison. Let it be summer, Lord, if it 
 ever may be summer in this court of the Gen- 
 tiles. But Thou hast told us that Thy king- 
 dom Cometh within us, and so' Thy joy must 
 come within us too. Draw nigh then. Lord, 
 to those to whom Thou wilt draw ni^h : and 
 others beholding their welfare will seek to 
 share therein too, and seeing their good works 
 will glorify their Father in heaven.''
 
 SERMON OX GOD AXD MAMMOX. 353 
 
 So I walked home, hoping in my Saviour, 
 and wondering to think how pleasant I had 
 found it to be His poor servant to this people. 
 Already the doubts which had filled my 
 mind on that first evening of gloom, doubts 
 as to whether I had any right to the priest's 
 office, had utterly vanished, slain by the effort 
 to perform the priest's duty. I never thought 
 about the matter now. — And how can doubt 
 ever be fully met but by action 1 Try your 
 theory ; try your hypothesis ; or if it is not 
 worth trying, give it up, pull it down. And 
 I hoped that if ever a cloud should come over 
 me again, however dark and dismal it might 
 be, I might be able notwithstanding to rejoice 
 that the sun was shinino; on others thouo;h not 
 on me, and to say with all my heart to my 
 Father in heaven, " Thy will be done." 
 
 When I reached my own study, I sat down 
 by a blazing fire, and poured myself out a 
 glass of wine ; for I had to go out again to see 
 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 354 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 some of my poor friends, and wanted some 
 luncheon first. It is a great thing to have 
 the greetings of the universe presented in 
 fire and food. Let me, if I may, be ever wel- 
 comed to my room in winter by a glowing 
 hearth, in summer by a vase of flowers ; if I 
 may not, let me then think how nice they 
 would be, and bury myself in my work. I do 
 not think that the road to contentment lies in 
 despising what we have not got. Let us 
 acknowledge all good, all delight that the 
 world holds, and be content without it. But 
 this we can never be except by possessing the 
 one thing, without which I do not merely say 
 no man ought to be content, but no man can 
 be content — the Spirit of the Father. 
 
 If any young people read my little chronicle, 
 will they not be inclined to say, " The vicar has 
 already given us in this chapter hardly any- 
 thing but a long sermon ; and it is too bad of 
 him to go on preaching in his study after we
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 355 
 
 saw him safe out of the pulpit " 1 Ah, well ! 
 just one word, and I drop the preaching for 
 a while. My word is this : I may speak long- 
 windedly, and even inconsiderately as regards 
 my young readers ; what I say may fail utterly 
 to convey wdiat I mean ; I may be actually 
 stupid sometimes, and not have a suspicion of 
 it ; but what I mean is true ; and if you do 
 not know it to be true yet, some of you at 
 least suspect it to be true, and some of you 
 hope it is true ; and when you all see it as I 
 mean it and as you can take it, you will rejoice 
 with a gladness you know nothing about now. 
 There, I have done for a little while. I won't 
 pledge myself for more, I assure you. For to 
 speak about such things is the greatest delight 
 of my age, as it was of my early manhood, 
 next to that of loving God and my neighbour. 
 For as these are the two commandments of 
 life, so they are in themselves the pleasures of 
 life. But there I am at it again. I beg your
 
 356 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 pardon now, for I have already inadvertently 
 broken my promise. 
 
 I had allowed myself a half-hour before the 
 fire with my glass of wine and piece of bread, 
 and I soon fell into a dreamy state called 
 reverie, which I fear not a few mistake for 
 thinking, because it is the nearest approach 
 they ever make to it. And in this reverie I 
 kept staring about my book- shelves. — I am an 
 old man now, and you do not know my name ; 
 and if you should ever find it out, I shall very 
 soon hide it under some daisies, I hope, and so 
 escape ; and therefore I am going to be egotis- 
 tic in the most unpardonable manner. I am 
 going to tell you one of my faults, for it con- 
 tinues, I fear, to be one of my faults still, as it 
 certainly was at the period of which I am now 
 writing. I am very fond of books. Do not mis- 
 take me. I do not mean that I love reading. I 
 hope I do. That is no fault — a virtue rather 
 than a fault. But, as the old meaning of the
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 357 
 
