Macdonald_Annals_of_a_Quiet_Neighborhood.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION.
Before 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, including
both, so often throws the man who supposed himself a mere
on-looker into the very vortex of evetits that destiny which
took form to the old pagans as a gray mist high beyond the
heads of their gods, but to us is known as an infinite love,
revealed in the mystery of man I say before I begin, it is
fitting that, in the absence of a" common friend to do that
office for me, I should introduce myself to your acquaint-
ance and, I hope, coming friendship. Nor can there be any
impropriety in my telling you about myself, seeing I remain
concealed b.ehind 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 well, there I know
there is no hiding ; there, there is no reason for hiding any
thing ; there the whole desire will be alternate revelation
and vision.
I am now getting old faster and faster. I can not help
my gray hairs, nor the wrinkles that gather so slowly yet
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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. Nay, 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. "When my voice
quavers, I feel that it is mine and not mine; that it just be-
longs 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
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 weak-
ness 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 equine
fashion. These things are not me or 7", 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 not 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?" ^ .
So little do I give in to calling this outside of mo 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 indifference to the
external, but from comparative indifference to the tran-
sitional ; not to the transitional in itself, which is of eternal
significance and result, but to the particular form of imper-
fection which it may have reached at any individual moment
of its infinite progression toward the complete. For no
sooner have I spoken the word now, than that now is dead
and another is dying ; nay, in such a regard there is no noio
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 5
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 tabernacle, for it is, on the
whole, more pleasant to forget all abonlj it. And besides,
I do not want to set any of my readers to whom I would
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 offense I might give, if I were any thing 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. It was depressing weather.
Grave doubts as to whether I was in my place in the
Church 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, I 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 any thing. But the question
followed veiy naturally : " Had I, then, any right to be in
the Church to be eating her bread and drinking her wine
without knowing whether I was fit to do her work?" 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 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."
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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 ambition 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 falling, and the
steam of it is rising ? when the river is crawling along mud-
dily, 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 water-proof 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 suffering the spiritual rheumatism which it
occasioned. Now, the damp never gets farther than my
goloshes and ny 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 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 occasion-
ally 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, because I dreaded drudgery as much as any
poor fellow who comes to the treadmill in consequence, 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 distracting thought
how I could possibly preach two good sermons a Sunday to
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 7
the same people, when one of the sermons was in the after-
noon instead of the evening, to which latter I had been ac-
customed in the large town in which I had formerly officiated
as curate in a proprietary chapel. I, who had declaimed in-
dignantly against excitement from without, who had been
inclined to exalt the intellect at the expense even of the
heart, began to fear that there must be something in the
darkness, and the gaslights, 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 1 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 labor ? How
could I hope in these men and women to 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 glorious at hand
just outside that invisible door which lay between the
worlds ?
I have learned since that perhaps I overrated the spir-
ituality of those times, and underrated, 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 behavior open
to the earth, to let forth upon his fellow-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 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 read-
er to understand something of the state of my mind, and
the depression under which I was laboring. He will per-
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ceive 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
beginning.
I had not gone far from my own gate before the rain
ceased, though it was still gloomy enough for any amount
to follow. 1 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
bridge that spanned the water with a single fine arch, some-
what pointed ; and through the arch I could see the river
stretching away up through the nieadows, its banks bord-
ered with pollards. Now pollards always made me misera-
ble. In the first place, they look ill used ; in the next place,
they look tame ; m the third place, they look very ugly. I
had not learned then to honor 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 honor any thing, love is not
very far off; at least that has always been my experience.
But, as I have said, I had not yet learned to honor pollards,
and therefore they made me more miserable than I was al-
ready.
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 en-
joy all bridges forever.
I saw a man in a white smock frock coming 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
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 9
the man's footsteps coming up the crown of the arch, but I
would not turn to greet him. I was in a selfish humor if
ever I was ; for surely, if ever one man ought to greet an-
other, it was upon such a comfortless afternoon. The foot-
steps stopped behind me, and I heard a voice :
" I beg yer pardon, sir ; but be you the new vicar ?"
I turned instantly and answerea, " I am. Do you want
me?"
" I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, if ye'U 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 fore-
head as he stood. His face was of a red-brown, from much
exposure to the weather. There was a certain look of
roughness, without hardness, in it, which spoke of endur-
ance rather than resistance, although he could evidently set
his face as a flint. His features were large 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'll not take it amiss."
" Certainly not," I answered, pleased with the man's ad-
dress, as he stood square before me, looking as modest as
fearless. " The sight of a man's face is what every bddy
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'll 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 stay-
ing away from church than I had for going, even though I
was the parson, and it was my business. Some clergymen
separate between themselves and their office to a degree
which I can not understand. To assert the dignities of my
office seems to me very like exalting myself; and when I
have had a twinge 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,
A 2
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but to minister ;" and "It is enough that the servant 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 right and wrong 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 clergy-*
man. Here, however, is one more proof of approaching age.
I do not mean the opinion, but the digression.
" Well, then," I said, " you'll see my face in church 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 Rogers ; 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 mornin,' I'd
say to myself, * Old Rogers, that's the same man as sat by
your son's bedside last night. Think o' that, old Rogers !'
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 ser-
mon, in the church-yard, I was always of a mind to go into
the church again and look up to the pulpit to see if he wur
really out ov it ; for this warn't the same man, you see.
But you'll know all about it, better than I can tell you, sir.
Only I always likes parson better out o' the pulpit, and
that's how I come to want to make you look at me, sir, in-
stead 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'll be thinking me a queer kind of a man, sir, to
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A QUIET NXIGHBOBHOOD. 11
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'-
war's man and I've been all round the world, sir ; and I
ha' been in all sorts o' company, pirates and all, sir ; and I *
ain't a bit frightened of a parson. No ; I love a parson,
sir. And I'll tell you for why, sir. He's got a good tele-
scope, 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. The river be-
gan 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 present
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 belter 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 I was
out of it ^taking facts as they are, and dealing with things
as they show themselves in the world.
One other occurrence before I went home that evening,
and I shall close the chapter. I hope I shall not write an-
other 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 contempla-
ting the pollards with an eye, if not of favor, yet of dimin-
ished dismay the sun, which, for any thing I knew of his
whereabouts, either from knowledge of the country, aspect
of the evening, or state of my own feelings, might 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
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12 ANNALS OP
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 disap-
pears. Life is a constant sunrise, which death can not in-
terrupt any more 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 distance, upon a rising ground
covered with trees, glittered a weather -cock. What if I
found afterward 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 were
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 ?
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 ?" 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 pres-
ently 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 la-
bor lost if it wrought no visible salvation in the earth ?
But was the child's aspiration in vain ? Could I tell him
God did not want his help to paint the sky ? True, he could
mount no scaffold against the infinite of the glowing west.
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 13
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 long trying, to help God to paint this glory of vapor
and light inside the minds of His children ? Ah ! if any
man's work is not with God, its results shall be burned, ruth-
lessly bunied, 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 any
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. To help the growth of a thought that strug-
gles toward the light ; to brush with gentle hand the earth-
stain from the white of one snow-drop such be my ambi-
tion ! So shall I scale the rocks in front, not leave my name
Qarved upon those behind me."
^ People talk about special providences. I believe in the
providences, but not in the speciality. 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 exception 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.
XJpon such instances men seize and call them providences.
It is well that they can ; but it would be gloriously better
if they could^believe that the whole matter is one grand
providence, y
I was oire of such men at the time, and could not fail to
see what I called a special providence in this, that on my
first attempt to find where 1 stood in the scheme of Provi-
dence, and while I was discouraged with regard to the work
before me, I should fell in with these two an old man whom
I could help, and a child who could help me ; the one open-
ing an outlet for my labor and my love, and the other re-
minding me of the highest source of the most humbling com-
fort ^that in all my work I might be a fellow-worker with
God.
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14 ANNALS OF
CHAPTER n.
MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS.
These 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 whether from the newness of the parson,
or the love of the service, certainly a congregation more in-
tent or more responsive a clergyman will hardly find. But,
as I had feared, it was different in the afternoon. The peo-
ple had dined, and the usual somnolence had followed ; nor
could I find it in my heart to blame men and women who
w)rked hard all the week for being drowsy on the day of
rest. So I curtailed my sermon as much as I could, omit-
ting 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 shoit as heart
could wish.
But that afternoon there was at least one man of the con-
gregation who was neither drowsy nor inattentive. Re-
peatedly my eyes left the page off which I was reading and
glanced toward 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 possibly of neglect, had yet, among a good
many tones that were rough, wooden, and reedy, a few re-
maining that were as mellow as ever praiseful heart could
wish to praise withal. And these came in among the rest
like trusting thoughts amid " eating cares ;" like the faces
of children borne in the arms of a crowd of anxious moth-
ers ; like hopes that are young prophecies amid the down-
ward sweep of events. For, though I do not understand
music, I have a keen ear for the perfection of the single
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 15
tone, or the completeness of the harmony. But of this or-
gan more by-and-by.
Now this little gallery was something 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 included in the part
of the church used for the service. It was claimed by the
gardener of the place that is, the sexton, to hold his gar-
dening tools. There were a few ancient carvings in wood
.lying in it, very brown in the dusky light that came through
a small lancet window, 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.
Rising 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 commemorated. It lifted its gablet, carved to look
like a canopy, till its apex was on a level with 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 men-
tioned. It was a very remarkable countenance pale, and
very thin, without any hair, except that of thick eyebrows
that far overhung keen, questioning eyes. Short bushy
hair, gray, not white, covered a well-formed head, with a
high, narrow forehead. As I have said, those keen eyes
kept looking at me from under their gray eyebrows all
the time of the sermon intelligently without doubt, but
whether sympathetically or otherwise I could not determ-
ine. And, indeed, 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 pre-
serve. 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 were stones, with here and
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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 church-yard wall, with a few steps on each side of it,
that the parson might pass at once from the church-yard
into his own shrubbery, here tangled, almost matted, from
luxuriance 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 church-
yard. The door on the other side was chiefly used by the
few gentry of the neighborhood ; and the Lychgate, with
its covered way (for the main road had once passed on that
side), was shared between 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 neighbors. For, let
the old gentry disclaim it as they may, mere wealth, derived
from whatever source, will sooner reach their level than
poor antiquity or the rarest refinement of personal worth;
although, to be sure, the oldest of them ivill 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 what could I do with-
out my poor brothers and sisters ?
I passed along the church to the northern door, and went
out. The church-yard 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 confi-
dence and awe.
"Do you trust me, my little man?" thought I. "You
shall trust me, then. But I won't be a priest to you. I'll
be a big brother."
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A QUIET NBIGHBOEHOOD. 17
For the priesthood passes away, the brotherhood endures.
The priesthood passes away, swallowed up in the brother-
hood. It is because men can not learn simple things, can
not 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
much more than the people needs the priesthood.
So I stooped and lifted the child and held him in my
arms. And the little fellow looked at me one moment lon-
ger, and then put his arms gently round my neck. And so
we were friends. When I had set him down, which 1 did
presently, for I shuddered at the idea of the people think-
ing that I was showing off the clergymany I looked at the
boy. In his face was great sweetness mingled with great
rusticity, 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 church-yard. He kept his head turned to-
ward 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.
" Oh, thank you, sir?' she said, as I gave him to her, with
an earnestness which seemed to me disproportionate to the
deed, and carried him away with a deep blush over all her
countenance.
At the church-yard 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 portentous bonnet,
beneath whose gay yellow ribbons appeared a dusky old
face wrinkled like a ship's timbers, out of which looked a
pair of keen black eyes, where the best beauty, that of lov-
ing-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 yon live."
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"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 Rogers, sir," said the man. " Every body
knows Old Rogers. 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 cottage, sir. It's a poor place, but you'll
be welcome, sir."
CHAPTER m.
MY PIEST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS.
The next day I might expect some visitors. It is a for-
tunate thing that English society now regards the parson
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 clergy-
man in the reaction of his efforts to feed his flock on the
Sunday, I walked out, and took my way to the village. I
strove to dismiss from my mind every feeling of doing duty^
o^ performing my part^ and all that. I had a horror of be-
coming 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 neighbor 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 w^hite houses with intersecting parallel-
ograms 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 resi-
dence, but was now subdivided in all modes that analytic
ingenuity 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 any one of three visible corners to
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A QUIET NEIGHBOKHOOD. 19
see stacks of wheat and a farm-yard ; while in another di-
rection 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 vil-
lage. 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 arrangement
here, where the river flowed, with what flow there was iu
it, between the church and the people.
A little way beyond the farther end of the village ap-
peared an iron gate, of considerable size, dividing a lofty
stone wall ; and upon the top of that one of the stone pil-
lars supporting the gate which I could see, stood a creature
of stone, whether natant^ volant^ passant^ couchant^ or ram-
pant^ 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, ray 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 loz-
enge-shaped panes. Wondering 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 some-
thing. But I hesitated, because I could not think" of any
thing I was in want of at least that the old woman was
likely to have. To be sure I wanted a copy of Bengel's
" Gnomon ;" but she was not likely to have that. I wanted
the fourth plate in the third volume 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 every where, and I
could not tell but I might be going into the shop of a dis-
senter. 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 myself out to entice them back by canvassing or
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using any personal influence. Whether they returned or
not, however (and I did not expect many would), I hoped
still, some day, to stand toward 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 mean time, I could not help hesitating.
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."
"Wherei my dear?" I asked.
" In the shop there," he answered.
"Is it your mother's shop?"
"Yes."
I said no more, but accompanied him. Of course my ex-
pectation of seeing an old woman behind the counter had
vanished, but I was not in the least prepared for the kind
of woman that I did 'see.
The place was half a shop and half a kitchen. A yard or
so of counter stretched inward from the door, just as a hint
to those who might be intrusively inclined. Beyond this,
by the chimney-comer, sat the mother, who rose as we* en-
tered. She was certainly one I do not say of the most
beautiful, but, until I have time to explain farther of the
most remarkable women I had ever seen. Her face was
absolutely white no, pale cream color except 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 sur-
rounding white. Now this was certainly not beautiful.
Indeed, it occasioned a strange feeling, almost of terror, at
first, for she reminded one of the spectre woman in the
" Rime 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 beauty. This
might have been the result of ill health, ill-endured ; but I
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A QUIET NBIGHBOSHOOD. 21
doubted it. For there was a certain modeling 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 constant 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 expressive of indifference. She spoke
without looking me in the face, but did not seem either shy
or ashamed. Her figure was remarkably graceful, though
too worn to be beautiful. Here was a strange parishioner
for me in a country toy-shop, too !
As soon as the little fellow had brought me in, he shrunk
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-propriety 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 before. He is a little darling. P assure
you he has quite gained my heart."
No reply for a moment. Then just " Indeed !" and noth-
ing more.
I could not understand it.
But a jar on a shelf, marked Tobacco^ rescued 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 ?"
I said.
The woman turned, took down the jar, arranged the
scales, weighed out the quantity, wrapped it up, took the
money, and all without one other word than " Thank you.
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sir," which was all I could return, with the addition of
" Good-momiDg."
For nothing was left me but to walk away with my par-
cel 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 already learned was on the village side of the river.
Coming to a lane leading down to the river, I followed it,
and then walked up a path outside the row of pollards,
through a lovely meadow, where brown and white cows
were eating and shining all over the thick deep grass. Be-
yond 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 in-
termediate and complicate arrangement 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
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 stormj^ 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
evidently present in the commonest things. That which is
best He gives .most plentifully, as is reason with Him.
Hence the quiet fullness of ordinary nature; hence the
Spirit to them that ask it.
I soon came within sound of the mill ; and presently,
crossing the stream that flowed back to the river after hav-
ing done its work on the corn, I came in front of the build-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 23
ing, 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 comer 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 odor. 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 ceUing. So I walked round the corner of the
place, and found myself in the company of the water-wheel,
mossy and green with ancient water-drops, looking so furred,
and 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 Rogers'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 sur-
plus 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 toward the cottage.
" That must be Old Rogers's cottage ?" I said to the
miller.
" Yes, sir," he answered, looking a little sheepish.
" Was that his daughter that nice-looking young wom-
an you were talking to ?"
" Yes, 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, experi-
enced old mill like yours, that can manage to go on of itself
for a little while now and then."
This gave a great help to his budding confidence. He
laughed.
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24 ANNALS OF
" 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 ?"
" No, sir. You see they're both hearty, and they ain't
over well to do, and Jane lives up at the Hall, sir. She's
upper housemaid, and waits on one of the young ladies.
Old Rogers 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 softljr-laboring mill-wheel
ever in its little porch and about its wmdows.
The door was open, and Dame Rogers 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 harvest there come slack times for
the likes of me. 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'U 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 any
thing 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 ri^ht good hand at garden-work," an-
swered the old man, with some embarrassment, scratching
his gray head with a troubled scratch.
There was more in this than met the ear, but what I could
not conjecture. I would press the point a little. So I took
him at his own word.
" I won't ask you to do any of the more ornamental part,"
I said " only plain digging and hoeing."
" I would rather be excused, sir."
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 25
" 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 undertake 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 Rogers, why won't
'ee tell the parson the truth, like a man, downright ? If ye
won't, I'll do it for 'ee. The fact is, sir," she went on, turn-
ing to me, with a plate in her hand, which she was 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'll turn the bread away
from his own mouth and let it fall in the dirt."
" Now, now, old 'oman, don't 'ee belie me. Fm 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 any thing comes up,
I just says to myself, * Now, Old Rogei's, 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. Bnt, you see, I daren't, sir,
once I axed myself that."
" Stick to that, Rogers," I said.
" Besides, sir," he went on, " Simmons wants 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 mightj, mayhap, lose
a deal o' comfort. And that I would take worst of all, sir."
" Well, 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 hus-
band's point of view, was too honest to say any thing, but
she was none the less cordial to me. The daughter stood
looking from one to the other with attentive face, which
took every thing, but revealed nothing.
I rose to go. As I reached the door, I remembered the
tobacco in my pocket. I had not bought it for myself. I
never could smoke. Nor do I conceive that smoking is es-
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sential to a clergyman in the country, though I have occa-
sionally 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 any
body I am with.
That I didn't smoke myself was no reason why I should
not help Old Rogers to smoke ; so I pulled out the tobacco.
*' You smoke, don't you, Rogers ?" I 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?"
" 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 wife, " 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 whether 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 comes in
at the door and me a-smokin'. Not as he said any thing ;
for, ye see, I was an old man, and I dare say that kep him
quiet. But I did hear him blow up a young chap i' the vil-
lage he come upon promiscus with a pipe in his mouth. He
did give him a thunderin' broadside, to be sure ! So I was
in two minds whether I ought to go on with my pipe or
not."
" And how did you settle the question, Rogers ?"
" Why, I followed my own old chart, sir."
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOEHOOD. 27
" 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 Rog-
ers, what do you think the Lord would say about this here
baccay business ?' "
"And what did you think He would say?"
" Why, sir, I thought he would say, ' Old Rogers, have
yer baccay ; only mind ye don't grumble when you 'ain't
got none.' "
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 useful 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 mean time," 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."
T^he old sailor's eyes glistened with gratitude. *' Well,
who'd ha' thought it? You didn't think I was beggin' for
it, sir, surely ?"
" You see I had it for you in my pocket."
" Well, that is good o' you, sir."
" Why, Rogers, that'll 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 Rogers should have no
chance of" grumbling" for want of tobacco, if I could help it.
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28 ANNAlfi OF
CHAPTER IV.
THE COFFIN.
On 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 I thought a great
deal more about the one I could not understand than the
one I could understand. For Old Rogers wanted little help
from me, whereas the other was evidently a soul in pain,
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 wheth-
er 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 en-
lightenment to the darkness I was in about her.
As I went again through the village, I observed 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 inclosed all the idea the tree could 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 comer, 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 history of our Lord with something of that sense of
reality with which we read other histories, and which, I am
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 29
sorry to think, so much of the well-meant instruction we re-
ceive 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 en-
tering an old church ; which sensation, ever since having
been admitted on the usual conditions to a Mohammedan
mosque, urges me to pull ofl^ not only my hat, but my shoes
likewise. 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 carpen-
ter's shop. How one can think of himself as above his
neighbors, 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 dare say 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 afternoon sawing a board for a coffin-lid.
As my shadow fell across and darkened his work, he lift-
ed his head and saw me.
I could not altogether understand the expression of his
countenance as he stood upright from his labor and touched
his old hat with rather a proud t^an a courteous gesture.
And I could not believe that he was glad to see me, al-
though 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 cer-
emony 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 halfway to its width, and was
about to become hearty and begin to shine.
" May I come in ?" I said.
" Come in, sir," he answered.
" I am glad I have happened to come upon you by acci-
dent," I said.
He smiled as if he did not quite believe in the accident.
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30 ANNALS OF
and considered it a part of the play between us that I
should pretend it. I hastened to add,
" I was wandering about the place, making some acquaint-
ance with it, and with my friends in it, when I came upon
you quite unexpectedly. You know I saw you in church
on Sunday afternoon."
" I know you saw me, sir," he answered, with 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 proceed-
ing 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 is not always a pleasant one," I said,
associating the feelings of which I have already spokto with
the facts before 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 an-
swered. " Bat it does not matter," he added, with an in-
crease 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 fcjr a man to be buried. This isn't
such a good job, after all, this world, sir, you must al-
low."
" Neither is that coffin," said I, as if by a sudden inspira-
tion.
The man seemed taken aback, as Old Rogers might have
said. He looked at the coffin and then looked at me.
" 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 any thing amiss
with the coffin. I don't say it'll last till doomsday, as the
grave-digger 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, where-
as I only said of it knowingly what you said of the world
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 31
thoughtlessly. How do you know that the world is finish-
ed any more than your coffin? 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."
" At any rate, sir," he said, " whoever made it has taken
long enough about it, a person would think, to finish any
thing he ever meant to finish."
" One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a
thousand years as one dav," I said.
" That's supposing," rfe 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 answered.
Hereupon I found that we had changed places a little.
He looked up at me. The smile of superiority was no lon-
ger there, and a puzzled questioning, which might indicate
either "Who would have expected that from you?" or
"What can he mean ?" or both at once, had taken its place.
I, for my part, knew that on the scale of the man's judg-
ment I had risen nearer to his own level. As he said noth-
ing, however, and I was in danger of being misunderstood,
I proceeded at once. '
" Of course it seems to me better that you should not be-
lieve God had done a thing, than that you should believe
He had not done it well."
" Ah ! I see, sir. Then you will allow there is some room
for doubting whether He made the world at all ?"
" Yes ; for I do not think an honest man, as you seem to
me to be, would be able to doubt without any room what-
ever. That would be only for a fool. But it is just possi-
ble, as we are not perfectly good ourselves you'll allow
that, won't you ?"
"That I will, sir; God knows."
" Well) I say, as we're not quite good ourselves, it's just
possible that things may be too good for us to do them the
justice of believing in them."
"But there are things, you must allow, so plainly wrong !"
" So much so, both in the world and in myself, 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
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32 ANNALS OP
right ? Therefore I prefer the theory that He has not done
making it yet."
" But wouldn't you say, sir, that God might have man-
aged 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 fashion."
" 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 ?"
" That I can't tell, of course, nor any body else."
" Then you can't say that what looks like a slip is really
a slip, either in the design or in thfe 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; but 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 ev-
ery 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 I am successful in any argument, my one
dread is of humiliating my opponent. Indeed, I can not
bear it. It bumiliates me. And if you want him to think
about any thing, you must leave hira 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 arguments 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 de-
feat 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 ?"
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A QIHET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 33
" For a sister of my own, sir."
*'I'm sorry to hear that."
" There's no occasion. I can't say I'm sorry, though she
was one of the best 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 moi-
ing, 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 ?"
" He's been drunk every night since she died."
" Then he's the worse for losing her ?"
" He may well be. Crying like a hypocrite, too, over his
own work !"
" A fool he must be a hypocrite, perhaps not. A hypo-
crite 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 any thing, not even a cof-
fin. The only claim that I could ever lay to any thing 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 re-
lation 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, 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 kneel-
ing camel, one on a crawling crocodile, and others different-
B2
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34 ANNALS OF
ly mounted ; with various besides of Nature's bizarre pro-
ductions creeping and flying in stone-carving over the huge
fireplace, in which, in place of a fire, stood several new and
therefore brilliantly rea 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 contrasts.
The coflin and the carpenter stood in the twilight occa-
sioned 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 presume for the
sake of the more light required for handicraft, had been
washed all over with white. At the level of labor they
were broken in many places. Somehow or other, the whole
reminded me of Albert Durer'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
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 excitement 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 mountain 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 of mine evidently wanted careful
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A QUIirr NEIGHBOBHOOB. 35
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
manner. You can not 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 conversation lie. I stood in a wait-
ing 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 de-
termine who that one might be.
" It's very foolish of me to talk so to a stranger," he re-
sumed.
"It is very kind and friendly of you," I said, still careful
to make no advances. " And you yourself belong to the
old family that once lived in this old house ?"
"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 noth-
ing 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, planing
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."
" Is your father aUve, then ?"
" That he is, sir, and hearty^ too, though he seldom goes
out of doors now. Will you go up stairs and see him ?
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 ex-
pect visitors myself, and it is time I were at home. Good-
morning."
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36 ANNAIfi OP
" 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 histpry ; for that such a man must have a
history of his own 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 working away at a trade in the very house in which
such ancestors had eaten and drunk, and 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 any thing, better
than an infidel, I would just like to hold one minute's con-
versation with them on that subject. A man may be on
the way to the truth just in virtue of his doubting. I will
tell you what Lord Bacon says, and of all writers of English
I delight in him : " 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 or character of this man's
doubt ; but it was evidently real, and not affected doubt,
and that was much in his favor. And I could see that he
was a thinking man ; just one of the sort I thought I should
get on with in time, because he was honest notwithstand-
ing that unpleasant smile of his, which did irritate me a lit-
tle, 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 parish-
ioner. And who could it be that he was like?
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 37
CHAPTER V.
VISITOBS FROM THE HALL.
When 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 car-
riage 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 atten-
tion could not rest long on the horses, and I reached the
door just as my housekeeper was pronouncing me absent.
There were two ladies in the carriage, one old and one
young.
"Ah ! here is Mr. Walt on, "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 off 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 Gladwyn,
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 sto-
ry are their real names. And my reason for making the
difference will be plain enough. You can never find out
my friend Old Rogers : 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
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38 ANNALS OF
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."
The deadness melted a little from Mrs. Oldcastle's face as
she turned with half a smile to her grandchild and said,
" Yes, Pet. But you know that can not be an interesting
fact to Mr. Walton."
" I beg your pardon," Mrs. Oldcastle," I said. " A cler-
gyman 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 head-
ache is."
The former expression, or rather non-expression, returned,
this time unaccompanied by a bow.
" I trust, Mr, Walton, I trust I am above any morbid ne-
cessity for sympathy. But, as you say, among 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 she has a headache, she shuts
herself up in her own room, and doesn't even let me come
near her nobo^ but Sarah ; and how she can prefer her
to me, I'm sure I don't know."
And h^re the girl pretended to pout, but \vith 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 ?"
" 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. 7 think the surplice
is lovely. I'm sure its 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, triumphantly.
" I'm so glad I've got Mr. Walton on my side !"
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOB. 39
" 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 noth-
ing aloud, of course.
" Have you got a headache to-day, grannie ?"
" No, Pet. Be quiet. I wish to ask Mr. Walton why 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 mat-
ter of no consequence whatever. 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 mount-
ains of molehills, for a molehill is not a mountain. A man
ought to have too much to do in obeyinghis 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 hap^y 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 en-
joying it thoroughly. Mrs. Oldcastle's face, on the contrary,
was illegible. She resumed in a measured, still voice, which
she meant to be meek, I dare say, but which was really au-
thoritative,
"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, objecting to the surplice, as I do, on Protest-
ant grounds, I yet warn you against making any change be-
cause you may discover that your parishioners are against it.
You have no idea, Mr. Walton, what inroads Radicalism, as
they call it, has been making in this neighborhood. It is
quite dreadful. Every body, 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 Weir, always talking to
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40 ANNALS OP
his neighbors against the proprietors and the magistrates,
and the clergy too, Mr. W alton, and the game-laws, and
what not. And if you once show them that you are afraid
of them by going a step out of your way for tfieir opinion
about any thing, there will be no end to it ; for the begin-
ning of strife is like the letting out of water, as you know.
Z 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 Rogers, and born of decent parents, but unfortunately at-
tached to the soa.of one of your church-wardens, 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 was any difference
between the positions of people in that rank of life I 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 am content with mine. I had nothing 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 wanted
at present. The poor have to look up to the rich ^"
*' That's right, grannie ! And the nch 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. Oldcastle ?"
" 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, however, at the cnarge, which so far certainly con-
tained no reproach.
"And grandpapa was the ugliest and the richest of them
all wasn't he, grannie ? and Colonel Markham the hand-
somest and the poorest ?"
A flush of anger crimsoned the old lady's pale face. It
looked dead no longer.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 41
" Hold your tongue," sbe said. *' You are rude."
And Miss Gladwyn did hold her tongue, but nothing else,
for shp was laughing all over.
The relation between these two was evidently 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 weuld soon have the
upper hand, for grannie was vulnerable, and Pet was not.
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 granddaughter'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'll soon be too much for you
to manage. Come, Pet, it's time to go honie to lunch. And
for the surplice, take your own way and wear it. I sha'n't
say any thing more about it."
" I will do what I can see to be right in the matter," I
answered as gently as I could, for I did not want to quarrel
wuth her, although I thought her both presumptuous and
rude.
"I'm on your side, Mr. Walton," said the girl, with a
fiweet comical smile, as she squeezed my hand once more.
I led them to the carriage, and it was with a feeling of
relief I saw it drive off.
The old lady ceiAainly 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 accounted 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 6f being a partisan of theirs
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against the rich, and that a clergyman ought never to bo.
And, indeed, the poor rich have more need of the care of
the clergyman than the others, seeing it is hardly that the
rich shall enter into the kingdom 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 can not 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 opening
my favorite vellum-bound volume, gazing out on the happy
world, whence a gentle wind came in as if to bid me wel-
come with a kiss to all it had to give me. And then I
thought of the wind that bloweth where it listeth, which is
every where, and I quite forgot to open my Plato, and
thanked God for the Life of life whose story and whoso
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 ? And I
prayed my God that He would make me able to speak good
common heavenly sense to my people, and forgive me for
feeling so cross and proud toward the unhappy old lady
for I was sure she was not happy and make me into a 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 act-
ually 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 wrong-doer repent,
and get rid of the wrong from his side also 1 But the pain-
ful fact will show itself, not less curious than painful, that it
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 43
is more difficult to forgive small wrongs than great ones.
Perhaps, however, the forgiveness of the great wrongs is
not so true as it seems. For do we not think it is a fine
thing to forgive 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 ray mind. And once more
the great light went up on mo with regard to my office,
namely, that just because I was parson to the parish I must
not be the person to myself. And I prayed God to keep
me from feeling stung and proud, however 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 me
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 parlor
of his heart. And I can not count it perfect hospitality to
be friendly and plentiful toward 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 tell people, when
you are busy about something that must be done, that you
can not spare the time for them except they want you upon
something of yet more pressing necessity ; but teU them, and
do not get rid of them by the use of the instrument com-
monly called the cold shoulder. It is a wicked instrument
that, and ought to have fallen out of use by this time.
I went and received. Mr. and Miss Boulderstone, and was
at least thus far rewarded that the eerie feeling, as the
Scotch would call it, which I had about my parish, as con-
taining none but characters^ and therefore not being cannie^
was entirely removed. At least there was a wholesome
leaven in it of honest stupidity. Please, kind reader, dcfnot
fancy I am sneering. I declare to you I think a sneer
the worst 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 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 stupidity that sets up
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for teaching itself to its neighbor, 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 ray 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 surgeon in the navy,
who, since his retirement, had practiced for many years in
the neighborhood, 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 church-warden. More of Dr. Duncan
by-and-by.
Except Mr. and Miss Boulderstone, 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 in-
deed, 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 toward
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 com-
fort to me to find myself among a people from which my
spirit neither shrunk in the act of preaching, nor with re-
gard to which it was likely to feel that it was beating itself
against a stone wall. There was some good in preaching to
a man like Weir or Old Rogers. W^hether 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 church -warden, called and staid a whole
weary hour, talking about matters quite uninteresting to
any who may hereafter peruse what I am now writing. Real-
ly he was not an interesting man : short, broad, stout, red-
faced, with an immense amount of mental inertia, discharg-
ing itself in constant lingual activity about little nothings.
Indeed, when there was no new nothing to be had, the old
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 45
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, yet found him utterly, totally impenetrable, as pachy-
dermatous as any rhinoceros or behemoth. One other cor-
poreal 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 holJow between 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 resem-
blance was greatly increased by unwearied endeavors to
keep himself close shaved. I could not help feeling anxious
about his son and Jane Rogers. He gave a quantity of
gossip about various people, evidently anxious that I should
regard them as he regarded them ; but in all he said con-
cerning them I could scarcely detect one point of signifi-
cance as to character or history. I was very glad indeed
when the waddling of hands ^for it was the perfect imbecil-
ity of hand-shaking was over, and he wasisafely out of the
gate. He had kept me standing on the steps for full five
minutes, and I did not feel safe from him till I was once
more in my study with the door shut.
I am not going to try my reader's patience with any thing
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
always. There was a work-house in the village, but there
were not a great many in it; for the poor were kindly
enough handled who belonged 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 were in their own houses.
I can not imagim a much greater misfortune for a man,
not to say a clergyman, than 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 began to think it better to return
Mrs. Oldcastle's visit, though I felt greatly disinclineil to
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46 ANNALS OF
encounter that tight-skinned nose again, and that mouth
whose smile had no light in it, except when it responded
to some DonBense of her granddaughter's.
CHAPTER VL
OLDCASTLB HALL.
About noon on a lovely autumn day I set out for Old-
castle Hall. The keenness of the air had melted away with
the heat of the sun, yet still the air was fresh and invigora-
ting. Can any one tell me why it is that when the eaith 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 ; whereas, on the contrary, in the au-
tumn, when nature is dying for the winter, he feels strong
and hopeful, holds his head erect, and walks with 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 Tightness
p.nd fitness in the thing ? Should not man and nature go
t ogether 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 con-
tent 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 bridge with a heart strong enough to meet Mrs.
Oldcastle without flinching. I might have to quarrel with
her I could not tell: she certainly was neither safe nor
wholesome. But this I was sure of, that I would not
quarrel with her without being quite certain that I ought.
I wish it were never one's duty to quarrel with any body, 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,! had
not to quarrel this time.
The woods on the other side of the river from my house,
toward which I was now walking, were of the most sombre
rich color sombre and rich, like a life that has laid up
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 47
treasure in heaven, locked in' a casket of sorrow. I came
nearer and nearer to them through the village, and approach-
ed the great iron gate with the antediluvian monsters on the
top of its stone pillars. And awful monsters 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'll catch it soon
enough." 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 wandered up the long winding road, through the woods
which I had remarked flanking the meadow on my first
walk up the rivr. These woods smelt so sweetly their
dead and dying leaves departing in sweet odors that they
quite made up for the absence of the flowers. And the
wind no, there was no wind there was only a memory
of wind that woke now and then in the bosom of the wood,
shook down a few leaves, like the thoughts thai flutter
away in sighs, and then was still again.
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 can not help loving people he never saw or even
heard of.) I say I am getting old (is it but or therefore?
I do not know which) ^but, therefore, I shall never forget
that one autumn day in those grandly fading woods.
TJp the slope of the hillside they rose like one great rain-
bow-billow of foliage ^bright yellow, red-rusty, and bright
fading green, all kinds and shades of brown and purple.
Multitudes of leaves lay on the sides of the path, so many
that I betook myself to my old childish amusement of walk-
ing in them without lifting my feet, driving whole armies
of them with ocean-like rustling before me. 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 house. It did
not look such a large house as I have since found it to be ;
and it certainly was not an interesting house from the out-
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side, though its surroundings of green grass and trees would
make any whole beautiful. Indeed, the house itself tried
hard to look ugly, 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 all 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 ex-
pected. I was led up one of those grand square oak stair-
cases, which look like a portion of the house to be dwelt in,
and not like a ladder for getting from one part of the habit-
able regions to another. On the top was a fine expanse of
landing, another hall, in fact, from which I was led toward
the back of the house by a narrow passage, and shown into
a small dark drawing-room with a deep stone-mullioned
window, wainscoted in oak simply carved and paneled.
Several doors around indicated communication with other
parts of the house. Here I found Mrs. Oldcastle reading
what I judged to be one of the cheap and gaudy religious
books of the present day. She rose and received me, and
having motioned me to a seat, began to talk about the par-
ish. You would have perceived at once from her tone that
she recognized no other bond of connection 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 ad-
vantage of your kindness, though. I assure you, you will
find some of them very grasping indeed. And you nfeed
not expect that they will give you the least credit for good
intentions."
" 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 neigh-
borhood 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 laugh of amusement.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 49
" Yes, grannie, you are right. You remember 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 ?"
" I am sorry to hear of any disdainful reception of kind-
ness," I said.
"Yes, and she had the coolness, within a fortnight, to
send up to me and ask if I would be kind enough to lend
her half a crown for a few weeks."
" And then it was your turn, grannie ! You sent her five
shillings, didn't you? Oh no, I am wrong. That was the
other woman."
-" Indeed, I did not send her any thing but a rebuke. I
told her that it would be a very wrong thing in me to con-
tribute* to the support of such an evil spirit of unthankful-
ness as she indulged in. When she came to see her con-
duct 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, wasn't she? With
her sick boy at home, and nothing to give him ?" said Mis*
Gladwyn.
" 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 except to me dear
old grannie ! She spoils me. I'm sure I shall be ungrate-
ful some day, and then she'll begin to read me long lec-
tures, and prick me with all manner of headless pins. But
I won't stand it, I can tell you, grannie ! I'm too much
spoiled for that."
Mrs. Old castle 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
afterward, that I inquired 'of dame Hope as to her version
of the story, and found that there had been a great misun-
derstanding, as I had suspected. She was really in no want
at the time, and did not feel that it would be quite honor-
able to take the money when she did not need it (some
poor people are capable of such reasoning) and so had re-
fused it, not without a feeling at the same time that it was
more pleasant to refuse than to accept from such a giver ;
C
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some stray sparkle of whujh 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 misunderstand-
ing 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 de-
fense is of no use. One must have definite points for de-
fense, if one has not a thorough understanding of the char-
acter 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 ? 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 afterward 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 window, where I
was indeed as much 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 t%
the horizon, richly wooded, and though I saw none of
them sprinkled, certainly, with sweet villages full of hu-
man thoughts, loves, and hopes; the astonishment 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
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A QITIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 51
gentle slope, which certamly was long and winding, but had
occasioned no feeling in nw mind that I had reached any
considerable height. And I had come up that one beautiful
staircase no more ; and yet now, when I looked from this
window, I found myself on the edge of a precipice not a
very deep one, certainly, yet with all the effect of many a
deeper; for below 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 wa-
ter. I knew it only by its slaty shimmer through the fad-
ing green of the tree-tops between me and it.
" There I" again exclaimed Miss Gladwyn, " isn't that
beautiful ? But you haven't seen the most beautiful thing
yet. Grannie, where's ah I 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. K auntie were to fall
in she would be drowned before you could jump down to
get her out. Can you swim?"
Before I had time to answer, she was off again.
" Don't you see auntie down there ?"
" No, I don't see her. I have been trying very hard, but
I can't."
" Well, I dare say you can't. Nobody, I think, has got
eyes but myself. Do you see a big stone by the edge of the
pond, with another 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 ?"
"No."
"Then you must come down with me, and I will intro-
duce you to her. She's much the prettiest thing here
much prettier than grannie."
Here she looked over her shoulder at grannie, who, instead
of being angry, as, from what I had seen on our former in-
terview, I feared she would be, only said, without even look-
ing up from the little blue-boarded book she was again
reading,
" You are a saucy child."
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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 toward
the pond below. The stair, went in zigzags, and, although
rough, was protected by an iron balustrade, without which,
indeed, it would have been very dangerous.
" Isn't your grandmamma afraid to let you run up and
down here. Miss Gladwyn ?" I said.
,"MeI" she exclaimed, apparently in the utmost surprise.
" That woiUd be fun ! For, you know, if she tried to hinder
me but she knows it's no use; I taught her that long
ago let me see how long oh I 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 1 I fancied I heard one say to the other, * We must
wait till she swells and floats !' "
" Dear me, what a peculiar child I" 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 looked down*
intQ 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 stooping forward
over a book.
" May I ask you a question, Miss Gladwyn ?"
*' 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 ?"
"Oh, just fancy if you cabled me Pet before grannie!
That's grannie's name for me, and nobody dares to use it
but grannie ^not even auntie; for, between me and you,
auntie is afraid of grannie ; I can't think why. I never was
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 53
afraid of any body except, yes, a little afraid of old Sarah.
She used to be my nurse, you know ; and grandmamma and
every body is afraid of her, and that's just why I never do
one thing she wants me to do. It would never do to give
4n 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?"
"Judy."
She .said it in a tone which seemed to indicate 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?"
" It would be such fun, you know."
" Well, it would be odd, I must confess. What is your
aunt's name ?"
"Oh, such a funny name ^much funnier than Judy
Ethelwyn. It sounds as if it ought to mean something,
doesn't it?"
" Yes. It is an Anglo-Saxon word, without doubt.'*
" What does it mean ?"
"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 every thing
about auntie. Ethel W3m. Isn't it pretty ?"
" So pretty that I should like to know something more
about Aunt Ethelwyn. What is her other name ?"
" Why, Ethelwyn Oldcastle, to be sure. What else could
it be?"
" Why, you know, for any thing I knew, Judy, it might
have been Gladwyn. She might have been your father's
sister."
"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
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they arc sadder than usual, seems to remind me of my
mother."
" You remember your mother, then ?"
"No, I don't think I ever saw her. But I've answered
plenty of questions, haven't I ? 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 cler-
gyman, and laugh at the Catechism ! I didn't know that."
" I'm not laughing at the Catechism, Judy ; Vm onlv
laughing at the idea of putting Catechism questions to you."
" You know I didn't mean it," she said, with some indig-
nation.
" I know now," I answered. " But you haven't let me
put the only question I wanted to put."
"What is it?"
"How old are you?"
" Twelve. Come along."
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 going to turn out another strange pa-
rishioner ?
There she sat, intent on her book. As we drew near she
looked up and rose, but did not come forward.
"Aunt Winnie, here's Mr. Walton," said Judy.
I lifted my hat and held out my hand. Before 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 unmoved except by a smile,
saying, " It's only one of that frolicsome child's tricks, Mr.
Walton. It is well for you that I was here, though. Noth-
ing would have delighted her more than to have you in the
water too."
" But," I said, bewildered, and not half comprehending,
" where is she ?"
"There," returned Miss Oldcastle, pointing to the pool,
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 65
in the middle of which arose a heaving and bubbling, pres-
ently yielding passage to the laughing face of Judy.
" Why don't you help me out, Mr. Walton ? You said
you could swim."
" 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, drip-
ping 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."
Here followed a pause, for, Judy disposed of, what
should I 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 nev-
er 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 ft 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 thinking it odd that
I have never yet said a word about what either Judy or
Miss Oldcastle was like. If there is one thing I feel more
inadequate to than another in taking upon me to relate, it is
to describe a lady. But I will try the girl first.
Judy was rosy, gray-eyed, auburn-haired, sweet-mouthed.
She had confidence in her chin, assertion in her nose, de-
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56 ANNALS OF
fiance in her eyebrows, honesty and friendliness over all her
face. No one, evidently, could have a warmer friend ; and
to an enemy she would be dangerous 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 difierent 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 predominant, giving a certain jerkiness, like the hop-
ping of a bird, instead of the gliding of one motion into an-
other, such as you mi^ht see in the same bird on the wing.
There is one of the ladies.
But the other ^how shall I attempt to describe her ?
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 occasion that I found out the color of her
eyes. I was fo taken with her w hole that I knew nothing
about her parts. Yet she was blue-eyed, indicating North-
ern 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 of her child, to be
bom 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 feat-
ures 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 it, contributed.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 57
But I am not doing well as an artist in describing her -so
fully before my reader has become in the least degree inter-
ested in her. I was seebg her, and no words can make him
see her.
Fearing lest some snch failcy as had possessed Jndy 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 Oldcastle," I said,
" and as surprising as it is romantic. I could hardly believe
my eyes when I looked out of the window and saw it first."
" Your surprise was the mor^ 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 thing I should
have expected to find in this gently undulating country.
That it is artificial 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 differ 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 living house, with its histories of ages 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.
" 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 labor and effort,
have all been employed to build this house, making not only
the house beautiful, but the place whence it came beautiful
too. It stands on the edge of what Shelley would call its ' an-
C2
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58 AITNALS OF
tenatal tomV now beautiful 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.
*' 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, thinking no doubt
that after her denial I was improperly 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 building was more
of a castle, with walls and battlements. 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 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 Mrould 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 place ? 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 es-
cape?"
" On the Opposite side of the hill you came up, there is a
well with a strong stream from it into the river."
#
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 59
" I almost wonder at your choosing such a place to read
in. I should hardly like to be so neaif this pond," said I,
laughing.
" Judy has taken all that away. Nothing in nature, and
every thing 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 any thing ?"
" 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?"
" I can not say I do," I replied.
" No. Except you know where it is, and even then it is
not so easy to find it. I find it by certain trees."
"What is it?"
" 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
th% fearth with it. There was an- old burial-ground here be-
fore the Hall was built."
"Have you ever been down the stair you speak of?" I
asked.
" Only part of the way^" she answered. " But Judy knows
every step of it. Kit -wre nat that the "door at the top is
locked, she would have ^^^d througti that archway now,
and been in her own roonx|j)l-l?alf the tiQie. The child does
not know what fear means??; .
We now moved away from the pogd, toward the side of
the quarry and the open-air staircase, 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
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60 ANNALS OP
farewell. I saw tbe old lady glance sharply from her to me,
as if she were jealous of what we might have been talking
aboat.
" 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 his
death of cold if auntie would have let him. It W(zs cold. I
think I see you dripping now, Mr. Walton."
There she was in her dark comer, coiled up on a couch,
and laughing heartily, but all as if she had done nothing ex-
traordinary. And, indeed, estimated either by her own no-
tions 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 grandchild with a feeling of mischievous health, as
if the girl might soon corrupt the clergyman into a partner-
ship in pranks as well as in friendship. She followed me
out of the room, and danced before me down the oak stair-
case, clearing the portion from the first landing at a bound.
Then she turned and waited for me, who came very delib-
erately, feeling the unsure contact of sole and wax. As soon
as I reached her, she said, in a half whisper, reaching up to-
ward me on tiptoe,
"Isn't she a beauty?"
" Who your grandmamma ?" I 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 without 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.
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A QDIBT HBIGHBOBHOOD. 61
GHAPTER Vn.
THE bishop's basin.
I 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. Nowadays, the vulgar notion of what
is life-like in any annals is to be realized by sternly exclud-
ing every thing but the commonplace ; and the means at
least are often attained, with this much t)f the end as well,
that the appearance life bears to vulgar jninds is represented
with a wonderful degree of success. But I 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 uncom-
mon, 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 poet-
ry ; and likewise that to this our lives correspond. The
poetic region is the true one, and just therefore the incredi-
ble 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 between 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 marvelous and im-
portant fact to a human being ; nay, I had found something
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62 ANNALS OF
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 acquaintance 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 expe-
riences), I came to the conclusion, not that I had got into
an extraordinary 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 ?
Surely I had undergone a change of some sort. Could it
be that the trouble I had been going through of late had
opened the eyes of my mind to the understanding, or rather
the simple seeing^ of my fellow-men ?