 word fond was foolish, I use that word : I am 
 foolishly fond of the bodies of books as distin- 
 guished from their souls, or thought-element. I 
 do not say I love their bodies as divided from 
 their souls ; I do not say I should let a book 
 stand upon my shelves for which I felt no re- 
 spect, except indeed it happened to be useful to 
 me in some inferior way. But I delight in see- 
 ing books about me, books even of which there 
 seems to be no prospect that I shall have time 
 to read a single chapter before 1 lay this old head 
 down for the last time. Nay, more : I confess 
 that if they are nicely bound, so as to glow and 
 shine in such a fire-light as that by which I 
 was then sitting, I like them ever so much the 
 better. Nay, more yet — and this comes very 
 near to showing myself worse than I thought 
 I was when I began to tell you my fault : 
 there are books upon my shelves which cer- 
 tainly at least would not occupy the place of 
 honour they do occupy, had not some previous
 
 358 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 owner dressed them far beyond their worth, 
 making modern apples of Sodom of them. 
 Yet there I let them stay, because they are 
 pleasant to the eye, although certainly not 
 things to be desired to make one wise. I could 
 say a great deal more about the matter, pro 
 and con, but it would be worse than a sermon, 
 I fear. For I suspect that by the time books, 
 which ought to be loved for the truth that is 
 in them, of one sort or another, come to be 
 loved as articles of furniture, the mind has 
 gone through a process more than analogous to 
 that which the miser's mind goes through — 
 namely, that of passing from the respect of 
 money because of what it can do, to the love 
 of money because it is mone}^. I have not yet 
 reached the furniture stage, and I do not 
 think I ever shall. I would rather burn them 
 all. Meantime, I think one safeguard is to 
 encourage one's friends to borrow one's books 
 — not to offer individual books, which is much
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 359 
 
 the same as offering advice. That will prob- 
 ably take some of the shine off them, and put 
 a few thumb-marks in them, which both are 
 very wholesome towards the arresting of the 
 furniture declension. For my part, thumb- 
 marks I find very obnoxious — far more so than 
 the spoiling of the binding. — I know that some 
 of my readers, who have had sad experience 
 of the sort, will be saying in themselves, " He 
 might have mentioned a surer antidote resiilt- 
 infj; from this measure, than either rubbed Eus- 
 sia or dirty ^Zore-marks even — that of utter 
 disappearance and irreparable loss." But no ; 
 that has seldom happened to me — because I 
 trust my pocket-book, and never my memory, 
 with the names of those to whom the indivi- 
 dual books are committed. — There, then, is a 
 little bit of practical advice in both directions 
 for young book-lovers. 
 
 Again I am reminded that I am getting old. 
 What digressions !
 
 360 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 Gazing about on my treasures, the thought 
 suddenly struck me that I had never done as 
 I had promised Judy ; had never found out 
 what her aunt's name meant in Anglo-Saxon. 
 I would do so now. I got down my dic- 
 tionary, and soon discovered that EtJielwyn 
 meant Home-joy or Inheritance. 
 
 " A lovely meaning," I said to myself. 
 
 And then I went oif into another reverie, 
 with the composition of which I shall not 
 trouble my reader ; and with the mention of 
 which I had perhaps no right to occupy the 
 fragment of his time spent in reading it, seeing 
 I did not intend to tell him how it was made 
 up. I will tell him something else instead. 
 
 Several families had asked me to take my 
 Christmas dinner with them ; but, not liking 
 to be thus limited, I had answered each that J 
 would not, if they would excuse me, but would 
 look in some time or other in the course of the 
 evening.
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 361 
 
 When my half-hour was out, I got up and 
 filled my pockets with little presents for my 
 poor people, and set out to find them in their 
 own homes. 
 
 I was variously received, but unvaryingly 
 with kindness ; and my little presents were 
 accepted, at least in most instances, ^ith a 
 gratitude which made me ashamed of them 
 and of myself too for a few moments. Mrs 
 Tomkins looked as if she had never seen so 
 much tea together before, though there was 
 only a couple of pounds of it ; and her hus- 
 band received a pair of warm trousers none the 
 less cordially that they were not quite new, the 
 fact being that I found I did not myself need 
 such warm clothing this winter as I had 
 needed the last. I did not dare to offer Ca- 
 therine Weir anything, but I gave her little 
 boy a box of water colours — in remembrance 
 of the first time I saw him, though I said 
 nothing about that. His mother did not
 
 362 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 thank me. She told little Gerard to do so, 
 however, and that was something. And in- 
 deed the boy's sweetness would have been 
 enough for both. 
 
 Gerard — an unusual name in England ; 
 specially not to be looked for in the class to 
 which she belonged. 
 
 When I reached Old Kogers's cottage, whither 
 I carried a few yards of ribbon, bought by my- 
 self, I assure my lady friends, with the special 
 object that the colour should be bright enough 
 for her taste, and pure enough of its kind for 
 mine, as an offering to the good dame, and a 
 small hymn-book, in which were some hymns 
 of my own making, for the good man — 
 
 But do forgive me, friends, for actually 
 describing my paltry presents. I can dare to 
 assure you it comes from a talking old man's 
 love of detail, and from no admiration of such 
 small givings as those. You see I trust you, 
 and I want to stand well with you. I never
 
 SERMOX ON GOD AND MAMMOX. 363 
 
 could be incIifFerent to wliat people thought of 
 me ; though I have had to fight hard to act as 
 freely as if I ^vere indifferent, especially when 
 upon occasion I found myself approved of It 
 is more difficult to walk straight then, than 
 when men are all against you. — As I have 
 already broken a sentence, which will not be 
 past setting for a while yet, I may as well go 
 on to say here, lest any one should remark that 
 a clergyman ought not to show off his vir- 
 tues, nor yet teach his people bad habits by 
 making them look out for presents — that 
 my income not only seemed to me dispropor- 
 tioned to the amount of labour necessary in 
 the parish, but certainly was larger than I re- 
 quired to spend upon myself ; and the miserly 
 passion for books I contrived to keep a good 
 deal in check ; for I had no fancy for glid- 
 ing devil-wards for the sake of a few books 
 after all. So there was no great virtue — 
 was there ? — in easing my heart by giving
 
 364 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 a few of the good things people give their 
 children to my poor friends, whose kind 
 reception of them gave me as much plea- 
 sure as the gifts gave them. They valued 
 the kindness in the gift, and to look out for 
 kindness will not make people greedy. 
 
 When I reached the cottage, I found not 
 merely Jane there with her father and mother, 
 which was natural on Christmas Day, seeing 
 there seemed to be no company at the Hall, 
 but my little Judy as well, sitting in the old 
 woman's arm-chair (not that she used it much, 
 but it was called hers), and looking as much at 
 home as — as she did in the pond. 
 
 " "Why, Judy 1 " I exclaimed, " you here 1 " 
 "Yes. Why not, Mr Walton r' she re- 
 turned, holding out her hand without rising, 
 for the chair was such a large one, and she was 
 set so far back in it that the easier way was 
 not to rise, which, seeing she was not greatly 
 overburdened with reverence, was not, I pre-
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 365 
 
 sume, a cause of much annoyance to the little 
 damsel. 
 
 " I know no reason why I shouldn't see a 
 Sandwich Islander here. Yet I might express 
 surprise if I did find one, might I not 1 " 
 
 Judy pretended to pout, and muttered 
 something about comparing her to a cannibal. 
 But Jane took up the explanation. 
 