But the people among whom I had been to-day belonged
rather to such as might be put into a romantic story. Cer-
tainly I could not spe 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 I 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 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 I 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? No.
Yes. Of course it was. But what was it ? What had that
to do with the matter ? 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 com-
monplace, 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, especially that quo-
tation from Kuhla Khan coming after the close of the pre-
ceding sentence ; but it is only so much the more like the
jumble of thoughts that made a chaos of my mind as I went
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A QUIBT ITBIGHBOBHOOD. 63
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 ? No doubt there
had been such places. No doubt there were such places
somewhere yet. No doubt this was one of them. But,
somehow or other, it would not come in well. I had no in-
tention of going 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, 1 shall leave my reader to judge.
I found Weir busy as usual, but not with a coffin this
time. He was working at a window-sash. " Just like life,"
I thought tritely 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 ? If so, I was more glad of that
reproach than I would have been of the warmest welcome,
even from Old Rogers. 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 mv first visit to Oldcastle Hall. .
And, to tell the truth, for I don't like pretenses, 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 re-
member 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."
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64 ANNALS OF
Now the man was not right in saying that we were mnch
of the same way of thinking^ for our opinions could hardly
do more than 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 judg-
ment 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 ulti-
mately eliminate the other. For in the moral nest, it is not
as with the sparrow and the cuckoo. The right, the original
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 honor of
thinking I was right as far as he could see, which is the
greatest honor one 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
farther and more real communion between us in time to
come. .
"Well," I answered,"! think we shall understand each
other perfectly before long. But now I must see your fa-
ther, 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'll find
him much more to your mind than me. He's been putting
ever so many questions to me about the new parson, want-
ing 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'll understand. And I've never told him that
rd been to church since you came I suppose from a bit
of pride, because I had so long refused to go ; but I don't
doubt some of the neighbors 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 every body but him. It wUlhe 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 lob-
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 65
by 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 counterpane 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, in a high-
backed, not very easy-looking chair. With a great efibrt
he managed to rise as I approached him, notwithstanding
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 wa& 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 sta-
tion in society. But the chief part of this polish sprung
from the inbred kindliness of his nature, which was mani-
fest in the expression of his noble old countenance. Age 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 kingdom, which the Lord
says is within, shine out more and more, as the husk grows
thin and is 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, re-
flecting the yet unrisen sun of the other world, yet fadirtg
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.
" Pm 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 marvelously resembled. But all the stern-
ness which Dante's evil times had generated in his prophet-
ic face was in this old man's replaced by a sweetness of
hope that was lovely to behold.
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" No, Mr. Weir," I said, " I can not take your chair. The
Bible tells ns to rise up before 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'll 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 another chair for him, and he
sat down opposite 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," said the old
man, the moment he was gone, leaning a little toward 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 doing the same thing. I ha' seen folks, parsons and oth-
ers, '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 re-
gard them in their hearts ; but it was a sort of accomplish-
ment to be able to talk to the poor, like, after their own
fashion. But the minute an old man sees you, sir, he be-
lieves that you rriean it, sir, whatever it is; for an oiild
m^n somehow comes to know things like a child. They
call it a second childhood, don't they, sir ? And 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 any way favorable to them yet, only he'll say
nothin' again' you, sir. He's got an unfortunate gift o' see-
in' 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."
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A QUIET NSI6HB0BH00D. 67
" But I find Thomas quite open to reason.**
" That's because you understand him, sir, and know how-
to give him head. He 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 turn 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 I never did want the reason for ev-
ery think. I was content to be tould a many things. But
Tom, you see, he was born with a sore bit in him some-
wheres, I don't rightly know wheres ; and I don't think he
rightly knows what's the matter with 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?"
" 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 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
enough to satisfy himself, you know. Thomas just wants
faith ; that is, he wants to feel that there is a lovmg Father
over him, who is doing things all well and right, if we could
only understand 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."
" Strange !" 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 some-
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times. As if it could be of any use now I God forgive
me."
" Don't you be afraid, Mr, Weir,^ as if God was ready to
take offense at what comes naturally, as you say. An ejacu-
lation 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 light
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'ard, 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 "
And here I hesitated.
" Were never married, sir," said the old^ man, promptly,
as if he would relieve me from an embarrassing position.
"Z couldn't help it. And I'm no less the child of my
Father in heaven for it ; for, if He hadn't made me, 1
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 bom so,
I would not have e'er another couple of parents in all En-
gland, sir, though I ne'er knew one o' them. And I do love
my mother. And I'm so sorry for my father that I love
him too, sir. And if I could only get ray 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 position 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
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A QUISr NBI6HBOBHOOD. 69
mustn't say any thing 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 handsome woman in the little shop was the daugh-
ter 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 affected me so
pleasantly when I first saw Thomas, his grandfather. 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 flickering 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 ?"
'^ 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 granddaughter Catharine in
bad health ? She looks so delicate 1"
" 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
thena, leastways her sister, go and see her. I'm afraid Tom
has been rather unmerciful with her. And if ever he put
a bad name upon her in her hearing, I know, from Vvhat
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 any think."
" How did she get into the trouble ? Who is the father
of her child?"
" Nay, that no one knows for certain ; though there be
suspicions, and one of them no doubt correct. But I believe
fire wouldn't drive his name out at her mouth. I know my
lass. When she says a thing she'll stick to it."
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I asked no more questions, but after a short pause the
old man went on.
"I sha'n'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 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, bo 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
h.cr 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 favorite 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-say-
ing, when the wind stopped for a moment, down came the
rain with a noise that sounded like a regiment of cavalry
on the turnpike road t'other side of the 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'll be wet afore you get across the yard, Samuel, said
auntie, looking very prim in her lofig 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, Sam-
uel,' she said. * Never mind,' says I. * Fm not salt nor yet
sugar ; and I'll be going, auntie, for you'll 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
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A QUIBT NEIOHBOBHOOD. Il
I sat, o' the other side, drinking the last of a pint of Octo-
ber 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. But I'm wearying you,
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 as-
sure you."
So the old man went on.
" ' It was just such a night as this,' she began 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?' I said.
' Ah ! my lad,' said she, ^
None has a better ] " "
that's all, is it, auntie 1
Samuel,' said she, quite solemn, * what is there to laugh at,
then? I assure you, you was any thing but welcome.'
* And why wasn't I welcome ?' I said. * I couldn't help it,
you know. I'm very sorry to hear I intruded,' I said, still
making game 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 wherefore I'm
sure I don't know. ' Most extraordinary, auntie I' 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 any
body.' ' 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 cer-
tain it was your own 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
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did.' * Indeed you did many a time, when you was a mere
boy, like, but I suppose, 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, Fm certain, that she ever did, was to trust
your father too much. But I must see and give 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 like-
ly to leave her well off. Her mother died when she was a
little girl. It's not easy getting 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 serv-
ants, and money to spend, it was a sore change to her. But
she was a sweet creature, that she was. She did look sore-
ly 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 came to
know so much about her was this. IN'obody, 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 any body till once she stood in her way, and
then she would just shove her aside or crush her like a spi-
der, and ha' done with her.' They have always been a
proud and a fierce race, the Oldcastles, sir," said Weir, tak-
ing up the speech in his own person, " and there's been a
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 73
deal o' breedin' in-and-in among 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. I'll just tell you one thing the garden-
er told me about her years ago, sir. She had a fancy for
liyacinths in her rooms in the spring, and she had some par-
ticular fine ones, and a lady of her acquaintance begged for
some of them. And what do you think she did? 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 dreadful 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 in the way or the means
either of paying their debts well, there she was, and no-
body minding her, and of course it fell to me to look after
her. It would have made your heart Weed 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 crying,
and from that moment there was confidence 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
any thing 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 hu-
man beings. She might as well have talked to wild 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
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 could be thinking about, and I had made up my mind
she was not long for this world,. when all at once it was an-
nounced 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 wag
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constantly taken up, and I saw much less of poor Miss Wal-
lis than I had seen before. But wheawe did meet on some
of the back stairs, or when 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 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 tire-
some as ever, she didn't seem to mind it so much. But in-
deed she had not very much to do with them out of school
hours now ; for when the spring came on, they would be
out and about the place with their sister or one of their
brothers ; and indeed, out of doors it would have been im-
possible for Miss Wallis to do any thing 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 engaging 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 wanted 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-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 thir-
ty, 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 favorite with every body that knew
nothing about h\m. He was a fine, manly, handsome fellow,
with a smile that, as people said, no woman could resist,
though I'm sure it would have given me no trouble to re-
sist it, whatever they may mean by that, for I saw that that
same smile was the falsest thing of all the false things about
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A QIJIST NMGHBOBHOOD. 75
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
favorite 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 offi-
cers didn't quite approve of his speculating as he did in
horses and other thmgs. 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 guarreled with a young ensign in
the 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 any thing like an aim. And he shot him dead, did Cap-
tain Crowfoot.' Think of hearing that about one's own fa-
ther, sir ! But I never said a word, 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 not-
withstanding. 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; atleast,if he saw me he took
no notice, for I don't suppose that the angel with the flam-
ing sword would have put him out. But for her, I know
she didn't see me, for her face was down, burning and smil-
ing at once.' Fm 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 1 sat down as tf I had had a stroke, and I never
moved till it was pitch dark and my fire out. It was a
marvel to me afterward that nobody came near me, for ev-
ery body 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 you?" "What wretch?"
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Bays she, quite sharp like. " Why, Captain Cro\rfoot," says
I, " to be sure." " What have you to say against Captain
Crowfoot ?" says she, quite scornful like. So I tumbled out
all 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 hars, Mrs. Prender-
gast," says she, " and I don't believe one word of it all.
But I'll 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 vil-
lain 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 month, and this was in the first of
the summer ; 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 Oldcastle, 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 wofd 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 al-
luded to the captain. By-and-by came the news that the
captain and Miss Oldcastle were to be married in the
spring. And Miss Wallis took to her bed after that; and
my lady said she had never been of much use, and wanted
to send her away. But Miss Oldcastle, who was far supe-
rior 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
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 77
never a word would Miss Wallis answer ; she only stared
at her with great, big, wild-like eyes. And Miss Oldeastle
thought 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 consent 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 began 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 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 1 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'll 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 I that she
could go to her bed. And I said to myself, " Nobody need
ever know about it ; and nobody ever shall, if I can Kelp it."
To tell the truth, my hope was that she would die before
there was any need for farther concealment. 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 wedding-day was
fixed ; and after that a circumstance came about that made
me uneasy. A Hindoo servant ^the captain called him his
nigger always had been constantly in attendance 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 his man had fallen in with her in London ; that
he had known her before ; 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 wed-
ding. This was easily arranged, and he went away to re-
turn in three weeks, when the wedding was to take place.
Meantime poor Emily grew fast worse, and how she held
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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 the Hin-
doo 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 being 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 because she had begged me, that she might feel as
if her mother were with her, and she was a child again. I
had tried before to find out from her when greater care
would be necessary, but she couldn't tell me any thing. I
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 every thing prepared.
The captain arrived, and his man with him. And twice I
came upon the two blacks in close conversation. Well, the
wedding-day came. The people went to church ; and while
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
drawing-room, and 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 I" says I,' said my
aunt, sir, ' " what ever is the matter with you ?" " 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 I There's the
ladies all alone in the withdrawing-room, and there's the
gentlemen calling for more wine, and cursing and swearing
that it's awful to hear. It's 6iy belief that swords'U be
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A QUIET NXIGHBOBHOOD. 79
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 me?" "Dear me, Wil-
liam," says I, "a pretty story to tell your wife" she was
my own half-sister, and younger than me " a pretty story
to tell your wife, that you wanted an old body like me to
go and take care of you in your own cellar," says I. " But
I'll go with you, if you like ; for, to tell the truth, it's a ter-
rible night." And so down we went, and brought up six
bottles more of the best port. And I really didirt 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 ? Mr. Centlivre says that
you were afraid to go down into the cellar." Now, wasn't
that odd ? for it was a real fact. Before William could re-
ply. Sir Giles said, "A man might well be afraid to go any
where 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 the way, for the wager of a
guinea. And there the matter, according to William, drop-
ped, for the fresh wine was jput on the table. But after
they had drunk the most of it ^the captain, according to
William, drinking 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 cap-
tain the key at once, wishing 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 gentlemen wouldn't do if
the wine hadn't got uppermost. It was some time before
the captain 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 can-
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80 ANNALS OF
die 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 turn-
ed to leave the room, and the other gentlenien rose to fol-
low him, " I'll just hang up the key again." " By all means,"
says he. " Where is it, then ?" says L 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 course,
he hadn't locked the door, and that part of the house has a
bad name, and no wonder. It wasn't exactly pleasant to
have the door left open. 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 Mory about that turret afterward, only I
mustn't try to tell you two things at once. ' Now I had
told the Indian woman that if any thing 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 directly, whoever might wait.
For I was expecting you some time soon, and nobody knew
any thing about when you might come. But there the
blind continued drawn down as before. So I thought all
was going on right. And what with the storm keeping
Sir Giles and so many more that w^uld have gone home
that night, there was no end of work, and some contrivance
necessary, I can tell you, to get them all bedded for the
night, for we were nothing too well provided with 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 myself, 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
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 81
the heathen woman not to say a word ; for I thought she
might as well die without hearing about it. But I believe
the vile wretch did tell her. When I opened the room
door, there was no light there. I spoke, but no one an-
swered. I had my own candle in my hand, but it had been
blown out as I came up the stair. 1 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, every body
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 I'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 Giles's candle, I left them to settle it
among them, and ran back to the west turret. When I en-
tered 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 become 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 un-
derground 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 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 wrapped you up in it, and, the storm being
abated by this time, made the best of my way with you
D2
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82 ANNALS OF
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 f into the bed-
room and shut the door, and left him out there in his shirt.
My sister and I soon got every thing 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 beUeve some-
how or other that she was as good as married to him. She
was buried d^n there in the church-yard, close by the ves-
try 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 ?" 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 was well again,
and died at the birth of her first child. That was the pres-
ent Mrs. Oldcastle'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 con-
cerning 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, which from that day began, as it
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 83
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 standing now, sir. But it's a very dif-
ferent 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 yesterday 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 succeeded 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 fprm 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 reported 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?
I am willing to allow, at once, that I have very likely giv-
en it more room than it deserves 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 com-
mon 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 among my cottagers and
trades-people* Indeed, it came very strangely upon that
experience.
'"But surely you did not believe such an extravagant
tale ? The old man was in his dotage, to begin with."
Had the old man been in his dotage, which he was not,
my answer would have been a more triumphant one. For
when was dotage consistently and imaginatively inventive ?
But why should I not believe the story? There are people
who can hever believe any thing that is not (I do not say
merelyin accordance with tneir own character, but) in accord-
ance 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
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84 ANKALS OF
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 low-
est self and not your best self may like, I will warrant you
capable, by the end of that time, of child-murder at least. I
do not think the descent to Avernus 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 horrible things are
constantly in progress toward the windows of the newspa-
pers.
" 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 represented,
therefore they can not 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 our-
selves except in the knowledge that we are striving up and
away, and therefore can not be sinking nearer to the region
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 re-
called 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 myself up in my study, and tried
to read a sermon of Jeremy Tajjor. But it would not do.
I fell fast asleep over it at last, and woke refreshed.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOSHOOP. 85
CHAPTER Vm.
WHAT I PBEAGHED.
DuEiNG the suffering which accompanied the disappoint-
ment at which I have already hinted, I did not think it in-
consistent with the manly spirit in which I was resolved to
endure it to seek consolation from such a source as the New
Testament, if mayhap consolation for such a trouble was to
be found there. Whereupon, a little to my surprise, I dis-
covered that I could not read the Epistles at all ; for I did
not then care an atom for the theological discussions in which
I had been interested before, and for the sake of which I had
read those epistles. Now that I was in trouble, what to me
was that philosophical theology staring me in the face from
out ^e sacred page ? Ah ! reader, do not misunderstand
me. V All reading 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 un-
derstand 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 fullness, who loved
Him so utterly that by that very love they were lifted into
the air of pure 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 neighbor, or not to be anxious for the morrow,
will better know what is best to know, than the best-read
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86 ANNALS OF
bishop withont that one simple outgoing of his highest nature
in the effort to do the will of Him who thus spc^e. J
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 noth-
ing of the Epistles, could see no possibSty of consolation for
my distress springing from them, I fbund it altogether differ-
ent 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
dbthing at all about it ; that I had only a certain surface-
knowledge, which tended rather to ignorance, because it fos-
tered the delusion that I did know. Know tJiat 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 know Thee I 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 showedst 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 clear, I most re-
joiced in their clearness 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 mu9t be partaker
of the Divine nature ; that for a man's work to be done thor-
oughly, 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 Sav-
ior himself? And how was I to do this ? By trying to
represent the man in all the simplicity of his life, of his say-
ings and doings, of his refusals to say or do. I took the
story 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.
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A QUIBT NEI6HB0BH00D. 87
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 under-
stood them myself, and where! could not understand them
I just told them so, and said I hoped for more light by-and-
by to enable me to understand 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 under-
stand the precious 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 num-
ber of people that slept grew less and less, until at last it
was reduced to the church-warden, Mr. Brownrigg, 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 therefore called upon her every Monday morning, and had
five 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 any thing, she might
be able to keep awake a little while at the beginning of the
sermon ; for she gave me no chance of interesting her on
Sundays, going fast asleep the moment I stood up to preach.
I never got so far as that, however ; and the only fact that
showed me I had made any impression upon her, beyond
the pleasure she always manifested when 1 appeared on the
Monday, was, that, whereas all my linen had been very badly
washed at first, a decided improvement took place after a
while, beginning with my surplice and bands, and gradually
extending 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. With regard to him, and mil-
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88 ANNALS OF
lions besides, I am more than happy to obey my Lord's com-
mand, and not judge.
But it was not long either before my congregations began
to improve, whatever might be the cause. I could not help
hoping that it was really because they liked to hear the
Gospel, that is, the good news about Christ himself; and I
always made use of the knowledge I had of my individual
hearers to say what I thought would do them good. Not
that I ever preached cU any body ; 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
sermon 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 covetousness, and the whole nature
would be full of light, and the right walk would speedily
follow.
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 toward a man bet-
ter understood or more appreciated than my attempt was
by the atheistical carpenter. 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. Ho
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 Christmas, and there
was one person whom I had never yet seen at church : that
was Catharine 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
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A QUIET NBIGHBOEHOOD. 89
of her since that first occasion ; and I had told my honse-
keeper 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 I did
not care if the things were not quite as good ; for it would
be of more consequence to Catharine 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 connection with her,
although I saw that any attempt at conversation was so dis-
tasteful to her 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 fa-
ther's, had drawn all her mind to brood over it. The world
itself, the whole order of her life, every thing 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 possessed by one
set of thoughts, to get rid of it again, or to see any thing
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 indomitable pride had
upheld her to face it so far as was necessary to secure her
independence ; both of which pride and shame prevented
her from appearing where it was unnecessary, and especially
in church. I could do nothing more than wait for a favor-
able opportunity. I could invent no way of reaching her
yet, for I had soon found that kindness to her boy was re-
garded 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 grandfather. A more attentive and devout
worshiper was not in the congregation than that little boy.
Before going on to speak of another of the most remark-
able of my parishioners, whom I have just once mentioned
I believe already, I should like to say that on three several
occasions before Christmas I had seen Judy look grave.
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She was always quite well-behaved in church, though rest-
less, as one might expect. But on these occasions she was
not only attentive, 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 any thing ^I mean in church.
CHAPTER rX.
THE OBGANIST.
On the afternoon of my second Sunday at Marshmallows
I was standing in the church-yard, casting a long shadow
in the light of the declining sun. I was reading the inscrip-
tion upon an old head-stone, for I thought every body 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 any thing 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 car-
riage of a military man, without an atom of that sternness
which one generally finds in the faces of those accustomed
to command. He had a large face, with large regular feat-
ures, and large clear gray eyes, all of which united to ex-
press an exceeding placidity or repose. It shone with intel-
ligence a mild intelligence no way suggestive of pro-
fundity, although of geniality. Indeed, there was a little
too much expression. The face seemed to express offi that
lay beneath it.
I was not satisfied with the countenance, and yet it looked
quite good. It was somehow a too well-ordered face. It
was quite Greek in its outline, and Inarvelously well kept
and smooth, considering that the beard, to which razors
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A QUIET NBIGHBOEHOOD. 91
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. Some-
how 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 and threadbare. They bore, signs of use, but
more signs of time and careful keeping. I would have
spoken to him, but something in the manner in which he
bowed to me as he passed prevented me, and I let him go
unaccosted.
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 noth-
ing to him, because I had not answered the question my-
self yet.
" Who is that gentleman," I asked, " who came out just
now?"
"That is Mr. Stoddart, sir," he answered.
I thought I had heard the name in the neighborhood be-
fore.
"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 Hall?"
" Why, the Hall, to be sure Oldcastle Hall, you know."
And then it dawned on my recollection that I had heard
Judy mention her unde Stoddart. But how could he be
her uncle ?
"Is he a relation of the family?" I 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 connection, you know, sir. He's been in the milin-
tairy line, I believe, sir, in the Ingies, or somewheres."
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.
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A military man from India! a brother-in-law of Mrs. Old-
castle, choosing to live with her ! an entrancing performer
upon an old, asthmatic, dry-throated church organ ! taking
no trouble to make the clergyman's acquaintance, and pass-
ing him in the church-yard with a courteous bow, although
his face was full of kindliness, if not of kindness ! I could
not help thinking all this strange. And yet will the read-
er cease to accord me credit when I assert it ? although I
had quite intended to inquire after him when I left the vic-
arage to go to the Hall, and had even thought of him when
sitting with Mrs. Oldcastle, I never thought of him again
after going with Judy, and left the house without having
made a single inquiry after him ; nor did I think of him
again till just as I was passing under the outstretched neck
of one of those serpivolants on the gate ; and what made
me think of him then I can not in the least imagine ; but I
resolved at once that I would call upon him the following
week, lest he should think that the fact of his having omit-
ted to call upon me had been the occasion of such an ap-
parently pointed omission on my part \ for I had long ago
determined to be no farther guided by the rules of society
than as they might aid in bringing about true neighborli-
ness, and, if possible, friendliness and friendship. Wherever
they might mterfere 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 re-
turn, and waiting, he answered at length, with some hesita-
tion, 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.
" That's very unkind of somebody, surely," I said.
" But he doesn't want any body to call upon him, sir."
" Ah ! that's another matter. I didn't know that. Of
course, nobody has a right to intrude upon any body. How-
ever, as I happen to tthve come without knowing his dislike
to being visited, perhaps you will take him my card, and say
that if it is not disagreeable to him, I should like exceeding-
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 93
ly 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 1 fol-
lowed 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. Stod-
dart?"
" No, I thank you," I answered. " I came 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 afterward 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 referr.ed 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,! think,
would be the readiest word to communicate what I mean.
It was indubitably, indeed remarkably, like Miss Oldcastle.
And I learned afterward that it was the portrait of Mrs.
Oldcastle's grandmother, that very Mrs. Crowfoot mention-
ed in Weir's story. It had been taken about six months
after her marriage, and about as many before her death.
The butler returned, with a request that I would follow
him. He led me up the grand staircase, through a passage
at light 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 forward. 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
ceiling, whence hung a globular lamp; radiated what I took
to be a number of strong beams supporting a floor above ;
for our ancestors put the ceiling above the beams, instead
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94 AbTSALS OP
of below them as we do, and gained in space, if they lost in
quietness. But I soon found out my mistake. Those radi-
ating 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
any where 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 contriv-
ances. 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 next moment, how-
ever, a nest of shelves revolved in front of me, and there
Mr. Stoddart 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 but-
ler told me, your unwillingness to be intruded upon ; for I
fear, had I known it, I should have been yet longer %, stran-
ger 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."
" Well, before we say another word," said Mr. Stoddart,
" I must just say one word about this report of my unsocia-
ble disposition. I encourage it, but I am very glad to see
you notwithstanding. Do sit down."
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 rumor 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 at-
tempt to carry out any fancies of their own in regard to my
personal freedom."
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 95
Upon this followed some desultory conversatioD, 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
colored.
" What a number of books you have !" I observed.
"Not a great many," he answered. " But I think there
is, hardly one of them with which I have not some kind of
personal acquaintance. 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 fron^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 mysetf 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 farther, and presented 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.
"There is your guinea," said he, a little mortified.
" 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 even ? 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 weren't sure
of that last book. I am indeed."
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. You won't tell a lie for God's
sake. You won't dodge about a little to keep all right be-
tween Jove and his weary parishioners. You won't cheat
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96 ANNALS OF
a little for the .sake of the poor ! You wouldn't even bam-
boozle a little at a bazar !''
" I should not like to boast of my prinoiples," I answered ;
" for the moment one does so, they become as the apples of
Sodom. But assuredly I would not favor 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 dare say. 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 quar-
reling."
"Good," he said. "Would you like to see my work-
shop?"
" Very much indeed," I answered heartily.
" Do you take any pleasure in applied mechanics ?"
" I used to do so as a boy ; but, of course, I have little
time now for any thing 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
favorite books. Here I read any thing I want to read;
write any thing I want to write; bind my books; invent
machines ; and amuse myself generally. Take a chair."
I obeyed, and began to look about me.
The room had many books in detached book-cases. There
were various benches against the walls between one a book-
binder'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, apparently, to different ends."
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A QUIET NSIGHBOBHOOD. 97
"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 edu-
cation. I think a man has to educate himself into harmony.
Therefore he must open every possible window by which
the influences of the All may come in upon him. I do not
think any man complete without 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
was nothing offensive in it, but it left me without any thing
to reply to. No embarrassment followed, however, for a
rustling motion in the room the same instant attracted my
attention, and I saw, to my surprise, and, I must confess, a
little to my confusion. Miss Oldcastle. She was seated in a
comer, reading from a quarto lying upon her knees.
" Oh ! you didn't know my niece was here ? To tell the
truth, I lorgot her when I brought you up, else I would
have introduced you."
"That is not necessary, uncle," said Miss Oldcastle, clos-
ing 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 any
thing better to say.
" Some old books," she answered.
" May I ask what book you were reading?"
" I will answer you under protest," she said with a
smile.
" I withdraw the question at once," I returned.
" I will answer it notwithstanding. It is a volume of
Jacob Behmen."
" Do you understand him ?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"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 lam sorry to find that one of the
plates is missing from my copy."
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** 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 imfolding ones in my third vol-
ume, 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."
" 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 ?" I asked, feeling 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 preferred the latter member of the alternative ; for the
suffermg of the lower nature is as a fire that drives the high-
er nature upward. So I felt rather hypocritical when I
asked Miss Oldcastle after her.
" Quite well, thank you," she answered, in a tone of indif-
ference, which implied either that she saw through me, or
shared in my indifference, I could not tell which.
" And how is Miss Judy ?" I 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 return-
ed ; for I saw signs of exhaustion in her eyes which moved
my sympathy.
" 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 some moment, passed over her face. I saw
that she felt she ought not to have allowed herself to become
the subject of conversation.
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 99
Meantime her uncle was busy at one of his benches filing
away at a piece of braap fixed in 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 embar-
rassment produced by the repulsion of her last manner, I
saw Judy in the room. At the same moment Miss Old-
castle rose.
" What is the matter, Judy ?" 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.
" Your uncle admits you to his workshop, then ?"
" Yes, indeed. He would feel rather dull, sometimes,
without me. Wouldn't you. Uncle Stoddart ?"
" Just as the horses in the field would feel dull without
the gad-fly, Judy," said Mr. Stoddart, 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 himself 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. Stoddart," I answer-
ed. " And as for taking offense, I don't like it, and there-
fore I never take it. But tell me what you are doing now."
" I have been working for some time at an attempt after
a perpetual motion, thit, I must confess, more from a meta-
physical or logical point of view than a mechanical one."
Here he took a drawing from a shelf explanatory of his
plan.
" You see," he said, ** here is a top, made of platinum, the
heaviest of metals, except iridium, which it would be im-
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100 ANNALS OF
possible to procure enough of, and which would be difficult
to work into the proper shape. J}, is surrounded, you will
observe, by an air-tight receiver, communicating by this
tube with a powerful air-pump. The plate upon which the
point of the top rests and revolves is a diamond ; and I
ought to have mentioned that the peg of the top is a dia-
mond likewise. This is, of course, for the sake of reducing
the friction. By this apparatus communicating with the
top, through the receiver, I set the top in motion after
exhausting the air as far as possible. Still there is the dif-
ficulty 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 re^
volve at precisely the same rate of speed as the top itself.
This, of course, will prevent all friction.
" 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 o{ perpetiuxl mo-
tion."
"But suppose I could get over that difficulty, would the
contrivance have a right to the name of a perpetual mo^
tion ? For you observe that the steam-engine below would
not be the cause of the motion. That comes 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 in-
dwelling of self-generative power ^renewing itself constant-
ly 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 verv pretty machfiie."
" Pretty, I will allow," I answered, " as distinguished 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 not see me. I have a loophole for seeing you.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 101
And I flatter myself, therefore, I am the only person m the
congregation on a level with you in respect of balancing
advantages. I can not contradict you, and you can not
address me."
"Do you mean, then, that whatever is poetical is use-
less?"! asked.
"Io you assert that whatever is useful is beautiful?" he
retorted.
" A full reply to your question would need a ream of pa-
per 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 re-
turned, promptly.
I had to think for a moment before I could reply.
" I do not see any thing noble in the end," I answered.
"If the machine got rid of malefaction, 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 any thing so noble in that end. The gallows can not
be beautiful."
" Ah ! I see. You don't approve of capital punishments."
" I do not say that. An inevitable necessity 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 de-
signs ; but to punish him for being wrong, however neces-
sary it may be for others, can not, if dissociated from the
object of bringing good out of evil, be called in any sense a
noble 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 ?"
"I think it is very like my machine. It may exercise the
faculties without subserving any immediate progress."
"It is so difficult to get out of the region of the poetic
that I can not 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 any thing poetic upon your mind ?"
" Pleasure," he answered.
" And is pleasure good or bad ?"
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^'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?"
" 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."
" Now, do not misunderstand me, Mr. Stoddart. That
might hot 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 every body 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
happiness. As soon as men got used to happiness, they
would begin to sin again, and so lose it all. But care is dis-
trust. I wonder now if 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 any body 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 ne had never been troubled with much care. But there
remained 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 thmpfs 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 lovdy^
not pretti/y not handsome ^is the outward and visible pres-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 103
ence of a lovely mind. Therefore, saying I can not disso-
ciate 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 grotesque machine I ever saw that did something,!
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 question^ whether it
can with propriety be called a perpetual motion or not ?"
To this Mr. Stoddart making no reply, I take the oppor-
tunity of the break in our conversation to say to my read-
ers 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 closest reasoner finds it next to im-
possible to attend to all the suggestions in his own mind,
not one of which he is willing to lose, to attend at the same
time to every thing his antagonist says or SRggests, that he
may do him justice, and to keep an even course toward his
goal each having the opposite goal in view. In fact, an
argument, however simply conducted and honorable, must
just resemble a game at football ; the unfortunate question
being the ball, and the numerous and sometimes conflicting
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 can be other than anxious that, if he has
spoken the evil thing, it may retm*n 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 between 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
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evil can be other than ngly. 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 were;
so I said,
" You put plenty m poetry yourself into that voluntary
you played last Sunday. I am so much obliged to you for
it!" : . .
" Oh I that fugue. You liked it, did you ?"
"More than I can tell you."
" I am very glad."
"Do you know those two lines of Milton in which he de-
scribes such a performance on the organ?".
" No. Can you repeat them ?"
* * His volant touch.
Instinct throngh all proportions, low andihigh,
Fled and porsaed transverse the resonant fugne.' **
"That is wonderfully fine. Thank you. That is better
than my fugue by a good deal. Yovl have canceled the
obligation." . .
"Do you think doing a good. turn again is canceling an
obligation ? I don't think an obligation can ever be re-
turned in the sense of being got rid of. But I am being
hypercritical."
" Not at all. Shall I tell you what I was thinking of
while playing that fugue ?"
" I should like much to hear."
"I had been thinking, while you were preaching, of the
many fancies men had worshiped for the truth-^-now follow-
ing 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?" I asked; but he went on
without heeding me.
" And I saw a vision of multitudes following, following
where nothing was to be seen, with arms outstretched in
all directions, some clasping vacancy to their bosoms, some
reaching on tiptoe over the heads of their neighbors, and
some with hanging heads, and hands clasped behind their
backs, retiring hopeless from the chase."
" Strange!" I said ; " for I felt so full of hope while you
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A QUIET NEI6HB0BH00D. 105
played that I never doubted it was hope you meant to ex-
press."
" So I do not doubt I did ; for the multitude was full of
hope, vain hope, to lay hold upon the truth. And you, be-
ing fuU 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 folding her wings closer and closer over and
around him as he works on at his day's labor."
" Very pretty," said Mr. Stoddart, and said no more.
"Suppose," 1 went on, "that a person knows that he has
not laid hold on the truth, is that sufficient ground for his
making any farther assertion than that he has not found it ?"
" No. But if he has tried hard and has not found any
thing that he can say is true, he can not 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 thing as truth to be found?
Are the ages so nearly done that no chance yet remains ?
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 ? But possibly a man may be
looking the wrong way for it. You may be using the mi-
croscope 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 Qaeen. Think how long the Redcross
Knight traveled with the Lady Truth Una, you know
without 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
E2
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106 ANNALS OF
going to be ashamed therefor. 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 fleet-
mg phantom ? Do you not profess to have, and hold, and
therefore teach the truth ?"
" I profess only to have caught glimpses of her white gar-
ments those, 1 mean, of the abstract truth of which you
speak. But I have seen that which is eternally beyond her :
the ideal in the real, the living truth, not the truth that I
can think^ but the truth that thinks itself, that thinks me,
that God has thought, yea, that God is, the truth being 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 content and unsatisfied ; for in Him are hid
all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. Thomas k
Kempis says : ' Cui SBtemum Verbum loquitur, ille a multis
opinionibus expeditur.' " (He to whom the eternal Word
speaks, is set free from a press of opinions.)
I rose and held out my hand to Mr. Stoddart. He rose
likewise and took it kindly, conducted me to the room be-
low, and, ringing the bell, committed me to the care of the
butler.
As I approached the gate I met Jane Kogers coming back
from the village. I stopped and spoke to her. Her eyes
were very red.
"Nothing amiss at home, Jane?" I said.
" No, sir, thank you," answered Jane, and burst out cry-
ing.
" What is the matter, then ? 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, dropping a cour-
tesy, walked on with her basket.
1 went to her parent's cottage. As I came near the miU,
the young miller was standing in the door with his eyes fixed
on the ground, while the mill went on hopping behind him.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 107
But when he caught sight of me, he turned and went in, as
if he had not seen me.
" Has he been behaving ill to Jane ?" thought I.
As he evidently wished to avoid me, I passed the mill with-
out looking in at Jhe 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 troub-
led, though they welcomed me none the less kindly.
"I met Jane," I said, " and she looked unhappy ; so I came
on to hear what was the matter."
" You oughtn't to be troubled with our small affairs," said
Mrs. Rogers.
"If the parson wants to know, why, the parson must be
told," said Old Rogers, 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 ?"
" I don't think you can, sir leastways I'm afraid not,"
said the old woman.
" I am sorry to say, sir, that Master Brownrigg and his
son has come to jvords about our Jane ; and it's not agree-
able to have folk's daughter quarreled over in that way," said
Old Rogers. " What'll 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 o^ sir.
So I tells my old 'oman here ; and so I told Jane ; but nei-
ther on 'em seems to see the comfort of it somehow. But
the New Testament do say'a man shall leave father and moth-
er, and cleave to his wife."
" But she ain't his wife yet," said Mrs. Rogers to her hus-
band, whose drift was not yet evident.
" No more she can be, 'cept he leaves his father for her."
"And what'll become of them then, without the mill?"
" You and me never had no mill, old 'oman," said Rogers ;
" yet hfere we be, very nearly ripe now ain't us, wife?"
"Medlar^like, Old Rogers, 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."
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108 ANNALS OF
"But, anyhow, it's all very well to talk. Thou knows how
to talk, Rogers. But how will it be when the children comes,
and no mill ?"
" To grind 'em in, old 'oman ?"
Mrs. Bogers turned to me, who was listening with real in-
terest and much amusement.
" I wish you would speak a word to Old Rogers, 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 Rogers's conduct was simple
consistency, and that the diflSiculty arose from his always act-
ing upon one or two of the plainest principles of truth and
right ; whereas his wife, good woman ^for the bad, old leav-
en of the Pharisees could not rise much in her somehow
was always reminding him of certain precepts of behavior
to the oblivion of principles. "A bird in the hand," etc.
"Marry in haste," etc. " When want comes in at the door,
love flies out at the window," were among her favorite say-
ings, although not one of them- was supported by her own
experience. For instance, she had married in haste herself,
and never, I believe, had once thought of repenting of it, al-
though she had had far 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
husband a lecture.
" He's a curious man, Old Rogers," I said, " but, as far
as I can see, he's in the right in the main. Isn't he, now ?"
" Oh yes, I dare say. I think he's always right about
the rights of the thing, 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 commonplace confusion of ideas I
"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 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."
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 109
But why talk of starving ?" I said. Can't Dick work ?
Who could think of startihg 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 ^least-
ways after a bit of warning ; whereas, if she was married,
and the consequences a follerin' 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."
" How would you have liked such a Godsend, Mrs. Rog-
ers, 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 Rogers."
" 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. J" see nothing iii
Dick Brownrigg."
" But young people may be right sometimes, and old
people may be wrong sometimes."
" I can't be wrong about Rogers."
" No, but you may be wrong about Dick."
"Don't you trouble yoursdf 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 your old wife I
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?"
" 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 account of him. I
shall look in, and have a little chat with him. I always
liked the look of him. Good-morning, Mrs. Rogers."
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110 ANNAIfi OP
"I'll 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 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 anger the old gentle-
man, 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 be-
lieve there's a bit of pride in it. She's afeard of bein' sup-
posed to catch at Richard Brownrigg because he's above us,
you know, sir ; and I can't altogether blame her, only we
ain't got to do with the look o' things, 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 ?"
"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 labor
it had been compelled to go through, and was now making
the best of its speed back to its mother-ocean, to tell sad
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 Richard 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, Richard ?" I said, cheerily.
" I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't think you saw me."
"But supposmg I hadn't? But I won't. tease you. I
know ^ about it. Can I do any thing for you ?"
" No, sir. You can't move my father. It's no use talk-
ing to him. He never hears a word any body says. He
never hears a word you say o' Sundays, sir. He won't
even believe the Mark Lane Mx^esa about the price of
com. It's no use taking to him, sir."
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A QUIET NXIGHBOBHOOD. Ill
"You wouldn't mind if I were to try?"
"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, ft can make no differ-
ence."
" What are you going to do, then ?"
"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. Ho never
laid her under any such obligation, I'm sure."
"There may be more ways than one of accounting for
that. You must mind, however, 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."
"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 Am."
" I dare say 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 I But don't you be too hard
upon him. And don't do any thing in a hurry. Give him
a little time, you know. Mrs. Rogers won't interfere be-
tween you and Jane, I am pretty sure. But don't push
matters till we see. 6ood-by."
" Good-by, and thank you kindly, sir. Ain't I to see
Jane in the mean time ?"
" K 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 fore-
warned me," I could make nothing of him. He didn't see,
when the mill was his property and Dick was his son, why
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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 conversation 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, how-
ever, did a little to reconcile me to his going to sleep in
church, for I saw that it could make little difference wheth-
er he was asleep or awake. He, and not Mr. Stoddart in
his organ sentry-box, was the only person whom it was ab-
solutely impossible to preach to. You might preach at
him, but to him no.
CHAPTER X.
MY CHEISTBA5 PAETY.
As 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 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 thereK)re had a notice to that purport affixed to the
church door, and resolved to send out no personal invita-
tions whatever, so that I might not give offense by accident-
al omission. The only person thrown into perplexity by
this mode of proceeding was Mrs. Pearson.
" How many am I to provide for, sir ?" 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
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 113
tbe better. It can go to make Christmas Day the merrier
at some of tbe poorer houses."
Shh looked discomposed, for she was not of an easy tem-
per. But she never oc^c^ from her temper ; she only looked
or spoke from it.
"1 shall want help,'' she said, at length.
^' As much as you like, Mrs. Pearson. I can trast yon en-
tirely."
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 tbe amount of confidence my people
placed in me. But, although no one said a word to me
about it beforehand except Old Rogers, as soon as the hour
arrived the people began to come. And the first I wel-
comed was Mr. ferownrigg.
I bad had all tbe rooms on the ground floor prepared for
their reception. Tables of provision were set out in every
one of them. My visitors had tea or coffee, with plenty of
bread and butter, when they arrived, and tbe more solid
supplies were reserved for a later part of 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 ray labors gradually diminish, and yet ev-
ery thing seemed to go right ; the fact being that good Mr.
Boulderstone, in one part, had cast himself mto the middle
of the flood, and stood there immovable both in face and
person, turning its waters into tbe right channel, namely,
toward the bam, which I had fitted up for their reception
in a body ; while in another quarter, namely, in the Dam,
Dr. Duncan was doing his best, and that was simply some-
thing first-rate, to entertain 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 employed in various ways for tbe good of the
community.
When I came in and saw the goodly assemblage, for I
had been busy receiving them in the house, I could not help
rejoicing that my predecessor had been so fond of farming
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114 ANNALS OP
that he had rented land in the neighborhood of the vicar-
age, and built this large bam, of which I could make a hall
to entertain my friends. The night was frosty the 'stars
shining brilliantly overhead so that, especially for country
people, there was little danger in the snort passage to be
made to it from the house. But, if necessary, I resolved to
have a covered- way biiilt 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 Christmas Eve
just as if the Babe had been coming again to us that same
ni^ht. And is He not always coming to us afresh in every
childlike jR^eling that awakes in the hearts of His people ?
I walked about among them, greeting them, and greeted
every where 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. Boulderstone's hon-
est, though awkward endeavors to be at ease with his infe-
riors ; 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 toward
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 behavior that he was not at court. And I thought.
Surely even the contact with such a man will do something
to refine the taste of my people. I felt more certain than
ever that a free mingling of all classes would do more than
any thing else toward 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
Johnson's Fungoso^ " still lighting short a suit ;" would re-
fine 'the roughness 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 honor is
due, knowing that honor demanded is as worthless as insult
undeserved is hurtless I What has one to do to honor him-
self? That is and can be no honor. When one has learn-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 115
ed to seek the honor that cometh from God only, he will
take the withholding of the honor that com^ from men
very quietly indeed.
The only thing that disappointed me was that there was
no one there to represent Oldcastle Hall. But how could I
have every thing a success at once ? And Catharine 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 honoring
my invitation as you have done. Permit me to hope that
this meeting will be the first of many, and that 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 neighbor. 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 ac-
cuser to God, 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 bora again 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. What else is meant by
' Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness,
and all these things shall be added unto you ?' Instead of
doing so, we seek the things God has promised to look aft-
er for us, and refuse to seek the thing He wants us to seek
a thing that can not be given us except we seek it. We
profess to think Jesus the grandest and most glorious of
men, and yet hardly care 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 our own
way, be put from us, that we may welcome the Babe into
our very bosoms ; that when He comes among us ^for is
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116 AJTETALS OF
He not like a child gtill, meek and lowly of heart ? ^He may
not be tronhied to find that we are qoarrelsome, and selfish,
and nnjost."
I came down from the chair, and Mr. Brownrigg being
the nearest of my guests and wide awake, for he had been
standing, and had indeed been listening to every word ac-
cording to his ability, I shook hands with him ; and posi-
tively there was some meaning in the grasp with which he
returned mine.
I am not going to record all the proceedings of the even-
ing; but I think it may be interesting to my readers to
know something of how we spent it. First of all, we sang
a hymn about the Nativity; and then I read an extract
from a book of travels, describing the interior of an Eastern
cottage, probably much resembling the inn in which our
Lord was bom, 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 e in some measure the re-
ality of the old lovely story, to help them to have what the
Scotch philosophers call a true conception of the external
conditions ^nd 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 out-
ward facts. And the extract was listened to with all the
attention I could wish, except, at first, from some young-
sters at the farther end of the bam, who became, however,
perfectly still as I proceeded.
After this followed conversation, during which I talked a
good deal to Jane Rogers, paying her particular attention
mdeed, with the hope of a chance of bringing old Mr. Brown-
rigg and her together in some way.
" How is your mistress, Jane ?" I 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 any thing you may have happened
to overhear," I said, in a low voice.
"Oh, sir," returned Jane, blushing a dark crimson, "it
wasn't any thing particular."
" Still, if it was any thing on which a wrong conjecture
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 117
might be built*' ^I wanted to soften it to her " it is better
that one should not be told it. Thank you for jrour Idnd
intention, though. And now, Jane," I said, " will you do
me a favor?"
"That I wiU, 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 fa-
ther, 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.
''Babe Jestis lay on Miuy's lap ;
The san shone in his hair;
And 80 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 ne'er be soil'd, my sweet,
Thy feet shall ne'er 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 I 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."
" I never saw it," I said. ** Where did you get the tunc ?"
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"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. Brownrigg was seated on the other side of me, and
had apparently listened with some interest. His face was
ten degrees less stupid than it usualljr was. I fancied I saw
even a glimmer of some satisfaction in it. I turned to Old
Rogers.
" Sing us a song. Old Rogers," 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 was pleased to see us
enjoying ourselves, I should 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 plow that has no share,
Bat a coulter that parteth keen and fair.
But the furrows they rise
To a terrible size,
Or ever the plow hath touch'd them there.
'Gainst horses and plow in wrath they shake :
The horses are fierce ; but the plow will break.
'And the seed that is dropp'd in those farrows 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 hanrest-day will come at last,
When the watery winter all is past ;
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 bams of etemitv."
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A QUIKT NEI6HB0BH00D. 119
/
Genuine applause followed the good doctor's song. I
turned to Miss Boulderstone, from whom I had borrowed 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 Prodi-
gal 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 indififerent
things bad was for good people not to do them.
And, so saying, 1 stepped up to Jane Rogers, 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 1 While I had been
talking, Old Rogers 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 Richard'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, send the
fowl he was about to dine upon, untouched, to those whose
necessity was greater than his.
And Mr. Boulderstone had taken out old Mrs. Rogers;
and young Brownrigg had taken Mary Weir. Thomas
Weir did not dance at all, but looked on kindlys*-
"Why don't you dance. Old Rogers ?" I said, as I placed
his daughter in a seat beside him.
" Did your honor ever see an elephant go up the futtock-
shrouds ?"
" No, I never did."
" I thought you must, sir, to ask me why I don't dance.
You won't take ray fun ill, sir ? I'm an old man-o'-war's
man, you know, sir."
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120 ANNALS OF
^'I should have thought, Kogers, that you would have
known 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.
I turned and addressed Mr. Boulderstone.
" I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Boulderstone, for the
help you have giv/en me this evening. I've seen you talking
to every body, 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^i a time to mind one's 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."
" I'll jSnd you a partner, if you will put yourself in my
hands."
" I don't mind trusting myself to you, sir."
60 I led him to Jane Kogers. She stood up in respectful
awe before the master of her destiny. There were signs of
calcitration in the church-warden when he perceived whither
I was leading him. But when he saw the girl stand trem-
bling 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 can not tell,
but after just a perceptible Hesitation he said,
" Come along, my lass, and let's have a hop together."
She obeyed very sweetly.
" Don't be too shy," I whispered to her as she passed me.
And the church-warden danced very heartily with the
lady's-maid.
1 then asked him to take her into the house, aud give her
something to eat in return for her song. He yielded some-
what awkwardly, and what passed between them I do not
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 121
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 with the words,
" Give us a kiss, my girl, and let by-gones be by-gones."