 " Mistress had to go off to London with her 
 mother to-day, sir, quite unexpected, on some 
 
 banking business, I fancy, from what I 
 
 I beg your pardon, sir. They 're gone anyhow, 
 whatever the reason may be ; and so I came 
 to see my father and mother, and Miss Judy 
 would come with me.'' 
 
 " She 's very welcome," said Mrs Eogers. 
 
 " How could I stay up there with nobody 
 but Jacob, and that old wolf Sarah? I 
 wouldn't be left alone with her for the world. 
 She 'd have me in the Bishop s Pool before you 
 came back, Janey dear."
 
 366 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " That would nt matter much to you, would 
 it, Judy "? " I said. 
 
 " She 's a white wolf, that old Sarah, I 
 know ! '' was all her answer. 
 
 " But what will the old lady say when she 
 finds you brought the young lady here 1 " 
 asked Mrs Eogers. 
 
 *'I didn't bring her, mother. She would 
 come." 
 
 " Besides she '11 never know it," said Judy. 
 
 I did not see that it was my part to read 
 Judy a lecture here, though perhaps I might 
 have done so if I had had more influence over 
 her than I had. I wanted to gain some influ- 
 ence over her, and knew that the way to ren- 
 der my desire impossible of fulfilment would 
 be, to find fault with what in her was a very 
 small affair, whatever it might be in one who 
 had been properly brought up. Besides, a 
 clergyman is not a moral policeman. So I 
 took no notice of the impropriety.
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 3G7 
 
 "Had they actually to go away on the 
 morning of Christmas Day V 1 said. 
 
 *'They went anyhow, whether they had to 
 do it or not, sir," answered Jane. 
 
 "Aunt Ethelwyn didnt want to go till to- 
 morrow,^' said Judy. " She said something 
 about comino: to church this mornino;. But 
 grannie said they must go at once. It was 
 very cross of old grannie. Think what a 
 Christmas Day to me without auntie, and with 
 Sarah ! But I don't mean to go home till it 's 
 quite dark. I mean to stop here with dear Old 
 Roo;ers — that I do." 
 
 The latch was gently lifted, and in came 
 Youno' Brownrio'o;. So I thouo;ht it was time 
 to leave my best Christmas wishes and take 
 myself away. Old Eogers came with me to 
 the mill-stream as usual. 
 
 " It mazes me, sir," he said, " a gentleman o' 
 your age and briiigin' up to know all that 
 you tould us this mornin'. It 'ud be no won-
 
 368 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOUKHOOD. 
 
 der now for a man like me, come to be the 
 shock o' corn fully ripe — leastways yallow and 
 white enough outside if there bean't much more 
 than milk inside it yet, — it 'ud be no mystery 
 for a man like me who 'd been brought up 
 hard, and tossed about well nigh all the world 
 over — why, there 's scarce a wave on the 
 Atlantic but knows Old Eogers ! " 
 
 He made the parenthesis with a laugh, and 
 began anew. 
 
 " It ^ud be a shame of a man like me not to 
 know all as you said this morning, sir — least- 
 ways I don't mean able to say it right off as 
 you do, sir ; but not to know it, after the 
 Almighty had been at such pains to beat it 
 into my hard head just to trust in Him and 
 fear no thing and nobody — captain, bosun, 
 devil, sunk rock, or breakers ahead ; but just 
 to mind Him and stand by halliard, brace, or 
 wheel, or hang on by the leeward eariog for 
 that matter. For, you see, what does it signify
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 369 
 
 whether I go to the bottom or not, so long as 
 I didn't skulk ? or rather," and here the old 
 man took off his hat and looked up, " so long 
 as the Great Captain has His way, and things 
 is done to His mind ? But how ever a man 
 like you, goin to the college, and readin* 
 books, and warm o' nights, and never, by 
 your own confession this blessed mornin', sir, 
 knowin' what it was to be downright hungry, 
 how ever you come to know all those things, 
 is just past my comprehension, except by a 
 double portion o' the Spirit, sir. And that 's 
 the way I account for it, sir/' 
 
 Although I new enough about a ship to 
 understand the old man, I am not sure that I 
 have properly represented his sea-phrase. But 
 that is of small consequence, so long as I give 
 his meaning. And a meaning can occasionally 
 be even better conveyed by less accurate words. 
 