Which kiss I heard with delight. 1 or had I not been a
peacemaker in this matter ? And had I not then a right to
feel blessed? 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 bim to treat her as such,
that is, as a mere fancy of his son's. The idea of her had
passed through his mind ; but with what vividness any idea,
notioo, or conception could be present to him, ray readers
must judge from my description of him ; so that obstinacy
was a ridiculously easy accomplishment to him ; for he nev-
er had any notion of the matter to which he was opposed
only of that which he favored. It is very easy indeed for
such people to stick to their point.
But I took care that we should have dancing in modera-
tion. It would not do for people either to get weary with
recreation, or excited with what was not worthy of produc-
ing 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 " 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 own music,
which it sends out before it as a harbinger, or properly a her-
herger^ to prepare a harbor 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
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122 ANNALS OP
he was myre in the Bible than in any other book, or all oth-
er books put together.
After supper we had a little more singing, 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 behaviors, and
that now they were on their good behavior. But I thought
the oflener such were put on their good behavior, giving
them the opportunity of finding out how nice it was, the
better. It might make them ashamed of the other at last.
There were many little bits of conversation I overheard
which I should like to give my readers, but I can not dwell
longer upon this part of my Annals. Especially I should
have enjoyed recording one piece of talk, in which Old Rog-
ers was evidently trying to move a more directly religious
feeling in the mind of Dr. Duncan. I thought 1 could see
that the difficulty with the noble old gentleman was one
of expression. But, after all, the old foremast-man was a
seer of the Kingdom, and the 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 imitations. 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 farther, some time or other, m 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.
Oh blessed Well of Love ! Oh Floure of Grace !
Oh glorious Morning-Starre ? Oh Lampe of Light !
Most lively image of thy Father's face,
Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might,
Meeke Lambe of Grod, before all worlds behight,
How can we Thee requite for all this good ?
Or what can prize that Thy most precious blooa ?
Yet naught Thou ask'st in lieu of all this love.
But love of us, for guerdon of Thy paine :
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 123
Ay me ! what can us lesse than that behove ?
Had He required life of ns againe,
Had it beene wrong to ask His owne with gaine ?
He gave us life, 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 banned ;
Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee,
As He himselfe hath loved 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 foofl 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.
Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth ! out of thy soyle,
In which thonwallowest like to filthy swyne,
And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle,
UnmindfuU of that dearest tiord 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 toylfuU oxe and humble asse,
And in what rags, and in how hase 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,
Ofiending none, and doing good to all.
Yet being malist both by great and small.
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124 ANNAI^ OF
With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind,
^ Thou most Him love, and His beheasts embrace ;
All other loves, with which the world doth blind
Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base.
Thou mast 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,
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.
Sfenseb.
NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP.
Behold a silly tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies ;
Alas I 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.
Despise 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.
With joy approach, oh Christian wight I
Do homage to thy King ;
And highly praise this humble pomp
Which He from heaven doth bring.
Southwell.
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOI). 125
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS.
1. Where is this blessed Babe
That hath made
All the world so fall of joy
And expectation;
That glorious Boy
That crowns each nation
With a triamphant wreath of blessedness ?
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.
Chorta, Oh what a gracious God have we !
How good ! How great I Even as our misery.
Jebemy Taylor.
A SONG 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.
Oh happy night, that brought forth light.
Which makes the blind 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 mom ;
But better news from heaven was brought,
Your Savior Christ is born.
In Bethlem-town the infant lies.
Within a place obscure.
Oh little Bethletn, poor in walls,
But rich in furniture I
Since heaven is now come down to earth,
Hither the angels fly !
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Hark, bow the heavenly choir doth sing
Glory 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.
Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing
Shall we our Christ deny ?
He*s bom for us, and we for Him :
Glory to God on High,
John Mason.
CHAPTER XL
SEBMON ON GOD AND MAMMON.
I NEVER asked questions about the private affairs of any
of my parishioners, except of themselves individually 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, notwithstand-
ing, for I could not be constantly closing the lips of the com-
municative as I had done those of Jane Rogers ; and among
other things, I learned that Miss Oldcastle went most Sun-
days to the neighboring town of Addicehead to church. Now
I had often heard of the^ ability of the rector, and although
I had never met him, was prepared to find him a cultivated
if not an original man. Still, if I must be honest, which I
hope I must, I confess that I heard the news with a pang, in
analyzing which I discovered the chief component to be jeal-
ousy. 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 deliver me from the evil, be-
cause His was the kingdom, and the power, and the glory.
And He took my part against myself, for He waits to be
gracious. Perhaps the reader may, however, suspect a
deeper cause for this feeling (to which I would rather not
give the true name again) than a merely professional one.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 127
But there was one stray sheep of my flock that appeared
in church for the first time on the morning of Christmas Day
Catharine Weir. She did not sit beside her father, but in
the most shadowy corner of the church 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 honor of speaking a
true word to them all, which honor I thought I was right in
asking, because the Lord reproached the Fharisees for not
seeking the honor that cometh from God. Perhaps I may
have put a wrong interpretation on the passage. It is, how-
ever, 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.
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 can not serve God and Mammon. Therefore I say
unto youy Take no thcmghtfor your life?
" When the Child whose birth we celebrate with glad
hearts this day grew up to be a man. He aid 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 understand what the Lord sajrs, when it seems
to them that His advice is impracticable, mstead of search-
ing 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 trying to do
it at all ; or, oftener, they do not think about it at all as any
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thing 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 sinners, may have died for our sakes, doing
the will of His Father in heaven, and vet we have nothing
to do with the words He spoke out of the midst of His true,
perfect knowledge, feeling, and action! Is it not strange
that it 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 vic-
torious at last what matter when^ so long as we are trying,
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 glori-
ous Father, is freedom in fact, is the only way to get rid
of all bondage. So you see plainly enough that a man can
not serve God and Mammon. For how can a slave of his
own slave be tlij 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,.make aiiy confusion between
service and slavery. To serve is the highest, noblest calling
in creation. For even the Son of man came not to be min-
istered 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 can not 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 give to his
neighbor for fear of becoming 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 relatives, 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 him-
self, making them yet more of slaves to the overgrown mon-
ster they worship for his size. When he honors those who
have money because they have money, irrespective of their
character, or when he honors in a rich man what he would
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A QIHET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 129
not honor in a poor man, then is he the slave of Mammon.
Still more is he Mammon's 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 harf vanished, and he is
alone with God ? There lies the body in which 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 can not now even try to bribe God with a
check. 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 difference to them that
he has lost it, though, for they never respected 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 worshiper of Mammon loves another
^but rejoicing in ,the mischief that has befallen him, and
saying, " 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, can not with one drop of the water of Para-
dise cool that man's parched tongue.
" Alas ! poor Dives ! poor server of Mammon, whose vile
god can pretend to deliver him no longer ! Or rather, for
the blockish god never pretended any thing it was the
man's own doing alas for the Mammon- worshiper ! he can
no longer deceive himself in his riches. And so even in hell
he is something nobler thati he was on earth, for he wor-
ships his riches no longer. He can not. He ciirses them.
"Terrible things to say on Christmas Day! But if
Christmas Day teaches us any thing, it teaches us to wor-
ship God and not Mammon ; to worship spirit and not mat-
ter ; to worship love and not power.
" Do I now heaf any of my friends saying in their hearts,
Let the rich take that ? It does not apply to us. We are
poor enough I Ah ! my friends, I have known a light-heart-
ed, 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 disgrace 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
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serving of riches, instead of making them serve your neigh-
bor and yourself your neighbor for this life, yourself for
the everlasting habitations. God knows it is hard for the
rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven ; but the rich
man does sometimes enter in, for God hath made it possible.
And the greater the victory when 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,
m 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 salvation, 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 neighbor. * Serve Mammon !' do you say? 'How can
I serve Mammon ? 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 ?' do you answer ? ' Leave those questions till I am
tried.' But is there no bitterness in the tone of that re-
sponse ? Does it not mean, ' It will be a long time before I
have a chance of trying that ?^ But I am not driven to
such questions for' the chance of convicting some of you
of Mammon-worship. Let us look to the text. Read it
again.
" ' Ye can not serve God and Mammon, Therefore I
say unto you^ Take no thouyht for your life^
" Why are you to take no thought ? Because you caa not
serve God and Mammon. Is taking thought, then, a serv-
ing of Mammon ? Clearly. Where are you now, poor
man? Brooding over the frost? Will it harden the
ground so that the God of the sparrows can not find food
for His sons ? Where are you now, poor woman ? Sleep-
less over the empty cupboard and to-morrow's dinner ? ' It
is because we have no bread,' do you answer? 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 ?
Oh ye of little faith ! Oh ye poor-spirited Mammon-wor-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 131
shipers! who worship him not even because he has given
you any thing, but in the hope that he may some future day
benignantly regard yotf. But I may b 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 th^ man who is only anxious to add an-
other 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 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 ? Then you worship Mam-
mon. Tell me, do you think you would feel safer if you had
money in the bank ? Then you are Mammon-worshipers ;
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 ? and what shall we drink ? and wherewithal
shall we be clothed?' Are ye thus of doubtful mind?
Then you are Mammon-worshipers.
" But how is the work of the world to be done if we take
no thought? We are nowhere told not to take thought.
We micst 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 dope if they were not
driven by anxiety of some kind. But you, friends, are you
content to go with the nations pf the earth, or do you seek
a better way the way that the Father of the nations would
have you walk in ?
" WTiat then are we to take thought about ? Why, 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 fulfill 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 cloth-
ing. Will the work of the worl^ be neglected if a man
thinks of his work, his duty, God's will to be done, instead
of what ho is to eat, what he is to drink, and wherewithal
he is to be clothed ? And remember all the needs of the
world come back to these three. You will allow, I think,
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132 ANNALS OF
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 mote thoroughly used. What, then, is the
only region on which the doubt can settle ? Why, God.
He alone remains to be doubted. Shall it be so with you ?
Shall the Son of man, the baby now l)orn, and forever 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 ? I was
going to say, you deserve to be treated like the child who
frets and complains because his mother holds him on her
knee, and feeds him mouthful by mouthful with her own
loving hand. I meant, you 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, and leave you alone to your pleas-
ures. Alas ! poor child ! "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 gentle 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- worshipers among the poor. He
says to them. Take your Maipmon, and see what he is worth.
Ah I friends, the children of God can never be happy serv-
ing 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 had wealth, for I fear
you would only be worse Mammon-worshipers 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
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 138
be good for you to go hungry and barefoot, but it mustl^e
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 shall not lack any good. What it may
be good to deprive a man of till he knows and acknowl-
edges 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 lights.
" 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 happily he would receive his food and cloth-
ing, receiving them as the gifts of God ! What peace would
be his ! What a sober gayety I How hearty and infectious
his laughter ! What a friend he would be ! How sweet
his sympathy ! And his mind would be so clear he would
understand every thing. His eye being single, his whole
body would be full of light. No fear of his ever doing a
mean thing. He would die 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. Riches 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 can not trust in God out and out,
though she fain would I think I hear her say, 'I believe I
could trust Him for myself, or at least I should be ready to
dare the worst for His sake;, but my children it is the
thought of my children that is too much for me.' Ah I
woman ! she whom the Savior praised so pleasedly, was
one who trusted Him for her daughter. What an honor
she had! 'Be it unto thee even as thou wilt.' Do you
think you love your children better than He who made
them ? Is not your love what it is because He put it into
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134 ANNALS OF
your heart first ? Have not you often been cross with
thena ? Sometimes unjust to them ? Whence came the
returning love that rose from unknown depths in your be-
ing, and swept away the anger and the injustice ? You did
not create that love. Probably you were not good enough
to send for it by prayer. But it camie. God sent it. He
makes you love your children ; be sorry when you have
been cross with them ; ashamed when you have been unjust
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 thousand times better
than you do ^be sure of that and feels for their sufferings,
too, when He can not give them just what he would like
to give them can not for their good, I mean.
"But, as your mistrust will go farther, I can go farther
to meet it. You will say, ' Ah I 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 colors 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 because
God despises scarlet and fine linen, or does not love your
children. He loves them, I say, too much to give them
every thing all at once. But He would make them such
that they may have every thing without being the worse,
and with being the better for it. And if you can not 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. Never 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. What more or what else could
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 136
He do to take the burden off you ? Nothing else would do
it. Money in the bank wouldn't do it. He can not do to-
morrow's business for you beforehand to save you from fear
about it. That would derange every thing. What else is
there but to tell you to trust in Him, irrespective of the fact
that nothing 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 things. 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 His will, waiting
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 care-
lessly-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 exchanged for hunger, and cold, and
weariness. 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, whatever helps us to know the love of
Him who is our God ?
"But there Aod 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 would 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 condition to choose that of a baby
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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 ?
SuflScient 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 some-
times even his mother forgets 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, how-
ever like it things may look to our half-seeing eyes, by his
Father in heaven. One of the highest benefits we can reap
from understanding the way of God with ourselves is, that
we become ablo 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. Remem-
ber how He forsook His trade when the time came for Him
to preach. Preaching was not a profession then. There
were no monasteries, or vicarages, or stipends then. Yet
witness for the Father the garment woven throughout ; the
ministering of women ; the purse in common ! Hard-work-
ing 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 Lord. He could starve, but
He could not eat bread that His Father did not give Him,
even though He could make it Himself. Ho had come hith-
er to be tried. But when the victory was secure, lo ! the
angels brought Him food from His Father. Which was
better to feed Himself, or be fed by His Father ? Judge
yourselves, anxious people. He sought the kingdom 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 portion of the future as well
as the morrow. It is a principle, not a command, or an
encouragement, or a promise merely. In respect of it there
is no difference between next day and next year, n6xt 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 it is equally rea-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 18?
sonable to trust God for the next moment, and equally un-
reasonable not to trust Him ? The Lord was hungry and
needed food now, though He could still go without for a
while. He left it to His Father. And so He told His dis-
ciples 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, and eleven, and all
between, with the color of twelve. Do the work of each,
and reap your reward in peace. So, when the dreaded mo-
ment in the future becomes the present, you shall meet it
walking in the light, and that light will overcome its dark-
ness. How often do men who have made up their minds
what to say and do under certain expected circumstances,
forget the words and reverse the actions ! The best prep-
aration is the present well seen to, the last duty done.
For this will keep the 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 ?' But observe there is nothing verv 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 po^^er to fall back upon. But that
would have been to Him just the one dreadful thing. That
His Father should forget Him ! no power in Himself could
make up. 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 ? The very idea would be torture.
That would be to declare heaven void, and the world with-
out a God. He would not even pray to His Father for
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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
being to be 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 need, alas! too often without
wanting it. He never once, I repeat, used His power for
Himself. 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 j^st the one secret of
a blessed life, the one thing every man comes into this world
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 I
" Now you see that He took no thought for the mon*ow.
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
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 neighbor as your-
selves."
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 Elizabethan time. I had meant to in-
troduce 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 misinter-
pret as meaning on the spur of the moment^ or without the
due preparation of much thought,
** Oh man I thou image of thy Maker's good,
What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy blood
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 139
His Spirit is that bnilt thee ? What dull sense
Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence
Who made the morning, and who placed the light
Guide to thy labors ; 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 I 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 fullness, my poor story
Shall outlive all their age and all their glory.
The hand of danger can not fall amiss
When I know what, and in whose power it is.
Nor want, the curse of man, shall make mc groan :
A holy hermit is a mind alone.
* * *
Affliction, when I know it, is but this,
A deep alloy whereby man tougher is
To bear the hammer ; and the deeper still.
We still arise more image of His will ;
Sickness, a 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 Cath-
arine Weir sink yet lower upon her hands. After a mo-
ment, however, she sat more erect than before, though she
never lifted her eyes to meet mine. I need pot 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 wom-
an, the aged wife of a more aged laborer, who could not get
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 through." ^
* Many, in those days, believed in astrology.
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"Amen to the first of your blessing, Mrs.Tomkins, and
hearty thanks to you. But I daren't say Amen to the oth-
er part of it after what I've been preaching, you know."
"But there'll 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 helj) it."
" God bless ye, sir. But we're pretty tidy just in the
mean time."
I walked home, as usual on Sunday mornings, by the road.
It was a lovely day. The sun shone so waim 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 influences. But in the shad-
ows lay fine webs and 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, fantastical-
ly 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 fingers can touch nothing but to mould it into
loveliness ; and even the play of His elements 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 toward us ; looked upon
us with a hopeful smile; was like the Lord when He visited
His people as a little one of themselves, to 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 for-
bidding them that follow Thee and follow not wuth 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
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 141
summer, O Lord, if it ever may be summer in this court of
the Gentiles. But Thou hast told us that Thy kingdom
Cometh within us, and so Thy joy must come within us too.
Draw nigh then. Lord, to those to whom Thou wilt draw
nigh ; and others beholding their welfare will seek to share
therein too, and, seeing their good works, will glorify their
Father in heaven."
So I walked home, hoping in my Savior, 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 ? 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 shining on
others though 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 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 welcomed 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
F^her.
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 saw
him safe out of the pulpit ?" Ah 1 well, just one word, and
I drop the preaching for a while. My word is this: I may
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speak long-windedly, and even inconsiderately as regards
my young readers ; what I say may fail utterly to convey
what 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 my-
self for more, I assure you. For to speak about such things
is the greatest delight of my age, as it was of my early man-
hood, next to that of loving God and my neighbor. For as
these are the two commandments of life, so they are in them-
selves the pleasures of life. But there I am at it again. I
beg your pardon now, for I have already inadvertently bro-
ken 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
iinme; and if you should ever find it out, I shall very soon
hide it under some daisies, I hope, and so escape, and there-
fore I am going to be egotistic 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 mistake me. I do not mean that I love
reading. I hope I do. That is no fault a virtue rather
than a fault. JBut, as the old meaning of the word fond
was foolish^ I use that word : I am foolishly fond of the
bodies of books as distinguished 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 respect, except indeed it hlip-
pened to be useful to me in some inferior way. But I de-
light in seeing books about me ^books even of which there
seems to be no prospect that I shall have time to read a sin-
gle chapter before I 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 firelight as that by which I was
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A QUIET NSIGHBOSHOOD. 143
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 certainly, at
least, would not occupy the place of honor they do occupy,
had not some previous 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, al-
though certainly not things to be desired to make one wise.
I could say a great deal more about the matter jtwo 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 be-
cause it is money.* I have not yet reached the funiiture
stage, and I do not think I ever shall. I would rather bum
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 the same as offering advice. That
will probably take some of the shine off them, and put a few
thumb-marks in them, which both are very wholesome to-
ward 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 read-
ers, who have had sad experience of the sort, will be saying
in themselves, " He might have mentioned a surer antidote
resulting from this measure than either rubbed Russia or
dirty glove-ms^rks even ^that of utter disappearance and ir-
reparable 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 individual books are com-
niitted. 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 di-
gressions ?
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 dictionary,
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and soon discovered that Ethdvyyn meant Home-joy ^ or In-
heritance,
" A lovely meaning," I said to myself.
And then I went off into another reverie, with the com-
position 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 in-
tend to tell him how it was made up. I will tell him some-
thing else instead.
Several families had asked me to take my Christmas din-
ner with them ; but, not liking to be thus limited, I had
answered each that I would not, if they would excuse me,
but would look in some time or other in the course of the
evening.
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 in-
stances, with 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 husband
received a pair of warm trowsers 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 Catharine
Weir any thing, but I gave her little boy a box of water-
colors, in remembrance of the first time I saw him, though
I said nothing about that. His mother did not thank me.
She told little Gerard to do so, however, and that was some-
thing. And, indeed, 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 of which she belonged.
When I reached Old Rogers's cottage, whither I carried
a few yards of ribbon, bought by myself, I assure my lady
friends, with the special object that the color 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
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A QUIET NEIGHBOKHOOD. 145
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 could be indifferent
to wh^t people thought of me ; though I have had to fight
hard to act as freely as if I were indifferent, especially when
upon occasion I found myself approved of. It is more diffi-
cult 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 virtues, nor yet teach his people bad
habits by making them look out for presents that my in-
come not only seemed to me disproportioned to the amount
of labor necessary in the parish, but certainly was larger
than I required 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 gliding 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 a few of the good
things people give their children to my poor friends, whose
kind reception of them gave rae as much pleasure 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 wom-
an'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 !" I exclaimed, " you here?"
" Yes. Why not, Mr. Walton ?" she returned, 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 overbur-
dened with reverence, was not, I presume, a cause of much
annoyance to the little damsel.
" I know no reason why I shouldn't see a Sandwich Isl-
ander here. Yet I might express surprise if I did find one,
might I not?"
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Judy pretended to pout, and muttered something about
comparing her to a cannibal. But Jane took up the expla-
nation.
"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 any
how, whatever the reason may be ; and so I came to see
my father and mother, and Miss fudy would come with
me."
" She's very welcome," said Mrs. Rogers.
" 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."
"That wouldn't 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 ?" asked Mrs. Rogers.
" I didn't bring her, mother. She would come."
" Besides, sheUl 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
influence over her, and knew that the way to render my de-
sire impossible of fulfillment 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 cler-
gyman is not a moral policeman. So I took no notice of
the impropriety.
" Had they actually to go away on the morning of Christ-
mas Day ?" I said.
"They went anyhow, whether they had to do it or not,
sir," answered Jane.
" Aunt Ethelwyn didn't want to go till to-morrow," said
Judy. " She said something about coming to church this
morning ; 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 Rogers that I do."
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 147
The latch was gently lifted, and in came young Brown-
rigg ; so I thought it was time to leave my best Christmas
wishes and take myself away. Old Rogers came with me
to the mill-stream as usual.
" It 'mazes me, sir," he said, " a gentleman o' your age
and bringin' up, to know all that you tould us this momin'.
It 'ud be no Wonder, 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 wellnigh all the world
over why, there's scarce a wave on the Atlantic but knows
Old Rogers!"
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 leastways 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 nothing and nobodv
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 earing for that matter. For, you see,
what does it signify 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 Cap-
tain 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 confes-
sion 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 knew 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 my knowledge may stand
the test of farther and severer trials remains to be seen. But
if I should fail any time, old friend, and neither trust in God
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148 ANNAUS OF
nor do my duty, what I have said to you remains true all the
sama"
" 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 stiU 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 way lest I should blaspheme Him in my wicked heart."
"How was that, Rogers?"
"A scream came from the quarter-deck, and then the ciy,
* Child overboard !' There was but one child, the captain's,
aboard. I 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 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 trying.
And, what was far worse, for one moment I disbelieved in
Him ; and I do say that's worse than swearing in a hurry
I mean. And that moment something went, the jacket was
offi and there was I feelin' as if every stroke I took was as
wide as the main yard. I had no time to repent, only to
thank God. And wasn't it more than I deserved, 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.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 149
But you was a sayin' of something, sir, when I mterrnpted
you."
" I am very glad you did interrupt me."
" I'm not, though, sir. I've lost summat I'll never hear
more."
*' No, you sha'n't lose it. I was going to tell you how I
think I came to understand a little about the things I was
talking of to-day."
" That's it, sir that's it. Well, sir, if you please ?"
" You've heard of Sir Philip Sidney, haven't you. Old
Rogers?"
"He was a great joker, wasn't he, sir ?"
" No, no ; you're thinking of Sydney 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 jroiK 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 bam, which, with the help of Weir the car-
penter, 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 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 lec-
tures were on Philip Sidney, I did not give one whole lec-
ture even to Walter Raleigh, grand fellow as he was. I
wanted chiefly to set forth the men that could rule them-
selves, first of all, after a noble fashion. But I have not fin-
ished these lectures yet, for I never wished to confine them
to the English heroes ; I am going on still, old man as I am
^not, however, without retracing passed 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
honored to present in its turn to some of this grand com-
pany ^this cloud of witnesses to the truth in our own antl
other lands, some of whom subdued kingdoms, and 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
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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 horse-
man in Europe in his day, as, indeed, all things taken to-
gether, he seems to have really been the most accomplished
man generally of his time in the world. Writing to this
brother, he says ^"
I could not repeat the words exactly to Old Rogers, 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 deO 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."
" I think I see what you mean, sir. I had ^ot 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 all."
" 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
any thing about the matter. I never was content without
trying at least to understand things ; and if they are practi-
cal things, and you try to practice 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 principle is involved will reveal the
principle, if attended to, just as well as a great one con-
taining the same principle. The only difference, and that a
most important one, is that though I've got my clay and my
straw together, 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. Be-
sides, 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
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 151
to be quite sure that all your seams are calked, and so to
keep a look-out on the bilge-pump ; isn't it, sir ?"
During the most of this conversation we were standing
by the mill-water, half frozen over. The ice from both
sides came toward the middle, leaving an empty space be-
tween, along which 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 shad-
ow 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 get-
ting 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 Rogers," 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, not knowing what He meant
whea He warned them against the leaven of the Pharisees.
I want to know what you think about it. You'll find the
story told both in the sixteenth chapter of St. Matthew and
the eighth of St. Mark."
"Well, sir, I'll try; that is, if you will tell me what you
think about it afterward, so as to put me right if I'm
wrong."
" Of course I will, if I can find out an explanation to
satisfy me. But it is not at all clear to me now. In fact,
I do not see the connecting links of our Lord's logic in the
rebuke 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 sum-
mered over with his childlike smile.
" There are many things which a little learning, while it
can not really hide them, may make you less ready to see
all at once," I answered, shaking hands with Old Kogers,
and then springing across the brook with my carpet bag in
my hand.
By the time I had got through the rest of my calls, the
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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 I The only pang I felt that day was as I passed the
monsters on the gate leading to Oldcastle Hall. Should I
be honored to help only the poor of the flock ? 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 heav-
en ? 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 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 understand her yet. And she was so
beautiful I I thought her more beautiful every time I saw
her. But I never appeared to make the least progress to-
ward any real ncquaintance with her thoughts and feelings. '
It seemed to i-ie, 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 chief-
ly for the sake of th^ 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 thei
moment I sought to lay hands upon it, as if it knew quite
well it had no business there. But certainly 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 something 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 Rogers. 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 certain-
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A QIJIBT NEIGHBOfiHOOD. 153
ly take the same interest in Mr. Brownrigff, 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 feelings were
not quite under my own control. And we are nowhere
told to love every body alike, only to love every one who
comes within our reach as ourselves.
I wonder whether my old friend Dr. Duncan was right.
He had served on shore in Egypt under General Abercrom-
by, and had, of course, after the fighting was over on each
of the several occasions the French being always repulsed
exercised his office among 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 jnatter. I loved the old man
the more that he did as he did. But as a question of casuis-
try, I am doubtful about its answer.
This digression is, I fear, unpardonable.
I made Mrs. Pearson sit down with me to dinner, for
Christmas Day was not one to dine 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 between it and
the new year, and so ended jny 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 forgotten.
When we had finished our dinner, and I was sitting alone
drinking a glass of claret before going out again, Mrs. Pear-
son 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.
" 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 things.
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" No, thank you, sir ; I never tasted wine."
I 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 ?
I said, " Thank you, my darling," and I ate them up, ev-
ery one of them, that he might see me eat them before he
left the house. And the dear child went off radiant.
If any body can not understand why I did so, I beg him
to consider the matter. If then he can not come to a con-
clusion 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.
CHAPTER XII.
THE AVENUE.
It will not appear strange that I should linger so long
upon the first few months of my association with a people
who, now that I am an old man, look to me like my own
children ; for those who were then older than myself are
now " old dwellers in those high countries" where there is
no age, only wisdom ; and I shall soon go to them. How
glad I shall be to see my Old Rogers again, who, as "he
taught me upon earth, will teach me yet more, I thank my
God, in heaven ! But I must not let the reverie which al-
ways gathers about the feather-end of my pen the moment
I take it up to write these recollections, interfere with the
work before me.
After this Christmas-tide I found myself in closer rela-
tionship to my parishioners. No doubt I was always in
danger of giving unknown offense to those who were ready
to fancy that I neglected them, and did not distribute my
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A QUIET NBIGHBpKHOOD. 165
favors equally. But, as I never took offense, the offense I
gave was easily got rid of. A clergyman, of all men, should
be slow to take offense, for if he does, he will never be free
or strong to reprove sin. And it must sometimes be his
duty to speak severely to those, especially the good, who
are turning their faces the wrong way. It is of little use
to reprove the sinner, but it is worth while sometimes to
reprove those who have a regard for righteousness, however
imperfect they may be. "Reprove not a scomer, lest he
hate thee ; rebuke a wise man, and he will love thee."
But I took great care about interfering; though I would
interfere upon request not always, however, upon the
side whence the request came, and more seldom still upon
either side. The clergyman must never be a partisan.
When our Lord was requested to act as umpire between
two brothers, He refused. But He spoke and said, "Take
heed, and beware of covetousness." Now, though the best
of men is unworthy to loose the latchet of His shoe, yet the
servant must he as his Master. Ah me ! while I write it, I
remember that the sinful woman might yet do as she would
with His sacred feet. T bethink me, Desert may not touch
His shoe-tie ; Love may kiss His feet.
I visited, of course, at the Hall, as at the farm-house in
the country, and the cottages in the village. I did not
come to like Mrs. Oldcastle better. And there was one
woman in the house whom I disliked still more that Sarah
whom Judy had called in my hearing a white wolf. Her
face was yet whiter than that of her mistress, only it was
not smooth like hers; for its whiteness came apparently
from the small-pox, which had so thickened the skin that no
blood, if she had any, could shine through. I seldom saw
her only, indeed, caught a glimpse of her now and then as
I passed through the house.
Nor did I make much progress with Mr. Stoddart. He
had always something friendly to say, and often some theo-
sophical theory to bring forward, which, I must add, never
seemed to me to mean, or at least to reveal, any thing. He
was a great reader of mystical books, and yet the man's na-
ture seemed cold. It was sunshiny, but not sunny. His
intellect^was rather a lambent flame than a genial warmth.
He could make things, but he could not grow any thing.
And when I came to see that he had had more than any one
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else to do with the education of Miss Oldcastle, I understood
her a little better, and saw that her so-called e-ducation had
been in a great measure re-pression of a negative sort, no
doubt, but not therefore the less mischievous. For to teach
speculation instead of devotion, mysticism instead of love,
word instead of deed, is surely ruinously repressive to the
nature that is meant for sunbright activity both of heart and
hand. My chief perplexity continued to be how he could
play the organ as he did.
My reader will think that I am always coming round to
Miss Oldcastle ; but if he does, I can not help it. I began,
I say, to understand her a little better. She seemed to me
always like one walking in a " watery sunbeam," without
knowing that it was but the wintry pledge of a summer sun
at hand. She took it, or was trying to take it, for the sun-
light ; trying to make herself feel all the glory people said
was in the light, instead of making haste toward the perfect
day. I found afterward that several things had combined
to bring about this condition ; and I know she will forgive
me, should I, for the sake of others, endeavor to make it un-
derstood by-and-by.
I have not much more to tell my readers about this win-
ter. As out of a whole changeful season only one day, or,
it may be, but one moment in which the time seemed to
burst into its own blossom, will cling to the memory, so of
the various interviews with my friends, and the whole flow
of the current of my life, during that winter, nothing more
of nature or human nature occurs to me worth recording.
I will pass on to the summer season as rapidly as I may,
though the early spring will detain me with the relation of
just a single incident.
I was on my way to the Hall to see Mr. Stoddart. I
wanted to ask him whether something could not be done be-
yond his exquisite playing to rouse the sense of music in my
people, I believed that nothing helps you so much to feel as
the taking of what share may, from the nature of the thing,
be possible to you ; because, for one reason, in order to feel,
it is necessary that the mind should rest upon the matter,
whatever it is. The poorest success, provided the attempt
has been genuine, will enable one to enter into any art ten
times better than before. Now I had, I confess, little hope
of moving Mr. Stoddart in the matter; but if I should suc-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 167
ceed, I thought it would do himself more good to mingle
with his humble fellows in the attempt to do them a trifle
of good, than the opening of any number of intellectual
windows toward the circumambient truth*
It was just beginning to grow dusk. The wind was
blustering in gusts among the trees, swaying them sud^
denly and fiercely like a keen passion, now sweeping them
all one way as if the multitude of tops would break loose
and rush away like a wild river, and now subsiding as sud-
denly, and allowing them to recover themselves and stand
upright, with tones and motions of indignant expostulation.
There was just one cold bar of light in the west, and the
east was on$ gray mass, while overhead the stars were
twinkling. The grass and all the ground about the trees
were very wet. The time seemed more dreary somehow
than the winter. Rigor was past, and tenderness had not
come ; for the wind was cold without being keen, and burst-
ing from the trees every now and then with a roar as of a
sea breaking on distant sands, whirled about me as if it
wanted me to go and join in its fierce play.
Suddenly I saw, to my amazement, in a walk that ran
alongside of the avenue. Miss Oldcastle, struggling against
the wind, which blew straight down the path upon her.
The cause of my amazement was twofold. First, I had
supposed her with her mother in London, whither their
journeys had been not infrequent since Christmas-tide; and,
next rwhy should she be fighting with the wind, so far from
the house, with only a shawl drawn over her head ?
The reader may wonder how I should know her in this
attire in the dusk, and where there was not the smallest
probability of finding her. Suffice it to say that I did rec-
ognize her at once, and, passing between two great tree-
trunks, and through an opening in some underwood, was
by her side in a moment. But the noise of the wind had
prevented her from hearing my approach, and when I ut-
tered her name, she started violently, and, turning, drew
herself up very haughtily, in part, I presume, to hide her
tremor. She was always a little haughty with me, I must
acknowledge. Could there have been any thing in my ad-
dress, however unconscious of it I was, that made her fear
I was ready to become intrusive ? Or might it not be that,
hearing of my footing with my parishioners generally, she
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was prepared to resent any assumption of clerical famil-
iarity with her, and so^in my behavior, any poor innocent
" bush was supposed a bear." For I need not tell my read-
er that nothing was farther from my intention, even with
the lowliest of my flock, than to presume upon my position
as clergyman. I think they all gave me the relation I oc-
cupied toward them personally. But I had never seen her
look so haughty as now. If I had been watching her very
thoughts she could hardly have looked more indignant.
"I beg your pardon,'* I said, distressed ; " I have startled
you dreadfully."
"Not in the least," she replied, but without moving, and
still with a curve in her form like the neck of a frayed horse.
^ I thought it better to leave apology, which was evidently
disagreeable to her, and speak of iudiflerent things.
"I was on my way to call on Mr. Stoddart," I said.
" You will find him at home, I believe."
" I fancied you and Mrs. Oldcastle in London."
" We returned yesterday."
Still she stood as before. I made a movement in the di-
rection of the house. She seemed as if she would walk in
the opposite direction.
" May I not walk with you to the house ?"
"I am not going in just yet."
" Are you protected enough for such a night ?"
" I enjoy the wind."
I bowed and walked on ; for what else could I do ?
I can not say that I enjoyed leaving her behind me in the
gathering dark, the wind blowing her about with no more
reverence than if she had been a bush of privet. Nor was
it with a light heart that I bore her repulse as I slowly
climbed the hill to the house. However, a little personal
mortification is wholesome, though I can not say either that
I derived much consolation from the reflection.
Sarah opened the glass door, her black, glossy, restless
eyes looking out of her white face from under gray eye-
brows. I knew at once by her look beyond me that she
had expected to find me accompanied by her young mis-
tress. I did not volunteer any mformation, as my reader
may suppose.
I found, as I had feared, that, although Mr. Stoddart
seemed to listen with some interest to what I said, I could
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A QUISr NEIGHBOBHOOD. 159
not bring him to the point of making any practical sugges-
tion, or of responding to one made by me, and I left him
with the conviction that he would do nothing to help me.
Yet during the whole of our interview he had not opposed
a single word I said. He was like clay too much softened
with water to keep the form into which it has been model-
ed. He would take some kind of form easily, and lose it
yet more easily. I did not show all my dissatisfaction,
however, for that would only have estranged us ; and it is
not required, nay, it may be wrong, to chow all you feel or
think : what is required of us is not to show what we do
not feel or think, for that is to be false. \
I left the house in a gloomy mood. I know I ought to
have looked up to God and said, "These things do not reach
to Thee, my Father. Thou art ever the same ; and I rise
above my small as well as my great troubles by remember-
ing Thy peace, and Thy unchangeable Godhood to me and
all Thy creatures." But I did not come to myself all at
once. The thought of God had not come, though it was
pretty sure to come before I got home. I was brooding
over the littleness of all I could do, and feeling that sick-
ness which sometimes will overtake a man in the midst of
the work he likes best, when the unpleasant parts of it crowd
upon him, and his own efforts, especially those made from
the will without sustaining impulse, come back upon him
with a feeling of unreality, decay, and bitterness, as if he
had been unnatural and untrue, and putting himself in false
relations by false efforts for good. I know this all came
from selfishness thinking about myself instead of about
God and my neighbor. But so it was. And so I was walk-
ing down the avenue, where it was now very dark, with my
head bent to the ground, when I, in my turn, started at the
sound of a woman's voice, and, looking up, saw by the star-
light the dim form of Miss Oldcastle stancing before me.
She spoke first.
" Mr. Walton, I was very rude to you. I beg your par-
don."
" Indeed, I did not think so. I only thought what a blun-
dering, awkward fellow I was to startle you as I did. You
have to forgive me."
"I fancy" and here I know she smiled, though how I
know I do not know "I fancy I have made that even,"
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she said, pleasantly, ^'for you mast confess I startled yoa
now."
" You did ; but it was in a very different way. I annoyed
you with my rudeness. You only scattered a swarm of bats
that kept flapping their skinny wings in my face."
" What do you mean? There are no bats at this time of
the year."
" Not outside. In * winter and rough weather,' they creep
inside, you know."
" Ah ! I ought to understand you. But I did not think
you were ever like that. I thought you were too good."
" I wish I were. I hope to be some day. I am not yet,
anyhow. And I thank you for driving the bats away in the
mean time."
" You make me the more ashamed of myself to think that
perhaps my rudeness had a share in bringing them. Yours
IS no doubt thankless labor sometimes."
She seemed to make the last remark just to prevent the
conversation from returning to her as its subject. And now
all the bright portions of my work came up before me.
" You are quite mistaken in that, Miss Oldcastle. On the
contrary, the thanks I get are far more than commensurate
with the labor. Of course one meets with a disappointment
sometimes, but that is only when they don't know what you
mean. And how should they know what you mean till they
are different themselves? You remember what Wordsworth
says on this very subject in his poem of Simon Zice ?^^
"I do not know any thing of Wordsworth."
** *rve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning ;
Alas I the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.' **
" I do not quite see what he means."
" May I recommend you to think about it ? You will bo
sure to find it out for yourself, and that will be ten times
more satisfactory than if I were to explain it to you. And,
besides, you will never forget it, if you do."
" Will you repeat the lines again ?"
I did so.
All this time the wind had been still. Now it rose with
a slow gush in the trees. Was it fancy? Or, as the wind
moved the shrubbery, did I see a white face? And could
it be the White Wolf, as Judy caUed her?
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 161
I spoke aloud :
" ]^ut it is cruel to keep you standing here in such a night.
You must be a real lover of nature to walk in the dark
wind."
"I like it. Good-night."
So we parted. I gazed into the darkness after her, though
she disappeared at the distance of a yard or two ; and would
have stood longer had I not still suspected the proximity of
Judy's Wolf, which made me turn and go home, regardless
now of Mr. Stoddart's doughinesa.
I met Miss Oldcastle several times before the summer, but
her old manner remained, or rather had returned, for there
had been nothing of it in the tone of her voice in that inter-
view, if interview it could be called where neither could see
more than the other's outline.
CHAPTER Xni.
YOUNG WEIE.
By slow degrees the summer bloomed. Green came in-
stead of white rainbows instead of icicles. The grounds
about the Hall seemed the incarnation of a summer which
had taken years to ripen to its perfection. The very grass
seemed to have aged into perfect youth in th^t " haunt of
ancient peace," for surely nowhere else was such thick, deli-
cate-bladed, delicate-colored grass to be seen. Gnarled old
trees of May stood like altars of smoking perfume, or each
like one million-petaled flower of upheaved whiteness or of
tender rosiness, as if the snow which had covered it in win-
ter had sunk in and gathered warmth from the life of the
tree, and now crept out again to adorn the summer. The
long loops of the laburnum hung heavy with gold toward
the sod below, and the air was full of the fragrance of the
young leaves of the limes. Down in the valley below, the
daisies shone in all the meadows, varied with the buttercup
and the celandine ; while in damp places grew large pim-
pernels, and along the sides of the river the meadow-sweet
stood among the reeds at the very edge of the water, breath-
ing out the odors of dreamful sleep. The clumsy pollards
were each one mass of undivided green. The mill-wheel had
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regained its knotty look, with its moss and its dip and drip,
as it yielded to the slow water, which would have let it
alone but that there was no other way out of the land to the
sea.
I used now to wander about in the fields and woods, with
a book in my hand, at which I often did not look the whole
day, and which yet I liked to have with me. And I seemed
somehow to come back with most upon those days in which
I did not read. In this manner I prepared almost all my
sermons that summer. But, although 1 prepared them thus
in the open country, I had another custom, which perhaps
may appear strange to some, before I preached them. This
was, to spend the Saturday evening, not in my study, but in
the church. This custom of mine was known to the sexton
and his wife, and the church was always clean and ready for
me after about midday, so that I could be alone there as soon
as I pleased. It would take more space than my limits will
afford to explain thoroughly why I liked to do this, but I
will venture to attempt a partial explanation in a few words.
This fine old church, in which I was honored to lead the
prayers of my people, was not the expression of the relig-
ious feeling of my time. There was a gloom about it a
sacred gloom, I know, and I loved it ; but such gloom as
was not in my feeling when I talked to my flock. I hon-
ored the place ; I rejoiced in its history ; I delighted to
think that even by the temples made with hands outlasting
these bodies of ours, we were in a sense united to those
who in them had before us lifted up holy hands without
wrath or doubting ; and with many more who, like us, had
lifted up at least prayerful hands, without hatred or de-
spair. The place soothed me, tuned me to a solemn mood
one of self-denial, and gentle gladness in all sober things ;
but, had I been an architect, and had I had to build a church
^I do not in the least know how I should have built it ^I
am certain it would have been very different from this, else
I should be a mere imitator, like all the church architects I
know any thing about in the present day. For I always
found the open air the most genial influence upon me for
the production of religious feeling and thought. I had been
led to try whether it might not be so with me by the fact
that our Lord seemed so much to delight in the open air,
and late in the day, as well as early in the morning, would
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A QUIET NEIGHBOSHOOD. 163
climb the mountain to be alone with His Father. I found
- that it helped to give a reality to every thing that I thought
about, if I only contemplated it under the high untroubled
blue, with the lowly green beneath my feet, and the wind
blowing on me to remind me of the Spirit that once moved
on the face of the waters, bringing order out of disorder,
and light out of darkness, and was now seeking every day
a fuller entrance into my heart, that there He might work
the one will of the Father in heaven.
My reader will see, then, that there was, as it were, not
so much a discord as a lack of harmony between the sur-
roundings wherein my thoughts took form, or, to use a
homelier phrase, my sermon was studied, and the surround-
ings wherein I had to put these forms into the garments of
words, or preach that sermon. I therefore sought to bridge
over this difference (if I understood music, I am sure I could
find an expression exactly fitted to my meaning) to find
an easy passage between the open-air mood and the church
mood, so as to be able to bring into the church as much of
the fresh air, and the tree-music, and the color-harmony, and
the gladness over all, as might be possible ; and, in order to
this, I thought all my sermon over again in the afternoon
sun as it shone slantingly through the stained window over
Lord Eagleye's tomb, and in the failing light thereafter and
the gathering dusk of the twilight, pacing up and down the
solemn old place, hanging my thoughts here on a crocket,
there on a corbel; now on the gable -point over which
Weir's face would gaze next morning, and now on the as-
piring peaks of the organ. I thus made the place a cell of
thought and prayer. And when the next day came, I found
the forms around me so interwoven with the forms of my
thought, that I felt almost like one of the old monks who
had built the place, so little did I find any check to my
thought or utterance from its unfitness for the expression
of my individual modernism. But not one atom the more
did I incline to the evil fancy that God was more in the past
than in the present ; that He is more within the walls of
the church than in the unwalled sky and earth ; or seek to
turn backward one step from a living Now to an entombed
and consecrated Past.
One lovely Saturday, I had been out all the morning. I
had not walked far, for I had sat in the various places Ion-
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ger than I had walked, my path lyiog through fields and
copses, crossing a country-road only now and then. I had
my Greek Testament with me, and I read when I sat, and
thought when I walked. I remember well enough that I
was going to preach about the cloud of witnesses, and ex-
plain to m^ people that this did not mean persons looking
at, witnessmg our behavior not so could any addition be
made to the awfulness of the fact that the eye of God was
upon us but witnesses to the truth, people who did what
God wanted them to do, come of it what might, whether a
crown or a rack, scofib or applause ; to behold whose wit-
nessing might well rouse all that was human and divine in
us to choose our part with them and their Lord. When I
came home I had an early dinner, and then betook myself
to my Saturday's resort. I had never had a room large
enough to satisfy me before. Now my study was to my
mind.
All through the slowly-fading afternoon, the autumn of
the day, when the colors are richest and the shadows long
and lengthening, I paced my solemn old-thoughted church.
Sometimes I went up into the pulpit and sat there, looking
on the ancient walls which had grown up under men's hands
that men might be helped to pray by the visible symbol of
unity which the walls gave, and that the voice of the Spirit
of God might be heard exhorting men to forsake the evil
and choose the good ; and I thought how many witnesses
to the truth had knelt in those ancient pews; for, as the
great church is made up of numberless communities, so is
the great shining orb of witness-bearers made up of millions
of lesser orbs. All men and women of true heart bear in-
dividual testimony to the truth of God, saying, "I have
trusted and found Him faithful." And the feeble light of
the glowworm is yet light, pure, and good, and with a love-
liness of its own. " So, O Lord," I said, " let my light shine
before men." And I felt no fear of vanity in such a prayer,
for I knew that the ^lory to come of it is to God only
" that men may glorify thdr Father in heaven." And I
knew that when we seek glory for ourselves, the light
goes out, and the Horror that dwells in darkness breathes
cold upon our spirits. And I remember that just as I
thought thus, my eye was caught first by a yellow light
that gilded the apex of the font-cover, which had been
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A QUIET NEI6HB0BH00D. 165
wrought like a flame or a barsting blossom ; it was so old
and worn, I never could tell which ; and then by a red light
all over a white marble tablet in the wall the red of life
on the cold hue of the grave. And this red light did not
come from any work of man's device, but from the great
window of the west, which little Gerard Weir wanted to
help God to paint. I must have been in a happy mood that
Saturday afternoon, for every thing pleased me and made
me happier I and all the church-forms about me blended and
harmonized graciously with the throne and footstool of
God which I saw through tho windows. And I lingered
on till the night had come till the church only gloomed
about me, and had no shine ; and then I found my spirit
burning up the clearer, as a lamp which has been flaming
all the day with light unseen becomes a glory in the room
when the sun is gone down.
At length I felt tired, and would go home. Tet I linger-
ed for a few moments in the vestry, thinking what hymns
would harmonize best with the things I wanted to make my
people think about. It was now almost quite dark out of
doors at least as dark as it would be.
Suddenly through the g;loom I thought I heard a moan
and a sob. I sat upright in my chair and listened. But I
heard nothing more, and concluded I had deceived myself.
After a few moments I rose to go home and have some tea,
and turn my mind rather away from than toward the subject
of witness-bearing any more for that night, lest I should burn
the fuel of it out before I came to warm the people with it,
and should have to blow its embers instead of flashing its
light and heat upon them in gladness. So I left the church
by my vestry door, which I closed behind me, and took my
way along the path through the clustering group of graves.
Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it. And
there lay something dark upon one of the grassy mounds.
I approached it, but it did not move. I spoke.
" Can I be of any use to you ?" I said. ^
" No," returned an almost inaudible voice.
Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that
no one had been buried there very lately, and if the grief
were for the loss of the dead, it was more than probably
aroused to fresh vigor by recent misfortune.
I stooped, and, taking the figure by the arm, said,
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" Come with me, and let us see what can he done for you."
I then saw that it was a youth perhaps scarcely more
than a hoy. And as soon as I saw that, I knew that his
frief could hardly he incurable. He returned no answer,
ut rose at once to his feet, and submitted to be led away.
I took him the shortest road to my house through the shrub-
bery, brought him into the study, made him sit down in my
easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine ; for the dew had
been falling heavily, and his clothes were quite dank. But
when the wine came he refused to take any.
" But you want it," I said.
" No, sir, I don't, indeed."
"Take some for my sake, then."
" I would rather not, sir."
"Why?"
" I promised my father a year ago, when I left home, that
I would not drink any thing stronger than water, and I can't
break my promise now." *
" Where is your home ?"
" In the village, sir."
" That wasn't your father's grave I found you upon, was
it?"
" No, sir, it was my mother's."
"Then your father is still alive?"
" Yes, sir. You know him very well ^Thomas Weir."
"Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you
that son?"
" Yes, sir," answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob.
" Then what is the matter ? Your father is a good friend
of mine, and would tell you you might trust me."
" I don't doubt it, sir. But you won't believe me any
more than my father."
By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his
countenance. He was of middle size, but evidently not full
grown. His^ dress was very decent. His face was pale and
thin, and revealed a likeness to his father. He had blue
eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could judge, be-
tokened, along with the whole of his expression, an honest
and sensitive nature. I found him very attractive, and was
therefore the more emboldened to press for the knowledge
of his story.
" I can not promise to believe whatever you say, but al-
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A QUIET JSHBIIGHBOBHOOD. 167
most I could. And if you tell me the truth, I like you too
much already to be in great danger of doubting you, for
you know the truth has a force of its own."
" I thought so till to-night," he answered. " But, if my
father would not believe me, how can I expect you to do so,
sir?"
" Your father may have been too much troubled by your
story to be able to do it justice. It is not a bit like your
father to be unfair."
" No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing
me."
Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favor.
There was a certain refinement in it a quality of dialogue
which indicated thought, as I judged, and I became more
and more certain that, whatever I might have to think of it
when told, he would yet tell me the truth.
" Come, try me," I said.
" I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning."
"Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-
night, and you may take what time you please. But I will
ring for tea first, for I dare say you have not made any prom-
ise about that."
A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently be-
ginning to feel a little more comfortable.
" When did you arrive from London ?" I asked.
" About two hours ago, I suppose."
" Bring tea, Mrs. Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham,
and plenty of toast. We are both hungry."
Mrs. Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and de^
parted to do her duty. ^-^^
When she returned with the tray, I saw by the^ uncon-
sciously eager way in which he looked at the eatables that
he had had nothing for some time ; and so, even after we
were left alone, I would not let him say a word till he had
made a good meal. It was delightful to see how he ate.
Few troubles will destroy a growing lad's hunger ; and, in-
deed, it has always been to me a marvel how the feelings
and the appetite affect each other. I have known grief act-
ually make people, and not sensual people at all, quite hun-
gry. At last I thought I had better not offer him any more.
After the tea-things had been taken away I put the can-
dles out, and the moon, which had risen, nearly full, while
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we were at tea, shone into the room. I had thought that
he might possibly find it easier to tell his story in the moon-
light, which, if there were any shame in the recital, would
not, by too much revelation, reduce him to the despair of
Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate his deed,
but not his deed and himself together, he exclaimed,
"To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself."
So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told his
tale. The moon lighted up his pale face as he told it, and
gave rather a wild expression to his eyes, eager to find faith
in me. I have not much of the dramatic in me, I know, and
am rather a flat teller of stories on that account. I shall not,
therefore, seeing there is no necessity for it, attempt to give
the tale in his own words. But, indeed, when I think of it,
they did not differ so much from the form of my own, for
he had, I presume, lost his provincialisms, and being, as I
ibund afterward, a reader of the best books that came in his
way, had not caught up many cockneyisms instead.
He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs.
and Co., large silk mercers, linen drapers, etc., etc., in Lon-
don, for all the trades are mingled now. His work at first
was to accompany one of the carts which delivered the pur-
chases of the day ; but, I presume because he showed him-
self to be a smart lad, they took him at length into the shop
to wait behind the counter. This he did not like so much,
but, as it was considered a rise in life, made no objection to
the change.
He seemed to himself to get on pretty well. He soon
learned all the marks on the goods intended to be under-
stood by the shopmen, and within a few months believed
that he was founa generally useful. He had as yet had.no
distinct department allotted to him, but was moved from
place to place, according as the local pressure of business
might demand.
" I confess," he said, " that I was not always satisfied with
what was going on about me. I mean I could not help
doubting if every thing was done on the square, as they say.
But nothing came plainly in my way, and so I could honest-
ly say it did not concern me. I took care to be straight-
forward fof my part, and knowing only the prices marked
for the sale of the goods, I had nothing to do with any
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 169
thing else. But one day, while I was showing a lady some
handkerchiefs which were marked as mouchoirs de Paris
I don't know if I pronounce it right, sir she said she did
not believe they were French cambric; and I, knowing
nothing about it, said nothing. But happening to look up
while we both stood silent, the lady examining the handker-
chiefs, and I doing nothing till she should have made up
her mind, I caught sight of the eyes of the shop-walker, as
they call the man who shows customers where to go for
what they want, and sees that they are attended to. He is
a fat man, dressed in black, with a great gold chain, which
they say in the shop is only copper gilt. But that doesn't
matter, only it would be the liker himself. He was stand-
ing staring at me. I could not tell what to make of it ;
but from that day I often caught him watching me, as if I
had been a customer suspected of shop-lifting. Still I
only thought he was very disagreeable, and tried to for-
get him.
" One day the day before yesterday two ladies, an old
lady and a young one, came into the shop, and wanted to
look at some shawls. It was dinner-time, and most of the
men were in the house at their dinner. The shop-walker
sent me to them, and then, I do believe, though I did not
see him, stood behind a pillar to watch me, as he had been
in the way of doing more openly. I thought I had seen the
ladies before, and though I could not then tell where, I am
now almost sure they were Mrs. and Miss Oldcastle, of the
Hall. They wanted to buy a Cashmere for the young lady.
I showed them some. They wanted better. I brought
the best we had, inquiring, that I might make no mistake.
They asked the price. I told them. They said they were
not good enough, and wanted to see some more. I told
them they were the best we had. They looked at them
again ; said they were sorry, but the shawls were not good
enough, and left the shop without buying any thing. I
proceeded to take the shawls up stairs again, and, as I went,
passed the shop-walker, whom I had not observed while I
was attending to the ladies. 'Ybt^'re for no good, young
man !' he said, with a nasty sneer. ' What do you mean by
that Mr. B ?'I asked, for his sneer made me angry.
' You'll know before to-morrow,' he answered, and walked
away. That same evening, as we were shutting up shop,
H
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I was sent for to the principal's room. The moment I
entered, he said, ' Tou wcm't suit us, young man, I find.
You had better pack up your box to-night, and be off to-
morrow. There's your quarter's salary.' 'What have I
done ?' I asked in astonishment, and yet with a vague sus-
picion of the matter. * It's not what you've done, but what
you don't do,' he answered. ' Do you think we can afford
to keep you here and pay you wages to send people away
from the shop without buying ? If you do, you're mistaken,
that's all. lou may go.' *But what could I do?' I' said.
* I suppose that spy, B^ ^ ^I believe I said so, sir. ' Now,
now, young man, none of your sauce I' said Mr. . ' Hon-
est people don't think about spies.' * I thought it was for
honesty you were getting rid of me,' I said. Mr. rose
to his feet, his lips white, and pointed to the door. ' Take
your money and be off. And mind you don't refer to me
for a character. After such impudence I couldn't in con-
science give you one.' Then, calming down a little when
he saiy- 1 turned to go, ' You had better take to your hands
again,* for your head will never keep you. There, be off!'
he said, pushing the money toward me, and turning his
back to me^ I could not touch it. 'Keep the money,
Mr. ,' I said. ' It'll make up for what you've lost by
me.' And I left the room at once without waiting for an
answer.
" While I was packing my box, one of my chums came in,
and I told him all about it. He is rather a good fellow, that,
sir ; but he laughed and said, ' What a fool you are, Weir !
You'll never make your daily bread, and you needn't think
it. If you knew what I know, you'd have known better.
And it's very odd it was about shawls, too. I'll tell you.
As you're going away, you won't let it out. Mr. ' (that
was the same who had just turned me away) ' was serving
some ladies himself, for he wasn't above being in the shop,
like his partner. They wanted the best Indian shawl they
could get. None of those he showed them were good enough,
for the ladies really didn't know one from another. They
always go by the price you ask, and Mr. knew that
well enough. He had sent me up stairs for the shawls, and
as I brought them he said, " These are the best imported,
madam." There were three ladies ; and one shook her head,
and another shook her head, and they all sliook their heads.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 171
And then Mr. was sorry, I believe you, that he had
said they were the best. But you won't catch him in a
trap. He's too old a fox for that.' I'm telling you, sir,
what Johnson told me. 'He looked close down at the
shawls, as if he were short-sighted, though he could see as
far as anj man. "I beg your pardon, ladies," said he,
" you're right. I am quite wrong. What a stupid blunder
to make I And yet they did deceive me. Here, Johnson,
take these shawls away. How could you be so stupid ? I
will fetch the thing you want myself, ladies." So I went
with him. He chose out three or four shawls, of the nicest
patterns, from the very same lot, marked in the very same
way, folded them differently, and gave them to me to carry
down. " Now, ladies, here they are 1" he said. " These
are quite a different thing, as you will see ; and, indeed, they
cost half as much again." In five minutes they had bought
two of them, and paid just half as much more than he had
asked for them the first time. That's Mr. 1 and that's
what you should have done if you had wanted to keep your
place.' But I assure you, sir, I could not help being glad
to be out of it."
"But there is nothing in all this to be miserable about,"
I said. " You did your duty."
" It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I don't
want to be idle, Pm sure."
" Does your father think you do ?"
" I don't kuQw what he thinks. He won't speak to me.
I told my story as much of it as he would let me, at least
^but he wouldn't listen to me. He only said he knew bet-
ter than that. I couldn't bear it. He always was rather
hard upon us. I'm sure, if you hadn't been so kind to me,
sir, I don't know what I should have done by this time. I
haven't another friend in the world."
" Yes you have. Your Father in heaven is your friend."
" I don't know that, sir. I'm not good enough."
" That's quite true. But you would never have done your
duty if He had not been with you."
" Do you think so, sir ?" he returned, eagerly.
" Indeed I do. Every thing good comes from the Father
of lights. Every one that walks in any glimmering of light
walks so far in JSis light ; for there is no light only dark-
ness comes from below ; and man, apart from God, can
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generate no light. He's not meant to be separated from
God, yott see. And only think then what light he can give
you if you will turn to him and ask for it. What He has
given you should make you long for more, for what you have
is not enough ah ! far from it."
" I think I understand. But I didn't feel ^ood at all in
the matter. I didn't see any other way of domg.^'
"So much the better. We ought never to feel good.
We are but unprofitable servants at best. There is no merit
in doing your duty; only you would have been a poor
wretched creature not to do as you did. And now, instead
of making yourself miserable over the consequences of it, you
ought to bear them like a man, with courage and hope, thank-
ing God that He has made you suffer for righteousness' sake,
and denied you the success and the praise of cheating. I
will go to your father at once, and find out what he is think-
ing about it, for no doubt Mr. r has written to him
with his version of the story. Perhaps he will be more in-
clined to believe you when he finds that I believe you."
" Oh, thank you, sir!" cried the lad, and jumped up from
his seat to go with me.
"No," I said, "you had better stay where you are. I
shall be able to speak more freely if you are not present.
Here is a book to amuse yourself with. I do not think I
shall be long gone."
But I was longer gone than I thought I should be.
When I reached the carpenter's house, I found, to my
surprise, that he was still at work. By the light of a single
tallow candle placed beside him on the bench, he was plow-
ing away at a groove. His pale face, of which the lines were
unusually sharp, as I might have expected after what had
occurred, was the sole object that reflected the light of the
candle to my eyes as I entered the gloomy place. He looked
up, but, without even greeting me, dropped his face again
and went on with his work.
" What !" I said, cheerily ^for I believed that, like Gid-
eon's pitcher, I held dark within me the light that woiild dis-
comfit his Midianites, which consciousness may well make
the pitcher cheery inside, even while the light as yet is all
its own worthless, till it break out upon the world, and
cease to illuminate only glazed pitcher-sides "What!" I
said, " working so late ?"
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A QUIET NBIGHBOEHOOD. 173
"Yes, sir."
" It is not usual with you, I know."
" It's all a humbug I" he said, fiercely, but coldly notwith-
standing, as he stood erect from his work, and turned his
white face full on me of which, however, the eyes drooped
" It's all a humbug, and I don't mean to be humbugged
any more."
" Am I a humbug ?" I returned, not quite taken by sur-
prise.
" I don't say that. Don't make a personal thing of it, sir.
You're taken in, I believe, like the rest of us. Tell me that
a God governs the world ! What have I done, to be used
like this ?"
I thought with myself how I could retort for his young
son : " What has he done to be used like this ?" But that
was not my way, though it might work well enough in some
hands. Some men are called to be prophets. I could. only
" stand and wait."
"It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance," I said,
" of what you mean. I know all about it."
" Do you ? He has been to you, has he ? But you don't
know all about it, sir. The impudence of the young rascal !"
He paused for a moment.
" A man like me !" he resumed, becoming eloquent in his
indignation, and, as I thought afterward, entirely justifying
what Wordsworth says about the language of the so-called
uneducated "A man like me, who was as proud of his
honor as any aristocrat in the country prouder than any of
them would grant me the right to be !"
" Too proud of it, I think not too careful of it," I said.
But I was thankful he did not heed me, for the speech would
only have irritated him. He went on.
"Me to be treated like this! One child a . . ."
Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he tried
again.
" And the other a . . ."
Instead of finishing the sentence, however, he drove his
plow fiercely through the groove, splitting off some inches
of the wall of it at the end.
" If any one has treated you so," I said, " it must be the
devil, not God."
" But if there was a God, he could have prevented it all."
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"Mind what I said to you once before: He hasn't d6ne
yet. And there is another enemy in his way as bad as the
devil ^I mean our selves. When people want to walk their
own way without God, God lets them try it. And then
the devil gets a hold of them. But God won't let him
keep them. As soon as they are ^wearied in the greatness
of their way,' they begin to look about for a Savior. And
then they find God ready to pardon, ready to help, not
breaking the bruised reed ^leading them to his own self
manifest with whom no man can fear any longer, Jesus
Christ, the righteous lover of men ^their elder brother
what we ca\\ big brother j you know one to help them and
take their part against the devil, the world, and the flesh,
and all the rest of the wicked powers. So you see God is
tender just like the prodigal son's father only with this
difference, that God has millions of prodigals, and never gets
tired of going out to meet them and welcome them back,
eveiy one as if he were the only prodigal son He had ever
had. There's a father indeed ! Have you been such a fa-
ther to your son ?"
"The prodigal didn't come with a pack of lies. He told
his father the truth, bad as it was."
" How do you know that your son didn't tell you the
truth ? All the young men that go from home don't do as
the prodigal did. Why should you not believe what he
tells you ?^'
" I'm not one to reckon without my host. Here's my
bill."
And, so saying, he handed me a letter. I took it and
read :
"Sib, It has become our painful duty to inform you
that your son has this day been discharged from the em-
ployment of Messrs. and Co., his conduct not being
such as to justify the confidence hitherto reposed in him.
It would have been contrary to the interests of the estab-
lishment to continue him longer behind the counter, al-
though we are not prepared to urge any thing against him
beyond the fact that he has shown himself absolutely indif-
ferent to the interests of his employers. We trust that the
chief blame will be found to lie with certain connections of
a kind easy to be formed in large cities, and that the loss of
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A QTJIBfr NEI6HBOBH00D. 175
his situation maybe punishment sufficient, if not for justice,
yet to make him consider his ways and be wise. We in-
close his quarter's salary, which the young man rejected
with insult, and we remain, etc.,
" and Co."
"And," I exclaimed, **this is what you found your judg-
ment of your own son upon ! You reject him unheard, and
take the word of a stranger I I don't wonder you can not
believe in your Father when you behave so to your son. I
don't say your conclusion is wise, though I don't believe it;
but I do say the grounds you go upon are any thing but
sufficient."
"You don't mean to tell me that a man of Mr. 's
standing, who has one of the largest shops in London, and
whose brother is Mayor of Addicehead, would slander a
poor lad like that !"
" Oh you mammon - worshiper !" I cried. " Because a
man has one of the largest shops in London, and his broth-
er is Mayor of Addicehead, you take his testimony and re-
fuse your son's ! I did not know the boy till this evening ;
but I call upon you to bring back to your memory all that
you have known of him from his childhood, and then ask
yourself whether there is not at least as much probability
of his having remained honest as of the master of a great
London shop being infallible in his conclusions at which
conclusions, whatever they be, I confess no man can won-
der, after seeing how readily his father listens to his defa-
mation."
I spoke with warmth. Before I had done, the pale face
of the carpenter was red as fire ; for he had been acting
contrary to all his own theories of human equality, and that
in a shameful manner. Still, whether convinced or not, he
would not give in. He only drove away at his work, which
he was utterl;^ destroying. His mouth was closed so tight,
he looked as if he had his jaw looked ; and his eyes gleam-
ed over the ruined board with a light which seemed to me
to have more of obstinacy in it than contrition.
" Ah, Thomas I" I said, taking up the speech once more,
" if God had behaved to us as you have behaved to your
boy ^be he innocent, be he guilty there's not a man or
woman of all our lost race would have returned to Him
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from the time of Adam till now. I don't wonder that you
find it difficult to believe in Him."
And with those words I left the shop, determined to
overwhelm the unbeliever with proof, and put him to shame
before his own soul, whence, I thought, would come even
more good to him than to his son. For there was a great
deal of self-satisfaction mixed up with the man's honesty,
and the sooner that had a blow the better it might prove
a death-blow in the long run. It was pride that lay at the
root of his hardness. He visited the daughter's fault upon
the son. His daughter had disgraced him, and he was
ready to flash into wrath with his son upon any imputation
which recalled to him the torture he had undergone when
his daughter's dishonor came first to the light. Her he had
never forgiven, and now his pride flung his son out after
her upon the first suspicion. His imagination had filled up
all the blanks in the wicked insinuations of Mr. . He
concluded that he had taken money to spend in the worst
company, and had so disgraced him beyond forgiveness.
His pride paralyzed his love. . He thought more about him-
self than about his children. His . own shame outweighed
in his estimati "11 the sadness of their guilt. It was n less
matter that they should be guilty, than that he, their father,
should be disgraced.
Thinking over all this, and forgetting how late it was, I
found myself half way up the avenue of the Hall. I want-
ed to find out whether young Weir's fancy that the ladies
he had failed in servinsr, or rather whom he had really served
with honesty, were Mrs. and Miss Oldcastle, was correct.
What a point it would be if it was ! I should not then be
satisfied except I could prevail on Miss Oldcastle to accom-
pany me to Thomas Weir, and shame the faithlessness out
of him. So eager was I after certainty, that it was not till
I stood before the house that I saw clearly the impropriety
of attempting any thing farther that night. One light only
was burning in the whole front, and that was on the first
floor.
Glancing up at it, I knew not why, as I turned to go
down the hill again, I saw a corner of the blind drawn
aside, and a face peeping out whose, I could not tell.
This was uncomfortable; for what could be taking me
there at such a time ? But I walked steadily away, certain
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 177
I could not escape recognition, and determining to refer to
this ill-considered visit when I called the next day. I
would not put it off till Monday, I was resolved.
I lingered on the bridge as I went home. Not a light
was to be seen in the village except one over Catharine
Weir's shop. There were not many restless souls in my
parish not so many as there ought to be. Yet gladly
would I see the troubled in peace not a moment, though
before their troubles should have brought them where the
weary and heavy-laden can alone find rest to their souls
finding the Father's peace in the Son the Father himself
reconciling them to Himself.
How still the nights was! My soul hung, as it were, sus-
pended in stillness ; for the whole sphere of heaven seemed
to be about me, the stars above shining as clear below in the
mirror of the all but motionless water. It was a pure type
of the " rest that remaineth" rest, the one immovable cen-
tre wherein lie all the stores of might, whence issue all forces,
all influences of making and moulding. " And, indeed," I
said to myself, " after all the noise, uproar, and strife that
there is on the earth, after all tempests, earthquakes, and
volcanic outbursts, there is yet more of peace than of tu-
mult in the world. How many nights like this glide away
in loveliness, when deep sleep hath fallen upon men, and
they know neither how still their own repose, nor how hesLU"
tiful the sleep of nature ! Ah ! what must the stillness of
the kingdom be ? When the heavenly day's work is done,
with what a gentle wing will the night come down ! But
I bethink me, the rest there, as here, will be the presence of
God ; and if we have Him with us, the battle-field itself will
be, if not quiet, yet as full of peace as this night of stars."
So I spoke to myself, and went home.
I had little immediate comfort to give my young guest,
but I had plenty of hope. I told him he must stay in the
house to-morrow, for it would be better to have the recon-
ciliation with his father over before he appeared in public.
So the next day neither Weir was at church.
As soon as the afternoon service was over, I went once
more to the Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room
a great faded room, in which the prevailing color was a
dingy gold, hence called the yellow drawing-room when the
house had more than one. It looked down upon the lawn,
H2
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11 Q ANNALS OP
which, although little expense was now laid out on any of
the ornamentS adjuncts of the Hall, was still kept very nice.
There sat Mrs. Oldcastle reading, with her face to the house.
A little way farther off Miss Oldcastle sat, with a book on
her knee, but her gaze fixed on the wide-spread landscape be-
fore her, of which, however, she seemed to be as inobserv-
ant as of her book. I caught glimpses of Judy flitting hither
and thither among the trees, never a moment in one place.
Fearful of having an interview with the old lady alone,
which was not likely to lead to what I wanted, I stepped
from a window which was open out upon the terrace, and
thence down the steps to the lawn below. The servant had
just informed Mrs. Oldcastle of my visit when I came near.
She drew herself up in her chair, and evidently chose to re-
gard mjr approach as an intrusion.
" I did not expect a visit from you to-day, Mr. Walton,
you will allow me to say."
" I am doing Stmday work," I answered. " Will you
kindly tell me whether you were in London on Thursday
last ? But stay ; allow me to ask Miss Oldcastle to join us."
Without waiting for answer, I went to Miss Oldcastle,
and begged her to come and listen to something in which I
wanted her help. She rose courteously, though without
cordiality, and accompanied me to her mother, who sat with
perfect rigidity, watching us.
" Again let me ask," I said, " if you were in London on
Thursday?"
Though I addressed the old lady, the answer came from
her daughter.
" Yes, we were."
" Were you in and Co.'s, in Street?"
But now, before Miss Oldcastle could reply, her mother
interposed.
" Are we charged with shop-lifting, Mr. Walton ? Real-
ly, one is not accustomed to such cross-questioning, except
from a lawyer."
" Have patience with me for a moment," I returned. " I
am not going to be mysterious for more than two or three
questions. Please tell me whether you were in that shop
or not."
*' I believe we were," said the mother.
" Yes, certainly," said the daughter.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 179
" Did you buy apy thing ?"
" No. We " Miss Oldcastle began.
" Not a word more," I exclaimed, eagerly. " Come with
me at once."
" What do you mean, Mr. Walton ?" said the mother,
with a sort of cold indignation, while the daughter looked
surprised, but said nothing.
" I beg your pardon for my impetuosity ; but much is in
your power at this moment. The son of one of my pa-
rishioners has come home in trouble. His father, Thomas
Weir"
" Ah !" said Mrs. Oldcastle, in a tone considerably at
strife with refinement. But I took no notice.
" His father will not believe his story. The lad thinks
you are the ladies in serving whom be got into trouble. I
am so confident he tells the truth, that I want Miss Oldcas-
tle to be so kind as to accompany me to Weir's house "
"Really, Mr. Walton, I am astonished at your making
such a request!" exclaimed Mrs. Oldcastle, with suitable
emphasis on every salient syllable, while her white face
flushed with anger. " To ask Miss Oldcastle to accompany
you to the dweUing of the ringleader of all the canaiUe of
the neighborhood I"
" It is for the sake of justice," I interposed.
" That is no concern of ours. Let them fight it out be-
tween them. I am sure any trouble that comes of it is no
more than they all deserve. A low family men and women
of them I"
" I assure you, I think very diflTerently."
"I dare say you do."
" But neither your opinion nor mine has any thing to do
with the matter."
Here I turned to Miss Oldcastle and went on :
" It is a chance which seldom occurs in one's life. Miss
Oldcastle a chance of setting wrong right by a word; and,
as a minister of the gospel of truth and love, I beg you to
assist me with your presence to that end."
I would have spoken more strongly, but I knew that her
word given to me would be enough without her presence.
At the same time, I felt not only that there would be a pro-
priety in her taking a personal interest in the matter, but
that it would do her good, and tend to create a favor toward
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180 ANNALS OF
each other in some of my flock between whom at present
there seemed to be nothing in common.
But at my last words, Mrs. Oldcastle rose to her feet, no
longer red now whiter than her- usual whiteness with pas-
sion. ^
" You dare to persist! You take advantage of your pro-
fession to persist in dragging my daughter into a vile dispute
between mechanics of the lowest class ! against the positive
command of her only parent I Have you no respect for her
position in society ? ^for her sex ? Mister Walton^ you act
in a manner unworthy of your cloth."
I had stood looking in her eyes with as much self-posses-
sion as I could muster, and I believe I should have borne it
all quietly but for that last wor.d.
If there is one epithet I hate more than another, it is that
execrable word cloth^ used for the office of a clergyman. I
have no time to set forth its offense now. If my reader can
not feel it, I do not care to make him feel it, only I am sorry
to say it overcame my temper.
" Madam," I said, " I owe nothing to my tailor, but I owe
God my whole being, and my neighbor all I can do for him.
' He that loveth not his brother is a murderer,* or murder-
ess, as the case may be."
At that word murderess her face became livid, and she
turned away without reply. By this time her daughter was
halfway to the house. She followed her. And here was I
left to go home, with the full knowledge that, partly from
trying to gain too much, and partly from losing my temper,
I had at best but a mangled and unsatisfactory testimony to
carry back to Thomas Weir. Of course I walked away
round the end of the house and down the avenue ; and the
farther I went the more mortified I grew. It was not
merely the shame of losing my temper, though that was a
shame and with a woman too, merely because she used a
common epithet! ^but I saw that it must appear very
strange to the carpenter that I was not able to give a more
explicit account of some sort, what I had learned not being
in the least decisive in the matter. It only amounted to this,
that Mrs. and Miss Oldcastle were in the shop on the very
day on which Weir was dismissed. It proved that so much
of what he had told me was correct nothing more. And
if I tried to better the matter by explaining how I had of-
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A QUIET NEIQHBOBHOOD. 181
fended them, would it not deepen the very hatred I had
hoped to overcome ? In fact, I stood convicted before the
tribunal of my own conscience of having lost all the certain
good of my attempt, in part at least from the foolish desire
to produce a conviction of Weir rather than in Weir, which
should be triumphant after a melo-dramatic fashion, and
must I confess it? should punish him for not believing in
his son when I did, forgetting in my miserable selfishness
that not to believe in his son was an unspeakably worse pun-
ishment in itself than any conviction or consequent shame
brought about by the most overwhelming of stage-effects.
I assure my reader I felt humiliated.
Now I think humiliation is a very different condition of
mind from humility. Humiliation no man can desire : it is
shame and torture. Humility is the true, right condition of
humanity peaceful, divine. And yet a man may gladly wel-
come humiliation when it comes, if he finds that with fierce
shock and rude revulsion it has turned him right round, with
his face away from pride, whither he was traveling, and to-
ward humility, however far away upon the horizon's verge
she may sit waiting for him. To me, however, there came
a gentle and not, therefore, less effective dissolution of the
bonds both of pride and humiliation ; and before Weir and
I met, I was nearly as anxious to heal his wounded spirit as
I was to work justice for his son.
I was walking slowly, with burning cheek and downcast
eyes, the one of conflict, the other of shame and defeat, away
from the great house, which seemed to be staring after me
down the avenue with all its window-eyes, when suddenly
my deliverance came. At a somewhat sharp turn, where
the avenue changed into a winding road. Miss Oldcastle stood
waiting for me, the glow of haste upon her cheek, and the
firmness of resolution upon her lips. Once more I was
startled by her sudden presence, but she did not smile.
"Mr. Walton, what do you wsCht me to do ? I would not
willingly refuse, if it is, as you say, really my duty togo with
you."
" I can not be positive about that," I answered. " I think
I put it too strongly. But it would be a considerable ad-
^ vantage, I think, if you would go with me and let me ask
you a few questions in the presence of Thomas Weir. It
will have more effect if I am able to tell him that I have
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only learned as yet that you were in the shop on that day,
and refer him to you for the rest."
**I will go.''
" A thousand thanks. But how did you manage to ^"
Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the question.
" You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding mam-
ma's objection to my going?"
" I confess I am. 1 should not have been surprised at
Judy's doing so, now."
She was silent for a moment.
" Do you think obedience to parents is to last forever ?
The honor is, of course. But I am surely old enough to be
right in following my conscience at least."
" You mistake me. That is not the diflSculty at all. Of
course you ought to do what is right against the highest
authority on earth, which I take to be just the parental.
What I am surprised at is your courage."
"Not because of its degree, only that it is minel"
And she sighed. She was quite right, and I did not know
what to answer. But she resumed :
" I know I am cowardly. But, if I can not dare, I can
bear. Is it not strange ? With my mother looking at me,
I dare not say a word, dare hardly move against her will.
And it is not always a good will. 1 can not honor my moth-
er as I would. But the moment her eyes are off me, I can
do any thing, knowing the consequences perfectly, and just
as regardless of them; for, as I tell you, Mr. Walton, I can
endure ; and you do not know what that might come to mean
with my mother. Once she kept me shut up in my room,
and sent me only bread and water, for a whole week to the
very hour. Not that I minded that much, but it will let you
know a little of my position in my own home. That is why
I walked away before her. I saw what was coming."
And Miss Oldcastle drew herself up with more expression
of pride than I had yet seen in her, revealing to me that per-
haps I had hitherto quite misunderstood the source of her
apparent haughtiness. I could not reply for indication.
My silence must have been the cause of what she said next.
" Ah ! you think I have no right to speak so about my
own mother ! Well ! well 1 But indeed I would not have
done so a month ago."
"If I am silent, Miss Oldcastle, it is that my sympathy is
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 183
too Strong for me. There are mothers and mothers ; and
for a mother not to be a mother is too dreadful."
She made no reply. I resumed :
"It will seem cruel, perhaps certainly, in saying it, I lay
myself open to the rejoinder that talk is so easy still, I shall
feel more honest when I have said it : the only thing I feel
should be altered in your conduct ^forgive me ^is that you
should dare your mother. Do not think, for it is an unfor-
tunate phrase, that my meaning is a vulgar one. If it were,
I should at least know better than to utter it to you. What
I mean is, that you ought to be able to be and do the
same before your mother's eyes that you are and do when
she is out of sight. I mean that you should look in your
mother's eyes and do what is right?^
"I know that know it weW^ (She emphasized the
words as J do.) " But you do not know what a spell she
casts upon me how inipossible it is to do as you say."
" Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not. You will never be
free till you do so."
"You are too hard upon me. Besides, though you will
scarcely be able to believe it now, I do honor her, and can
not help feeling that by doing as I do I avoid irreverence,
impertinence, rudeness whichever is the right word for
what I mean."
" I understand you perfectly. But the truth is more than
propriety of behavior, even to a parent, and indeed has in it
a deeper reverence, or the germ of it at least, than any ad-
herence to the mere code of respect. If you once did as I
want you to do, you would find that in reality you both re-
vered and loved your mother more than you do now."
"You may be right, but I am certain you speak without
any real idea of the difficulty."
"That may be. And yet what I say remains just as
true."
"How could I meet viotenccj for instance ?"
" Impossible !"
She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some
minutes. At length she said,
" My mother's self-will amounts to madness, I do believe.
I have yet to learn where she would stop of herself "
" All self-will is madness," I returned, stupidly enough.
For what is the use of making general remarks when you
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have a terrible concrete before you? "To want one's own
way just and only because it is one's own way is the height
of madness."
"Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered
as if it were sense, it makes it no easier to know that it is
" Does your uncle give you no help ?"
" He ! Poor man ! He is as frightened at her as I am.
He dares not even go away. He did not know what he
was coming to when he came to Oldcastle Hall. Dear un-
cle! I owe him a great deal. But for any help of that sort
he is of no more use than a child. I believe mamma looks
upon him as half an idiot. He can do any thing or every
thing but help one to live, to he any thing. Oh me ! I am
so tired !"
And the proud lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not
incorrectly, burst out ciying.
What was I to do ? I did not know in the least. What
I said I do not even now know. But by this time we were
at the gate, and as soon as we had passed the guardian
monstrosities, we found the open road an effectual antidote
to tears. When we came within- sight of the old house
where Weir lived. Miss Oldcastle became again a little cu-
rious as to what I required of her.
" Trust me," I said. " There is nothing mysterious about
it. Only I prefer the truth to come out fresh in the ears of
the man most concerned."
" I do trust you," she answered. And wo knocked at the
house door.
Thomas Weir himself opened the door, with a candle in
his hand. He looked very much astonished to see his lady
visitor. He asked us, politely enough, to walk up stairs, and
ushered us into the large room I have already described."
There sat the old man, as I had first seen him by the side
of the fire. He received us with more than politeness with
courtesy ; and I could not help glancing at Miss Oldcastle
to see what impression this family of " low, freethinking
republicans" made upon her. It was easy to discover that
the impression was of favorable surprise. But I was as
much surprised at her behavior as she was at theirs. Not
a haughty tone was to be heard in her voice ; not a haughty
movement to be seen in her form. She accepted the chair
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A QOST NEI6HB0BH00D. 185
offered her, and sat down, perfectly at home, by the fireside,
only that she turned toward me, waiting for what explana-
tion I might think proper to give.
Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr. Weir broke
the sileDce.
" Tve been telling Tom, sir, as Tve told him many a time
afore, as how he's a deal too hard with his children."
" Father !" interrupted Thomas, angrily.
"Have patience a bit, my boy," persisted the old man,
turning again toward me. " Now, sir, he won't even hear
young Tom's side of the story ; and I say that boy won't
tell him no lie if he's the same boy he went away."
" I tell you, father," again began Thomas ; but this time
I interposed, to prevent useless talk beforehand.
" Thomas," I said, " listen to me. I have heard your son's
side of the story. Because of something he said, I went to
Miss Oldcastle, and asked her whether she was in his late
master's shop last Thursday. That is all I have asked her,
and all she has told me is that she was. I know no more
than you what she is going to reply to my questions now,
but I have no doubt her answers will correspond to your
son's story.
I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose answers
amounted to this : That they had wanted to buy a shawl ;
that they had seen none good enough ; that they had left
the shop without buying any thing ; and that they had been
waited upon by a young man, who, while perfectly polite
and attentive to their wants, did not seem to have the ways
or manners of a London shop-lad.
I then told them the story as young Tom had related it
to me, and asked if his sister was not in the house and
might not go to fetch him. But she was with her sister
Catharine.
" I think, Mr. Walton, if you have done with me, I ought
to go home now," said Miss Oldcastle.
"Certainly," I answered. "I will take you home at once.
I am greatly obliged to you for coming."
"Indeed, sir," said the old man, rising with difficulty,
" we're obliged both to you and the lady moi'e than we can
tell. To take such a deal of trouble for us ! But you see,
sir, you're one of them as thinks a man's got his duty to do
one way or another, whether he be clergyman or carpenter.
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God bless you, miss. You're of the right sort, which you'll
excuse an old man, miss, as'll never see ye again till ye've
got the wings as ye ought to have."
Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly and answered noth-
ing, but shook hands with them both and bade them good-
night. Weir could not speak a word ; he could hardly
even lift his eyes. But a red spot glowed on each of his
pale cheeks, making him look very like his daughter Catha-
rine, and I could see Miss Oldcastle .wince and grow red too
with the gripe he gave her hand. But she smiled again
none the less sweetly.
" I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to
my house and bring the boy with me," I said, as we left.
It was some time before either of us spoke. The sun
was setting, the sky, the earth, and the air lovely with rosy
light, and the world full of that peculiar calm which belongs
to the evening of the day of rest. Surely the world ought
to wake better on the morrow.
" Not very dangerous people, those. Miss Oldcastle ?" I
said, at last.
"I thank you very much for taking me to see them," she
returned, cordially.
" You won't believe all you may happen to hear against
the working people now ?"
"I never did."
"There are ill-conditioned, cross-grained, low-minded,
selfish, unbelieving people among them. God knows it.
But there are ladies and gentlemen among them too."
'* That old man is a gentleman."
" Ho is. And the only way to teach them all to be such
is to be such to them. The man who does jiot show him-
self a gentleman to the working people why should I call
them the poor ? some of them are better off than many of
the rich, for they can pay their debts, and do it ^"
I had forgot the beginning of my sentence.
" You were saying that the man who does not show him-
self a gentleman to the poor ^"
" Is no gentleman at all only a gentle without the man ;
and if you consult ray namesake old Izaak, you will find
what that is."
" I will look. I know your way now. You won't tell
me any thing I can find out for myself."
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A QUIEr NEIGHBOBHOOD. 187
Is it not the best way ?"
" Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much
more than you look for."
" Certainly that has been my own experience."
" Are you a descendant of Lsaak Walton ?"
" No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have so
much of his spirit that I can do two things like him."
"Tell me."
"Live in the country, though I was not brought up in it:
and know a good man when I see him."
" I am very glad you asked me to go to-night."
" If people only knew their own brothers and sisters, the
kingdom of heaven would not be far off."
I do not think Miss Oldcastle quite liked this, for she was
silent thereafter, though I allow that her silence was not
conclusive. And we had now come close to the house.
"I wish I could help you," I said.
"In what?"
" To bear what I feai' is waiting you."
" I told you I was equal to that. It is where we are un-
equal that we want help. You may have to give it mo
some day who knows ?"
I left her most unwillingly in the porch, just as Sarah
(the white wolf) had her hand on the door, rejoicing in my
heart, however, over her last words.
My reader will not be surprised, after all this, if, before I
f3t very much farther with my story, I have to confess that
loved Miss Oldcastle.
When young Tom and I entered the room, his grandfa-
ther rose and tottered to meet him. His father made one
step toward him and then hesitated. Of all conditions of
the human mind, that of being ashamed of himself must
have been the strangest to Thomas Weir. The man had
never in his life, I believe, done any thing mean or dishon-
est, and therefore he had had less frequent opportunities
than most people of being ashamed of himself. Hence his
fall had been from another pinnacle ^that of pride. When
a man thinks it such a fine thing to have done right, h^e
might almost as well have done wrong, for it shows he con-
siders right something ea^a, not absolutely essential to hu-
man existence, not the life of a man. I call it Thomas
Weir's fall ; for surely to behave in an unfatherly manner
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to both daughter and son the one sinful, and therefore
needmg the more tenderness ; the other innocent, and there-
fore claiming justification and to do so from pride, and
hurt pride, was fall enough in one history, worse a great
deal than many sins that go by harder names ; for the
world's judgment of wrong does not exactly correspond
with the reality. And now, if he was humbled in the one
instance, there would be room to hope he might become
humble in the other. But I had soon to see that, for a
time, his pride, driven from its intrenchment against his
son, only retreated, with all its forces, into the other against
his daughter.
Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far
that he held out his hand and said,
" Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones."
But I stepped between.
" Thomas Weir," I said, " I have too great a regard for
you and you know I dare not flatter you to let you off
this way, or rather leave you to think you have done your
duty when you have not done the half of it. You have
done your son a wrong, a great wrong. How can you claim
to be a gentleman ^I say nothing of being a Christian, for
therein you make no claim ^how, I say, can you claim to act
like a gentleman, if, having done a man wrong his being
your own son has nothing to do with the matter one way or
other, except that it ought to make you see your duty more
easily having done him wrong, why don't you beg his par-
don, I say, like, a man ?"
He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped hur-
riedly forward, and, catching his father's hand in both of his,
cried out,
" My father sha'n't beg my pardon. I beg yours, father,
for every thing I ever did to displease you, but I wasnH to
blame in this. I wasn't, indeed."
" Tom, I beg your pardon," said the hard man, overcome
at last. " And now, sir," he added, turning to me, " will
you let by-gones be by-gones between my boy and me ?"
There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone.
" With all my heart," I replied. " But I want just a word
with you in the shop before I go."
" Certainly," he answered, stiffly ; and I bade the old and
the young man good-night, and followed him down stairs.
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 189
" Thomas, my friend," I said, when we got into the shop,
laying my hand on his shoulder, " will you after this say that
God has dealt hardly with you ? There's a son for any man
God ever made to give thanks for on his knees ? Thomas,
you have a strong sense of fair play in your heart, and you
give fair play neither to your own son nor yet to God him-
self. You close your doors, and brood over your own mis-
eries, and the wrongs people have done you ; whereas, if you
would but open those doors, you might come out into the
light of God's truth, and see that His heart is as clear as sun-
light toward you. You won't believe this, and therefore
naturally you can't quite believe that there is a God at all ;
for, indeed, a being that was not all light would be no God
at all. If you would but let Him teach you, you would find
your perplexities melt away like the snow in spring, till you
could hardly believe you had ever felt them. No arguing
will convince you of a God ; but let Him once come in, and
all argument will be tenfold useless to convince you that
there is no God. Give God justice. Try Him as I have
said. Good-night."
He did not return my farewell with a single word, but
the grasp of his strong rough hand was more earnest and
loving even than usual. I could not see his face, for it was
almost dark ; but, indeed, I felt that it was better I could
not see it.
I went home as peaceful in my heart as the night whoso
curtains God had drawn about the earth that it might sleep
till the morrow.
CHAPTER XIV.
MY PUPIL.
Although I do happen to know how Miss Oldcastle fared
that night after I left her, the painful record is not essential
to my story. Besides, I have hitherto recorded only those
things "quorum pars magna" or m^mma, as the case may
be " fui." There is one exception, old Weir's story, for
the introduction of which my reader can not yet see the art-
istic reason. For, whether a story be real in fact, or only
real in meaning, there must always be an idea, or artistic
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model in the brain, after which it is fashioned : in the latter
case one of invention, in the former case one of choice. ^
In the middle of the following week I was returning from
a visit I had made to Tomkins and his wife, when I met, in
the only street of the village, my good and honored friend
Dr. Duncan. Of course I saw him often and I beg my
reader to remember that this is no diary, but only a gather-
ing together of some of the more remarkable facts of my
history, admitting of being ideally grouped ^but this time
I recall distinctly because the interview bore upon many
things.
" Well, Dr. Duncan," I said, " busy as usual fighting the
devil?"
" Ah ! my dear Mr. Walton," returned the doctor and
a kind word from him went a long way into my heart " I
know what you mean. You fight the devil from the inside,
and I fight him from the outside. My chance is a poor
one."
" It would be, perhaps, if you were confined to outside
remedies. But what an opportunity your profession gives
you of attacking the enemy from the inside as welll And
you have this advantage over us, that no man can say it be-
longs to your profession to say such things, and therefore
disregard them."
"Ah! Mr. Walton, I have too great a respect for your
Erofession to dare to interfere with it. The doctor in ' Mac-
eth,' you know, could
*' *Not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow.
Raze oat the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart.* **.
" What a memory you have ! But you don't think I can
do that anymore than you?"
" You know the best medicine to give, anyhow. I wish
I always did. But you see we have no theriaca now."
" Well, we have. For the Lord says, ' Come unto me,
and I will give you rest.' "
" There ! I told you ! That will meet all diseases."
"Strangely now, there comes into my mind a line of
Chaucer, with which I will make a small return for your
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A QUIST NEIGHBOBHOOD. 191
quotation from Shakspeare. Ton have mentioned theriaea;
and I, without thinking of this line, quoted our Lord's
words. Chaucer brings the two together, for the word tri-
acle is merely a corruption of theriacOj the unfailing cure
for every thing.
** ' Crist, which that is to every harm triacle.' "
'^That is delightful: I thank you. And that is in Chau-
cer?"
"Yes. In the Man-of-Law's Tale." .
" Shall I tell you how I was able to quote so correctly
from Shakspeare? I have just come from referring to the
passage. And I mention that because I want to tell you
what made me think of the passage. I had been to see
poor Catharine Weir. I think she is not long for this world.
She has a bad cough, and I fear her lun^s are going."
" I am concerned to hear that. I considered her very del-
icate, and am not surprised. But I wish, I do wish I had
got a little hold of her before, that I might be of some use
to her now. Is she in immediate danger, do you think ?"
" No, I do not think so. But I have no expectation of
her recovery. Very likely she will just live through the
winter and die in the spring. Those patients bo often go
as the flowers come ! All her coughing, poor woman, will
not cleanse her stuffed bosom. The perilous, stuff weighs
on her heart, as Shakspeare says, as well as on her lungs."
"Ah, dear! What is it, doctor, that weighs upon her
heart ? Is it shame, or what is it ? for she is so uncommuni-
cative that I hardly know any thing at all about her yet."
" I can not tell. She has the faculty of silence."
" But do not think I complain that she has not made me
her confessor. I only mean that if she would talk at all,
one would have a chance of knowing something of the state
of her mind, and so might give her some help."
" Perhaps she will break down all at once, and open her
mind to you. I have not told her she is dying. I think a
medical man ought at least to be quite sure before he dares
to say such a thing. I have known a long life injured, to
human view at least, by the medical verdict in youth of
ever imminent death."
" Certainly one has no right to say what God is going to
do with any one till he knows it beyond a doubt. Hhiess
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has its own peculiar mission, independent of any association
with coming death, and may often work better when min-
gled with the hope of life. I mean, we must take care of
presumption when we measure God's plans by our theories,
feut could you not suggest something. Doctor Duncan, to
guide me in trying to do my duty by her ?"
" I can not. You see you don't know what she is think-
ing; and till you know that, I presume'you will agree with
me that all is an aim in the dark. How can I prescribe
without 807ne diagnosis ? It is just one of those few cases
in which one would like to have the authority of the Cath-
olic priests to urge confession with. I do not think any
thing will save her life, as we say, but you have taught
some of us to think of the life that belongs to the spirit as
tJie life, and I do believe confession would do every thing
for that."
" Yes, if made to God. But I will grant that communi-
cation of one's s^rows, or even sins, to a wise brother of
mankind may help to a deeper confession to the Father in
heaven. But I have no wish for authority in the matter.
Let us see whether the Spirit of God working in her may
not be quite as powerful for a final illumination of her being
as the fiat confessio of a priest. I have no confidence in
forcing in the moral or spiritual garden. A hothouse de-
velopment must necessarily be a sickly one, rendering the
plant unfit for the normal life of the open air. Wait. We
must not hurry things. She will perhaps come to me of
herself before long. But I will call and inquire after her."
We parted, and I went at once to Catharine Weir's shop.
She received me much as usual, which was hardly to be
called receiving at all. Perhaps there was a doubtful shad-
ow, not of more cordiality, but of less repulsion in it. Her
eyes were full of a stony brilliance, and the flame of the fire
that was consuming her glowed upon her cheeks more
brightly, I thought, than ever; but that might be fancy,
occasioned by what the doctor had said about her. Her
hand trembled, but her demeanor was perfectly calm.