 " I will try to tell you how I come to know 
 
 about these things as I do," I returned. " How 
 VOL. I. 2 a
 
 370 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 my knowledge may stand the test of further 
 and severer trials remains to be seen. But if 
 I should fail any time, old friend, and neither 
 trust in God nor do my duty, what I have said 
 to you remains true all the same." 
 
 " That it do, sir, whoever may come short." 
 
 " And more than that ; failure does not 
 necessarily prove any one to be a hypocrite 
 of no faith. He may be still a man of little 
 faith." 
 
 " Surely, surely, sir. I remember once that 
 my faith broke down — just for one moment, 
 sir. And then the Lord gave me my w^ay lest 
 I should blaspheme Him in my wicked heart." 
 
 " How was that, Eogers ? " 
 
 *' A scream came from the quarter-deck, and 
 then the cry : ' Child overboard ! ' There was 
 but one child, the captain's, aboard. T was 
 sitting just aft the foremast, herring-boning a 
 split in a spare jib. I sprang to the bulwark, 
 and there, sure enough, was the child, going
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 371 
 
 fast astarn, but pretty high in the water. How 
 it happened I can't think to this day, sir, but I 
 suppose my needle, in the hurry, had got into 
 my jacket, so as to skewer it to my jersey, for 
 we were far south of the line at the time, sir, 
 and it was cold. However that may be, as 
 soon as I was overboard, which you may be 
 sure didn't want the time I take tellin' of it, 
 I found that I ought to ha' pulled my jacket 
 off afore I gave the bulwark the last kick. 
 So I rose on the water, and began to pull it 
 over my head — for it was wide, and that was 
 the easiest way, I thought, in the water. But 
 when I had got it right over my head, there 
 it stuck. And there was I, blind as a Dutch- 
 man in a fog, and in as strait a jacket as ever 
 poor wretch in Bedlam, for I could only just 
 wag my flippers. Mr Walton, I believe I 
 swore — the Lord forgive me ! — but it was try- 
 inor. And what was far worse, for one mo- 
 ment I disbelieved in Him ; and I do say
 
 372 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 that's worse than swearing — in a hurry I 
 mean. And that moment something went, 
 the jacket was off, and there was I feeliii' as 
 if every stroke I took was as wide as the 
 mainyard. I had no time to repent, only to 
 thank God. And wasn't it more than I de- 
 served, sir '? Ah ! He can rebuke a man for 
 unbelief by giving him the desire of his heart. 
 And that 's a better rebuke than tying him up 
 to the gratings." 
 
 " And did you save the child ? " 
 
 '' Oh yes, sir." 
 
 '' And wasn't the captain pleased ? " 
 
 " I believe he was, sir. He gave me a glass 
 o' grog, sir. But you was a sayin' of some- 
 thing, sir, when I interrupted of you." 
 
 " I am very glad you did interrupt me." 
 
 " I 'm not though, sir. I Ve lost summat 
 1 11 never hear more." 
 
 "No, you shan't lose it. I was going to 
 tell you how I think T came to understand
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 373 
 
 a little about the things I was talking of to- 
 day." 
 
 "That's it, sir; that's it. Well, sir, if you 
 please 1 " 
 
 " You 've heard of Sir Philip Sidney, haven't 
 you, Old Rogers ? " 
 
 " He was a great joker, wasn't he, sir 1 " 
 
 " No, no ; you 're thinking of Sidney Smith, 
 Rogers." 
 
 " It may be, sir. I am an ignorant man." 
 
 " You are no more ignorant than you ought 
 to be. — But it is time you should know 
 him, for he was just one of your sort. I will 
 come down some evening and tell you about 
 him." 
 
 I may as well mention here that this led to 
 week-evening lectures in the barn, which, with 
 the help of Weir the carpenter, was changed 
 into a comfortable room with fixed seats all 
 round it, and plenty of cane- chairs besides — 
 for I always disliked forms in the middle of a
 
 374 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 room. The object of these lectures was to 
 make the people acquainted with the true 
 heroes of their own country — men great in 
 themselves. And the kind of choice I made 
 may be seen by those who know about both, 
 from the fact that, while my first two lectures 
 were on Philip Sidney, I did not give one 
 whole lecture even to Walter Ealeigh, grand 
 fellow as he was. I wanted chiefly to set forth 
 the men that could rule themselves, first of all, 
 after a noble fashion. But I have not finished 
 these lectures yet, for I never wished to con- 
 fine them to the English heroes ; I am going 
 on still, old man as I am — not however with- 
 out retracing past ground sometimes, for a 
 new generation has come up since I came here, 
 and there is a new one behind coming up now 
 which I may be honoured to present in its turn 
 to some of this grand company — this cloud of 
 witnesses to the truth in our own and other 
 lands, some of whom subdued kingdoms, and
 
 SERMOX OX GOD AXD MAMMON. 375 
 
 others were tortured to death, for the same 
 cause and with the same result. 
 
 *•' Meantime," I went on, " I only want to tell 
 you one little thing he says in a letter to a 
 younger brother whom he wanted to turn out 
 as fine a fellow as possible. It is about horses^ 
 or rather, riding, — for Sir Philip was the best 
 horseman in Europe in his day, as indeed, all 
 things taken together, he seems to have really 
 been the most accomplished man generally of 
 his time in the world. Writino; to this brother 
 he says — '" 
 
 I could not repeat the words exactly to Old 
 Eogers, but I think it better to copy them 
 exactly, in writing this account of our talk : 
 
 "At horsemanship, when you exercise it, 
 read Orison Olaudio, and a book that is called 
 La Gloria del" Cavallo, withal that you may 
 join the thorough contemplation of it with the 
 exercise ; and so shall you profit more in a 
 month than others in a year."
 
 376 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 " I think I see what you mean, sir. I had 
 got to learn it all without book, as it were, 
 though you know I had my old Bible, that my 
 mother gave me, and without that I should not 
 have learned it at sill" 
 
 "I only mean it comparatively, you know. 
 You have had more of the practice, and I 
 more of the theory. But if we had not both 
 had both, we should neither of us have known 
 anything about the matter. I never was con- 
 tent without trying at least to understand 
 things ; and if they are practical things, and 
 you try to practise them at the same time as 
 far as you do understand them, there is no 
 end to the way in which the one lights up 
 the other. I suppose that is how, without 
 your experience, I have more to say about 
 such things than you could expect. You know 
 besides that a small matter in which a prin- 
 ciple is involved will reveal the principle, if 
 attended to, just as well as a great one con-
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 377 
 
 taining the same principle. The only diflfer- 
 ence, and that a most important one, is that 
 though IVe got my clay and my straw to- 
 gether, and they stick pretty well as yet, my 
 brick, after all, is not half so well baked as 
 yours, old friend, and it may crumble away 
 yet, though I hope not/' 
 
 "I pray God to make both our bricks into 
 stones of the New Jerusalem, sir. I think I 
 understand you quite well. To know about a 
 thing is of no use, except you do it. Besides, 
 as I found out when I went to sea, you never 
 can know a thing till you do do it, though I 
 thought I had a tidy fancy about some things 
 beforehand. It's better not to be quite sure 
 that all your seams are calked, and so to keep 
 a look-out on the bilge-pump ; is'nt it, sir V^ 
 
 During the most of this conversation, we 
 were standing by the mill-water, half frozen 
 over. The ice from both sides came towards 
 the middle, leaving an empty space between,
 