" I am sorry to hear you are complaining, Miss Weir," I
said.
" I suppose Dr. Duncan told you so, sir. But I am quite
well. I did not send for him. He called of himself, and
wanted to persuade me I was ill."
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A QUISr NEIGHBOBHOOD. 193
I understood that she felt injured by his interference.
" You should attend to his advice, though. He is a pru-
dent man, and not in the least given to alarming people
without cause."
She returned no answer. So I tried another subject.
" What a fine fellow your brother is !"
" Yes, he grows very much."
" Has your father found another place for him yet ?"
" I don't know. My father never tells me about any of
his doings."
"But don't you go and talk to him sometimes?"
" No. He does not care to see me."
" I am going there now ; will you come with me ?"
" Thank you. I never go where I am not wanted."
"But it is not right that father and daughter should live
as you do. Suppose he may not have been so kind to you
as he ought, you should not cherish resentment against him
for it. That only makes matters worse, you know."
" I never said to human being that he had been unkind to
me."
"And yet you let every person in the village know it."
"How?"
Her eye had no longer the stony glitter. It flashed now.
" You are never seen together. You scarcely speak when
you meet. Neither of you crosses the other's threshold."
" It is not my fault."
" It is not cUl your fault, I know. But do you think you
can go to a heaven at last where you will be able to keep
apart from each other, he in his house and you in your house,
without any sign that it was through this father on earth that
you were born into the world which the Father in heaven
redeemed by the gift of His own Son ?"
She was silent ; and, after a pause, I went on :
" I believe in my heart that you love your father. I could
not believe otherwise of you. And you will never be happy
till you have made it up with him. Have you done him no
wrong ?"
At these words her face turned white with anger, I
could see all but those spots on her cheek-bones, which
shone out in dreadful contrast to the deathly paleness of
the rest of her face. Then the returning blood surged vio-
lently froni her heart, and the red spots were lost in one
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crimson glow. She opened her lips to speak, but, appar-
ently changing her mind, turned and walked haughtily out
of the shop, and closed the door behind her.
I waited, hoping she would recover herself and return ;
but, after ten minutes had passed, I thought it better to go
away.
As I had told her, I was going to her father's shop. There
I was received very differently. - There was a certain soft-
ness in the manner of the carpenter which I had not observed
before, with the same heartiness in the shake of his hand
which had accompanied my last leave-taking. I had pur-
posely allowed ten days to elapse before I called again, to
give time for the unpleasant feelings associated with my in-
terference to vanish. And now I had something in my mind
about young Tom.
" Have you got any thing for your boy yet, Thomas ?"
" Not yet, sir. There's time enough. I don't want to
part with him just yet. There he is, taking his turn at what's
going. Tom I"
And from the farther end of the large shop, where I had
not observed him, now approached young Tom, in a canvas
jacket, looking quite like a workman.
" Well, Tom, I am glad tp find you can turn your hand to
any thing."
"I must be a stupid, sir, if I couldn't handle my father's
tools," returned the lad.
" I don't know that quite. I am not just prepared to ad-
mit it, for my own sake. My father is a lawyer, and I never
could read a chapter in one of his books his tools, you
know."
" Perhaps you never tried, sir."
" Indeed I did ; and no doubt I could have done it if I had
made up my mind to it. But I never felt inclined to finish
the page. And that reminds me why I called to-day. Thomas,
I know that lad of yours is fond of reading. Can you spare
him from his work for an hour or so before breakfast ?"
" To-morrow, sir ?"
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow," I answered ;
" and there's Shakspeare for you."
" Of course, sir, whatever you wish," said Thomas, with
a perplexed look, in which pleasure seemed to long for con-
firmation, and to be, till that came, afraid to put its " native
semblance on." -
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 195
" I want to give him some direction in his reading. When
a man is fond of any tools, and can use them, it is worth while
showing him how to use them better."
" Oh, thank you, sir !" exclaimed Tom, his face beaming
with delight.
"That 18 kind of you, sir! Tom, you're a made man!"
cried the father.
" So," I went on, "if you will let him come to me for an
hour every morning, till he gets another place, say from eight
to nine, I will see what I can do for him."
Tom's face was as red with delight as his sister's had been
with anger. And I left the shop somewhat consoled for the
pain I had given Catharine, which grieved me without mak-
mg me sorry that I had occasioned it.
I had intended to try to do something from the father's
side toward a reconciliation with his daughter; but no
sooner had I made my proposal for Tom than I saw I had
blocked up my own way toward my more important end ;
for I could not bear to seem to offer to bribe him even to
allow me to do him good, nor would he see that it was for
his good and his daughter's not at first. The first impres-
sion would be that I had a professional end to gain ; that
the reconciling of father and daughter was a sort of parish
business of mine, and that I had smoothed the way to it by
offering a gift an intellectual one, true, but not, therefore,
the less a gift in the eyes of Thomas, who had a great respect
for books. This was just what would irritate such a man,
and I resolved to say nothing about it, but bide my time.
When Tom came, I asked him if he had read any of Words-
worth ; for I always give people what I like myself, because
that must be wherein I can best help them. I was anxious,
too, to find out what he was capable of; and for this, any
thing that has more than a surface meaning will do. I had
no doubt about the lad's intellect, and now I wanted to see
what there was deeper than the intellect in him.
He said he had not.
I therefore chose one of Wordsworth's sonnets, not one
of his best by any means, but suitable for my purpose the
one entitled " Composed during a Storm." This I gave him
to read, telling him to let me know when he considered that
he had mastered the meaning of it, and sat down to my own
studies. I remember I was then reading the Anglo-Saxon
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Gospels. I think it was fully half an hour before Tom rose
and gently approached my place. I had not been uneasy
about the experiment after ten minutes had passed, and after
that time was doubled I felt certain of some measure of suc-
cess. This may possibly puzzle my reader, but I will explain.
It was clear that Tom did not understand the sonnet at first,
and I was not in the least certain that he would come to un-
derstand it by any exertion of his intellect without farther
experience. But what I was delighted to be made sure of
was that Tom at least knew that he did not know, for that
is the very next step to knowing. Indeed, it may be said
to be a more valuable gift than the other, being of general
application ; for some quick people will understand many
things very easily, but when they come to a thing that is
beyond their present reach, will fancy they see a meaning
in it, or invent one, or even which is far worse ^pronounce
it nonsense, and, indeed, show themselves capable of any
device for getting out of the difficulty except seeing and
confessing to themselves that they are not able to under-
stand it. Possibly this sonnet might be beyond Tom now,
but at least there was great hope that he saw or believed
that there must be something beyond him in it. I only
hoped that he would not fall upon some wrong interpreta-
tion, seeing he was brooding over it so long.
" Well, Tom," I said, " have you made it out?"
" I can't say I have, sir. I'm afraid I'm very stupid, for
I've tried hard. I must just ask you to tell me what it
means. But I must tell you one thing, sir : every time I
read it over twenty times, I dare say ^I thought I was
lying on my mother's grave, as I lay that terrible night;
and then, at the end, there you were standing over me and
saying, ' Can I do any thing to help you ?' "
I was struck with astonishment. For here, in a wonderful
manner, I saw the imagination outrunning the intellect, and
manifesting to the heart what the brain could not yet un-
derstand. It indicated undeveloped gifts of a far higher na-
ture than those belonging to the mere power of understand-
ing alone ; for there was a hidden sympathy of the deepest
kind between the life experience of the lad, and the embodi-
ment of such life experience on the part of the poet. But
he went on :
" I am sure, sir, I ought to have been at my prayers, then.
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A QUIET ITEIGHBOBHOOD. 197
but I wasn't ; so I didn't deserve yon to come. But don't
you think God is sometimes better to us than we deseiTe ?"
"He is just every thing to us, Tom, and we don't and
can't deserve any thing. Now I will try to explain the son*
net to you."
I had always had an impulse to teach ; not for the teach-
ing's sake, for that, regarded as the attempt to fill skulls
with knowledge, had always been to me a desolate dreari-
ness ; but the moment I saw a sign of hunger, an indication
of readiness to receive, I was invariably seized with a kind
of passion for giving. I now proceeded to explain the son-
net. Having done so nearly as well as I could, Tom said,
" It is very strange, sir ; but, now that I have heard you
say what the poem means, I feel as if I had known it all the
time, though I could not say it."
Here at least was no common mind. The reader will not
be surprised to hear that the hour before breakfast extended
into two hours after breakfast as well. Nor did this take
up too much of my time, for the lad was capable of doing a
grieat deal for himself under the sense of help at hand. His
father, so far from making any objection to the arrangement,
was delighted with it ; nor do I believe that the lad did less
work in the shop for it: I learned that he worked regularly
till eight o'clock every night.
Now the good of the arrangement was this : I had the lad
fresh in the morning, clear-headed, with no mists from the
valley of labor to cloud the heights of understanding. From
the exercise of the mind it was a pleasant and relieving
change to turn to bodily exertion. I am certain that he
both thought and worked better, because he both thought
and worked. Every literary man ought to be mechanical
(to use a Shakspearean word) as well. But it would have
been quite a different matter if he had come to me after the
labor of the day. He would not then have been able to
think nearly so well. But labor^ sleep^ thought^ labor again,
seems to me to be the right order with those who, earning
their bread by the sweat of the brow, would yet remember
that man shall not live by bread alone. Were it possible that
our mechanics could attend the institutions called by their
name in the morning instead of the evening, perhaps we
should not find them so ready to degenerate into places of
mere amusement. I am not objecting to the amusement ;
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only to cease to educate in order to amuse is to degenerate.
Amusement is a good and sacred thing, but it is not on a
par with education ; and, indeed, if it does not in any way
further the growth of the higher nature, it can not be called
good at all.
Having exercised him in the analysis of some of the best
portions of bur home literature I mean helped him to take
them to pieces, that, putting them together again, he might
see what kind of things they were for who could under-
stand a new machine, or find out what it was meant for,
without either actually or in his mind taking it to pieces ?
(which pieces, however, let me remind my reader, are ut-
terly useless except in their relation to the whole) ^I re-
solved to try something fresh with him.
At this point I had intended to give my readers a theory
of mine about the teaching and learning of a language, and
tell them how I had found the trial of it succeed in the case
of Tom Weir. But I think this would be too much of a di-
gression from the course of my narrative, and would, be-
sides, be interesting to those only who had given a good
deal of thought to subjects belonging to education. I will
only say, therefore, that, by the end of three months, my
pupil, without knowing any other Latin author, was able to
read any part of the first book of the ^neid to read it tol-
erably in measure, and to enjoy the poetry of it and this
not without a knowledge of the declensions and conjuga-
tions. As to the syntax, I made the sentences themselves
teach him that. Now I know that, as an end, all this was
of no great value ; but as a beginning it was invaluable, for
it made and kept him hungry for more; whereas, in most
modes of teaching, th^ beginnings are such that, without
the pressure of circumstances, no boy, especially after an ni-
terval of cessation, will return to them. Such is not Nature's
mode, for the beginnings with her are as pleasant as the frui-
tion, and that without being less thorough than they can be.
The knowledge a child gains of the external world is the
foundation upon which all his future philosophy is built.
Every discovery he makes is fraught with pleasure that is
the secret of his progress, and the essence of my theory :
that learning should, in each individual case, as in the first
case, be discovery^ bringing its own pleasure with it. Nor
is this to be confounded with turning study into play. It is
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 199
upon the moon itself that the infant speculates, after the moon
itself that he stretches out his eager hands to find in after
years that he still wants her, but that in science and poetry-
he has her a thousand-fold more than if she had been handed
him down to suck.
So, after all, I have bored my reader with a shadow jrf my
theory instead of a description. After all, again, the descrip-
tion would have plagued him more, and that must be both
his and my comfort.
So through the whole of that summer and the following
winter I went on teaching Tom Weir. He was a lad of un-
common ability, else he could not have effected what I say
he had within his first three months of Latin, let my theory
be not only perfect in itself, but true as well ^true to human
nature, I mean. And his father, though his own book-learn-
ing was but small, had enough of insight to perceive that his
son was something out of the common, and that any possible
advantage he might lose by remaining in Marshmallows was
considerably more than counterbalanced by the instruction
he got from the vicar. Hence, I believe, it was that not a
word was said about another situation for Tom. And I was
glad of it, for it seemed to me that the lad had abilities equal
to any profession whatever.
CHAPTER XV.
DE. Duncan's stort.
On the next Sunday but one which was surprising to me
when I considered the manner of our last parting Catha-
rine Weir was in church, for the second time since I had
come to the place. As it happened, only as Spenser says
** It chanced eternal God that chance did guide'*
and why I say this will appear afterward ^I had, in
preaching upon, that is, in endeavoring to enforce the Lord's
Prayer by making them think about the meaning of the
words they were so familiar with, come to the petition,
" Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors," with
which I naturally connected the words of our Lord that fol-
low: " For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly
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Father will also forgive you ; but if ye forgive not men their
trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespass-
es." I need not tell my reader more of what I said about
this than that I tried to show that even were it possible with
God to forgive an unforgiving man, the man himself would
not be able to believe for a moment that God did forgive
him, and therefore could get no comfort, or help, or joy of
any kind from the forgiveness ; so essentially does hatred,
or revenge, or contempt, or any thing that separates us from
man, separate us from God too. To the loving soul alone
does the Father reveal Himself, for love alone can under-
stand Him. It is the peacemakers who are His children.
This I said, thinking of no one more than another of my
audience. But as I closed my sermon, I could not help
fancying that Mrs. Oldcastle looked at me with more than
her usual fierceness. I forgot all about it, however, for I
never seemed to myself to have any hold of, or relation to,
that woman. I know I was wrong in being unable to feel
ray relation to her because I disliked her. But not till
years after did I begin to understand how she felt, or recog-
nize in myself a common humanity with her. A sin of my
own made me understand her condition. I can hardly
explain now; I will tell it when the time comes. When I
called upon her next, after the interview last related, she
behaved much as if she had forgotten all about it, which
was not likely.
In the end of the week after the sermon to which I have
alluded, I was passing the Hall gate on my usual Saturday's
walk, when Judy saw me from within as she came out of
the lodge. She was with me in a moment.
" Mr. Walton," she said, " how could you preach at Gran-
nie as you did last Sunday ?"
" I did not preach at any body, Judy."
"Oh, Mr. Walton!"
" You know I didn't, Judy. You know that if I had, I
would not say I had not."
" Yes, yes, I know that perfectly," she said, seriously,
but Grannie thinks you did."
" How do you know that ?"
"By her face."
" That is all, is it ?"
" You don't think Grannie would say so ?"
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A QUIET NSIGHBOBHOOD. 201
" No. Nor yet that you could know by her face what
she was thmking."
" Oh ! can't I, just ? I can read her face ^not so well as
plain print ; but, let me see, as well as what Uncle Stoddart
calls black-letter, at least. I know she thought you were
preaching at her; and her face said, *I sha'n't forgive yoti,
anyhow. I never forgive, and I won't for all your preach-
ing.' That's what her face said."
" I am sure she would not say so, Judy," I said, really not
knowing what to say.
" Oh no, she would not say so. She would say, ' I always
forgive, but I never forget.' That's a favorite saying of
hers."
*' But, Judy, don't you think it is rather hypocritical of
you to say all this to me about your grandmother when she
is so kind to you, and you seem such good friends with
her?"
She looked up in my face with an expression of surprise.
" It is all true, Mr. Walton," she said.
"Perhaps. But you are saying it behind her back."
" I will go home and say it to her face directly."
She turned to go.
" No, no, Judy, I did not mean that," I said, taking her
by the arm.
*' I won't say you told me to do it. I thought there was
no harm in telling you. Grannie is kind to me, and I am
kind to her. But Grannie is afraid of my tongue, and I
mean her to be afraid of it. It's the only way to keep her
in order. Darling Aunt Winnie ! it's all she's got to defend
her. If you knew how she treats her sometimes, you would
be cross with Grannie yourself, Mr. Walton, for all your
goodness and your white surplice."
And to my yet greater surprise, the wayward girl burst
out crying, and, breaking away from me, ran through the
gate, and out of sight among the trees, without once look-
ing back.
I pursued my walk, my meditations somewhat discom-
posed by the recurring question, Would she go home and
tell her grandmother what she had said to me ? And, if
she did, would it not widen the breach upon the opposite
side of which I seemed to see Ethelwyn stand, out of the
reach of my help?
1 2
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I walked quickly on to reach a style by means of which I
should soon leave the little world of Marshmallows quite be-
hind me, and be alone with nature and my Greek Testament.
Hearing the sound of horse-hoofs on the road from Addice-
head, I glanced up from my pocket-book, in which I had
been looking over the thoughts that had at various moments
passed through my mind that week, in order to choose one
(or more, if they would go together) to be brooded over
to-day for my people's spiritual diet to-morrow ^I say I
glanced up from my pocket-book, and saw a young man,
that is, if I could call myself young still, of distinguished
appearance, approaching upon a good serviceable hack. He
turned into my road and passed me. He was pale, with a
dark mustache, and large dark eyes ; sat his horse well and
carelessly; had fine features of the type commonly consider-
ed Grecian, but thin, and expressive chiefly of conscious
weariness. He wore a white hat with crape upon it, white
gloves, and long, military-looking boots. AH this I caught
as he passed me ; and I remember them because, looking
after him, I saw him stop at the lodge of the Hall, ring the
bell, and then ride through the gate. I confess I did not
quite like this ; but I got over the feeling so far as to be
able to turn to my Testament when I had reached and
crossed the stile.
I came home another way, after one of the most delight-
ful days I had ever spent. Having reached the river in the
course of my wandering, I came down the side of it toward
Old Rogers's cottage, loitering and looking, quiet in heart,
and soul, and mind, because I had committed my cares to
Him who careth for us. The earth was round me ; I was
rooted, as it were, in it, but the air of a higher life was about
me. I was swayed to and fro by the motions of a spiritual
power ; feelings, and desires, and hopes passed through me,
passed away, and returned, and still my head rose into the
truth, and the will of God was the regnant sunlight upon it.
I might change my place and condition ; new feelings might
come forth, and old feelings retire into the lonely comers of
my being ; but stOl my heart should be glad and strong in
the one changeless thing, in the truth that maketh free ; still
my head should rise into the sunlight of God, and I should
know that because He lived I should live also, and because
He was true I should remain true also, nor should any change
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 203
Eass upon me that should make me mourn the decadence of
umanity. And then I found that I was gazing over the
stump of an old pollard, on which I was leaning, down on a
great bed of white water-lilies that lay in the broad slow
river, here broader and slower than in most places. The
slanting yellow sunlight shone through the water down to
the very roots anchored in the soil, and the water swathed
their stems with coolness and freshness, and a universal
sense, I doubted not, of watery presence and nurture. And
there on their lovely heads, as they lay on the pillow of the
water, shone the life-giving light of the summer sun, filling
all the spaces between their outspread petals of living silver
with its sea of radiance, and making them gleam with the
whiteness which was bom of them and the sun. And then
came a hand on my shoulder, and, turning, I saw the gray
head and the white smock of my old friend Rogers, and I
was glad that he loved me enough not to be afraid of the
parson and the gentleman.
"I've found it, sir, I do think," he said, his brown fur-
rowed old face shining with a yet lovelier light than that
which shone from the blossoms of the water-lilies, though,
after what I had been thinking about them, it was no won-
der that they seemed both to mean the same thing ^both to
shine in the light of His countenance.
" Found what. Old Rogers ?" I returned, raising myself,
and laying my hand in return on his shoulder.
" Why He was displeased with the disciples for not know-
ing"
" What He meant about the leaven of the Pharisees," I
interrupted. " Yes, yes, of course. Tell me, then."
" I will try, sir. It was all dark to me for days. For it
appeared to me very nat'ral that, seeing they had no bread
in the locker, and hearing tell of leaven which they weren't
to eat, they should think it had summat to do with their
having none of any sort. But He didn't seem to think it
was right of them to fall into the blunder. For why then ?
A man can't be always right. He may be like myself, a
foremast-man with no schoolin' but what the winds and the
waves puts into him, and I'm thinkin' those fishermen the
Lord took to so much were something o' that sort. ' How
could they help it ?' I said to myself, sir. And from that I
came to ask myself, * Could they have helped it ?' If they
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couldn't, He wouldn't have been vexed with them. Mayhap
they ought to ha' been able to help it. And all at once, sir,
this mornin', it came to me. I don't know how, but it was
give to me, anyhow. And I flung down my rake, and I
ran in to the ofd woman, but she wasn't in the way, and so
I went back to my work again. But when I saw you, sir, a
readin' upon the lilies o' the field, leastways, the lilies o' the
water, I couldn't help runnin' out to tell you. Isn't it a sat-
isfaction, sir, when yer dead reckonin' runs ye right in be-
twixt the cheeks of the harbor ? I see it all now."
" Well, I want to know. Old Rogers. I'm not so old as
you, and so I may live longer ; and every time I read that
passage, I shouW like to be able to say to myself, * Old
Rogers gave me this.' "
" I only hope I'm right, sir. It was just this : their heads
was full of their dinner because they didn't know where it
was to come from. But they ought to ha' known where it
always come from. If their hearts had been full of the din-
ner He give the five thousand hungry men, and women, and
children, they wouldn't have been uncomfortable about not
having a loaf. And so they wouldn't have been set upon
the wrong tack when He spoke about the leaven of the
Pharisees and Sadducees ; and they would have known in a
moment what He meant. And if I hadn't been too much
of the same sort, I wouldn't have started saying it was but
reasonable to be in the doldrums because they were at sea
with no biscuit in the locker."
" You're right ; you must be right, Old Rogers. It's as
plain as possible," I cried, rejoiced at the old man's in-
sight. "Thank you. I'll preach about it to-morrow. I
thought I had got my sermon in Foxborough Wood, but I
was mistaken : you had got it."
But I was mistaken again. I had not got my sermon
yet.
I walked with him to his cottage and left him, after a
greeting with the " old woman." Passing then through the
village, and seeing by the light of her candle the form of
Catharine Weir behind her counter, I went in. I thought
Old Rogers's tobacco must be nearly gone, and I might
safely buy some more. Catharine's manner was much the
same as usual. But, as she was weighing my purchase, she
broke out all at once,
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 205
" It's no use your preaching at me, Mr. Walton. I can
not, I wiU not forgive* I will do any thing ^nU forgive.
And it's no use."
^^ It is not I that say it, Catharine. It is the Lord him-
self."
I saw no great use in protesting my innocence, yet I
thought it better to add,
"And I was not preaching at you. I was preaching to
you, as much as to any one there, and no more."
Of this she took no notice, and I resumed :
" Just think of what J3e says, not what I say."
" I can't help it. If He won't forgive me, I must go with-
out it. I can't forgive."
I saw that good and evil were fighting in her, and felt
that no words of mine could be of farther avail at the mo-
ment. The words of our Lord had laid hold of her ; that
was enough for this time. Nor dared I ask her any ques-
tions. I had the feeling that it would hurt, not help. All
I could venture to say was,
" I won't trouble you with talk, Catharine. Our Lord
wants to talk to you. It ia not for me to interfere. But
please to remember, if ever you think I can serve you in any
way, you have only to send for me."
She murmured a mechanical thanks, and handed me my
parcel. I paid for it, bade her good-night, and left the
shop.
" O Lord," I said in my heart, as I walked away, " what
a labor Thou hast with us all ! Shall we ever, some day,
be all, and quite, good like Thee ? Help me. Fill me with
Thy light, that my work may all go to bring about the
gladness of Thy kingdom the holy household of us broth-
ers and sisters all Thy children."
And now I found that I wanted very much to see mjr
friend Dr. Duncan. He received me with his stately cordi-
ality, and a smile that went farther than all his words of
greeting.
" Come, now, Mr. Walton, I am just going to sit down to
my dinner, and you must join me. I think there will be
enough for us both. There is, I believe, a chicken apiece
for us, and we can make up with cheese and a glass of
would you believe it? my own father's port. He was
fond of port the old man though I never saw him with
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one glass more aboard than the registered tonnage. He
always sat light on the water. Ah ! dear me ! I'm old my-
self now."
" But what am I to do with Mrs. Pearson ?" I said.
"There's somB chef-d'ceuvre of hers waiting for me by this
time. She always treats me particularly well on Saturdays
and Sundays."
"Ah! then, you must not stop with me. You will fare
better at home."
" But I should much prefer stopping with you. Couldn't
you send a message for me ?"
" To be sure. My boy will run with it at once."
Now, what is the use of writing all this ? I do not know.
Only that even a t^te-d-t^te dinner with an old friend, now
that I am an old man myself, has such a pearly halo about
it in the mists of the past, that every little circumstance
connected with it becomes interesting, though it may be
quite unworthy of record. So, kind reader, let it stand.
We sat down to our dinner, so simple and so well-cooked
that it was just what I liked. I wanted very much to tell
my friend what had occurred in Catharine's shop, but I
would not begin till we were safe from interruption ; and so
we chattered away concerning many things, he telling me
about his seafaring life, and I telling him some of the few
remarkable things that happened to me in the course of my
life-voyage. There is no man but has met with some re-
markable things that other people would like to know, and
which would seem stranger to them than they did at the
time to the person to whom they happened.
At length I brought our conversation round to my inter-
view with Catharine Weir.
" Can you understand," I said, "a woman finding it so
hard to forgive her own father?"
"Are you sure it is her father?" he returned.
" Surely she has not this feeling toward more than one.
That she has it toward her father, I know."
" I don't know," he answered. " I have known resent-
ment preponderate over every other feeling and passion ^in
the mmd of a woman too. I once heard of a good woman
who cherished this feeling against a good man because of
some distrustful words he had once addressed to herself.
She had lived to a great age, and was expressing to her
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A QUmr NEIGHBOBHOOI). 207
clergyman her desire that God would take her away : she
had been waiting a long time. The clergyman a very
shrewd as well as devout man, and not without a touch of
humor, said, ' Perhaps God doesn't mean to let you die till
you've forgiven Mr. .' She was as if struck with a flash
of thought, sat silent during the rest of his visit, and when
the clergyman called the next day, he found Mr. and
her talking together very quietly over a cup of tea. And
she hadn't long to wait after that, I was told, but wi^s gath-
ered to her fathers or went home to her children, which-
ever is the better phrase."
"I wish I had had your experience, Dr. Duncan," I said.
" I have not had so much experience as a general practi-
tioner, because I have been so long at sea. But I am satis-
fled that until a medical man knows a good deal more about
his patient than most medical men give themselves the trou-
ble to flnd out, his prescriptions will partake a good deal
more than is necessary of haphazard. As to this question of
obstinate resentment, I know one case in which it is the rul-
ing presence of a woman's life the very light that is in her
is resentment. I think her possessed myself."
"Tell me something about her."
" I will. But even to you I will mention no names. "Not
that I have her confidence in the least. But I think it is
better not. I was called to attend a lady at a house where
I had never yet been."
"Was it in ?" I began, but checked myself. Dr.
Duncan smiled and went on without remark. 1 could see
that he told his story with great care, lest, I thought, he
should let any thing slip that might give a clew to the place
or people.
" I was led up into an old-fashioned, richly-furnished room.
A great wood fire burned on the hearth. The bed was sur-
rounded with heavy dark curtains, in which the shadowy re-
mains of bright colors were just visible. In the bed lay one
of the loveliest young creatures I had ever seen, and, one on
each side, stood two of the most dreadful-looking women I
had ever beheld. Still as death, while I examined my pa-
tient, they stood, with moveless faces, one as white as the
other. Only the eyes of both of them were alive. One was
evidently mistress, and the other servant. The latter looked
more self-contained than the former, but less determined and
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possibly more cruel. That both could be unkind at least
was plain enough. There was trouble and signs of inward
conflict in the eyes of the mistress. The maid gave no sign
of any inside to her at all, but stood watching her mistress.
A child's toy was lying in the corner of the room."
I may here interrupt my friend's story to tell my reader
that I may be mingling some of my own conclusions with
what the good man told me of his ; for he will see well
enough already that I had in a moment attached his descrip-
tion to persons I knew, and, as it turned out, correctly,
though I could not be certain about it till the story had ad-
vanced a little beyond this early stage of its progress.
" I found the lady very weak and very feverish a quick,
feeble pulse, now bounding and now intermitting, and a
restlessness in her eye which I felt contained the secret of
her disorder. She kept glancing, as if involuntarily, toward
the door, which would not open for all her looking, and I
heard her once murmur to herself for I was still quick of
hearing then ' He won't come 1' Perhaps I only saw her
lips move to those words ^I can not be sure, but I am cer-
tain she said them in her heart. I prescribed for her as far
as I could venture, but begged a word with her mother.
She went with me into an adjoining room.
" ' The lady is longing for something,' I said, not wishing
to be so definite as I could have been.
" The mother made no reply. I saw her lips shut yet
closer than before.
" *She is your daughter, is she not?'
" * Yes,' very decidedly.
" ' Could you not find out what she wishes ?'
" * Perhaps I could guess.'
" *I do not think I can do her any good till she has what
she wants.'
"'Is that your mode of prescribing, doctor?' she said,
tartly.
" * Yes, certainly,' I answered 4n the present case. Is
she married ?'
"'Yes.'
" ' Has she any children ?'
" ' One daughter.'
" ' Let her see her, then.'
" ' She does not care to see her.'
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A QUIBT NXI6HB0BH00D. 209
" ' Where is her husband ?'
" * Excase me, doctor ; I did not send for you to ask ques-
tions, but to give advice.'
" * And I came to ask questions, in order that I might give
advice. Do you think a human being is like a clock, that
can be taken to pieces, cleaned, and put together again ?'
** ' My daughter's condition is not a fit subject for jesting.'
" ' Certainly not. Send for her husband, or the undertaker,
whichever you please,' I said, forgetting my manners and my
temper together, for I was more irritable then than I am now,
and there was something so repulsive about the woman that
I felt as if I was talking to an evil creature that for her own
ends, though what I could not tell, was tormenting the dy-
ing lady.
" ' I understood you were VL^erUkmanot experience and
breeding.'
" ' I am not in the question, madam. It is your daughter.'
" ' She shall take your prescription.'
" * She must see her husband if it be possible.'
" * It is not possible.'
"'Why?'
" ' I say it is not possible, and that is enough. Good-
morning.'
" I could say no more at that time. I called the next day.
She was just the same, only that I knew she wanted to speak
to me, and dared not, because of the presence of the two
women. Her troubled eyes seemed searching mine for pity
and help, and I could not tell what to do for her. There are,
indeed, as some one says, strong-holds of injustice and wrong
into which no law can enter to help.
" One afternoon, about a week after my first visit, I was
sitting by her bedside, wondering what could be done to get
her out of the clutches of these tormentors, who were, evi-
dently to me, consuming her in the slow fire of her own af-
fections, when I heard a faint noise, a rapid foot in the house
so quiet before heard doors open and shut, then a dull
sound of conflict of some sort. Presently a quick step came
up the oak stair. The face of my patient flushed, and her
eyes gleamed as if her soul would come out of them. Weak
as she was, she sat up in bed, almost without an efibrt, and
the two women darted from the room one after the other.
" ' My husband !' said the girl ^for indeed she was little
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more in age, turning her face, almost distorted with eager-
ness, toward me.
" ' Yes, my dear,' I said, *I know. But you must be as
still as you can, else you will be very ill. Do keep quiet."
" ' I will I will,' she gasped, stuffing her pocket-handker-
chief actually into her mouth to prevent herself from scream-
ing, as if that was what would hurt her. * But go to him.
They will murder him.'
" That moment I heard a cry, and what sounded like an
inarticulate imprecation, but both from a woman's voice ;
and the next, a young man as fine a fellow as I ever saw
dressed like a game-keeper, but evidently a gentleman, walk-
ed into the room with a quietness that strangely contrasted
with the dreadful paleness of his face and with his disorder-
ed hair, while the two women followed, as red as he was
white, and evidently in fierce wrath from a fruitless struggle
with the powerful youth. He walked gently up to his wife,
whose outstretched arms and face followed his face as he
came round the bed to where she was at the other side, till
arms, and face, and head fell into his embrace.
" I had gone to the mother. ^
" ' Let us have no scene now,' I said, ' or her blood will
be on your head.'
" She took no notice of what I said, but stood silently
flaring, not gazing, at the pair. I feared an outburst, and
ad resolved, if it came, to carry her at once from the room,
which I was quite able to do then, Mr. Walton, though I
don't look like it now. But in a moment more the young
man, becoming uneasy at the motionlessness of his wife,hft-
ed up her head, and glanced in her face. Seeing the look
of terror in his, I hastened to him, and, lifting her from him,
laid her down dead. Disease of the heart, I believe. The
mother burst into a shriek not of horror, or grief, or re-
morse, but of deadly hatred.
" ' Look at your work !' she cried to him as he stood gaz-
ing in stupor on the face of the girl. ' You said she was
yours, not mine ; take her. You may have her now you
have killed her.'
" ' He may have killed her, but you have murdered her,
madam,' I said, as I took the man by the arm, and led him
away, yielding like a child. But the moment I got him out
of the house he gave a groan, and, breaking away from me,
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 211
rashed down a road leading from the back of the house
toward the home-farm. I followed, but he had disappeared.
I went on ; but before I could reach the farm, I heard the
gallop of a horse, and saw him tearing away at full speed
along the London road. I never heard more of him or of
the story. Some women can be secret enough, I assure you."
I need not follow the rest of our conversation. I could
hardly doubt whose was the story I had heard. It threw a
light upon several things about which I had been perplexed.
What a horror of darkness seemed to hang over that fami-
ly ! What deeds of wickedness ! But the reason was clear :
the horror came from within ; selfishness, and fierceness of
temper were its source no unhappy doom. The worship
of one's own will fumes out around the being an atmosphere
of evil, an altogether abnormal condition of the moral firma-
ment, out of which will break the very flames of hell. The
consciousness of birth and of breeding, instead of stirring up
to deeds of gentleness and " high emprise," becomes then
but an incentive to violence and cruelty ; and things which
seem as if they could not happen in a civilized country and
a polished^ age, are proved as possible as ever where the
heart is unloving, the feelings unrefined, self the centre, and
God nowhere in the man or woman's vision. The terrible
things that one reads in old histories or in modern newspa-
pers were done by human beings, not by demons.
I did not let my friend know that I laiew all that he con-
cealed, but I may as well tell my reader now what I could
not have told him then. I know all the story now, and, as
no better place will come, as far as I can see, I will tell it at
once, and briefly.
Dorothy. a wonderful name, the gift of God^ to be so
treated, faring in this, however, like many other of God's
gifts ^Dorothy Oldcastle was the eldest daughter of Jeremy
and Sibyl Oldcastle, and the sister therefore of Ethelwyn.
Her father, who was an easy-going man, entirely under the
dominion of his wife, died when she was about fifteen, and
her mother sent her to school, with especial recommendation
to the care of a clergyman in the neighborhood, whom Mrs.
Oldcastle knew ; for, somehow and the fact is not so un-
usual as to justify especial inquiry here though she paid no
attention to what our Lord or His apostles said, nor indeed
seemed to care to as.k herself if what she did was right, or
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what she accepted (I can not say hdieved) was true, she had
yet a certain (to me all but incomprehensible) leaning to the
clergy. I think it belongs to the same kind of superstition
which many of our own day are turning to. Offered the
Spirit of God for the asking, offered it by the Lord himself,
in the misery of their unbelief they betake themselves to
necromancy instead, and raise the dead to ask their advice,
and follow i% and will find some day that Satan had not
forgotten how to dress like an angel of light. Nay, he can
be more cunning with the demands of the time. We are
clever ; he will be cleverer. Why should he dress and not
speak like an angel of light ? Why should he not give good
advice if that will help to withdraw people by degrees from
regarding the source of all good ? He knows well enough
that good advice goes for little, but that what fills the heart
and mind goes for much. What religion is there in being
convinced of a future state ? Is that to worship God ? It
is no more religion than the belief that the sun will rise to-
morrow is religion. It may be a source of happiness to
those who could not believe it before, but it is not religion.
Where religion comes that will certainly be likewise, but
the one is not the other. The devil can afford a kind of con-
viction of that. It costs him little. But to believe that the
spirits of the departed are the mediators between God and
us is essential paganism, to call it nothing worse ; and a bad
enough name too, since Christ has come, and we have heard
and seen the only-begotten of the Father. Thus the instinct-
ive desire for the wonderful, the need we have of a revela-
tion from above us, denied its proper food and nourishment,
turns in its hunger to feed upon garbage. As a devout Ger-
man says ^I do not quote him quite 6orrectly "Where
God rules not, demons will." Let us once see wi^ih our
spiritual eyes the Wonderful, the Counselor, and surely we
shall not turn from Him to seek elsewhere the treasures of
wisdom and knowledge.
Those who sympathize with my feeling in regard to this
form of the materialism of our day will forgive this diverg-
ence. I submit to the artistic blame of such as do not, and
return to my story.
Dorothy was there three or four years. I said I would
be brief. She and the clergyman's son fell in love with each
other. The mother heard of it, and sent for her home. She
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 213
had Other views for her. Of course, in such eyes, a daugh-
ter's /a^icy was, irrespective of its object altogether, a thing
to be sneered at. But she found, to her fierce disdain, that
she had not been able to keep all her beloved obstinacy to
herself: she had transmitted a portion of it to her daughter.
But in her it was combined with noble qualities, and, ceasing
to be the evil thing it was in her mother, became an honor-
able firmness, rendering her able to withstand her mother's
stormy importunities. Thus Nature had begun to right
herself the right in the daughter turning to meet and defy
the wrong in the mother, and that in the same strength of
character which the mother had misused for evil and selfish
ends. And thus the bad breed was broken. She was and
would be true to her lover. The consequent scenes were
dreadful. The spirit, but not the will of the girl, was all
but broken. She felt that she could not sustain the strife
long. By some means, unknown to my informant, her lover
contrived to communicate with her. He had, through means
of relations who had great influence with government, pro-
cured a good appointment in India, whither he must sail
within a month. The end was that she left her mother's
house. Mr. Gladwyn was waiting for her near, and con-
ducted her to his father's, who had constantly refused to aid
Mrs. Oldcastle by interfering in the matter. They were
married next day by the clergyman of a neighboring parish.
But almost immediately she was taken so ill that it was im-
possible for her to accompany her husband, and she was
compelled to remain behind at the rectory, hoping to join
him the following year.
Before the time arrived she gave birth to my little friend
Judy, and her departure was again delayed by a return of
her old complaint, probably the early stages of the disease
of which she died. Then, just as she was about to set sail
for India, news arrived that Mr. Gladwyn had had a sun-
stroke, and would have leave of absence and come home as
soon as he was able to be moved ; so that, instead of going
out to join him, she must wait for him where she was. His
mother had been dead for some time. His father, an elder-
ly man of indolent habits, was found dead in his chair one
Sunday morning soon after the news had arrived of the ijl-
ness of his son, to whom he was deeply attached ; and so
the poor young creature was left alone with her child, aa ith-
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oat money, and in weak health. The old man left nothing
behind him but his furnitare and books, and nothing could
be done in arranging his affairs till the arrival of his son, of
whom the last accounts had been that he was slowly recov-
ering. In the mean time his wife was in want of money,
without a friend to whom she could apply. I presume that
one of the few parishioners who visited at the rectory had
written to acquaint Mrs. Oldcastle with the condition in
which her daughter was left, for, influenced by motives of
which I dare not take upon me to conjecture an analysis,
she wrote, offering her daughter all that she required in her
old home. Whether she foreintended her following con-
duct, or old habit returned with the return of her daughter,
I can not tell, but she had not been more than a few days
in the house before she began to tyrannize over her as in old
times, and, although Mrs. Gladwyn's health, now always
weak, was evidently failing in consequence, she either did
not see the cause, or could not restrain her evil impulses.
At length the news arrived of Mr. Gladwyn's departure for
home. Perhaps then, for the first time, the temptation en-
tered her mind to take her revenge upon him by making her
daughter's illness a pretext for refusing him admission to her
]resence. She told her she should not see him till she was
better, for that it would make her worse ; persisted in her
resolution after his arrival ; and effected, by the help of
Sarah, that he should not gain admittance to the house,
keeping all the doors locked except one. It was only by
the connivance of Ethelwyn, then a girl about fifteen, that
he was admitted by the underground way, of which she un-
locked the upper door for his entrance. She had then guided
him as far as she dared, and directed him the rest of the
way to his wife's room.
My reader will now understand how it came about, in the
process of writing these my recollections, that I have given
such a long chapter chiefly to that one evening spent with
my good friend Dr. Duncan ; for he will see, as I have said,
that what he told me opened up a good deal to me.
I had very little time for the privacy of the church that
night. Dark as it was, however, I went in before I went
home : I had the key of the vestry door always in my pocket.
I groped my way into the pulpit, and sat down in the dark-
ness, and thought. Nor did my personal interest in Dr.
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A QUIET KEI6HBOBH0OD. 215
Duncan's story make 'me forget poor Catharine Weir and
the terrible sore in her heart, the sore of unforgivingness.
And I saw that of herself she would not, could not, forgive
to all eternity ; that all the pains of hell could not make her
forgive, for that it was a divine glory to forgive, and must
come from God. And thinking of Mrs. Oldcastle, I saw that
in ourselves we could be sure of no safety, not from the
worst and vilest sins ; for who could tell how he might not
stupefy himself by degrees, and by one action after another,
eacn a little worse than the former, till the very fires of Si-
nai would not flash into eyes blinded with the incense aris-
ing to the golden calf of his worship ? A man may come to
worship a devil without knowing it. Only by being filled
with a higher spirit than our own, which, having caused our
spirits, is one with our spirits, and is in them the present
life principle, are we or can we be safe from this eternal
death of our being. This spirit was fighting the evil spirit
in Catharine Weir : how was I to urge her to give ear to
the good ? If will would but side with God, the forces of
self, deserted by their leader, must soon quit the field ; and
the woman the kingdom within her no longer torn by con-
flicting forces would sit quiet at the feet of the Master, re-
posing in that rest which He offered to those who could
come to Him. Might she not be roused to utter one feeble
cry to God for help? That would be one step toward the
forgiveness of others. To ask something for herself would
be a great advance in such a proud natfire as hers, and to
ask good heartily is the very next step to giving good
heartily.
Many thoughts such as these passed through my mind,
chiefly associated with her ; for I could not think how to
think about Mrs. Oldcastle yet. And the old church gloom-
ed about me all the time. And I kept lifting up my heart
to the God who had cared to make me, and then drew me
to be a preacher to my fellows, and had surely something to
give me to say to them ; for did He not choose so to work
by the foolishness of preaching ? Might not my humble
ignorance work His will, though my wrath could not work
His righteousness ? And I descended from the pulpit think-
ing with myself, " Let Him do as He will. Here 1 am. I
will say what I see : let Him make it good."
And the next morning I spoke about the words of our
Lord ;
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" If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to
your children, how much more shall your heavenly Father
give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him 1"
And I looked to see. And there Catharine Weir sat,
looking me in the face.
There likewise sat Mrs. Oldcastle, looking me in the face
too.
And Judy sat there, also looking me in the face, as seri-
ous as man could wish grown woman to look.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE OEGAK.
One little matter I forgot to mention as having been talk-
ed about between Dr. Duncan and myself that same even-
ing. I happened to refer to Old Rogers.
" What a fine old fellow that is 1" said Dr. Duncan.
" Indeed he is," I answered. "He is a great comfort and
help to me. I don't think any body but myself has an idea
what there is in that old man."
"The people in the village don't quite like him, though, I
find. He is too ready to be down upon them when he sees
things going amiss. The fact is, they are afraid of him."
" Something as the Jews were afraid of John the Baptist,
because he was an honest man, and spoke not merely his
own mind, but the mind of God in it."
" Just so. I believe you're (juite right. Do you know,
the other day, happening to go into Weir's shop to get him
to do a job for me, I found him and Old Rogers at close
quarters in an argument ? I could not well understand the
drift of it, not having been present at the beginning, but I
soon saw that, keen as Weir was, and far surpassing Rogers
in correctness of speech, and precision as well, the old sailor
carried too heavy metal for the carpenter. It evidently an-
noyed Weir ; but such was the good-humor of Rogers, that
he could not, for very shame, lose his temper, the old man's
smile again and again compelling a response on the thin
cheeks of the other.".
"I know how he would talk exactly," I returned. "He
has a kind of loving banter with him, if you will allow me
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A QUTET NEIGHBORHOOD. 217
the expression, that is irresistible to any man with a heart
in his bosom. I am very glad to hear there is any thing
like communion begun between them. Weir will get good
from him."
" My man-of-all-work is going to leave me. I wonder if
the old man would take his place ?"
" I do not know whether he is fit for it. But of one thing
you may be sure if Old Rogers does not honestly believe
he is fit for it, hoywill not take it. And he will tell you
why, too."
" Of that, however, I think I may be a better judge than
he. There is nothing to which a good sailor can not turn
his hand, whatever he may think himself. You see, Mr.
Walton, it is not like a routine trade. Things are never
twi(fe the same at sea. The sailor has a thousand chances
of using his judgment, if he has any to use, and that Old
Rogers has in no common degree ; so I should have no fear
of him. If he won't let me steer him, you must put your
hand to the tiller for me."
" I will do what I can," I answered, " for nothing would
please me more than to see him in your service. It would
be much better for him, and his wife too, than living by un-
certain jobs as he does now."
The result of it all was, that Old Rogers consented to try
for a month ; but when the end of the month came, nothing
was said on either side, and the old man remained. And I
could see several little new comforts about the cottage, in
consequence of the regularity of his wages.
Now I must report another occurrence in regular se-
quence.
To my surprise, and, I must confess, not a little to my dis-
composure, when I rose in the reading-desk on the day after
this dinner with Dr. Duncan, I saw that the Hall-pew was
full. Miss Oldcastle was there for the first time, and, by
her side, the gentleman whom the day before I had encoun-
tered on horseback. He sat carelessly, easily, contentedly
^indifferently ; for, although I never that morning looked
up from my Prayer-book, except involuntarily in the changes
of posture, I could not help seeing that he was always be-
hind the rest of the congregation, as if he had no idea of
what was coming next, or did not care to conform. Gladly
would I, that day, have shunned the necessity of preaching
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that was laid upon me. " But," I said to myself, " shall the
work given me to do fare ill because of the perturbation of
ray spirit ? No harm is done, though J suffer ; but much
harm if one tone fails of its force because I suffer." I there-
fore prayed God to help me ; and feeling the right, because
I felt the need, of looking to him for aid, I cast my care
upon Him, kept my thoughts strenuously away from that
which discomposed me, and never turned my eyes toward
the Hall-pew from the moment I entered the pulpit ; and
partly, I presume, from the freedom given by the sense of
irresponsibility for the result, I being weak and God strong,
I preached, I think, a better sermon than I had ever preached
before. But when I got into the vestry I found that I could
scarcely stand for trembling ; and I must have looked ill,
for when my attendant came in he got me a glass of wine
without even asking me if I would have it, although it was
not my custom to take any there. But there was one of
my congregation that morning who suffered more than I
did from the presence of one of those who filled the Hall-
pew.
I recovered in a few moments from my weakjiess, but, al-
together disinclined to face any of my congregation,* went
out at my vestry door, and home through the shrubbery
a path I seldom used, because it had a separatist look about
it. When I got to my study, I threw myself on a couch,
and fell fast asleep. How often in trouble have I had to
thank God for sleep as for one of His best gifts ! And how
often, when I have awaked refreshed and calm, have I
thought of poor Sir Philip Sidney, who, dying slowly and
patiently in the prime of life and health, was sorely troubled
in his mind to know how he had offended God, because,
having prayed earnestly for sleep, no sleep came in answer
to his cry !
I woke just in time for my afternoon service, and the in-
ward peace in which I found my heart was to myself a mar-
vel and a delight. I felt almost as if I was walking in a
blessed dream come from a world of serener air than this
of ours. I found, after I was already in the reading-desk,
that I was a few minutes early ; and while, with bowed
head, I was simply living in the consciousness of the pres-
ence of a supreme quiet, the first low notes of the organ
broke upon my stillness with the sense of a deeper delight.
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 219
Never befoi'e had I felt, as I felt that afternoon, the triumph
of contemplation in Handel's rendering of "I know that my
Redeemer liveth." And I felt how through it all ran a
cold silvery quiver of sadness, like the light in the east after
the sun is gone down, which would have been pain but for
the golden glow of the west, which looks after the light of
the world with a patient waiting. Before the music ceased
it had crossed my mind that I had never before heard that
organ utter itself in the language of Handel. But I had no
time to think more about it just then, for I rose to read the
words of our Lord, " I will arise and go to my Father."
There was no one in the Hall-pew ; indeed it was a rare
occurrence if any one was there in the afternoon.
But, for all the quietness of my mind during that evening
service, I felt ill before I went to bed, and awoke in the
morning with a headache, which increased along with other
signs of perturbation of the system, until I thought it better
to send for Dr. Duncan. I have not yet got so imbecile as
to suppose that a history of the following six weeks would
be interesting to my readers, for during so long did I suffer
from low fever, and more weeks passed during which I was
unable to meet my flock. Thanks to the care of Mr. Brown-
"gg? a clever young man in priest's orders then living at
Addicehead while waiting for a curacy, who kindly under-
took my duty for me, and thus relieved me from all anxiety
about supplying my place.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE CHUBCn-BATE.
But I can not express equal satisfaction in regard to ev-
ery thing that Mr. Brownrigg took upon his own responsi-
bility, as my reader will see. He, and another farmer, his
neighbor, had been so often re-elected church-wardens, that
at last they seemed to have gained a prescriptive right to
the office, and the form of election fell into disuse ; so much
so, that after Mr. Summer's death, which tookv place some
year and a half before I became vicar of Marshmallows, Mr.
Brownrigg continued to exercise the duty in his own single
person, and nothing had as yet been said about the election
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of a colleague. So little seemed to fall to the duty of the
church-warden that I regarded the neglect as a trifle, and
was remiss in setting it right. I had, therefore, to suffer,
as was just. Indeed, Mr. Brownrigg was not the man to
have power in his hands unchecked.
I had so far recovered that I was able to rise about noon
and go into my study, though I was very weak, and had
not yet been out, when one morning Mrs. Pearson came
into the room and said,
" Please, sir, here's young Thomas Weir in a great way
about something, and insisting upon seeing you, if you pos-
sibly can."
I had as yet seen very few of my friends, except the doc-
tor, and those only for two or three minutes ; but, although
I did not feel very fit for seeing any body just then, I could
not but yield to his desire, confident there must be a good
reason for it, and so told Mrs. Pearson to show him in.
" Oh, sir, I know you would be vexed if you hadn't been
told," he exclaimed, " and I am sure you will not be angry
with me for troubling you."
" What is the matter, Tom ?" I said. " I assure you I
shall not be angry with you."
" There's Farmer Brownrigg, at this very moment, tak-
ing away Mr, Templeton's table because he won't pay the
church-rate."
" What church-rate ?" I cried, starting up from the sofa.
" I never heard of a church-rate."
Now, before I go farther, it is necessary to explain some
things. One day, before I was taken ill, I had had a little
talk with Mr. Brownrigg about some repairs of the church
which were necessary, and must be done before another
winter. I confess I was rather pleased; for I wanted my
people to feel that the church was their property, and that
it was their privilege, if they could regard it as a blessing
to have the church, to keep it in decent order and repair.
So I said, in the by-the-by way to my church-warden, " We
must call a vestry before long, and have this looked to."
Now my predecessor had left every thing of the kind to
his church-wardens ; and the inhabitants, from their side,
had likewise left the whole affair to the church-wardens.
But Mr. Brownrigg, who, I must say, had taken more pains
than might have been expectied of him to make himself ac-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 221
quainted with tho legalities of bis office, did not fail to call
a vestry, to which, as usual, no one had responded ; where-
upon he imposed a rate according to his own unaided judg-
ment. This, I believe, he did during my illness with the
notion of pleasing me by the discovery that the repairs had
been already effected according to my mind. Nor did any
one of my congregation throw the least difficulty in the
church-\f arden's way. And now I must refer to another
circumstance in the history of my parish.
I think I have already alluded to the fact that there were
Dissenters in Marshmallows. There was a little chapel
down a lane leading from the main street of the village, in
which there was service three times every Sunday. People
came to it from many parts of the parish, among whom
were the families of two or three farmers of substance,
while the village and its neighborhood contributed a por-
tion of the poorest of the inhabitants. A year or two be-
fore I came their minister died, and they had chosen anoth-
er, a very worthy man, of considerable erudition, but of ex-
treme views, as I heard, upon insignificant points, and moved
by a great dislike to national churches and episcopacy. This,
I say, is what I had made out about him from what I had
heard ; and my reader will very probably be inclined to ask,
" But why, with principles such as yours, should you have
only hearsay to go upon ? Why did you not make the hon-
est man's acquaintance ? In such a small place, men should
not keep each other at arm's length." And any reader who
says so will say right. All I have to suggest for myself is
simply a certain shyness, for which I can not entirely ac-
count, but which was partly made up of fear to intrude, or
of being supposed to arrogate to myself the right of making
advances, partly of a dread lest we should not be able to get
on together, and so the attempt should result in something
unpleasantly awkward. I dare say, likewise, that the natu-
ral sheUiness of the English had something to do with it.
At all events, I had not made his acquaintance.
Mr. Templeton, then, had refused, as a point of con-
science, to pay the church-rate when the collector went
round to demand it; had been summoned before a magis-
trate in consequence ; had suffered a default ; and, proceed-
ings being pushed from the first in all the pride of Mr.
Brownrigg's legality, had on this very day been visited by
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the church-warden, accompanied by a broker from the neigh-
boring town of Addicehead, and at the very time when I
was hearing of the fact was suffering distraint of his goods.
The porcine head of the church-warden was not on his
shoulders by accident, nor without significance.
But I did not wait to understand all this now. It was
enough for me that Tom bore witness to the fact that at
that nroment proceedings were thus driven to extremity. I
rang the bell for my boots, and, to the open-mouthed dis-
may of Mrs. Pearson, left the vicarage leaning on Tom's
arm. But such was the commotion in my mind that I had
become quite unconscious of illness or even feebleness.
Hurrying on in more terror than I can well express lest I
should be too late, I reached Mr. Templeton's house just as
a small mahogany table was being hoisted into a spring-
cart which stood at the door. Breathless with haste, I was
yet able to call out,
" Put that table down directly."
At the same moment Mr. Brownrigg appeared from with-
in the door. He approached with the self-satisfied look of
a man who has done his duty, and is proud of it. I think
he had not heard me.
" You see Pm prompt, Mr. Walton," he said. " But bless
my soul, how ill you look !"
Without answering him ^for I was more angry with him
than I ought to have been I repeated,
"Put that table down, I tell you."
They did so.
" Now," I said, " carry it back into the house."
" Why, sir," interposed Mr. Brownrigg, " it's all right."
" Yes," I said, " as right as the devil would have it."
" I assure you, sir, I have done every thing according to
law."
" Fm not so sui'e of that. I believe I had the right to be
chairman at the vestry-meeting ; but, instead of even letting
me know, you took advantage of my illness to hurry on
matters to this shameful and wicked excess."
I did the poor man wrong in this, for I believe h^ had
hurried things really to please me. His face had lengthen-
ed considerably by this time, and its rubicund hue declined.
"I did not think you would stand upon ceremony about
it, sir. You never seemed to care for business."
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 223
"If you talk about legality, so will I. Certainly you
don't stand upon ceremony."
" I didn't expect you would turn against your own church-
warden in the execution of his duty, sir," he said, in an of-
fended tone. "It'rf^bad enough to have a meetin'-house in
the place, without one's own parson siding with t'other par-
son as won't pay a lawful church-rate."
" I would have paid the church-rate for the whole parish
ten times over before such a thing should have happened.
I feel so disgraced, I am ashamed to look Mr. Templeton in
the fece. Carry that table into the house again directly.'*
" It's my property now," interposed the broker. " I've
bought it of the church-warden, and paid for it."
I turaed to Mr. Brownrigg.
"How much did he give you for it?" I asked.
"Twenty shillings," returned he, sulkily, "and it won't
pay expenses."
" Twenty shillings," I exclaimed, " for a table that cost
three times as much at least ! What do you expect to sell
it for?"
" That's ray business," answered the broker.
I pulled out my purse, and threw a sovereign and a half
on the table, saying,
^^ Fifty per cent, will be, I think, profit enough even on
such a transaction."
" I did not offer you the table," returned the broker. " I
am not bound to sell except I please, and at my own price."
" Possibly. But I tell you the whole affair is illegal. And
if you carry away that table, I shall see what the law will
do for me. I assure you I will prosecute you myself. You
take up that money, or I will. It will go to pay counsel, I
give you my word, if you do not take it to quench strife."
I stretch^ed out my hand. But the broker was before me.
Without another word, he pocketed the money, jumped into
his cart with his man, and drove off, leaving the church-war-
den and the parson standing at the door of the dissenting
minister with his mahogany table on the path between
them.
" Now, Mr. Brownrigg," I said, " lend me a hand to car-
ry this table in again."
He yielded, not graciously that could not be expected
but in silence.
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" Oh I sir," interposed young Tom, who had stood by dur-
ing the dispute, " let me take it. You're not able to lift it."
" Nonsense ! Tom. Keep away," I said. " It is all the
reparation I can make."
And so Mr. Brownrigg and I blundered into the little
parlor with our burden ^not a great one, but I began to
find myself failing.
Mr. Templeton sat in a Windsor chair in the middle of
the room. Evidently the table had been carried away from
before him, leaving his position uncovered. The floor was
strewed with the books which had lain upon it. He sat
reading an old folio, as if nothing had happened. But when
we entered he rose.
He was a man of middle size, about forty, with short
black hair, and overhanging, bushy eyebrows. His mouth
indicated great firmness, not unmingled with sweetness, and
even with humor. He smiled as he rose, but looked embar-
rassed, glancing first at the table, then at me, and then at
Mr. Brownrigg, as if begging somebody to tell him what to
say. But I did not leave him a moment in this perplexity.
" Mr. Templeton," I said, quitting the table and holding
out my hand, *' beg your pardon for myself and my friend
here, my church-warden" ^Mr. Brownrigg gave a grunt
" that you should have been annoyed like this. I have^"
Mr. Templeton interrupted me.
" I assure you it was a matter of conscience with me," he
said. " On no other ground ^"
" I know it, I know it,'' I said, interrupting him in my
turn. " I beg your pardon ; and I have done my best to
make amends for it. Offenses must come, you know, Mr.
Templeton ; but I trust I have not incurred the woe that
follows upon them by means of whom they come, for I knew
nothing of it, and indeed was too ill "
Here my strength left me altogether, and I sat down.
The room began to whirl round me, and I remember noth-
ing more till I knew that I was lying on a couch, with Mrs.
Templeton bathing my forehead, and Mr. Templeton trying
to get something into my mouth with a spoon.
Ashamed to find myself in such circumstances, I tried to
rise; but Mr. Templeton, laying his hand on mine, said, ^
"My dear sir, add to your kindness this day by letting
my wife and me minister to you."
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A QUIET NSIGHBOBHOOD. 225
Now, was not that a courteous speech ? He went on :
*' Mr. Brownrigg has gone for Dr. Duncan, and will be
back in a few moments. I beg you will not exert yourself."
I yielded and lay still. Dr. Duncan came. His carriage
followed, and I was taken home. Before we started, I said
to Mr. Brownrigg ^for I could not rest till I had said it
"Mr. Brownrigg,! spoke in heat when I came up to you,
and I am sure I did you wrong. I am certain you had no
improper motive in not making me acquainted with your
proceedings. You meant no harm to me. But you did
very wrong toward Mr. Templeton. I will try to show you
that when I am well again ; but "
" But you mustn't talk more now," said Dr. Duncan.
So I shook hands with Mr. Brownrigg, and we parted.
I fear, from what I know of my church-warden, that he
went home with the conviction that he had done perfectly
right, and that the parson had made an apology for inter-
fering with a church-warden who was doing his best to up-
hold the dignity of Church and State. But perhaps I may
be doing him wrong again.
I went home to a week more of bed, and a lengthened
process of recovery, during which many were the kind in-
quiries made after me by my friends, and among them by
Mr. Templeton.
And here I may as well sketch the result of that strange
introduction to the dissenting minister.
After I was tolerably well affain, I received a friendly let-
ter from him one day expostulating with me on the incon-
sistency of my remaining within the pale of the ^Established
Church. The gist of the letter lay in these words :
" I confess it perplexes me to understand how to recon-
cile your Christian and friendly behavior to one whom most
of your brethren would consider as much beneath their no-
tice as inferior to them in social position, with your remain-
ing the minister of a Church in which such enormities as
you employed your private influence to counteract in my
case are not only possible, but certainly lawful, and recog-
nized by most of its members as likewise expedient."
To this I replied :
" My deae Sib, I do not like writing letters, especially
K2
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on subjects of importance. There are a thousand chances
of misunderstanding. Whereas, in a personal interview,
there is a possibility of controversy being hallowed by com-
munion. . Come and dine with me to-morrow, at any hour
convenient to you, and make my apologies to Mrs. Temple-
ton for not inviting her with you, on the ground that we
want to have a long talk with each other without the dis-
tracting influence which even her presence would unavoid-
ably occasion. I am, etc., etc."
He accepted my invitation at once. During dinner we
talked away, not upon indifferent, but upon the most inter-
esting subjects connected with the poor, and parish-work,
and the influence of the higher upon the lower classes of
society. At length we sat down on opposite sides of the
fire ; and as soon as Mrs. Pearson had shut the door, I said,
" You ask me, Mr. Templeton, in your very kind letter "
and here I put my hand in my pocket to find it.
"I asked you," interposed Mr. Templeton, "how you could
belong to a Church which authorizes things of which you
yourself so heartily disapprove."
" And I answer you," I returned, " that just to such a
Church our Lord belonged."
" I do not quite understand you."
" Our Lord belonged to the Jewish Church."
" But ours is His Church."
" Yes. But principles remain the same. I speak of Him
as belonging to a Church. His conduct would be the same
in the same circumstances, whatever Church he belonged
to, because He would always do right. I want, if you will
allow me, to show you the principle upon which He acted
with regard to church-rates."
" Certainly. I beg your pardon for interrupting you."
" The Pharisees demanded a tribute, which, it is allowed,
was for the support of the Temple and its worship. Our
Lord did not refuse to acknowledge their authority, not-
withstanding the many ways in which they had degraded
the religious observances of the Jewish Church. He ac-
knowledged himself a child of the Church, but said that, as
a child. He ought to have been left to contribute as He
pleased to the support of its ordinances, and not to be com-
pelled after such a fashion."
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. * 227
" There I have you," exclaimed Mr. Templeton. " He
said they were wroog to make the tribute, or church-rate,
if it really was such, compulsory."
"I grant it: it is entirely wrong a very unchristian
proceeding. But our Lord did not therefore desert the
Church, as you would have me do. Sepaid the money ^ lest
He should offend. And, not having it of His own, He had
to ask His Father for it, or what came to the same thing,
make a servant of His Father, namely, a fish in the sea of
Galilee, bring Him the money. And there I have ycm, Mr.
Templeton. It is wrong to compel, and wrong to refuse,
the payment of a church-rate. I do not say equally wrong :
it is much worse to compel than to refuse."
"You are very generous," returned Mr. Templeton. "May
I hope that you will do me the credit to believe that if I
saw clearly that they were the same thing, I would not hes-
itate a moment to follow our Lord's example ?"
" I believe it perfectly. Therefore, however we may dif-
fer, we are in reality at no strife."
"But is there not this difference, that our Lord was, as
you say, a child of the Jewish Churcn, which was indubita-
bly established by God ? Now. if I can not conscientiously
belong to the so-called English Church, why should I have
to pay church-rate or tribute ?"
" Shall I tell you the argument the English Church might
then use ? The Church might say, ' Then you are a stran-
ger, and no child ; therefore, like the kings of the earth, we
may take tribute of you.' So you see it would come
to this, that Dissenters alone should be compelled to pay
church-rates."
We both laughed at this pushing of the argument to ille-
gitimate conclusions. Then I resumed :
" But the real argument is that not for such faults should
we separate from each other; not for such faults, or any
faults, so long as it is the repositoiy of the truth, should you
separate from the Church."
" I will yield the point when you can show me the same
ground for believing the Church of England the National
Churchy appointed such by God, that I can show you, and
you know already, for receiving the Jewish Church as the
appointment of God."
"That would involve a long argument, upon which,
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though I have little doubt upon the matter myself, I can
not say I am prepared to enter at this moment. Meantime
I would just ask you whether you are not sufficiently a child
of the Church of England, having received from it a thou-
sand influences for good, if in no other way, yet through
your fathers, to find it no great hardship, and not very un-
reasonable, to pay a trifle to keep in repair one of the tab-
ernacles in which our forefathers worshiped together, if, as
I hope you will allow, in some imperfect measure God is
worshiped, and the truth is preached in it ?"
" Most willingly would I pay the money. I object sim-
ply because the rate is compulsory."
"And therein you have our Lord's example to the con-
trary."
A silence followed ; for I had to deal with an honest man,
who was thinking. I resumed :
" A thousand difficulties will no doubt come up to be con-
sidered in the matter. Do not suppose I am anxious to
convince you. I believe that our Father, our Elder Broth-
er, and the Spirit that proceedeth from them, is teaching
you, as I believe I too am being taught by the same. Why
then should I be anxious to convince you of any thing ?
Will you not in His good time come to see what He would
have you see ? I am relieved to speak my mind, knowing
He would have us speak our minds to each other ; but I do
not want to proselytize. If you change your mind, you
will probably do so on different grounds from any I give
you on grounds which show themselves in the course of
your own search after the foundations of truth in regard
perhaps to some other question altogether."
Again a silence followed. Then Mr. Templeton spoke :
" Don't think I am satisfied," he said, " because I don't
choose to say any thing more till I have thought about
it. I think you are wrong in your conclusions about the
Church, though surely you are right in thinking we ought
to have patience with each other. And now tell me true,
Mr. Walton I'm a blunt kind of man, descended from an
old Puritan, one of Cromwell's Ironsides, I believe, and I
haven't been to a university like you, but I'm no fool either,
I hope don't be offended at my question ; wouldn't you
be glad to see me out of your parish now ?"
I began to speak, but he went on.
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A QUIET KEIGHBOBHOOD. 229
"Don't you regard me as an interloper now one who
has no right to speak because he does not belong to the
Church?"
"God forbid !" I answered. "If a word of mine would
make you leave my parish to-morrow, I dare not say it. I
do not want to incur the rebuke of our Lord for surely
the words ' Forbid him not' involved some rebuke. Would
it not be a fearful thing that one soul, because of a deed of
mine, should receive a less portion of elevation or comfort
in his journey toward his home ? Are there not countless
modes of saying the truth ? You have some of them. I
hope I have some. People will hear you who will not hear
me. Preach to them in the name and love of God, Mr.
Templeton. Speak that you do know and testify that you
have seen. You and I will help each other, in proportion
as we serve the Master. I only say that in separating from
us you are in effect, and by your conduct, saying to us, * Do
not preach, for you follow not with us." I will not be
guilty of the same toward you. Your fathers did the
Church no end of good by leaving it. But it is time to
unite now."
Once more followed a silence.
" If people could only meet, and look each other in the
face," said Mr. Templeton at length, " they might find there
was not such a gulf between them as they had fancied."
And so we parted.
Now I do not write all this for the sake of the church-
rate question. I write it to commemorate the spirit in
which Mr. Templeton met me ; for it is of consequence that
two men who love their Master should recognize each that
the other does so, and thereupon, if not before, should cease
to be estranged because of difference of opinion, which sure-
ly, inevitable as offense, does not involve the same denun-
ciation of woe.
After this Mr. Templeton and I found some opportunities
of helping each other, and many a time ere his death we
consulted together about things that befell. Once he came
to me about a legal diflSculty in connection with the deed
of trust of his chapel ; and, although I could not help him
myself, I directed him to such help as was thorough and
cost him nothing.
I need not say he never became a Churchman, or that I
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never expected he would. All his memories of a religious
childhood, all the sources of the influences which had re-
fined and elevated him, were surrounded with other associ-
ations than those of the Church and her forms. The Church
was his grandmother, not his mother, and he had not made
any acquaintance with her till comparatively late in life.
feut, while I do not say that his intellectual ohjections to
the Church were less strong than they had been, I am sure
that his feelings were moderated even changed toward
her. And though this may seem of no consequence to one
who loves the Church more than the brotherhood, it does
not seem of little consequence to me who love the Church
because of the brotherhood of which it is. the type and the
restorer.
It was long before another church-rate was levied in
Marshmallows, and when the circumstance did take place,
no one dreamed of calling on Mr. Templeton for his share
in it. But, having heard of it, he called himself upon the
church-warden Mr. Brownrigg still and offered the mon-
ey cheerfully. And Mr. Brownrigg refused to take it tiU
he had consulted me! I told him to call on Mr. Templeton,
and say he would be much obliged to him for his contribu-
tion, and give him a receipt for it.
CHAPTER XVm.
Perhaps my reader may be sufficiently interested in the
person who, having once begun to tell his story, may possi-
bly have allowed his feelings, in concert with the comforta-
ble confidence afforded by th^ mask of namelessness, to rim
away with his pen, and so have babbled of himself more than
he ought ^may be sufficiently interested, I say, in my men-
tal condition, to cast a speculative thought upon the state
of my mind, during my illness, with regard to Miss Oldcas-
tle and the stranger who was her mother's guest at the Hall.
Possibly, being by natuire gifted, as I have certainly discov-
ered, with more of hope than is usually mingled with the
other elements composing the temperament of humanity, I
did not suffer quite so much as some would have suffered
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 231
during such an illness. But I have reason to fear that when
I was lightheaded from fever, which was a not uncommon
occurrence, especially in the early mornings during the worst
of my illness when Mrs. Pearson had to sit up with me,
and sometimes an old woman of the village who was gener-
ally called in upon such occasions ^I may have talked a good
deal of nonsense ahout Miss Oldcastle ; for I remember that
I was haunted with visions of magnificent conventual ruins
which I had discovered, and which, no one seeming to care
about them but myself, I was left to wander through at my
own lonely will. Would I could see with the waking eye
such a grandeur of Gothic arches and " long-drawn aisles"
as then arose upon my sick sense I Within was a labyrinth
of passages in the walls, and " long-sounding corridors," and
sudden galleries, whence I looked down into the great church
aching with silence. Through these I was ever wandering,
ever discovering new rooms, new galleries, new marvels of
architecture ; ever disappointed and ever dissatisfied, be-
cause I knew that in one room somewhere in the forgotten
mysteries of the pile sat Ethelwyn reading, never lifting
those sea-blue eyes of hers from the great volume, on her
knee, reading every word, slowly turning leaf after leaf;
knew that she would sit there reading till, one by one, ev-
ery leaf in the huge volume was turned, and she came to the
last and read it from top to bottom, down to the Jlnis and
the urn with a weeping willow over it, when she would
close the book with a sigh, lay it down on the floor, rise and
walk slowly away, and leave the glorious ruin dead to me
as it had so long been to every one else ; knew that if I did
not find her before that terrible last page was read, I should
never find her at all, but have to go wandering alone all my
life through those dreary galleries and corridors, with one
hope only left that I might yet, before I died, find the
" palace-chamber far apart," and see the read and forsaken
volume lying on the floor where she had left it, and the chair
beside it upon which she had sat so long waiting for some
one in vain.
And perhaps to words spoken under these impressions
may partly be attributed the fact, which I knew nothing of
till long afterward, that the people of the village began to
couple ray name with that of Miss Oldcastle.
When all this vanished from me in the returning wave of
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health that spread through my weary brain, I was yet left
anxious and thoughtful. There was no one from whom I
could ask any information about the family at the Hall, so
that I was just driven to the best thing ^to try to cast my
care upon Him who cared for my care. How ofteodo we
look upon God as our last and feeblest resource ! /We go
to Him because we have nowhere else to go. AndAhen we
learn that the storms of life have ^riven us, not upon the
rocks, but into the desired haven ; jthat we have been com-
pelled, as to the last remaining, so 4o the best, the only, the
central help, the causing cause of all the helps to which we
had turned aside as nearer and better.
One day when, having considerably recovered from my
second attack, I was sitting reading in my study, who should
be announced but my friend Judy I
" Oh, dear Mr. Walton, I am so sorry you have been so
ill !" exclaimed the impulsive girl, taking my hand in both of
hers, and sitting down beside me. " I haven't had a chance
of coming to see you before, though we've always managed
^I mean auntie and I ^to hear about you. I would have
come to nurse you, but it was no use thinking of it."
I smiled as I thanked her.
"Ah! you think, because I'm such a tomboy, that I
couldn't nurse you. I only wish I had had a chance of let-
ting you see. 1 am so sorry for you !"
" But I'm nearly well now, Judy, and I have been taken
good care of."
" By that frumpy old thing, Mrs. Pearson, and "
" Mrs. Pearson is a very kind woman and an excellent
nurse," I said ; but she would not heed me.
" And that awful old witch. Mother Goose. She was
enough to give you bad dreams all night she sat by you."
" I didn't dream about Mother Goose, as you call her,
Judy, I assure you. But now I want to hear how every
bodyis at the Hall."
"What, grannie, and the white wolf, and all ?"
" As many as you please to teU me about."
" Well, grannie is gracious to every body but auntie."
" Why isn't she gracious to auntie ?"
" I don't know. I only guess."
" Is your visitor gone ?"
" Yes, long ago. Do you know, I think granny wants
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auntie to marry him, and auntie doesn't quite like it ? But
he's very nice. He's so funny. He'll be back again soon, I
dare say. I don't quite like him not so well as you by a
whole half, Mr. Walton. I wish you would marry auntie ;
but that would never do. It would drive grannie out of
her wits."
To stop the strange girl and hide some confusion, I said,
*'Now tell me about the rest of them."
" Sarah comes next. She's as white and as wolfy as ever.
Mr. Walton, I hate that woman. She walks like a cat. I
am sure she is bad."
" Did you ever think, Judy, what an awful thing it is to
be bad ? If you did, I think you would be so sorry for her,
you could not hate her."
At the same time, knowing what I knew now, and remem-
bering that impressions can date from farther back than the
memory can reach, I was not surprised to hear that Judy
hated Sarah, though I could not believe that in such a child
the hatred was of the most deadly description.
'^ I am afraid I must go on hating in the mean time," said
Judy. " I wish some one would marry auntie, and turn
Sarah away. But that couldn't be, so long as grannie lives."
" How is Mr. Stoddart ?"
" There now I That's one of the things auntie said I was
to be sure to tell you."
"Then your aunt knew you were coming to see me ?"
"Oh yes, I told her. Not grannie, you know. You
mustn't let it out."
" I shall be careful. How is Mr. Stoddart, then ?"
" N"ot well at all. He was taken ill before you, and has
been in bed and by the fireside ever since. Auntie doesn't
know what to do with him, he is so out of spirits."
" If to-morrow is fine, I shall go and see him."
"Thank you. I believe that's just what auntie wanted.
He won't like it at first, I dare say. But he'll come to, and
you'll do him good. You do eveiy body good you come
near."
" I wish that were true, Judy. I fear it is not. What
good did I ever do you, Judy ?"
" Do me !" she exclaimed, apparently half angry at the
question. " Don't you know I have been an altered char-
acter ever since I knew you ?"
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And here the odd creature laughed, leaving me in abso-
lute ignorance of how to interpret her. But presently her
eyes grew clearer, and I could see the slow film of a tear
gathering.
" Mr. Walton," she said, " I have been trying not to be
selfish. You have done me that much good."
" I am very glad, Judy. Don't forget who can do you
aHl good. There is One who can not only show you what
is right, but can make you able to do and be what is right.
You don't know how much you have got to learn yet, Judy ;
but there is that one Teacher ever ready to teach, if you will
only ask Him."
Judy did not answer, but sat looking fixedly at the carpet.
She was thinking, though, I saw.
" Who has played the organ, Judy, since your uncle was
taken ill ?" I asked at length.
" Why, auntie, to be sure. Didn't you hear ?"
" No," I answered, turning almost sick at the idea of hav-
ing been away from church for so many Sundays while she
was giving voice and expression to the dear asthmatic old
pipes. And I did feel very ready to murmur, like a spoiled
child that had not had his way. Think of her there, and
me here !
" Then," I said to myself at last, " it must have been she
that played I know that my JRedeemer liveth that last time
I was in church I And, instead of thanking God for that,
here I am murmuring that He did not give me more ! And
this child has just been telling me that I have taught her
to try not to be selfish. Certainly I should be ashamed of
myself."
" When was your uncle taken ill ?"
" I don't exactly remember. But you will come and see
him to-morrow ? And then we shall see you too ; for we
are always out and in of his room just now."
" I will come if Dr. Duncan will let me. Perhaps he will
take me in his carriage."
" No, no. Don't you come with him. Uncle can't bear
doctors. He never was ill in his life before, and he behaves
to Dr. Duncan just as if he had made him ill. I wish I
could send the carriage for you. But I can't, you know." ^
" Never mind, Judy. I shall manage somehow. What is
the name of the gentleman who was staying with you?"
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 235
" Don't you know ? Captain George Everard. He would
change his name to Oldcastle, you know."
What a foolish pain, like a spear-thrust, they sent through
me those words spoken in such a taken-for-granted way !
" He's a relation on grannie's side mostly, I believe.
But I never could understand the explanation. What makes
it harder is, that all the husbands and wives in our fam-
ily, for a hundred and fifty years, have been more or less of
cousins, or half-cousins, or second or third cousins. Cap-
tain Everard has what grandmamma calls a neat little prop-
erty of his own from his mother somewhere in Northumber-
land ; for he is only a third son, one of a class grannie does
not in general feel very friendly to, I assure you, Mr. Wal-
ton. But his second brother is dead, and the eldest some-
thing the worse for the wear, as grannie says ; so that the
captain comes just within sight of the coronet of an old un-
cle who ought to have been dead long ago. Just the match
for auntie!"
" But you say auntie^oesn't like him."
" Oh, but you know that doesn't matter," returned Judy,
with bitterness. " What will grannie care for that ? It's
nothing to any body but auntie, and she must get used to
it. Nobody makes any thing of her.'*
It was only after she had gone that I thought how as-
tounding it would have been to me to hear a girl of her age
show such an acquaintance with worldliness and scheming,
had I not been personally so much concerned about one of
the objects of her remarks. She certainly was a strange
girl. But, strange as she was, it was a satisfaction to think
that the aunt had such a friend and ally in her wild niece.
Evidently she had inherited her father's fearlessness ; and
if only it should turn out that she had likewise inherited
her mother's firmness, she might render the best possible
service to her aunt against the oppression of her willful
mother.
" How were you able to get here to-day ?" I asked, as
she rose to go.
" Grannie is in London, and the wolf is with her. Auntie
wouldn't leave uncle."
" They have been a good deal in London of late, have they
not?"
"Yes. They say it's about money of auntie's. But I
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don't understand. Z think it's that grannie wants to make
the capt^n marry her, for they sometimes see him when
they go to London."
CHAPTER XIX.
THE INVALID.
The following day being very fine, I walked to Oldcastle
Hall ; but I remember well how much slower I was forced
to walk than I was willing. I found to my relief that Mrs.
Oldcastle had not yet returned. I was shown at once to
Mr. Stoddart's library. There I found the two ladies in
attendance upon him. He was seated by a splendid fire,
for the autumn days were now chilly on the shady side, in
the most luxurious of easy-chairs, with his furred feet buried
in the long hair of the hearth-rug. He looked worn and
peevish. AH the placidity of his countenance had vanished.
The smooth expanse of his forehead was drawn into fifty
wrinkles, like a sea over which the fretting wind has been
blowing all night. Nor was it only sufiering that his face
expressed. He looked like a man who strongly suspected
that he was ill used.
After salutation, "You are well ofi^Mr. Stoddart," I said,
" to have two such nurses."
" They are very kind," sighed the patient.
" You would recommend Mrs. Pearson and Mother Goose
instead, would you not, Mr. Walton ?" said Judy, her gray
eyes sparkling with fun.
"Judy, be quiet," said the invalid, languidly and yet sharp-
Judy reddened, and was silent.
" I am sorry to find you so unwell," I said.
" Yes, I am very ill," he returned.
Aunt and niece rose and left the room quietly.
"Do you suffer much, Mr. Stoddart?"
"Much weariness worse than pain. I could welcome
death."
"I do not think, from what Dr. Duncan says of you, that
there is reason to apprehend more than a lingering illness,"
I said ^to try him, I confess.
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 237
" I hope not, indeed," he exclaimed, angrily, sitting up in
his chair. " What right has Dr. Duncan to talk of me so ?"
" To a friend, you Imow," I returned, apologetically, " who
is much interested in your welfare."
" Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man belongs
to you both by prescription."
" For my part, I would rather talk about religion to a
whole man than a sick man. A sick man is not a Mohole
man. He is but part of a man, as it were, for the time, and
it is not so easy to tell what he can take."
" Thank you. I am obliged to you for my new position
in the social scale. Of the tailor species, I suppose."
I could not help wishing he were as far up as any man
that does such needful honest work.
" My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I meant only a glance
at the peculiar relation of the words whole and Aeo/."
" I do not find etymology interesting at present."
" Not seated in such a Ubraryas this ?"
"No; I am ill."
Satisfied that, ill as he was, he might be better if he would,
I resolved to make another trial.
" Do you remember how Ligarius, in Jvlius CcB%ar^ dis-
cards his sickness ?
* * * I am not sick, if Bnitns have in hand
Any exploit worthy the name of honor.* '*
"I want to be well because I don't like to be ill. But
what there is in this foggy, swampy world worth being well
for, Fm sure I haven't found out yet."
"If you have not, it must be because you have never tried
to find out. But I'm not going to attack you when you arq
not able to defend yourself We shall find a better time
for that. But can't I do something for you ? Would you
like me to read to you for half an hour ?"
" No, thank you. The girls tire me out with reading to
me. I hate the very sound of their voices."
" I have got to-day's Times in my pocket."
" I've heard all the news already."
"Then I think I shall only bore you if I stay."
He made me no answer. I rose. He just let me take his
hand, and returned my good-momirig as if there was noth-
ing good in the world, least of all this same morning.
I found the ladies in the outer room. Judy was on iier
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knees on the floor occupied with a long row of books. How
the books had got there I wondered, but soon learned the
secret which I had in vain asked of the butler on my first
visit, namely, how Mr. Stoddart reached the volumes ar-
ranged immediately under the ceiling, in shelves, as my
reader may remember, that looked like beams radiating
from the centre. For Judy rose from the floor, and pro-
ceeded to put in motion a mechanical arrangement conceal-
ed in one of the divisions of the book-shelves along the
wall ; and I now saw that there were strong cords reaching
from the ceiling, and attached to the shelf, or rather long
box sideways open, which contained the books.
" Do take care, Judy," said Ethel wyn. " You know it
is very venturous of you to let that shelf down, when un-
cle is as jealous of his books as a hen of her chickens. I
oughtn't to have let you touch the cords."
" You couldn't help it, auntie, dear, for I had the shelf
half way down before you saw me," returned Judy, pro-
ceeding to raise the books to their usual position under the
ceiling.
But in another moment, either from Judy's awkwardness,
or from the gradual decay and final fracture of some cord,
down came the whole shelf with a thundering noise, and the
books were scattered hither and thither in confusion about
the floor. Ethelwyn was gazing in dismay, and Judy had
built up her face into a defiant look, when the door of the
inner room opened, and Mr. Stoddart appeared. His brow
was already flushed; but when he saw the condition of his
idols (for the lust of the eye had its full share in his regard
for his books), he broke out in a passion to which he could
not have given way but for the weak state of his health.
" How dare you ?" he said, with terrible emphasis on the
word dare, " Judy, I beg you will not again show yourself
ill my apartment till I send for you."
"And then," said Judy, leaving the room, "I am not in
the least likely to be otherwise engaged."
" I am very sorry, uncle," began Miss Oldcastle.
But Mr. Stoddart had already retreated and banged the
door behind him. So Miss Oldcastle and I were left stand-
ing together amid the ruins.
She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. She
smiled in return.
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 239
"I assure you," she said, "uncle is not a bit like him-
self."
" And I fear, in trying to rouse him, I have done him no
good only made him more irritable," I said. " But he will
be sorry when he comes to himself, and so we must take the
reversion of his repentance now, and think nothing more of
the matter than if he had already said he was sorry. Be-
sides, when books are in the case, I, for one, must not bo
too hard upon my unfortunate neighbor."
" Thank you, Mr. Walton. I am so much obliged to you
for taking my uncle's part. He has been very good to me ;
and that dear Judy is provoking sometimes. I am afraid I
help to spoil her ; but you would hardly believe how good
she really is, and what a comfort she is to me with all her
waywardness."
" I think I understand Judy," I replied ; " and I shall be
more mistaken than I am willing to confess I have ever been
before, if she does not turn out a very fine woman. The
marvel to me is that, with all the various influences among
which she is placed here, she is not really, not seriously
spoiled after all. I assure you I have the greatest regard
for, as well as confidence in, my friend Judy."
Ethelwyn Miss Oldcastle, I should say gave me such
a pleased look that I was well recompensed if justice should
ever talk of recompense ^for my defense of her niece.
" Will you come with me ?" she said, " for I fear our talk
may contmue to annoy Mr. Stoddart. His hearing is acute
at all times, and has been excessively so since his illness."
" I am at your service," I returned, and followed her from
the room.
"Are you still as fond of the old quarry as you used to
be. Miss Oldcastle ?" I said, as we caught a glimpse of it
from the window of a long passage we were going through.
" I think I am. I go there most days. I have not been
to-day, though. Would you like to go down ?"
" Very much," I said.
" Ah ! I forgot, though. You must not go : it is not a fit
place for an invalid."
" I can not call myself an invalid now."
" Your face, I am sorry to say, contradicts your words."
And she looked so kindly at me that I almost broke out
into thanks for the mere look.
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"And indeed," she went on, "it is too damp down there,
not to speak of the stairs."
By this time we had reached the little room in which I
was received the first time I visited the Hall. There we
found Judy.
"If you are not too tired already, I should like to show
you my little study. It has, I think, a better view than any
other room in the house," said Miss Oldcastle.
" I shall be delighted," I replied.
" Come, Judy," said her aunt.
" You don't want me, I am sure, auntie."
"I do, Judy, really. You mustn't be cross to us because
uncle has been cross to you. Uncle is not well, you know,
and isn't a bit like himself; and you know you shouldnot
have meddled with his machinery."
And Miss Oldcastle put her arm round Judy and kissed
her ; whereupon Judy jumped from her seat, threw her
book down, and ran to one of the several doors that opened
from the room. This disclosed a little staircase, almost like
a ladder, only that it wound about, up which we climbed,
and reached a charming little room, whose window looked
down upon the Bishop's Basin, glimmering slaty through
the tops of the trees between. It was paneled in small
panels of dark oak, like the room below, but with more of
carving. Consequently it wad sombre, and its sombreness
was unrelieved by any mirror. I gazed about me with a
kind of awe. I would gladly have carried away the remem-
brance of every thing and its shadow. Just opposite the
window was a small space of brightness formed by the
backs of nicely-bound books. Seeing that these attracted
my eye,
" Those are almost all gifts from my uncle," said Miss
Oldcastle. " He is really very kind, and you will not think
of him as you have seen him to-day ?"
" Indeed I will not," I replied.
My eye fell upon a small piano-forte..
"Do sit down," said Miss Oldcastle. "You have been
very ill, and I could do nothing for you who have been so
kind to me."
She spoke as if she had wanted to say this.
"I only wish I had a chance of doing any thing for you,"
I said, as took a chair in the window.. "But if I had done
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all I ever could hope to do, you have repaid me long ago, I
think."
" How ? I do not know what you mean, Mr. Walton. I
have never done you the least service."
" Tell me first, did you play the organ in church that aft-
ernoon when after before I was taken ill ^I mean the
same day you had a friend with you in the pew in the
morning ?"
I dare say my voice was as irregular as my construction.
I ventured just one glance. Her face was flushed. But
she answered me at once.
"I did."
" Then I am in your debt more than you know or I can
tell you."
" Why, if that is all, I have played the organ every Sun-
day since uncle was taken ill," she said, smiling.
" I know that now, and I am very glad I did not know it
till I was better able to bear the disappointment. But it is
only for what I heard that I mean now to acknowledge my
obhgation. Tell me. Miss Oldcastle, what is the most pre-
cious gift one person can give another ?"
She hesitated ; and I, fearing to embarrass her, answered
for her.
" It must be something imperishable something which
in its own nature is. If, instead of a gem, or even of a
flower, we could cast the gift of a lovely thought into the
heart of a friend, that would be giving, as the angels, I sup-
pose, must give. But you did more and better for mo than
that. I had been troubled all the morning ; and you made
me know that my Redeemer liveth. I did not know you
were playing, mind, though I felt a difference. You gave
me more trust in God ; and what other gift so great could
one give? I think that last impression, just as I was taken
ill, must have helped me through my illness. Often, when
I was most oppressed, ^ I know that my Redeemer livetK
would rise up in the troubled air of my mind, and sung by
a voice which, though I never heard you sing, I never ques-
tioned to be yours."
She turned her face toward me : those sea-blue eyes were
full of tears.
" I was troubled myself," she said, with a faltering voice,
" when I sang I mean played that. I am fio glad it did
L
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somebody good! I fear it did not do me much. I will
sing it to you now, if you like."
And she rose to get the music. But that instant Judy,
who, I then found, had left the room bounded into it with
the exclamation,
" Auntie, auntie, here's grannie I"
Miss Oldcastle turned pale. I confess I felt embarrassed,
as if I had been caught in something underhand.
" Is she come in ?" asked Miss Oldcastle, trying to speak
with indifference.
" She is just at the door must be getting out of the fly
now. What ahaU we do ?"
" What do you mean, Judy?" said her aunt.
" Well, you know, auntie, as well as 1 do, that grannie
will look as black as a thunder-cloud to find Mr. Walton
here, and if she doesn't speak as loud, it will only be because
she can't. I don't care for myself, but you know on whose
head the storm will fall. Do, dear Mr. Walton, come down
the back stairs. Then she won't be a bit the wiser. I'll
manage it all."
Here was a dilemma for me either to bring suffering on
her, to save whom I would have borne any pain, or to creep
out of the house as if I were and ought to be ashamed of
myself. I believe that, had I been in any other relation to
my fellows, I would have resolved at once to lay myself
open to the peculiarly unpleasant reproach of sneaking out
of the house, rather than that she should innocently suffer
for my being innocently there. But I was a clergyman ;
and I felt, more than I had ever felt before, that therefore I
could not risk even the appearance of what was mean.
Miss Oldcastle, however, did not leave it to me to settle
the matter. All that I have just written had but flashed
through my mind when she said,
" Judy, for shame to propose such a thing to Mr. Walton !
I am very sorry that he may chance to have an unpleasant
meeting with mamma, but we can't help it. Come, Judy,
we will show Mr. Walton out together."
" It wasn't for Mr. Walton's sake," returned Judy, pout-
ing. " You are very troublesome, auntie, dear. Mr. Wal-
ton, she is so hard to take care of I and she's worse since
you came. I shall have to give her up some day. Do be
generous, Mr. Walton, and take my side that is, auntie's."
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"I am afraid, Judy, I must thank your aunt for taking
the part of my duty against my inclination. But this kind-
ness, at least," I said to Miss Oldcastle, " I can never hope
to return."
It was a stupid speech, but I could not be annoyed that I
had made it.
"All obligations are not burdens to be got rid of, are
they ?" she replied, with a sweet smile on such a pale, troub-
led face, that I was more moved for her, deliberately hand-
ing her over to the torture for the truth's sake, than I care
definitely to confess.
Thereupon Miss Oldcastle led the way down the stairs, I
followed, and Judy brought up the rear. The affair was
not so bad as it might have been, inasmuch as, meeting the
mistress of the house in no penetralia of the same, I insisted
on going out alone, and met Mrs. Oldcastle in the hall only.
She held out no hand to greet me. I bowed, and said I
was sorry to find Mr. Stoddart so far from well.
" I fear he is far from well," she returned ; " certainly, in
my opinion, too ill to receive visitors."
So saying, she bowed and passed on, I turned and walk-
ed out, not ill pleased, as my readers will believe, with my
visit.
From that day I recovered rapidly, and the next Sunday
had the pleasure of preaching to my flock ; Mr. Aikin, the
gentleman already mentioned as doing duty for me, reading
prayers. I took for my subject one of our Lord's miracles
of healing, I forget which now, and tried to show my peo-
ple that all healing, and all kinds of healing, come as cer-
tainly and only from His hand as those instances in which
He put forth His bodily hand and touched the diseased, and
told them to be whole.
And as they left the church the organ played, " Comfort
ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God."
I tried hard to prevent my new feelings from so filling my
mind as to make me fail of my duty toward my flock. I
said to myself, " Let me be the more gentle, the more hon-
orable, the more tender toward these my brothers and sis-
ters, forasmuch as they are her brothers and sisters too." I
wanted to do my work the better that I loved her.
Thus week after week passed, with little that I can re-
member worthy of record. I seldom saw Miss Oldcastle,
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and during this period never alona True, she played the
organ still, for Mr. Stoddart continued too unwell to resume
his ministry of sound, but I never made any attempt to see
her as she came to or went from the organ-loft. I felt that
I ought not, or at least that it was better not, lest an inter-
view should trouble my mind, and so interfere with my
work, which, if my calling meant any thing real, was a con-
sideration of vital import. But one thing I could not help
noting that she seemed, by some intuition, to know the
music I liked best ; and great help she often gave me by so
uplifting my heart upon the billows of the organ-harmony,
that my thinking became free and harmonious, and I spoke,
as far as my own feeling was concerned, like one upheld on
the unseen wings of ministering cherubim. How it might
be to those who heard me, or what the value of the utter-
ance in itself might be, I can not tell. I only speak of my
own feeling, I say.
Does my reader wonder why I did not yet make any far-
ther attempt to gain favor in the lady's eyes ? He will see,
if he will think for a moment. First of all, I could not ven-
ture until she had seen more of me ; and how to enjoy more
of her society while her mother was so unfriendly, both from
instinctive dislike to me, and because of the offense I had
given her more than once, I did not know ; for I feared that
to call oftener might only occasion measures upon her part
to prevent me from seeing her daughter at all, and I could
not tell how far such measures might expedite the event I
most dreaded, or add to the discomfort to which Miss Old-
castle was already so much exposed. Meantime I heard
nothing of Captain Everard, and the comfort that flowed
from such a negative source was yet of a very positive char-
acter. At the same time will my readers understand me ?