 378 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 along Avhich the dark water showed itself, 
 hurrying away as if in fear of its life from 
 the white death of the frost. The wheel stood 
 motionless, and the drip from the thatch of the 
 mill over it in the sun had frozen in the sha- 
 dow into icicles, which hung in long spikes 
 from the spokes and the floats, making the 
 wheel — soft green and mossy when it revolved 
 in the gentle sun-mingled summer-water — 
 look like its own gray skeleton now. The sun 
 was getting low, and I should want all my 
 time to see my other friends before dinner, for 
 I would not willingly offend Mrs Pearson on 
 Christmas Day by being late, especially as I 
 guessed she was using extraordinary skill to 
 prepare me a more than comfortable meal. 
 
 " I must go. Old Eogers,'' I said ; " but I 
 will leave you something to think about till 
 we meet again. Find out why our Lord was 
 so much displeased with the disciples, whom 
 He knew to be ignorant men, for not knowing
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 379 
 
 what He meant when He warned them against 
 the leaven of the Pharisees. I want to know 
 what you think about it. You '11 find the story 
 told both in the sixteenth chapter of St Mat- 
 thew and the eishth of St Mark." 
 
 "Well, sir, Til try ; that is, if you will tell 
 me what you think about it afterwards, so as 
 to put me right, if I 'm wrong." 
 
 " Of course I will, if I can find out an ex- 
 planation to satisfy me. But it is not at all 
 clear to me now. In fact, I do not see the 
 connecting hnks of oiu^ Lord's logic in the re- 
 buke He gives them." 
 
 " How am I to find out then, sir — knowing 
 nothing of logic at all ^ " said the old man, his 
 rough worn face summered over with his child- 
 like smile. 
 
 " There are many things which a little learn- 
 ing, while it cannot really hide them, may 
 make you less ready to see all at once," I 
 answered, shakino; hands with Old Roofers, and
 
 380 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 then springing across the brook with my car- 
 pet-bag in my hand. 
 
 By the time I had got through the rest of 
 my calls, the fogs were rising from the streams 
 and the meadows to close in upon my first 
 Christmas Day in my own parish. How much 
 happier I was than when I came such a few 
 months before! The only pang I felt that 
 day was as I passed the monsters on the gate 
 leading to Oldcastle Hall. Should I be 
 honoured to help only the poor of the flock 1 
 Was I to do nothing for the rich, for whom it 
 is, and has been, and doubtless will be so hard 
 to enter into the kingdom of heaven 1 And it 
 seemed to me at the moment that the world 
 must be made for the poor : they had so much 
 more done for them to enable them to inherit 
 it than the rich had. — To these people at the 
 Hall, I did not seem acceptable. I might in 
 time do something with Judy, but the old 
 lady was still so dreadfully repulsive to me
 
 SERMON OX GOD AXD MAMMON. 381 
 
 that it troubled my conscience to feel how I 
 disliked her. Mr Stoddart seemed nothing 
 more than a dilettante in religion as well as in 
 the arts and sciences — music always excepted ; 
 while for Miss Oldcastle, I simply did not un- 
 derstand her yet. And she was so beautiful ! 
 I thought her more beautiful every time I saw 
 her. But I never appeared to make the least 
 progress towards any real acquaintance with 
 her thoughts and feelings. — It seemed to me, 
 I say, for a moment, coming from the houses 
 of the warm-hearted poor, as if the rich had 
 not quite fair play, as it were — as if they were 
 sent into the world chiefly for the sake of the 
 cultivation of the virtues of the poor, and 
 without much chance for the cultivation of 
 their own. I knew better than this, you know, 
 my reader ; but the thought came, as thoughts 
 will come sometimes. It vanished the moment 
 I sought to lay hands upon it, as if it knew 
 quite well it had no business there. But cer-
 
 382 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 tainly I did believe that it was more like the 
 truth to say the world was made for the poor 
 than to say that it was made for the rich. 
 And therefore I longed the more to do some- 
 thing for these whom I considered the rich of 
 my flock ; for it was dreadful to think of their 
 being poor inside instead of outside. 
 
 Perhaps my reader will say, and say with 
 justice, that I ought to have been as anxious 
 about poor Farmer Brownrigg as about the 
 beautiful lady. But the farmer had given me 
 good reason to hope some progress in him after 
 the way he had given in about Jane Eogers. 
 Positively I had caught his eye during the 
 sermon that very day. And, besides — but I 
 will not be a hypocrite ; and seeing I did not 
 certainly take the same interest in Mr Brown- 
 rigg, I will at least be honest and confess it. 
 As far as regards the discharge of my duties, I 
 trust i should have behaved impartially had 
 the necessity for any choice arisen. But my
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 383 
 
 feelings were not quite under my own control. 
 And we are nowhere told to love everybody 
 alike, only to love every one who comes with- 
 in our reach as ourselves. 
 
 I wonder whether my old friend Dr Duncan 
 was right. • He had served on shore in Egypt 
 under General Abercromby, and had of course, 
 after the fighting was over on each of the 
 several occasions — the French being always 
 repulsed — exercised his office amongst the 
 wounded left on the field of battle. — " I do not 
 know," he said, " whether I did right or not ; 
 but I always took the man I came to first — 
 French or English." — I only know that my 
 heart did not wait for the opinion of my head 
 on the matter. I loved the old man the more 
 that he did as he did. But as a question of 
 casuistry, I am doubtful about its answer. 
 
 This digression is, I fear, unpardonable. 
 
 I made Mrs Pearson sit down with ^e to 
 dinner, for Christmas Day was not one to dine
 
 384 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 alone upon. And I have ever since had my 
 servants to dine with me on Christmas Day. 
 
 Then I went out again, and made another 
 round of visits, coming in for a glass of wine 
 at one table, an orange at another, and a hot 
 chestnut at a third. Those whom I could not 
 see that day, I saw on the following days be- 
 tween it and the new year. And so ended my 
 Christmas holiday with my people. 
 
 But there is one little incident which I 
 ought to relate before I close this chapter, and 
 which I am ashamed of having so nearly for- 
 gotten. 
 
 When we had finished our dinner, and I 
 was sitting alone drinking a glass of claret be- 
 fore going out again, Mrs Pearson came in and 
 told me that little Gerard "Weir wanted to see 
 me. I asked her to show him in ; and the 
 little fellow entered, looking very shy, and 
 clinging first to the door and then to the 
 wall.
 
 SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 385 
 
 " Come, my dear boy," I said, *' and sit down 
 by me." 
 
 He came directly and stood before me. 
 
 " Would you like a little wine and water ? " 
 I said ; for unhappily there was no dessert, 
 Mrs Pearson knowing that I never eat such 
 thinors. 
 
 " No, thank you, sir ; I never tasted wine." 
 
 1 did not press him to take it. 
 
 "Please, sir," he went on, after a pause, 
 putting his hand in his pocket, " mother gave 
 me some goodies, and I kept them till I saw 
 you come back, and here they are, sir." 
 
 Does any reader doubt what I did or said 
 upon this 1 
 
 I said, " Thank you, my darling," and I ate 
 them up every one of them, that he might see 
 me eat them before he left the house. And the 
 dear child went off radiant. 
 
 If anybody cannot understand why I did so, 
 
 I beg him to consider the matter. If then he 
 VOL. I. 2 b
 
 386 ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 
 
 cannot come to a conclusion concerning it, I 
 doubt if any explanation of mine would greatly 
 subserve his enlightenment. Meantime, I am 
 forcibly restraining myself from yielding to 
 the temptation to set forth my reasons, which 
 would result in a half-hour's sermon on the 
 Jewish dispensation, including the burnt-offer- 
 ing, and the wave and heave offerings, with 
 an application to the ignorant nurses and 
 mothers of English babies, who do the best 
 they can to make original sin an actual fact by 
 training children down in the way they should 
 not go. 
 
 END OF VOL. 1. 
 
 BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.