I was in some measure deterred from making farther ad-
vances by the doubt whether her favor for Captain Everard
might not be greater than Judy had represented it; for I
had always shrunk, I can hardly say with invincible dislike,
for I had never tried to conquer it, from rivalry of every
kind : it was, somehow, contrary to my nature. Besides, Miss
Oldcastle was likely to be rich some day apparently had
money of her own even now ; and was it a weakness ? was it
not a weakness? I can not tell I writhed at the thought of
being supposed to marry for money, and being made the ob-
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ject of such remarks as, " Ah ! you see ! that's the way witli
the clergy ! They talk about poverty and faith, pretending
to despise riches and to trust in God ; but just put money in
their way, and what chance will a poor girl have beside a
rich one ! It's all very well in the pulpit. It's their busi-
ness to talk so. But does one of them believe what he says,
or, at least, act upon it?" I think I may be a little excused
for the sense of creeping cold that passed over me at the
thought of such remarks as these, accompanied by com-
pressed lips and down-drawn corners of the mouth, and re-
iterated nods of the head of knowingness. -But I mention
this only as a repressing influence, to which I certainly
should not have been such a fool as to yield had I seen the
way otherwise clear ; for a man, by showing how to use
money, or rather by simply using money aright, may do more
good than by refusing to possess it if it comes to him in an
entirely honorable way, that is, in such a case as mine, mere-
ly as an accident of his history. But I was glad to feel pret-
ty sure that if I should be so blessed as to marry Miss Old-
castle which, at the time whereof I now write, seemed far
too gorgeous a castle in the clouds ever to descend to the
earth for me to enter it the ^oor of my own people would
be those most likely to understand my position and feelings,
and least likely to impute to me worldly motives, as paltry
as they are vulgar, and altogether unworthy of a true man.
So the time went on. I called once or twice on Mr. Stod-
dart, and found him, as I thought, better. But he would
not allow that he was. Dr. Duncan said he was better, and
would be better still if he would only believe it and exei*t
himself.
He continued in the same strangely irritable humor.
CHAPTER XX.
MOOD AND WILL.
Winter came apace. When we look toward winter
from the last borders of autumn, it seems as if we could not
encounter it, and as if it never would go over. So does
threatened trouble of any kind seem to us as we look for-
ward upon its miry ways from the last borders of the pleas-
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ant greensward on which we have hitherto been walking.
But not only do both run their course, but each has its own
alleviations, its own pleasures ; and very marvelously does
the healthy mind fit itself to the new circumstances ; while
to those who will bravely take up their burden and bear it,
asking no more questions than just "Is this my burden?" a
thousand ministrations of nature and life will come with
gentle comfortings. Across a dark verdureless field will
blow a wind through the heart of the winter which will
wake in the patient mind not a memory merely, but a proph-
ecy of the spring, with a glimmer of crocus, or snowdrop,
or primrose ; and across the waste of tired endeavor will a
gentle hope, coming he knows not whence, breathe spring-
like upon the heart of the man around whom life looks des-
olate and dreary. Well do I remember a friend of mine
telling me once ^he was then a laborer in the field of liter-
ature, who had not yet begun to earn his 4)enny a day,
though he worked hard telling me how once, when a hope
that had kept him active for months was suddenly quenched
a book refused on which he had spent a passion of labor
the weight of money that must be paid and could not be
had pressing him down like the coffin -lid that had lately
covered the only friend to whom he could have applied con-
fidently for aid ^telling me, I say, how he stood at the cor-
ner of a London street, with the rain dripping black from
the brim of his hat, the dreariest of atmospheres about him
in the closing afternoon of the City, when the rich men
were going home, and the poor men who worked for them
were longing to follow; and how across this waste came
energy and hope into his bosom, swelling thenceforth with
courage to fight, and yield no ear to suggested failure.
And the story would not be complete though it is for the
fact of the arrival of unexpected and apparently unfounded
h(^e that I tell it if I did not add that, in the morning, his
wife gave him a letter which their common trouble of yester-
day had made her forget, and which had lain with its black
border all night in the darkness unopened, waiting to tell
him how the vanished friend had not forgotten him on her
death-bed, but had left him enough to take him out of all
those difficulties, and give him strength and time to do far
better work than the book which had failed of birth. Some
of my readers may doubt whether I am more than " a wan-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 247
dering voice," but, whatever I am, or may be thought to be,
my friend's story is true.
And all this has come out of the winter that I, in the
retrospect of my history, am looking forward to. It came,
with its fogs, and dripping boughs, and sodden paths, and
rotting leaves, and rains, and skies of weary gray ; but also
with its fierce red suns, shining aslant upon sheets of man-
na-like hoar-frost, and delicate ice-films over prisoned wa-
ters, and those white falling chaoses of perfect forms called
snow-storms those confusions confounded infinite symme-
tries.
And when the hard frost came, it brought a friend to my
door. It was Mr. Stoddart.
He entered my room with- something of the countenance
Naaman must have borne after his flesh had come again
like unto the flesh of a little child. He did not look ashamed,
but his pale face looked humble and distressed. Its some-
what self-satisfied placidity had vanished, and instead of the
diffused geniality which was its usual expression, it now
showed traces of feeling as well as plain signs of suffering.
I gave him as warm a welcome as I could, and having seat-
ed him comfortably by the fire, and found that he would
take no refreshment, began to chat about the day's news,
for I had just been reading the newspaper. But he showed
no interest beyond what the merest politeness required. I
would try something else.
" The cold weather, which makes so many invalids creep
into bed, seems to have brought you out into the air, Mr.
Stoddart," I said.
" It has revived me certainly."
" Indeed, one must believe that winter and cold are as
beneficent, though not so genial, as summer and its warmth.
Winter kills many a disease and many a noxious influence.
And what is it to have the fresh green leaves of spring in-
stead of the everlasting brown of some countries which have
no winter!"
I talked thus, hoping to rouse him to conversation, and I
was successful.
" I feel just as if I were coming out of- a winter. Don't
you think illness is a kind of human winter ?"
" Certainly more or less stormy. With some a winter
of snow, and hail, and piercing winds ; with others of black
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frosts and creepiog fogs, with now and then a glimmer of
the sun."
"The last is more like mine. I feel as if I had been in a
wet hole in the earth."
" And many a man," I went on, " the foliage of whose
character had been turning brown, and seared, and dry, rat-
tling rather than rustling in the faint hot wind of even for-
tunes, has come out of the winter of a weary illness with
the fresh, delicate buds of a new life bursting from the sun-
dried bark."
" I wish it would be so with me. I know you mean me.
But I don't feel my green leaves coming."
" Facts are not always indicated by feelings."
" Indeed, I hope not ; nor yet feelings indicated by facts."
" I do not quite understand you."
" Well, Mr. Walton, I will explain myself I have come
to tell you how sorry and ashamed I am that I behaved so
badly to you every time you came to see me."
" Oh, nonsense !" I said. " It was your illness, not you."
" At least, my dear sir, the facts of my behavior did not
really represent ray feelings toward you."
" I know thai as well as you do. Don't say another word
about it. You had the best excuse for being cross; I should
have had none for being offended."
" It was only the outside of me."
" Yes, yes ; I acknowledge it heartily."
" But that does not settle the matter between me and my-
self, Mr. Walton, although, by your goodness, it settles it be-
tween me and you. It is humiliating to think that illness
should so completely ' overcrow' me that I am no more my-
self lose my hold, in fact, of what I call me so that I am
almost driven to doubt my personal identity."
" You are fond of theories, Mr. Stoddart perhaps a little
too much so."
"Perhaps."
" Will you listen to one of mine ?"
" With pleasure."
" It seems to me sometimes I know it is a partial repre-
sentation as if life were a conflict between the inner force
of the spirit, which lies in its faith in the unseen, and the
outer force of the world, which lies in the pressure of every
thing it has to show us. The material, operating upon our
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 249
senses, is always asserting its existence ; and if oar inner life
is not equally vigorous, we shall be moved, urged, what is
called actuated, from without, whereas all our activity ought
to be from within. But sickness not only overwhelms the
mind, but, vitiating all the channels of the senses, causes
them to represent things as they are not, of which misrepre-
sentations the presence, persistency, and iteration seduce the
man to act from false suggestions instead of from what ho
knows and believes."
" Well, I understand all that. But what use am I to
make of your theory ?"
" I am delighted, Mr. Stoddart, to hear you put the ques-
tion. That is always the point. The inward holy garrison,
that of faith, which holds by the truth, by sacred facts, and
not by appearances, must be strengthened, and nourished,
and upheld, and so enabled to resist the onset of the powers
without. A friend's remonstrance may appear an unkind-
ness a friend's jest an unfeelingness a friend's visit an in-
trusion ; nay, to come to higher things, during a mere head-
ache it will appear as if there was no truth in the world, no
reality but that of pain any where, and nothing to be de-
sired but deliverance from it. But all such impressions
caused from without ^for, remember, the body and its inner-
most experiences are only outside of the inan ^have to bo
met by the inner confidence of the spirit, resting in God, and
resisting every impulse to act according to that which ap-
pears to it instead of that which it believes. Hence Faith is
thus allegorically represented ; but I had better give you
Spenser's description of her. Here is the ' Fairy Queen :'
" ' She was arrayed all in lily white,
And in her right hand bore a cup of gold,
With wine and water filled up to the height,
In which a serpent did himself enfold.
That horror made to all that did behold ;
Bat she no whit did change her constant mood.'
This serpent stands for the dire perplexity of things about
us, at which yet Faith will not blench, acting according to
what she believes, and not what shows itself to her by im-
pression and appearance."
" I admit all that you say," returned Mr. Stoddart. " But
still the practical conclusion which I understand to be that
the inward garrison must be fortified is considerably in-
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complete unless we buttress it with the final How. How is
it to be fortified? For,
' I have as mnch of this in art as you,
But yet my nature could not bear it so.'
(You see I read Sbakspeare as well as you, Mr. Walton.) I
dare say, from a certain inclination to take the opposite side,
and a certain dislike to the dogmatism of the clergy I
speak generally I may have appeared to you indifferent,
but I assure you that I have labored much to withdraw my
mind from the influence of money, and ambition, and pleas-
ure, and to turn it to the contemplation of spiritual things.
Yet on the first attack of a depressing illness I cease to be
a gentleman, I am rude to ladies who do their best and kind-
est to serve me, and I talk to the friend who comes to cheer
and comfort me as if he were an idle vagrant who wanted
to sell me a worthless book with the recommendation of the
pretense that he wrote it himself. Now that I am in my
right mind, I am ashamed of myself ashamed that it should
be possible for me to behave so, and humiliated yet besides
that I have no ground of assurance that, should my illness
return to-morrow, I should not behave in the same manner
the day after. I want to be always in my right mind.
When I am not, I know I am not, and yet yield to the ap-
pearance of being."
" I understand perfectly what you mean, for I fancy I
know a little more of illness than you do. Shall I tell you
where I think the fault of your self-training lies ?"
" That is just what I want. The things which it pleased
me to contemplate when I was well, gave me no pleasure
when I was ill. Nothing seemed the same."
" If we were always in a right mood, there would be no
room for the exercise of the will ; we should go by our
mood and inclination only. But that is by-the-by. Where
you have been wrong is that you have sought to influence
your feelings only by thought and argument with yourself,
and not also by contact with your fellows. * Besides the la-
dies of whom you have spoken, I think you have hardly a
friend in this neighborhood but myself. One friend can not
afford you half experience enough to teach you the relations
of life and of human needs. At best, under such circum-
stances, you can only have right theories : practice for real-
izing them in yourself is nowhere. It is no more possible
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 251
for a man in the present day to retire from his fellows into
the cave of his religion, and thereby leave the world of his
own faults and follies behind, than it was possible for the
eremites of old to get close to God in virtue of declining the
duties which their very birth of human father and mother
laid upon them. I do not deny that you and the eremite
may both come nearer to God, in virtue of whatever is true
in your desires and your worship ; ' but if a man love not
his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom
he hath not seen V which surely means to imply at least that
to love our neighbor is a great help toward loving God.
How this love is to come about without intercourse, I do
not see. And how without this love we are to bear up from
within against the thousand irritations to which, especially
in sickness, our unavoidable relations with humanity will ex-
pose us, I can not tell either."
" But," returned Mr. Stoddart, " I had had a true regard
for you, and some friendly communication with you. If
human intercourse were what is required in my case, how
should I fail just with respect to the only man with whom
I had held such intercourse ?"
" Because the relations in which you stood with me were
those of the individual, not of the race. You like me be-
cause I am fortunate enough to please you to be a gentle-
man, I hope to be a man of some education, and capable of
understanding, or at least docile enough to try to under-
stand, what you tell me of your plans and pursuits. But
you do not feel any relation to me on the ground of my hu-
manity that God made me, and therefore I am your broth-
er. It is not because we grow out of the same stem, but
ifierely because my leaf is a little like your own that you
draw to me. Our Lord took on Him the nature of man :
you will only regard your individual attractions. Disturb
your liking, and your love vanishes."
" You are severe."
" I don't mean really vanishes, but disappears for the
time. Yet you will confess you have to wait till, somehow,
you know not how, it comes back again of itself, as it
were."
" Yes, I confess. To my sorrow, I find it so."
" Let me tell you the truth, Mr. Stoddart. You seem to
me to have been hitherto only a dilettante or amateur in
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spintual matters. Do not imagine I mean a hypocrite.
Very far from it. The word amateur itself suggests sl real
interest, though it may be of a superficial nature. But in
religion one must be all there. You seem to me to have
taken much interest in unusual forms of theory, andin mys-
tical speculations, to which in themselves I make no objec-
tion. But to be content with those, instead of knowing
God himself, or to substitute a general amateur friendship
toward the race for the love of your neighbor, is a mockery
which will always manifest itself to an honest mind like
yours in such failure and disappointment in your own char-
acter as you are now lamenting, if not, indeed, in some
mode far more alarming, because gross and terrible."
" Am I to understand you, then, that intercourse with
one's neighbors ought to take the place of meditation ?"
" By no means ; but ought to go side by side with it, if
you would have at once a healthy mind to judge, and the
means of either verifying your speculations or discovering
their falsehood."
" But where am I to find such friends besides yourself
with whom to hold spiritual communion ?"
"It is the communion of spiritual deeds deeds of justice,
of mercy, of humility ^the kind word, the cup of cold water,
the visitation in sickness, the lending of money not spirit-
ual conference or talk, that I mean ; the latter will come of
itself where it is natural. You would soon find that it is not
only to those whose spiritual windows are of the same
shape as your own that you are neighbor : there is one poor
man in my congregation who knows more practically, I
mean, too of spirituality of mind than any of us. Perhaps
you could not teach him much, but he could teach you. At
all events, our neighbors are just those round about us.
And the most ignorant man in a little place like Marshmal-
lows, one like you, with leisure, ought to know and under-
stand, and have some good influence upon : he is your broth-
er whom you are bound to care for and elevate ^I do not
mean socially, but really, in himself if it be possible. You
ought at least to get into some simple human relation with
him, as you would with the youngest and most ignorant of
your brothers and sisters born of the same father and moth-
er ; approaching him, not with pompous lecturing or fault-
finding, still less with that abomination called condescension.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOKaOOD. 253
but with the humble service of the elder to the younger, in
whatever he may be helped by you without injury to him.
Never was there a more injurious mistake than that it is the
business of the clergy only to havp the care of souls."
" But that would be endless. It would leave me no time
for myself."
" Would that be no time for yourself spent in leading a
noble, Christian life ; in verifying the words of our Lord by
doing them ; in building your house on the rock of action
instead of the sands of theory ; in widening your own being
by entering into the nature, thoughts, feelings, even fancies
of those around you? In such intercourse you would find
health radiating into your own bosom ; healing sympathies
springing up in the most barren acquaintance; channels
opened for the in-rush of truth into your own mind ; and
opportunities afforded for the exercise of that self-discipline,
the lack of which led to the failures which you now bemoan.
Soon then would you have cause to wonder how much some
of your speculations had fallen into the background simply
because the truth, showing itself grandly true, had so filled
and occupied your mind that it left no room for anxiety
about such questions as, while secured in the interest all re-
ality gives, were yet dwarfed by the side of it. Nothing, I
repeat, so much as humble ministration to your neighbors,
will help you to that perfect love of God which casteth out
fear ; nothing but the love of God that God revealed in
Christ--will make you able to love your neighbor aright ;
and the Spirit of God, which alone gives might for any
good, will by these loves, which are life, strengthen you at
last to believe in the light even in the midst of darkness; to
hold the resolution formed in health when sickness has al-
tered the appearance of every thing around you ; and to feel
tenderly toward your fellow, even when you yourself are
plunged in dejection or racked with pain. But," I said, "I
fear I have transgressed the bounds of all propriety by enlarg-
ing upon this matter as I have done. I can only say I have
spoken in proportion to my feeling of its weight and truth."
" I thank you heartily," returned Mr. Stoddart, rising ;
" and I promise you, at least, to think over what you have
been saying. I hope to be in my old place in the organ-loft
next Sunday."
So he was. And Miss Oldcastle was in the pew with her
mother. Nor did she go any more to Addicehead to church.
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CHAPTER XXL
THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIE.
As the winter went on, it was sad to look on the evident
though slow decline of Catharine Weir. It seemed as if
the dead season was dragging her to its bosom, to lay her
among the leaves of past summers. She was still to be
found in the shop, or appeared in it as often as the bell sus-
pended over the door rang to announce the entrance of a
customer ; but she was terribly worn, and her step indicated
much weakness. 'Nor had the signs of restless trouble
diminished as these tide-marks indicated ebbing strength.
There was the same dir, fierce fire in her eyes ; the same
forceful compression other lips; the same evidences of
brooding over some one absorbing thought or feeling. She
seemed to me, and to Dr. Duncan as well, to be dying of
resentment. Would nobody do any thing for her ? I thought.
Would not her father help her ? He had got more gentle
now, whence I had reason to hope that Christian principles
and feelings had begun to rise and operate in him, while
surely the influence of his son must by this time have done
something not only to soften his character generally, but to
appease the anger he had cherished toward the one ewe-
lamb, against which, having wandered away into the desert
place, he had closed and barred the door of the sheepfold.
I would go and see him, and try what could be done for her.
I may be forgiven here if I make the remark that I can
not help thinking that what measure of success I had al-
ready had with my people was partly owing to this, that
when I thought of a thing and had concluded it might do,
I very seldom put off the consequent action. I found I was
wrong sometimes, and that the particular action did no
good ; but thus movement was kept up in my operative na-
ture, preventing it from sinking toward the inactivity to
which I was but too much inclined. Besides, to find out
what will not do is a step toward finding out what will do.
Moreover, an attempt in itself unsuccessful may set some-
thing or other in motion that will help.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 255
My present attempt turned out one of my faUures, though
I can not think that it would have been better left unmade.
A red rayless sun, which one might have imagined sullen
and disconsolate because he could not make the dead earth
smile into flowers, was looking through the frosty fog of
the winter morning as I walked across the bridge to find
Thomas Weir in his workshop. The poplars stood like
goblin sentinels, with black heads, upon which the long hair
stood on end, all along the dark cold river. Nature looked
like a life out of which the love has vanished. I turned
from it and hastened on.
Thomas was busy working with a spoke- shave at the
spoke of a cart-wheel. How curiously the smallest visual
fact will sometimes keep its place in the memory, when it
can not, with all earnestness of endeavor, recall a thought
a far more important fact ! That will come again only
when its time comes first.
" A cold morning, Thomas," I called from the door.
" I can always keep myself warm, sir," returned Thomas,
cheerfully.
" What are you doing, Tom ?" I said, going up to him
first.
. " A little job for myself, sir. I'm making a few book-
shelves."
" I want to have a little talk with your father. Just step
out in a minute or so, and let me have half an hour."
" Yes, sir, certainly."
I then went to the other end of the shop, for, curiously,
as it seemed to me, although father and son were on the
best of terms, they always worked as far from each other
as the shop would permit, and it was a very large room.
"It is not easy always to keep warm through and through,
Thomas," I said.
I suppose my tone revealed to his quick perceptions that
" more was meant than met the ear." He looked up from
his work, his tool filled with an uncompleted shaving.
"And when the heart gets cold," I went on, "it is not eas-
ily warmed again. The fire's hard to light there, Thomas."
Still he looked at me, stooping over his work, apparently
with a presentiment of what was coming.
" I fear there is no way of lighting it again, except the
blacksmith's way."
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" Hammering the iron till it is red-hot, you mean, sir ?"
" I do. When a man's heart has grown cold, the blows
of affliction must fall thick and heavy before the fire can be
got that will light it. When did you see your daughter
Catharine, Thomas ?"
His head dropped, and he began to work as if for bare
life. Not a word came from the form now bent over his
tool as if he had never lifted himself up since he first began
in the morning. I could just see that his face was deadly
pale, and his lips compressed like those of one of the violent
who take the kingdom of heaven by force. But it was for
no such agony of effort that his were thus closed. He
went on working till the .silence became so lengthened that
it seemed settled into the endless. I felt embarrassed. To
break a silence is sometimes as hard as to break a spell.
What Thomas would have done or said if he had not had
this safety-valve of bodily exertion, I can not even imagine.
" Thomas," I said, at length, laying my hand on his shoul-
der, "you are not going to part company with me, I hope?"
" You drive a man too far, sir. I've given in more to
you than ever I did to man, sir, and I don't know that I
oughtn't to be ashamed of it. But you don't know where
to stop. If we lived a thousand years you would be driv-
ing a man on, to the last. And there's no good in that, sir.
A man must be at peace somewhen."
" The question is, Thomas, whether I would be driving
you on or hack. You and I too must go on or back. I
want to go on myself, and to make you go on too. I don't
want to be parted from you now or then."
" That's all very well, sir, and very kind, I don't doubt ;
but, as I said afore, a man must be at peace somewhen,''^
" That's what I want so much that I want you to go on.
Peace! I trust in God we shall both have it one day,
somewhen^ as you say. Have you got this peace so plenti-
fully now that you are satisfied as you are ? You will nev-
er get it but by going on."
" I do not think there is any good got in stimng a pud-
dle. Let by-gones be by-gones. You make a mistake, sir,
in rousing an anger which I would willingly let sleep."
"Better a wakeful anger, and a wakeful conscience with it,
than an anger sunk into indifference, and a sleeping dog of
a conscience that will not bark. To have ceased to be an-
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 257
gry is not one step nearer to your daughter. Better strike
her, abuse her, with the chance of a kiss to follow. Ah !
Thomas, you are like Jonas with his gourd."
" I don't see what that has to do with it."
" I wDl tell you. You are fierce in wrath at the disgrace
to your family. Your pride is up in arms. You don't care
for the misery of your daughter, who, the more wrong she
has done, is the more to be pitied by a father's heart. Your
pride, I say, is all that you care about. The wrong your
daughter has done you care nothing about, or you would
have taken her to your arms years ago, in the hope that the
fervor of your love would drive the devil out of her and
make her repent. I say it is not the wrong, but the dis-
grace you care for. The gourd of your pride is withered,
and yet you will water it with your daughter's misery."
" Go out of my shop," he cried, " or I may say what I
should be sorry for."
I turned at once and left him. I found young Tom round
the comer, leaning against the wall, and reading his Virgil.
" Don't speak to your father, Tom," I said, " for a while.
I've put him out of temper. He will be best left alone."
He looked frightened.
" There's no harm done, Tom, my boy. I've been talking
to him about your sister. He must have time to think over
what I have said to him."
" I see, sir I see."
" Be as attentive to him as you can."
"I will, sir."
It wasi not alone resentment at my interference that had
thus put the poor fellow beside himself, I was certain : I had
called up all the old misery set the wound bleeding again.
Shame was once more wide awake and tearing at his heart.
That his daughter should have done so ! for she had been
his pride. She had been the belle of the village, and very
lovely; but having been apprenticed to a dressmaker in
Addicehead, had, after being there about a year and a half,
returned home, apparently in a decline. After the birth of
her child, however, she had, to her own disappointment,
and no doubt to that of her father as well, begun to re-
cover. What a time of wretchedness it must have been to
both of them until she left his house, one can imagine. Most
likely the misery of the father vented itself in greater un-
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kindness than he felt, which, sinking into the prond nature
she had derived from him, roused such a resentment as rare-
ly, if ever, can be thoroughly appeased until Death comes
in to help the reconciliation. How often has an old love
blazed up again under the blowing of his cold breath, and
sent the spirit warm at heart into the regions of the un-
known ! She never would utter a word to reveal the name
or condition of him by whom she had been wronged. To
his child, as long as he drew his life from her, she behaved
with strange alternations of dislike and passionate affection,
after which season the latter began to diminish in violence,
and the former to become more fixed, till at length, by the
time I had made their acquaintance, her feelings seemed to
have settled into what would have been indifference but for
the constant reminder of her shame and her wrong togeth-
er, which his very presence necessarily was.
They were not only the gossips of the village who judged
that the fact of Addicehead's being a garrison town had
something to do with the fate that had befallen her ^a fate
by which, in its very spring-time, when its flowers were
loveliest, and hope was strongest for its summer, her life
was changed into the dreary wind-swept, rain-sodden moor.
The man who can ciccept such a sacrifice from a woman ^I
say nothing of wiling it from her is, in his meanness, self-
ishness, and dishonor, contemptible as the Pharisee who,
with his long prayers, devours the widow's house. He
leaves her desolate while he walks off free. Would to God
a man like the great-hearted, pure-bodied Milton, a man
whom young men are compelled to respect, would in this
our age utter such a word as, making " mad the guilty," if
such grace might be accorded them, would " appall the free,"
lest they too should fall into such a mire of selfish dishonor!
CHAPTER XXH.
THE DEVIL IN CATHARINE WEIR.
About this time my father was taken ill, and several
journeys to London followed. It is only as vicar that I am
writing these memorials ^for such they should be called,
rather than annals, though certainly the use of the latter
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A QUIBT NBIOHBOBHOOD. 259
word has of late become vague enough for all convenience
therefore I have said nothing about my home-relations;
but I must just mention here that I had a half-sister, about
half my own age, whoso anxiety during my father's illness
rendered my visits more frequent than perhaps they would
have been from my own. But my sister was right in her
anxiety. My father grew worse, and in December he died.
I will not eulogize one so dear to me. That he was no
common man will appear from the fact of his unconvention-
ality and justice in leaving his property to my sister, saying
in his will that he had done all I could require of him in giv-
ing me a good education ; and that, men having means in
their power which women had not, it was unjust to the lat-
ter to make them, without a choice, dependent upon the
former. After the funeral, my sister, feeling it impossible
to remain in the house any longer, begged me to take her
with me ; so, after arranging affairs, we set out, and reached
Marshmallows on New Year's Day.
My sister being so much younger than myself, her pres-
ence in my house made very little change in my habits.
She came inta my ways without any diflSiculty, so that I did
not experience the least restraint from having to consider
her ; and I soon began to find her of considerable service
among the poor and sick of my flock, the latter class being
more numerous this winter, on account of the greater sever-
ity of the weather.
I now began to note a change in the habits of Catharine
Weir. As far as I remember, I had never up to this time
seen her out of her own house, except in church, at which
she had been a regular attendant for many weeks. Now,
however, I began to meet her when and where I least ex-
pected I do not say often, but so often as to make me be-
lieve she went wandering about frequently. It was always
at night, however, and always in stormy weather. The
marvel was, not that a sick woman could be there ^for a
sick woman may be able to do any thing but that she could
do so more than once : that was the marvel. At the same
time, I began to miss her from church.
Possibly my reader may wonder how I came to have the
chance of meeting any one again and again at night and in
stormy weather. I can relieve him from the difficulty.
Odd as it will appear to some readers, I had naturally a
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predilection for rough weather. I think I enjoyed fighting
with a storm in winter nearly as much as lying on the grass
under a beech-tree in summer. Possibly this assertion may
seem strange to one likewise who has remarked the ordi-
nary peaceableness of my disposition. But he may have
done me the justice to remark at the same time that I have
some considerable pleasure in fighting the devil, though
none in fighting my fellow-man, even in the ordinary form
of disputation, in which it is not heart's blood, but soul's
blood, that is so often shed. Indeed, there are many con-
troversies far more immoral as to the manner in which they
are conducted than a brutal prize-fight. There is, however,
a pleasure of its own in conflict ; and I have always experi-
enced a certain indescribable, though, I believe, not at all un-
usual exaltation even in struggling with a well-set, thorough-
ly roused storm of wind and snow or rain. The sources of
this by no means unusual delight I will not stay to examine,
indicating only that I believe the sources are deep. I was
now quite well, and had no reason to fear bad consequences
from the indulgence of this surely innocent form of the love
of strife.
But I find I must give another reason as well, if I would
be thoroughly honest with my reader. The fact was, that
as I had recovered strength, I had become more troubled
and restless about Miss Oldcastle. I could not see how I
was to make any progress toward her favor. There seemed
a barrier as insurmountable as intangible between her and
me. The will of one woman came between and parted us,
and that will was as the magic line over which no effort of
will or strength could enable the enchanted knight to make
a single stride. And this consciousness of being fettered by
insensible and infrangible bonds, this need of doing some-
thing with nothing tangible in the reach of the outstretched
hand, so worked upon my mind, that it naturally sought re-
lief, as often as the elemental strife arose, by mingling un-
constrained with the tumult of the night. Will my readers
find it hard to believe that this disquietude of mind should
gradually sink away as the hours of Saturday glided down
into night, and the day of my best labor drew nigh ? Or
will they answer, " We believe it easily ; for then you could
at least see the lady, and that comforted you ?" Whatever
it was that quieted me, not the less have I to thank God for
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 261
it. All might have been so different. What a feai-ful thing
would it have been for me to have found ray mind so full of
my own cares that I was unable to do God's work and bear
my neighbor's burden ! But even then I would have cried
to Him and said, " I know Thee that Thou art not a hard
master."
Now, however, that I have quite accounted, as I believe,
by the peculiarity both of my disposition and circumstances,
for unusual wanderings under conditions when most people
consider themselves fortunate within doors, I must return
to Catharine Weir, the eccentricity of whose late behavior,
being in the particulars discussed identical with that of
mine, led to the necessity for the explanation of my habits
given above.
One January afternoon, just as twilight was folding her
gray cloak about her, and vanishing in the night, the wind
blowing hard from the southwest, melting the snow under
foot, and sorely disturbing the dignity of the one grand old
cedar which stood before my study window, and now filled
my room with the great sweeps of its moaning, I felt as if
the elements were calling me, and rose to obey the sum-
mons. My sister was, by this time, so accustomed to my
going out in all weathers that she troubled me with no ex-
postulation. My spirits began to rise the moment I was in
the wind. Keen, and cold, and unsparing, it swept through
the leafless branches around me with a different hiss for ev-
ery tree that bent, and swayed, and tossed in its torrent. I
made my way to the gate and out upon the road, and then,
turning to the right, away from the village, I sought a kind
of common, open and treeless, the nearest approach to a
moor that there was in the county, I believe, over which a
wind like this would sweep unstayed by house, or shrub, or
fence, the only shelter it afforded lying in the inequalities
of its surface.
I had walked with my head bent low against the blast for
the better part of a mile, fighting for every step of the way,
when, coming to a deep cut in the common, opening at right
angles from the road, whence at some time or other a hirge
quantity of sand had been carted, I turned into its defense
to recover my breath, and listen to the noise of the wind in
the fierce rush of its sea over the open channel of the com-
mon. And I remember I was thinking with myself, "If the
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air would only become faintly visible for a moment, what a
sight it would be of waste grandeur with its thousands of
billowing eddies, and self involved, conflicting, and swallow-
ing whirlpools from the sea-bottom of this common !" when,
with my imagination resting on the fancied vision, I was
startled by such a moan as seemed about to break into a
storm of passionate cries, but was followed by the words,
^^ O God ! I can not bear it longer. Hast thou no help
forme?'*
Instinctively almost, I knew that Catharine Weir was be-
side me, though I could not see where she was. In a mo-
ment more, however, I thought I could distinguish through
the darkness imagination no doubt filling up the truth of
its form a figure crouching in such an attitude of abandon-
ed despair as recalled one of Flaxman's outlines, the body
bent forward over the drawn-up knees, and the face thus
hidden even from the darkness. I could not help saying to
myself, as I took a step or two toward her, "What is thy
trouble to hers I"
I may here remark that I had come to the conclusion, from
pondering over her case, that until a yet deeper and bit-
terer resentment than that which she bore to her father was
romoved, it would be of no use attacking the latter ; for the
former kept her in a state of hostility toward her whole
race : with herself at war she had no gentle thoughts, no
love for her kind ; but ever
" She fed her wound with fresh-renewed bale**
from every hurt that she received from or imagined to be
offered her by any thing human. So I had resolved that
the next time I had an opportunity of speaking to her, I
would make an attempt to probe the evil to its root, though
I had but little hope, I confess, of doing any good. And
now, when I heard her say, " Hast thou no help for me?" I
went near her with the words,
" God has, indeed, help for his own offspring. Has He not
suffered that He might help ? But you have not yet forgiven."
When I began to speak she gave a slight start: she was
far too miserable to be terrified at any thing. Before I had
finished she stood erect on her feet, facing me, with the
whiteness of her face glimering through the blackness of the
night.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 263
" I ask Him for peace," she said, " and He sends me more
torment."
And I thought of Ahab when he said, "Hast thou found
me, mine enemy ?"
" If we had what we asked for always, we should too often
find it was not what we wanted, after ail."
"You will not leave me alone," she said. "It is too
bad."
Poor woman I It was well for her she could pray to
God in her trouble, for she could scarcely endure a word
from her fellow-man. She, despairing before God, was fierce
as a tigress to her fellow-sinner who would stretch a hand
to help her out of the mire, and set her beside him on the
rock which he felt firm under his own feet.
" I will not leave you alone, Catharine," I said, feeling
that I must at length assume another tone of speech with
her who resisted gentleness. " Scorn my interference as you
will," I said, " I have yet to give an account of you ; and
I have to fear lest my Master should require youi^blood
at my hands. I did not follow you here, you may well be-
lieve me ; but I have found you here, and I must speak."
All this time the wind was roaring overhead. But in the
hollow was stillness, and I was so near her that I could hear
every word she said, although she spoke in a low, com-
pressed tone.
" Have you a right to persecute me," she said, " because
I am unhappy ?"
"I have a right, and, more than a right, I have a duty to
aid your better self against your worse. You, I fear, are
siding with your worse self."
" You judge me hard. I have had wrongs that "
And Eere she stopped in a way that let me know she
would say no more.
" That you have had wrongs, and bitter wrongs, I do not
for a moment doubt. And him who has done you most
wrong you will not forgive."
"No."
" No, not even for the sake of Him who, hanging on the
tree, after all the bitterness of blows, and whipping, and de-
rision, and rudest gestures and taunts, even when the faint-
ness of death was upon Him, cried to His Father to forgive
their cruelty. He asks you to forgive the man who wronged
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you, and you will not not even for Him ! Oh, Catharine,
Catharine !"
" It is very easy to talk, Mr. Walton," she returned, with
forced but cool scorn.
"Tell me then," I said, "have you nothing to repent of?
Have you done no wrong in this same miserable matter ?"
" I do not understand you, sir," she said, freezingly, petu-
lantly, not sure, perhaps, or unwilling to believe, that I meant
what I did mean.
I was fully resolved to be plain with her now.
" Catharine Weir," I said, " did not God give you a house
to keep fair and pure for Him ? Did you keep it such ?"
" He told me lies," she cried fiercely, with a cry that seem-
ed to pierce through the storm over our heads up toward
the everlasting justice. " He lied, and I trusted. For his
sake I sinned, and he threw me from him."
"You gave him what was not yours to give. What right
had you to cast your pearl before a swine ? But dare you
say it was all for his sake you did it ? Was it aU self-de-
nial ? Was there no self-indulgence ?"
She made a broken gesture of lifting her hands to her
head, let them drop by her side, and said nothing.
"You knew you were doing wrong. You felt it even
more than he did ; for God made you with a more delicate
sense of purity, with a shrinking from the temptation, with
a womanly foreboding of disgrace, to help you to hold the
cup of your honor steady, which yet you dropped on the
ground. Do not seek refuge in the cant about a wom-
an's weakness. The strength of the woman is as needful to
her womanhood as the strength of the man is to his man-
hood ; and a woman is just as strong as sh,e will be. And
now, instead of humbling yourself before your Father in
heaven, whom you have wronged more even than your fa-
ther on earth, you rage over your injuries, and cherish hatred
against him who wronged you. But I will go yet farther,
and show you, in God's name, that you wronged your se-
ducer ; for yeu were his keeper, as he was yours. What
if he had found a noble-hearted girl, who also trusted him
entirely just until she knew she ought not to listen to him
a moment longer who, when his love showed itself less
than human, caring but for itself, rose in the royalty of her
maidenhood, and looked him in the face would he not have
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 265
been ashamed before her, and so before himself, seeing in
the glass of her dignity his own contemptibleness ? But
instead of such a woman he found you, who let him do as
he would. No redemption for him in you. And now he
walks the earth the worse for you, defiled by your spoil,
glorying4n his poor victory over you, despising all women
for your' sake, unrepentant and proud, ruining others the
easier that he has already ruined you."
" He does ! he does !" she shrieked ; " but I will have my
revenge. I can and I will."
And, darting past me, she rushed out into the storm. I
followed, and could just see that she took the way to the
village. Her dim shape went down the wind before me
into the darkness. I followed in the same direction, fast
and faster, for the wind was behind me, and a vague fear
which ever grew in ray heart urged me to overtake her.
What had I done ? To what might I not have driven her ?
And although all I had said was true, and I had spoken
from motives which, as far as I knew my own heart, I could
not condemn, yet, as I sped after her, there came a reaction
of feeling from the severity with which I had displayed her
own case against her. " Ah ! poor sister," I thought, " was
it for me thus to reproach thee who hadst sufiered already
so fiercely ? If the Spirit speaking in thy heart could not
win thee, how should my words of hard accusation, true
though they were, every one of them, rouse in thee any
thing but the wrath that springs from shame ? Should I
not have tried again, and yet again, to waken thy love ? and
then a sweet anc^ healing shame, like that of her who bathed
the Master's feet with her tears, would have bred fresh love,
and no wrath."
But again I answered for myself that my heart had not
been the less tender toward her that I had tried to humble
her, for it was that she might slip from under the net of her
pride. Even when my tongue spoke the hardest things I
could find, my heart was yearning over her. If I could but
make her feel that she too had been wrong, would not the
sense of common wrong between them help her to forgive ?
And with the first motion^ of willing pardon, would not a
spring of tenderness, grief, and hope, burst from her poor
old dried-up heart, and make it young and fresh once more ?
M
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Thus I reasoned with myself as I followed her badL through
the darkness.
The wmd fell a little as we came near the Tillage, and the
rain began to come down in torrents. There must have
been a moon somewhere behind the clouds, for the darkness
became less dense, and I began to fancy I could again see
the dim shape which had rushed from me. I increased my
speed, and became certain of it. Suddenly, her strength
giving way, or her foot stumbling over something in the
road, she fell to the earth with a cry.
I was beside her in a moment. She was insensible. I
did what I could for her, and in a few minutes she began to
come to herself.
" Where am I ? Who is it ?" she asked, listlessly.
When she found who I was, she made a great effort to
rise, and succeeded.
" You must take my arm," I said, " and I will help you
to the vicarage."
" I will go home," she answered.
" Lean on me now, at least, for you must get somewhere."
"What does it matter?" she said, in such a tone of de-
spair that it went to my very heart.
A wild half-cry, half-sob followed, and then she took my
arm, and said nothing more. Nor did I trouble her with
any words, except, when we reached the gate, to beg her to
come into the vicarage instead of going home. But she
would not listen to me, and so I took her home.
She pulled the key of the shop from her pocket. Her
hand trembled so that I took it from hei; and opened the
door. A candle with a long snuff was flickering on the
counter; and stretched out on the counter, with his head
about a foot from the candle, lay little Gerard, fast asleep.
" Ah I little darling !" I said in my heart, " this is not much
like painting the sky yet. But who knows ?" And as I
uttered the commonplace question in my mind, in my mind
it was suddenly changed into the half of a great dim prophe-
cy by the answer whi6h arose to it there, for the answer was
"God."
I lifted the little fellow in my arms. He had fallen asleep
weeping, and his face was dirty, and streaked with the chan-
nels of his tears. Catharine had snuffed the candle, and now
stood with it in her hand, waiting for me to go. But, with-
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 267
out heeding her, I bore my chUd to the door that led to
their dwelling. I had never been up those stairs before,
and therefore knew nothing of the way. But, without of-
fering any opposition, his mother followed and lighted me.
What a sad face of suffering and strife it was upon which
that dim light fell ! She set the candle down upon the table
of a small room at the top of the stairs, which might have
been comfortable enough but that it was neglected and dis-
ordered ; and now I saw that she did not even have her
child to sleep with her, for his crib stood in a comer of this
their sitting-room.
I sat down on a haircloth couch, and proceeded to un-
dress little Gerard, trying as much as I could not to wake
him. In this I was almost successful. Catharine stood star-
ing at me without saying a word. She looked dazed, per-
haps from the effects of her fall ; but she brought me his
night-gown notwithstanding. Just as I had finished put-
ting it on, and was rising to lay him in his crib, he opened
his eyes and looked at me ; then gave a hurried look round,
as if for his mother ; then threw his arms about my neck
and kissed me. I laid him down, and the same moment he
was fast asleep. In the morning it would not be even a
dream to him.
"Now," I thou^t, "you are safe for the night, poor
fatherless child. Even your mother's hardness will not
make you sad now. Perhaps the heavenly Father will send
you loving dreams."
I turned to Catharine and bade her good-night. She just
put her hand in mine ; but, instead of returning my leave-
taking, said,
" Do not fancy you will get the better of me, Mr. Walton,
by being kind to that boy. I will have m y re venge, and I
know how. I am only waiting my time. When he is just
going to drink, I will dash it from his hand. I will. At
the altar I will."
Her eyes were flashing almost with madness, and she
made fierce gestures with her arm. I saw that argument
was useles^s.
"You loved him once, Catharine," I said, "love him
again. Love him better. Forgive him. Revenge is far
worse than any thing you have done yet."
" What do I care ? Why should I care ?"
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And she laughed terribly.
I made haste to leave the room and the house ; but I lin-
gered for nearly an hour about the place before I could make
up my mind to go home, so much was I afraid lest she should
do something altogether insane. But at length I saw the
candle appear in the shop, which was some relief to my
anxiety ; and reflecting that her one consuming thought of
revenge was some security for her conduct otherwise, I
went home.
That night my own troubles seemed small to me, and I
did not brood over them at all. My mind was filled with
the idea of the sad misery which, rather than in which, that
poor woman was, and I prayed for her as for a desolate hu-
man world whose sun had deserted the heavens, whose fair
fields, rivers, and groves were hardening into the frost of
death, and all their germs of hope becoming but portions of
the lifeless mass. " If I am sorrowful," I said, " God lives
none the less. And His will is better than mine, yea, is my
hidden and perfected will. In Him is my life. His will be
done. What, then, is my trouble compared to hers ? I will
not sink into it and be selfish."
In the morning my first business was to inquirenrfler her.
I found her in the shop, looking very ill, and obstinately re-
served. Gerard sat in a comer, looking as far from happy
as a child of his years could look. As I left the shop he
crept out with me.
" Gerard, come back," cried his mother.
" I will not take him away," I said.
The boy looked up in my face, as if he wanted to whisper
to me, and I stooped to listen.
" I dreamed la^t night," said the boy, " that a big angel
with white wings came and took me out of my bed, and
carried me high, high up so high that I could not dream
any more."
" We shall be carried up so high one day, Gerard, my
boy, that we shall not want to dream any more, for we shall
be carried up to God himself. Now go back to your mother."
He obeyed at once, and I went on through the village.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 269
CHAPTER XXin.
THE DEVIL IN THE VICAE.
I WANTED just to pass the gate, and look up the road to-
ward Oldcastle Hall. I thought to see nothing but the
empty road between the leafless tress, lying there like a
dead stream that would not bear me on to the "sunny
pleasure-dome with caves of ice" that lay beyond. But just
as I reached the gate, Miss Oldcastle came out of the lodge,
where I learned afterward the woman that kept the gate
was ill.
When she saw me she stopped, and I entered hurriedly,
and addressed her. But I could say nothing better than
the merest commonplaces ; for her old manner, which I had
almost forgotten, a certain coldness shadowed with haughti-
ness, whose influence I had strongly felt when I began to
make her acquaintance, had returned. I can not make my
reader understand how this could be blended with the
sweetness in her face and the gentleness of her manners ;
but there the opposites were, and I could feel them both.
There was likewise a certain drawing of herself away from
me, which checked the smallest advance on my part ; so
that I wonder at it now, but so it was after a few words
of very ordinary conversation, I bade her good -morning
and went away, feeling like " a man forbid" as if I had
' done her some wrong, and she had chidden me for it. What
a stone lay in ray breast? I could hardly breathe for it.
What could have caused her to change her manner toward
me ? I had made no advance ; I could not have ofiended
her. Yet there she glided up the road, and here stood I,
outside the gate. That road was now a flowing river that
bore from me the treasure of the earth, while my boat was
spell-bound and could not follow. I would run after her,
fall at her feet, and entreat to know wherein I had oflTended
her. But there I stood enchanted, and there she floated
away between the trees, till at length she turned the slow
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sweep, and I, breathing deep as she vanished from my sight,
turned likewise, and walked back the dreary way to the vil-
lage. And now I knew that I had never been miserable in
my life before ; and I knew, too, that I had never loved her
as I loved her now.
But, as I had for the last ten years of mv life been striv-
ing to be a right will, with a thousand failures and forget-
fulnesses every one of those years, while yet the desire grew
stronger as hope recovered from every failure, I would now
try to do my work as if nothing had happened to incapaci-
tate me for it. So I went on to fulfill the plan with which
I had left home, including, as it did, a visit to Thomas Weir,
whom I had not seen in his own shop since he had ordered
me out of it. This, as far as I was concerned, was more ac-
cidental than intentional. I had, indeed, abstained from go-
ing to him for a while, in order to give him time to come
round; but then circumstances which I have recorded in-
tervened to prevent me, so that as yet no advance had been
made on my part any more than on his toward reconcilia-
tion, which, however, could have been such only on one
side, for I had not been in the least offended by the way he
had behaved to me, and needed no reconciliation. To tell
the truth, I was pleased to find that my words had had force
enouffh with him to rouse his wrath. Any thing rather
than mdifference I That the heart of the honest man would
in the end right me, I could not doubt ; in the mean time I
would liee whether a friendly call might not improve the
state of affairs. Till he yielded to the voice within him,
however, I could not expect that our relation to each other
would be quite restored. As long as he resisted his con-
science, and knew that I sided with his conscience, it was
impossible he should regard me with peaceful eyes, however
much he might desire to be friendly with me.
I found him busy, as usual, for he was one of the most
diligent men I have ever known. But his face was gloomy,
and I thought or fancied that the old scorn had begun once
more to usurp the expression of it. Young Tom was not
in the shop.
" It is a long time since I saw you, now, Thomas."
" I caii hardly wonder at that," he returned, as if he were
trying to do me justice ; but his eyes dropped, and he re-
sumed his work, and said no more. I thought it better to
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make no reference to the past even by assuring him that it
was not from resentment that I had been a stranger.
"How is Tom?" I asked.
"Well enough," he returned, Then, with a smile of peev-
ishness not unmingled with contempt, he added, " He's get-
ting too uppish for me. I don't think the Latin agrees with
him."
I could not help suspecting at once how the matter stood,
namely, that the father, unhappy in his conduct to his daugh-
ter, and unable to make up his mind to do right with regard
to her, had been behaving captiously and unjustly to his
son, and so had rendered himself more miserable than ever.
"Perhaps he finds it too much for him without me," I
said, evasively; ;" but, I called to-day partly to inform him
that I am quite ready now to recommence our readings to-
gether, after which I hope you will find the Latin agree with
him better."-
"I wish you would let him alone, sir I mean, take no
more trouble about him. You see I can't do as you want
me ; I wasn't made to go another man's way ; and so it's
very hard ^more than I can bear to be under so much ob-
ligation to ypu."
" But you mistake me altogether, Thomas. It is for the
lad's own sake that.Iijvant to go on reading with him; and
you won't interfere between him and any use I can be of to
him. ^ I assure you, to have you go my way instead of your
own IS the last thing I could wish, though I confess I do
wish very much that you would choose the right way for
your own way."
He made me no answer, but maintained a sullen silence.
" Thomas," I said, at length, " I had thought you were
breaking every bond of Satan that withheld you from enter-
ing into the kingdom of heaven ; but I fear he has strength-
ened his bands, and holds you now as much a captive as
ever ; so it is not even your own way you are walking in,
but his."
" It's no use your trying to frighten me. I don't believe
in the devil."
" It is God I want you to believe in ; and I am not going
to dispute with you now about whether there is a devil or
not. In a matter of life and death we have no time for set-
tling every disputed point."
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" Life or death ! What do you mean ?''
" I mean that whether you believe there is a devil or not,
you hncyw there is an evil power in your mind dragging you
down. I am not speaking in generals ; I mean now?, and
you know as to what I mean it. And if you yield to it,
that evil power, whatever may be your theory about it, will
drag you down to death. It is a matter of life or death, I
repeat, not of theory about the devil."
" Well, I always did say that if you once give a priest an
inch he'll take an ell, and I am sorry I forgot it for once."
Having said this, he shut up his mouth in a manner that
indicated plainly enough he would not open it again for
some time. This, more than his speech, irritated me, and
with a mere "good-morning" I walked out of the shop.
No sooner was I in the open air than I knew that I too
I as well as poor Thomas Weir was under a spell ; knew
that I had gone to him before I had recovered sufficiently
from the mingled disappointment and mortification of my
interview with Miss Oldcastle ; that while I spoke to him I
was not speaking with a whole heart ; that I had been dis-
charging a duty as if I had been discharging a musket ; that,
although I had spoken the truth, I had spoken it ungracious-
ly and selfishly.
I could not bear it. I turned instantly and went back
into the shop.
*' Thomas, my friend," I said, holding out my hand, " I beg
your pardon. I was wrong. I spoke to you as I ought not.
I was troubled in my own mind, and that made me lose my
temper and be rude to you, who are far more troubled than
I am. Forgive me I"
He did not take my hand at first, but stared at me as if,
not comprehending me, he supposed that I was backing up
what I had said last with more of the same sort. But by
the time I had finished he saw what I meant ; his counte-
nance altered, and looked as if the evil spirit were about to
depart from him ; he held out his hand, gave mine a great
grasp, dropped his head, went on with his work, and said
never a word.
I went out of the shop once more, but in a greatly altered
mood.
On the way home, I tried to find out how it was that I
had that morning failed so signally. I had little virtue in
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 273
keeping my temper, because it was naturally very even ;
therefore I had the more shame in losing it. I had borne
all my uneasiness about Miss Oldcastle without, as far as I
knew, transgressing in this fashion till this very morning.
Were great sorrows less hurtful to the temper than smdl
disappointments? Tes, surely. But Shakspeare repre-
sents Brutus^ after hearing of the sudden death of his wife,
as losing his temper with Cassius to a degree that bewilder-
ed the latter, who said he did not know that rut%L8 could
have been so angry. Is this consistent with the character
of the stately-minded Brut'UB^ or with the dignity of sor-
row ? It is. For the loss of his wife alone would have
made him only less irritable ; but the whole weight of an
army, with its distracting cares and conflicting interests,
pressed upon him, and the battle of an empire was to be
fought at daybreak, so that he could not be alone with his
grief. Between the silence of death in his mind and the
roar of life in his brain, he became irritable.
Looking yet deeper into it, I found that till this morning
I had experienced no personal mortification with respect to
Miss Oldcastle. It was not the mere disappointment of
having no more talk with her, for the sight of her was a
blessing I had not in the least expected, that had worked
upon me, but the fact that she had repelled or seemed to re-
pel me. And thus I found that self was at the root of the
wrong I had done to one over whose mental condition, es-
pecially while I was telling him the unwelcome truth, I
ought to have been as tender as a mother over her wounded
child. I could not say that it was wrong to feel disappoint-
ed or even n^ortified ; but something was wrong when one
whose especial business it was to serve his people in the
name of Him who was full of grace and truth, made them
sulfer because of his own inward pain.
No sooner had I settled this in my mind than my trouble
returned with a sudden pang. Had I actually seen her that
morning, and spoken to her, and left her with a pain in my
heart ? What if that face of hers was doomed ever to bring
with it such a pain ^to be ever to me no more than a lovely
vision radiating grief? If so, I would endure in silence and
as patiently as I could, trying to make up for the lack of
brightness in my own fate by causing more brightness in
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the fate of others. I would at least keep on trying to do
my work.
That moment I felt a little hand poke itself into mine. I
looked down, and there was Gerard Weir looking up in my
face. I found myself in the midst of the children coming
out of school, for it was Saturday, and a half-holiday. He
smiled in my face, and I hope I smiled in his ; and so, hand
in hand, we went on to the vicarage, where I gave him up
to my sister. But I can not convey to my reader any notion
of the quietness that entered my heart with the grasp of that
childish hand. I think it was the faith of the boy in me that
comforted me, but I could not help thinking of the words
of our Lord about receiving a child in His name, and so re-
ceiving Him. By the time we reached the vicarage my
heart was very quiet. As the little child held by my hand,
so I seemed to be holding by God's hand ; and a sense of
heart-security, as well as soul-safety, awoke in me ; and I
said to myself, Surely He will take care of my heart as well
as of my mind and my conscience. For one blessed moment
I seemed to be at the very centre of things, looking out
quietly upon my own troubled emotions as upon something
outside of me apart from me, even as one from the firm
rock may look abroad upon the vexed sea. And I thought
I then knew something of what the apostle meant when he
said, " Your life is hid with Christ in God." I knew that
there was a deeper self than that which was thus troubled.
I had not had my usual ramble this morning, and was
otherwise ill prepared for the Sunday, so I went early into
the church ; but, finding that the sexton's wife had not yet
finished lighting the stove, I sat down by my own fire in
the vestry.
Suppose I am sitting there now while I say one word for
our congregations in winter. I was very particular in hav-
ing the church well warmed before Sunday. I think some
persons must neglect seeing after this matter on principle,
because warmth may make a weary creature go to sleep
here and there about the place ; as if any healing doctrine
could enter the soul while it is on the rack of the frost.
The clergy should see ^for it is their business that their
people have no occasion to think of their bodies at all while
they are in church. They have enough ado to think of the
truth. When our Lord was feeding even their bodies, He
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A QUIET NBIGHBOESOOD. 2l5
made them all sit down on the grass. It is worth noticing
that there was much grass in the place a rare thing, I
should think, in those countries and therefore, perhaps, it
was chosen by Him for their comfort in feeding their souls
and bodies both. If I may judge from experiences of my
own, one of the reasons why some churches are of all places
the least likely for any thing good to be found in is that
they are as wretchedly cold to the body as they are to the
soul too cold every way for any thing to grow in them.
JEdelweisSy " Noblewhite" as they call a plant growing un-
der the snow on some of the Alps could not survive the
winter in such churches. There is small welcome in a cold
house ; and the clergyman, who is the steward, should look
to it. It is for him to give his Master's friends a welcome
to his Master's house ; for the welcome of a servant is pre-
cious, and nowadays very rare.
And now Mrs. Stone must have finished. I go into the
old church, which looks as if it were quietly waiting for its
people. No, she has not done yet. Never mind. How
full of meaning the vaulted roof looks I as if, having gath-
ered a soul of its own out of the generations that have wor-
shiped here for so long, it had feeling enough to grow hun-
gry for a psalm before the end of the week.
Some such half-fooUsh fancy was now passing through
ray tranquilized mind, or rather heart for the mind would
have rejected it at once when to my what shall I call it ?
^not amazement, for the delight was too strong for amaze-
ment ^the old organ woke up and began to think aloud.
As if it had been brooding over it all the week in the won-
derful convolutions of its wooden brain, it began to sigh out
the Agnes Dei of Mozart's twelfth mass upon the air of the
still church, which lay swept and garnished for the Sunday.
How could it be ? I know now, and I guessed then, and
my guess was right, and my reader must be content to
guess too. I took no step to verify my conjecture, for I
felt that I was upon my honor, but sat in one of the pews
and listened till the old organ sobbed itself into silence.
Then I heard the steps of the sexton's wife vanish from the
church, heard her lock the door, and knew that I was alone
in the ancient pile, with the twilight growing thick about
me, and felt like Sir Galahad when, after the "rolling organ-
harmony," he heard " wings flutter, voices hover clear." In
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a moment the mood changed, and I was sony, not that the
dear organ was dead for the night, but actually felt gently
mournful that the wonderful old thing never had and never
could have a conscious life of its own. So strangely does
the passion which I had not invented, reader, whoever thou
art that thinkest love and a church do not well harmonize
so strangely, I say, full to overflowing of its own vitality,
does it radiate life, that it would, even of its own supera-
bundance, quicken into blessed consciousness the inanimate
objects around it, thinking what they would feel had they a
consciousness correspondent to their form, were their facul-
ties moved from within themselves instead of from the will
and operation of humanity.
I lingered on long in the dark church, as my reader knows
I had done often before ; nor did I move from the seat I had
first taken till I left the sacred building ; and there I made
ray sermon for the next morning ; and herewith I impart it
to my reader ; but he need not be afraid of another such as
I have already given him, for I impart it only in its original
germ, its concentrated essence of sei-mon ^these four verses :
Had I the grace to win the grace
Of some old man complete in lore,
My face would worship at his face.
Like childhood seated on the floor.
Had I the grace to win the grace
Of childhood, loving, shy, apart,
The child shonld find a nearer place,
And teach me resting on my heart.
Had I the grace to win the grace
Of maiden living all above,
My sonl wonld trample down the base,
That she might have a man to love.
A grace I have no grace to win
Knocks now at my half-open door :
Ah, Lord of glory, come Thou in.
Thy grace divine is all and more.
This was what I made for myself. I told my people that
God had created all our worships, reverences, tendernesses,
loves. That they had come out of His heart, and He had
made them in us because they were in Him first. That
otherwise He would not have cared to make them. That
all that we could imagine of the wise, the lovely, the beanti-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 277
ful, was in Him, only infinitely more of them than we could
not merely imagine, but understand, even if He did all He
could to explain them to us, to make us understand them.
That in Him was all the wise teaching of the best man ever
known in the world and more ; all the grace, and gentleness,
and truth of the best child and more ; all the tenderness and
devotion of the truest type of womankind and more ; for
there is a love that passeth the love of woman, not the love
of Jonathan to David, though David said so ; but the love
of God to the men and women whom He has made. There-
fore we must be all God's ; and all our aspirations, all our
worships, all our honors, all our loves, must centre in Him
^the Best.
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN ANGEL UNAWARES.
Feeling rather more than the usual reaction so well
known to clergymen after the concentrated duties of the
Sunday, I resolved on Monday to have the long country
walk I had been disappointed of on the Saturday previous.
It was such a day as it seems impossible to describe except
in negatives. It was not stormy, it was not rainy, it was
not sunshiny, it was not snowy, it was not frosty, it was not
foggy, it was not clear, it was nothing but cloudy, and quiet,
and cold, and generally ungenial, with just a puff of wind
now and then to give an assertion to its ungeniality. I
should not in the least have cared to tell what sort the day
was had it not been an exact representation of my own
mind. It was not the day that made me such as itself.
The weather could always easily influence the surface of my
mind, my external mood, but it could never go much farther.
The smallest pleasure would break through the conditions
that merely came of such a day. But this morning my
whole mind and heart seemed like the day. The summer
was thousands of miles off on the other side of the globe.
Ethelwyn, up at the old house there across the river, seemed
millions of miles away. The summer might come back ; she
never would come nearer : it was absurd to expect it. For
in such moods stupidity constantly arrogates to itself the
qualities and claims of insight; in fact, it passes itself off for
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278 ANNAiS OF
common sense, making the most dreary ever appear the most
reasonable. Id. such moods a man might almost be per-
suaded that it was ridiculous to expect any such poetic ab-
surdity as the summer, with its diamond morhings and its
opal evenings, ever to come again ; nay, to think that it
ever had had any existence except in the &ncies of the hu-
man heart one of its castles in the air. The whole of life
seemed faint and foggy, with no red in it any where ; and
when I glanced at my present relations in Marshmallows, I
could not help finding several circumstances to give some
appearance of justice to this appearance of things. I seem-
ed to myself to have done no good. I had driven Catharine
Weir to the verge of suicide, while at the same time I could
not restrain her from the contemplation of some dire re-
venge. I had lost the man upon whom I had most reck-
oned as a seal of my ministry, namely, Thomas Weir. True,
there was Old Rogers ; but Old Rogers was just as good
before I found him. I could not dream of having made him
any better. And so I went on brooding over all the disap-
pointing portions of my labor, all the time thinking about
myself instead of God and the work that lay for me to do
in the days to come.
"Nobody," I said, "but Old Rogers understands me.
Nobody would care, as far as my teaching goes, if another
man took my place from next Sunday forward. And for
Miss Oldcastle, her playing the Agnus Dei on Saturday
afternoon, even if she intended that I should hear it, could
only indicate at most that she knew how she had behaved
to me in the morning, and thought she had gone too far and
been unkind, or perhaps was afraid lest she should be ac-
countable for any failure I might make in my Sunday duties,
and therefore felt bound to do something to restore my
equanimity."
Choosing, though without consciously intending to do so,
the dreariest path to be found, I wandered up the side of
the slow black river, with the sentinel pollards looking at
themselves in its gloomy miiTor, just as I was looking at
myself in the mirror of my circumstances. They leaned in
all directions, irregular as the head-stones in an ancient
church-yard. In the summer they looked like explosions of
green leaves at the best ; now they looked like the burnt-out
cases of the summer's fire-works. How difierent, too, was
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 279
the river from the time when a whole fleet of shining white
lilies lay anchored among their own broad green leaves
upon its clear waters, filled with sunlight in everj' pore, as
they themselves would fill the pores of a million-caverned
sponge ! But I could not even recall the past summer as
beautiful. I seemed to care for nothing. The first miser-
able afternoon at Marshmallows looked now as if it had
been the whole of my coming relation to the place seen
through a reversed telescope. And here I was in it now.
The walk along the side was tolerably dry, although the
river was bank-full. But when I came to the bridge I
wanted to cross a wooden one ^I found that the approach
to it had been partly undermined and carried away, for
here the river had overflowed its banks in one of the late
storms, and all about the place was still very wet and
swampy. I could therefore get no farther in my gloomy
walk, and so turned back upon my steps. Scarcely had I
done so when I saw a man coming hastily toward me from
far upon the straight line of the river walk. I could not
mistJi:e him at any distance. It was Old Rogers. I felt
both ashamed and comforted when I recognized him.
I' Well, Old Rogers," I said, as soon as he came witliin
hail, trying to speak cheerfully, " you can not get much far-
ther this way without wading a bit, at least."
" I don't want to go no farther now, sir. I came to find
you."
" Nothing amiss, I hope ?"
" Nothing as I knows on, sir. I only wanted to have a
little chat with you. I told master I wanted to leave for an
hour or so. He alius lets me do just as I like."
" But how did you know where to find me ?"
" I saw you come this way. You passed me right on the
bridge, and didn't see me, sir. So says I to myself, ' Old
Rogers* summat's amiss wi' parson to-day. He never went
by me like that afore. This won't do. You just go and
see.' So I went home and told master, and here I be, sir.
And I hope you're noways offended with the liberty of me."
"Did I really pass you on the bridge?" I said, unable to
understand it.
"That you did, sir. I knowed parson must be a goodish
bit in his own in'ards afore he would do that."
" I needn't tell you I didn't see you. Old Rogers."
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"I could tell you that, sir. I hope there's DOthing gone
m^ wrong, sir. Miss is weD, sir, I hope ?"
" Qoite weU, I thank you. No, my dear fellow, nothing's
gone main wrong, as you say. Some of my running tackle
got jammed a bit, that's all. I'm a little out of spirits, I be-
lieve."
" Well, sir, don't you be afeard Fm going to be trouble-
some. Don't think I want to get aboard your ship, except
you fling me a rope. There's a many things you mun ha'
to think about that an ignorant man like me couldn't take
up if you was to let 'em drop. And being a gentleman, I
do believe, makes the matter worse betuxt us. And there's
many a thing that no man can go talkin' about to any but
only the Eord himself. Still, you can't help us poor folks
seeing when there's summat amiss, and we can't help havin'
our own thoughts any more than the sailor's jackdaw that
couldn't speak. And sometimes we may be nearer the
mark than you would suppose, for God has made us all of
one blood, you know."
" What are you driving at. Old Rogers ?" I said, with a
smile, which was none the less true that I suspected he had
read some of the worst trouble of my heart. For why
should I mind an honorable man like him knowing what op-
pressed me, though, as things were, I certainly should not,
as he said, choose to tell it to any but one.
" I don't want to say what I was driving at, if it was any
thing but this ^that I want to put to the clumsy hand of a
rough old tar, with a heart as soil as the pitch that makes
his hand hard ^to trim your sails a bit, sir, and help you to
lie a point closer to the wind. You're not just close-hauled,
sir."
" Say on, Old Rogers. I understand you, and I will lis-
ten with all ray heart, for you have a good right to^speak."
And Old Rogers spoke thus :
" Oncet upon a time I made a voyage in a merchant
barque. We were becalmed in the South Seas ; and weary
work it wur, a doin' of nothin' from day to day. But when
the water began to come up thick from the bottom of the
water-casks, it was wearier a deal. Then a thick fog came
on, as white as snow a'most, and we couldn't see more than
a few yards ahead or on any side of us. But the fog didn't
keep the heat off; it only made it worse, and the water was
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A QUIBT NBIGHBOBHOOD. 281
fast going done. The short allowance grew shorter and
shorter, and the men, some of them, were half mad with
thirst, and began to look bad at one another. I kept up my
heart by looking ahead inside me. For days and days the
fog hung about us as if the air had been made o' flocks o'
wool. The captain took to his berth, and several of the
crew to their hammocks, for it was just as hot on deck as
any where else. The mate lay on a spare sail on the quar-
ter-deck, groaning. I had a strong suspicion that the barque
was drifting, and hove the lead again and again, but could
find no bottom. Some of the men got hold of the spirits,
and that didn't quench their thirst. It drove them clean
mad. I had to knock one of them down myself with a cap-
stan-bar, for he ran at the mate with his knife. At last I
began to lose all hope. And still I was sure the barque was
slowly drifting. My head was like to burst, and my tongue
was like a lump of holystone in my mouth. Well, one
morning, I had just, as I thought, lain down on the deck to
breathe my last, hoping I should die before I went quite
mad with thirst, when all at once the fog lifted like the foot
of a sail. I sprung to my feet. There was the blue sky
overhead ; but the terrible burning sun was there. A mo-
ment more, and a light air blew on my cheek, and turning my
face to it as if it had been the very breath of God, there was
an island within half a mile, and I saw the shine of water on
the face of a rock on the shore. I cried out, ' Land on the
weather-quarter ! Water in sight !' In a moment more a
boat was lowered, and in a few minutes the boat's crew, of
which I was one, were lying, clothes and all, in a little stream
that came down from the hills above. There, Mr. Walton,
that's what I wanted to say to you."
This is as near the story of my old friend as my limited
knowledge of sea affairs allows me to report it.
"I understand you quite. Old Rogers, and I thank you
heartily," I said.
^ "No doubt," resumed he, "King Solomon was quite
right, as he always was, I suppose, in what he said^ for his
wisdom mun ha' laid mostly in the tongue right, I say,
when he said, ' Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou
knowest not what a day may bring forth ;' but I can't help
thinking there's another side to it. I think it would be as
good advice to a man on the other tack, whose boasting lay
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282 ANNAUS OF
far to windward, and he close on a lee-shore wi' breakers
it wouldn't be amiss to say to him, ' Don't strike your colors
to the morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may bring
forth.' There's just as many good days as bad ones ; as
much fair weather as foul in the days to come. And if a
man keeps up heai*t, he's all the better for that, and none
the worse when the evil day does come. But, God forgive
me ! I'm talking like a heathen. As if there was any
chance about what the days would bring forth. No, my
lad," said the old sailor, assuming the dignity of his supei-ior
years under the inspiration of the truth, " boast, nor trust,
nor hope in the morrow. Boast, and trust, and hope in
God, for thou shalt yet praise Him, who is the health of thy
countenance and thy God."
I could but hold out my hand. I had nothing to say ; for
he had spoken to me as an angel of God.
The old man was silent for some moments : his emotion
needed time to still itself again. Nor did he return to the
subject. He held out his hand once more, saying,
" Good-day, sir. I must go back to my work."
" I will go back with you," I returned.
And so we walked back side by side to the village, but
not a word did we speak the one to the other till we shook
hands and parted upon the bridge, where we had first met*.
Old Rogers went to his work, and I lingered upon the
bridge. I leaned upon the lo ^ parapet, and looked up the
stream as far as the mists creeping about the banks, and
hovering in thinnest veils over the surface of the water,
would permit. Then I turned and looked down the river
crawling on to the sweep it made out of sight just where
Mr. Brownrigg's farm began to come down to its banks.
Then I looked to the left, and there stood my old church,
as quiet in the dreary day, though not so bright, as in the
sunshine : even the graves themselves must look yet more
" solemn sad" in a wintry day like this, than they look when
the sunlight that infolds them proclaims that God is not the
God of the dead, but of the livmg. One of the great battles
that we have to fight in this world for twenty great bat-
tles have to be fought all at once and in one is the battle
with appearances. I turned me to the right, and there once
more I saw, as on that first afternoon, the weathercock that
watched the winds over the stables at Oldcastle Hall. It
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had caught just one glimpse of the sun through some rent
in the vapors, and flung it across to me ere it vanished again
amid the general dinginess of the hour.
CHAPTER XXV.
TWO PARISHIONERS.
I HAVE said, near the beginning of my story, that my par-
ish was a large one : how is it that I have mentioned but
one of the great families in it, and have indeed confined my
recollections entirely to the village and its immediate neigh-
borhood? Will my reader have patience while I explain
this to him a little ? First, as he may have observed, my
personal attraction is toward the poor rather than the rich.
I was made so. I can generally get nearer the poor than
the rich. But I say generally^ for I have known a few rich
people quite as much to my mind as the best of the poor.
Thereupon, of course, their education would give them the
advantage with me in the possibilities of communion. But
when the heart is right, and th^re is a good stock of com-
mon sense as well a gift predominant, as far as I am aware,
in no one class over another, education will turn the scale
very gently with me. And then, when I reflect that some
of these poor people would have made nobler ladies and
gentlemen than all but two or three I know, if they had
only had the opportunity, there is a reaction toward the
poor, something like a feeling of favor because they have
not had fair play a feeling soon modified, though not alter-
ed, by the reflection that they are such because God, who
loves them better than we do, has so ordered their lot, and
by the recollection that not only was our Lord himself poor,
but He said the poor were blessed. And let me just say in
passing that I not only believe it because He said it, but I
believe it because I see that it is so. I think sometimes that
the world must have been especially created for the poor,
and that particular allowances will be made for the rich be-
cause they are born into such disadvantages, and with their
wickednesses and their misei'ies, their love of spiritual dirt
and meanness, subserve the highest growth and emancipa-
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tion of the poor, that they may inherit both the earth and
the kingdom of heaven.
But I have been once more wandering from my subject.
Thus it was that the people in the village lying close to
my door attracted most of my attention at first, of which
attention those more immediately associated with the vil-
lage, as, for instance, the inhabitants of the Hall, came in
for a share, although they did not belong to the same class.
Again, the houses of most of the gentlefolk lay consider-
ably apart from the church and from each other. Many of
them went elsewhere to church, and I did not feel bound to
visit those, for I had enough to occupy me without, and
had little chance of getting a hold of them to do them good.
Still, there were one or two families which I would have
visited oftener, I confess, had I been more interested in
them, or had I had a horse; therefore I ought to have
bought a horse sooner than I did. Before this winter was
over, however, I did buy one, partly to please Dr. Duncan,
who urged me to it for the sake of my health, partly be-
cause I could then do my duty better, and partly, I confess,
from having been very fond of an old mare of my father's
when I was a boy, living, after my mother's death, at a farm
of his in B shire. Happening to come across a gray
mare very much like her, I bought her at once.
I think it was the veiy day after the events recorded in
my last chapter that I mounted her to pay a visit to two
rich maiden ladies, whose carriage stopped at the Lych-gate
most Sundays when the weather was favorable, but whom
I had called upon 'only once since I came to the parish. I
should not have thought this visit worth mentioning except
for the conversation I had with them, during which a hint
or two were dropped which had an influence in coloring my
thoughts for some time after.
I was shown with much ceremony by a butler, as old ap-
parently as his livery of yellow and green, into the presence
of the two ladies, one of whom sat in state reading a vol-
ume of the Spectator. She was very tall, and as square as
the straight long-backed chair upon which she sat. A fnt
asthmatic poodle lay at her feet upon the hearth-rug. The
other, a little lively gray-haired creature, who looked like a
most ancient girl whom no power of gathering years would
ever make old, was standing upon a high chair, making love
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to a demoniacal-looking cockatoo in a gilded cage. As I
entered the room, the latter all but jumped from her perch
with a merry though wavering laugh, and advanced to meet
me.
" Jonathan, bring the cake and wine," she cried to the
retreating servant.
The former rose with a solemn stiff-backedness, which
was more amusing than dignified, and extended her hand
as I approached her, without moving from her place.
" We were afraid, Mr. Walton," said the little lady, " that
you had forgotten we were parishioners of yours."
" That I could hardly do," I answered, " seeing you are
such regular attendants at church. But I confess I have
given you ground for your rebuke. Miss Crowther. I bought
a horse, however, the other day, and this is the first use I
have put him to."
" We're charmed to see you. It is very good of you not
to forget such uninteresting girls as we are."
" You forget, Jemima," interposed her sister, in a femi-
nine bass, " that time is always on the wing. I should have
thought we were both decidedly middle-aged, though you
are the elder by I will not say how many years."
" All but ten years, Hester. I remember rocking you in
your cradle scores of times. But somehow, Mr. Walton, I
can't help feeling as if she were my elder sister. She is so
learned, you see; and I don't read any thing but the news-
papers."
" And your Bible, Jemima. Do yourself justice."
"That's a matter of course, sister. But this is not the
way to entertain Mr. Walton."
"The gentlemen used to entertain the ladies when /was
young, Jemima. I do not know how it may have been
when you were.'*
" Much the same, I believe, sister. But if you look at
Mr. Walton, I think you will see that he is pretty much en-
tertained as it is."
"I agree with Miss Hester," I said. "It is the duty of
gentlemen to entertain ladies ; but it is so much the kinder
of ladies when they surpass their duty, and condescend to
entertain gentlemen."
"What can surpass duty, Mr. Walton? I confess I do
not agree with your doctrines upon that point."
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" I do not quite understand you, Miss Hester," I returned.
" Why, Mr. Walton ^I hope you will not think me rude,
but it always seems to me and it has given me much pain,
when I consider that your congregation is chiefly composed
of the lower classes, who may be greatly injured by such a
style of preaching. I must say I think so, Mr. Walton.
Only perhaps you are one of those who think a lady's opin-
ion on such matters is worth nothing."
" On the contrary, I respect an opinion just as far as the
lady or gentleman who holds it seems to me qualifled to
have formed it first. But you have not yet told me what
you think so objectionable in my preaching."
" You always speak as if faith in Christ was something
greater than duty. Now I think duty the first thing."
"I quite agree with you, Miss Crowther ; for how can I,
or any clergyman, urge a man to that which is not his duty ?
But tell me, is not faith in Christ a duty ? Where you have
mistaken me is that you think I speak of faith as higher
than duty, when indeed I speak of faith as higher than any
other duty. It is the highest duty of man. I do not say
the duty he always sees clearest, or even sees at all ; but the
fact is, tjiat when that which is a duty becomes the highest
lelight of a man, the joy of his very being, he no more thinks
or needs to think about it as a duty. What would you
think of the love of a son who, when an appeal was made to
his affections, should say, * Oh yes, I love my mother dearly:
it is my duty, of course ?' "
" That sounds very plausible, Mr. Walton ; but still I can
not help feeling that you preach faith and not works. I do
not say that you are not to preach faith, of course ; but you
know faith without works is dead."
" Now, really, Hester," interposed Miss Jemima, " I can
not think how it is, but, for my part, I should have said that
Mr. Walton was constantly preaching works. He's always
telling you to do something or other. I know I always
come out of the church with something on my mind, and
I've got to work it off somehow before rm comfortable."
And here Miss Jemima got up on the chair again, and
began to flirt with the cockatoo once more, but only in silent
signs.
I can not quite recall how this part of the conversation
drew to a close. But I will tell a fact or two about the sis-
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ters which may possibly explain how it was that they took
up such different notions of my preaching. The elder scarce
left the house, but spent almost the whole of her time in
reading small dingy books of eighteenth century literature.
She believed in no other ; thought Shakspeare sentimental
where he was not low, and Bacon pompous ; Addison thor-
oughly respectable and gentlemanly. Pope was the great
English poet, incomparably before Milton. The " Essay on
Man" contained the deepest wisdom ; the " Rape of the
Lock" the most graceful imagination to be found in the lan-
guage. The "Vicar of Wakefield" was pretty, but foolish ;
while in philosophy, Paley was perfect, especially in his no-
tion of happiness, which she had heard objected to,- and
therefore warmly defended. Somehow or other, respecta-
bility ^in position, in morals, in religion, in conduct was
every thing. The consequence was that her very nature
was old-fashioned, and had nothing in it of that lasting youth
which is the birthright so often despised of every immor-
tal being. But I have already said more about her than
her place in my story justifies.
Miss Crowther, on the contrary, whose eccentricities did
not lie on the side of respectability, had gone on shocking
the stiff proprieties of her younger sister till she ;ould be
shocked no more, and gave in as to the hopelessness of fate.
She had had a severe disappointment in youth ^had not only
survived it, but saved her heart alive out of it, losing only,
as far as appeared to the eyes of her neighbors at least, any
remnant of selfish care about herself; and she now spent the
love which had before been concentrated upon one object,
upon every living thing that came near her, even to her sis-
ter's sole favorite, the wheezing poodle. She was very odd,
it must be confessed, with her gray hair, her clear gray eye
with wrinkled eyelids, her light step, her laugh at once girl-
ish and cracked ; darting in and out of the cottages, scold-
ing this matron with a lurking smile in every tone, hugging
that baby, boxing the ears of the other little tyrant, passing
this one's rent, and threatening that other with awful venge-
ances, but it was a very lovely oddity. Tlieir property was
not large, and she knew every living thing on the place
down to the dogs and pigs. And Miss Jemima, as the peo-
ple always called her, transferring the Miss Crowther of pri-
mogeniture to the younger, who kept, like King Henry IV.,
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'* Her presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne*erseen but wondered at,"
was the actual queen of the neighborhood ; for, though she
was the very soul of kindness, she was determined to have
her own way, and had it.
Although I did not know all this at the time, such were
the two ladies who held these different opinions about my
preaching ; the one who did nothing but read Messrs. Addi-
son, Pope, Paley, and Co., considering that I neglected the
doctrine of works as the seal of faith, and the one who was
busy helping her neighbors from morning to night finding
little in my preaching except incentive to benevolence.
The next point where my recollection can take up the
conversation is where Miss Hester made the following far-
ther criticism on my pulpit labors.
" You are too anxious to explain every thing, Mr. Walton."
I pause in my recording to do my critic the justice of re-
marking that what she said looks worse on paper than it
sounded from her lips ; for she was a gentlewoman, and the
tone has much to do with the impression made by the in-
tellectual contents of all speech.
" Where can be the use of trying to make uneducated
people see the grounds of every thing?" she said. "It is
enough that this or that is in the Bible."
" Yes ; but there is just the point. What is in the Bible ?
Is it this or that?"
" You are their spiritual instructor : tell them what is in
the Bible."
"But you have just been objecting to my mode of repre-
senting what is in the Bible."
" It will be so much the worse if you add argument to
convince them of what is incorrect."
" I doubt that. Falsehood will expose itself the sooner
that honest argument is used to support it."
" You can not expect them to judge of what you tell
them."
" The Bible urges upon us to search and understand."
" I grant that for those whose business it is, like yourself."
" Do you think, then, that the Church consists of a few
privileged to understand, and a great many who can not un-
derstand, and therefore need not be taught ?"
" I said you had to teach them."
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" But to teach is to make people understand."
" I don't think so. If you come to that, how much can
the wisest of us understand ? You remember what Pope
says :
** 'Superior beings, when of late they saw
A mortal man unfold all Nature's law,
Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape,
And show'd a Newton as we show an ape?* "
" I do not know the passage. Pope is not my Bible. I
should call such superior beings very inferior beings indeed."
" Do you call the angels inferior beings ?"
" Such angels, certainly."
" He means the good angels, of course."
"And I say the good angels could never behave like that,
for contempt is one of the lowest spiritual conditions in
which any being can place himself. Our Lord says, ' Take
heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for their
angels do always behold the face of my Father, who is in
heaven.' "
" Now will you even say that you understand that pas-
sage ?" ^ ^
" Practically, well enough ; just as the poorest man of my
congregation may understand it. I am not to despise one
of the little ones. Pope represents the angels as despising
a Newton even."
" And you despise Pope."
" I hope not. I say he was full of despising, and there-
fore, if for no other reason, a small man."
" Surely you do not jest at his bodily infirmities ?"
" I had forgotten them quite."
" In every other sense he was a great man."
" I can not allow it. He was intellectually a great man,
but morally a small man."
" Such refinements are not easily followed."
" I will undertake to make the poorest woman in my con-
gregation understand that."
" Why don't you try your friend Mrs. Oldcastle, then ?
It might do her a little good," said Miss Hester, now be-
coming, I thought, a little spiteful at hearing her favorite
treated so unceremoniously. I found afterward that there
was some kindness in it, however.
" I should have very little influence with Mrs. Oldcastle if
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I were to make the attempt. But I am not called upon to ad-
dress my flock individually upon every point of character."
" I thought she was an intimate friend of yours."
" Quite the contrary. We are scarcely friendly."
" I am very glad to hear it," said Miss Jemima, who had
been silent during the little controversy that her sister and
I had been carrying on. " We have been quite misinform-
ed. The fact is, we thought we might have seen more of
you if it had not been for her. And as very few people of
her own position in society care to visit her, we thought it
a pity she should be your principal friend in the parish."
" Why do they not visit her more ?"
"There are strange stories about her, which it is as well
to leave alone. They are getting out of date too. But she
is not a fit woman to be regarded as the clergyman's friend.
There !" said Miss Jemima, as if she had wanted to relieve
her bosom of a burden, and had done it.
" I think, however, her religious opinions would corre-
spond with your own, Mr. Walton," said Miss Hester.
" Possibly," I answered, with indifference ; " I don't care
much about opinion."
" Her daughter would be a nice girl, I fancy, if she weren't
kept down by her mother.^ She looks scared, poor thing!
And they say she's not quite^-the thing, you know," said
Miss Jemima.
" What do you mean. Miss Crowther ?"
She gently tapped her forehead with a fore finger.
I laughed. I thought it was not worth my while to en-
ter as the champion of Miss Oldcastle's sanity.
" They are, and have been, a strange family as far back as
I can remember ; and my mother used to s^ the same. I
am glad she comes to our church now. You mustn't let
her set her cap at you, though, Mr. Walton. It wouldn't
do at all. She's pretty enough, too !"
"Yes," I returned, " she is rather pretty. But I don't
think she looks as if she had a cap to set at any body."
I rose to go, for I did not relish any farther pursuit of the
conversation in the same direction.
I rode home slowly, brooding on the lovely marvel that
out of such a rough, ungracious stem as the Oldcastle family
should have sprung such a delicate, pale, winter-braved flow-
er as Ethelwyn, and I prayed that I might be honored to
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rescue her from the ungenial soil and atmosphere to which
the machinations of her mother threatened to confine her for
the rest of a suffering life.
CHAPTER XXVI.
SATAN CAST OUT.
I WAS within a mile of the village, returning from my vis-
it to the Misses Crowther, when my horse, which was walk-
ing slowly along the soft side of the road, lifted his head,
and pricked up his ears at the sound, which he heard first,
of approaching hoofs. The riders soon came in sight Miss
Oldcastle, Judy, and Captain Everard. Miss Oldcastle I had
never seen on horseback before. Judy was on a little white
pony she used to gallop about the fields near the Hall. The
captain was laughing and chatting gayly as they drew near,
now to the one, now to the other. Being on my own side
of the road, I held straight on, not wishing to stop or to re-
veal the signs of a distress which had almost overwhelmed
me. I felt as cold as death, or rather as if my whole being
had been deprived of vitality by a sudden exhaustion around
me of the ethereal element of life. I believe I did not alter
my bearing, but remained with my head bent, for I had
been thinking hard just before, till we were on the point of
meeting, when I lifted my hat to Miss Oldcastle, without
drawing bridle, and went on. The captain returned my sal-
utation, and likewise rode on. I could just see, as they
passed me, that Miss Oldcastle's pale face was flushed even
to scarlet, but she only bowed and kept alongside of her
companion. I thought I had escaped conversation, and had
gone about twenty yards farther, when I heard the clatter
of Judy's pony behind me, and up she came at full gallop.
" Why didn't you stop to speak to us, Mr. Walton ?" she
said. " I pulled up, but you never looked at me. We shall
be cross all the rest of the day because you cut us so.
What have we done ?"
" Nothing, Judy, that I know of," I answered, trying to
speak cheerfully. "But I do not know your companion,
and I was not in the humor for an introduction."
She looked hard at me with her keen gray eyes, and I felt
as if the child was seeing through me.
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" I don't know what to make of it, Mr. Walton. You're
very different, somehow, from what you used to be. There's
something wrong somewhere ; but I suppose you would all
tell me it's none of my business, so I won't ask questions.
Only I wish I could do any thing for you."
I felt the child's kindness, but could only say,
" Thank you, Judy. I am sure I should ask you if there
were any thing you could do for me. But you'll be left be-
hind."
" No fear of that. My Dobbin can go much faster than
their big horses. But I see you don't want me, so good-by."
She turned her pony's head as she spoke, jumped the
ditch at the side of the road, and flew after them along the
grass like a swallow. I likewise roused my horse and went
off at a hard trot, with the vain impulse so to shake off the
tormenting thoughts that crowded on me like gadflies. But
this day was to be one of more trial still.
As I turned a comer, almost into the street of the village,
Tom Weir was at my side. He had evidently been watch-
ing for me. His face was so pale that I saw in a moment
something had happened.
*' What is the matter, Tom ?" I asked, in some alarm.
He did not reply for a moment, but kept unconsciously
stroking my horse's neck, and staring at me " with wide
blue eyes."
" Come, Tom," I repeated, " tell me what is the mat-
ter."
I could see his bare throat knot and relax, like the motion
of a serpent before he could utter the words.
" Kate has killed her little boy, sir."
He followed them with a stifled cry almost a scream,
and hid his face in his hands.
" God forbid !" I exclaimed, and struck my heels in my
horse's sides, nearly overturning poor Tom in my haste.
" She's mad, sir she's mad," he cried, as I rode off.
" Come after me," I said, " and take the mare home. I
sha'n't be able to leave your sister."
Had I had a share, by my harsh words, in driving the
woman beyond the bounds of human reason and endur-
ance ? The thought was dreadful. But I must not let my
raind rest on it now, lest I should be unfitted for what
might have to be done. Before I reached the door I saw a
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little crowd of the villagers, mostly women and children,
gathered about it. I got off my horse, and gave him to a
woman to hold till Tom should come up. With a little dif-
ficulty, I prevailed on the rest to go home at once, and not
add to the confusions and terrors of the unhappy affair by
the excitement of their presence. As soon as they had
yielded to my arguments I entered the shop, which to my
annoyance I found full of the neighbors. These likewise I
got rid of as soon as possible, and, locking the door behind
them, went up to the room above.
To my surprise, I found no one there. On the hearth and
in the fender lay two little pools of blood. All in the house
was utterly still. It was very dreadful. I went to the only
other door. It was not bolted, as I had expected to find it.
I opened it, peeped in, and entered. On the bed lay the
mother, white as death, but with her black eyes wide open,
staring at the ceiling ; and on her arm lay little Gerard, as
white, except where the blood had flowed from the bandage
that could not confine it down his sweet deathlike face.
His eyes were fast closed, and he had no sign of life about
him. I shut the door behind me, and approached the bed.
When Catharine caught sight of me, she showed no sur-
prise or emotion of any kind. Her lips, with automaton-
like movement, uttered the words,
" I have done it at last. I am ready. Take me away. I
shall be hanged. I don't care. I confess it. Only don't let
the people stare at me."
Her lips went on moving, but I could hear no more, till
suddenly she broke out,
" Oh ! my baby ! my baby !" and gave a cry of such agony
as I hope never to hear again while I live.
At this moment I heard a loud knocking at the shop door,
which was the only entrance to the house, and remembering
that I had locked it, I went down to see who was there. 1
found Thomas Weir, the father, accompanied by Dr. Dun-
can, whom, as it happened, he had had some difficulty in
finding. Thomas had sped to his daughter the moment he
heard the rumor of what had happened, and his fierceness
in clearing the shop had at least prevented the neighbors,
even in his absence, from intruding farther.
We went up together to Catharine's room. Thomas said
nothing to me about what had happened, and I found it dif-
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ficult even to conjecture from his countenance what thoughts
were passing through his mind.
Catharine looked from one to another of us as if she did
not know the one from the other. She made no motion to
rise from her bed, nor did she utter a word, although her
lips would now and then move as if moulding a sentence.
When Dr. Duncan, after looking at the child, proceeded to
take him from her, she gave him one implormg look, and
yielded with a moan ; then began to stare hopelessly at the
ceiling again. The doctor carried the child into the next
room, and the grandfather followed.
" You see what you have driven me to !" cried Catharine,
the moment I was left alone with her. "I hope you are
satisfied."
The words went to my very soul. But when I looked at
her, her eyes were wandering about over the ceiling, and I
had and still have difficulty in believing that she spoke the
words, and that they were not an illusion of my sense, occa-
sioned by the commotion of my own feelings. I thought it
better, however, to leave her, and join the others in the sit-
ting-room. The first thing I saw there was Thomas on his
knees, with a basin of water, washing away the blood of his
grandson from his daughter's floor. The very sight of the
child had hitherto been nauseous to him, and his daughter
had been beyond the reach of his forgiveness. Here was
the end of it the blood of the one shed by the hand of the
other, and the father of both, who had disdained both, on
his knees, wiping it up. Dr. Duncan was giving the child
brandy; for he had found that he had been sick, and that
the loss of blood was the chief cause of his condition. The
blood flowed from a wound on the head, extending back-
ward from the temple, which had evidently been odcasioned
by a fall upon the fender, where the blood lay both inside
and out ; and the doctor took the sickness as a sign that the
brain had not been seriously injured by the blow. In a few
minutes he said,
" I think he'll come round."
" Will it be safe to tell his mother so ?" I asked.
" Yes ; I think you may."
I hastened to her room.
" Your little darling is not dead, Catharine. He is com-
ing to."
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She threw herself off the bed at my feet, caught them
round with her arms, and cried,
" I will forgive him. I will do any thing you like. I for-
give George Everard. I will go and ask my father to for-
give me."
I lifted her in my arms ^how light she was ! ^and laid
her again on the bed, where she burst into tears, and lay
sobbing and wei^ping. I went to the other room. Little
Gerard opened his eyes and closed them again as I entered.
The doctor had laid him in his own crib. He said his pulse
was improving. I beckoned to Thomas. He followed me.
" She wants to ask you to forgive her," I said. " Do not,
in God's name, wait till she asks you, but go and tell her
that you forgive her."
" I dare not say I forgive her," he answered. " I have
more need to ask her to forgive me."
I took him by the hand, and led him into her room. She
feebly lifted her arms toward him. Not a word was said
on either side. I left them in each other's embrace. The
hard rocks had been struck with the rod, and the waters of
life had flowed forth from each, and had met between.
I have more than once known this in the course of my
experience ^the ice and snow of a long estrangement sud-
denly give way, and the boiling geyser-floods of old affec-
tion rush from the hot deeps of the heart. I think myself
that the very lastingness and strength of animosity have
their origin sometimes in the reality of affection : the love
lasts all the while, freshly indignant at every new load heap-
ed upon it, till at last a word, a look, a sorrow, a gladness,
sets it free, and, forgetting all its claims, it rushes irresisti-
bly toward its ends. Thus was it with Thomas and Cath-
arine Weir.
When I rejoined Dr. Duncan, I found little Gerard asleep,
and breathing quietly.
"What do you know of this sad business, Mr. Walton ?"
said the doctor.
" I should like to ask the same question of you," I return-
ed. " Young Tom told me that his sister had murdered the
child. That is all I know."
" His father told me the same ; and that is all I know.
Do you believe it ?"
" At least we have no evidence about it. It is tolerably
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certain neither of those two could have been present. They
must have received it by report. We must wait till she is
able to explain the thing herself."
" Meantime," said Dr. Duncan, " all I believe is, that she
struck the child, and that he fell upon the fender."
I may as well inform my reader that, as far as Catharine
could give an account of the transaction, this conjecture was
corroborated. But the smallest reminder of it evidently
filled her with such a horror of self-loathing, that I took care
to avoid the subject entirely after the attempt at explanation
which she made at my request. She could not remember
with any clearness what had happened. All she remember-
ed was that she had been more miserable than ever in her
life before ; that the child had come to her, as he seldom did,
with some childish request or other ; that she felt herself
seized with intense hatred of him ; and the next thing she
knew was that his blood was running in a long red finger
toward her. Then it seemed as if that blood had been drawn
from her own overcharged heart and brain ; she knew what
she had done, though she did not know how she had done
it; and the tide of her ebbed affection flowed like tl.e re-
turning water-, of the Solway. But beyond her restored
love, she remembered nothing more that happened till she
lay weeping with the hope that the child would yet live.
Probably more particulars returned afterward, but I took
care to ask no more questions. In the increase of illness
that followed, I more than once saw her shudder while she
slept, and thought she was dreaming what her waking mem-
ory had forgotten ; and once she started awake, crying, " I
have murdered him again."
To return to that first evening : When Thomas came from
his daughter's room, he looked like a man from whom the
bitterness of evil had passed away. To human eyes, at least,
it seemed as if self had been utterly slain in him. His face
had that childlike expression in its paleness, and the tearful-
ness without tears haunting his eyes, which reminds one of
the feeling of an evening in summer between which and the
sultry day preceding it has fallen the gauzy veil of a cooling
shower, with a rainbow in the east.
" She is asleep," he said.
"How is it your daughter Mary is not here?" I asked.
" She was taken with a fit the moment she heard the bad
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news, sir. I left her with nobody but father. I think I
must go and look after her now. It's not the first she's
had, neither, though I never told any one before. You
won't mention it, sir. It makes people look shy at you,
you know, sir."
" Indeed, I won't mention it. Then she mustn't sit up,
and two nurses will be wanted here. You and I must take
it to-night, Thomas. You'll attend to your daughter, if she
wants any thing, and I know this little darling won't be
frightened if he comes to himself and sees me beside him."
" God bless you, sir," said Thomas, fervently.
And from that hour to this there has never been a cool-
ness between us.
" A v^ry good arrangement," said Dr. Duncan ; " only I
feel as if I ought to have a share in it."
" N"o, no," I said. " We do not know who may want
you. Besides, we are both younger than you."
" I will come over early in the morning, then, and see
how you are going on."
As soon as Thomas returned with good news of Mary's
recovery, I left him, and went home to tell my sister, and
arrange for the night. We carried back with us what
things we could think of to make the two patients as com-
fortable as possible ; for, as regarded Catharine, now that
she would let her fellows help her, I was even anxious that
she should feel something of that love about her which she
had so long driven from her door. I felt toward her some-
what as toward a newborn child, for whom this life of
mingled weft must be made as soft as its material will ad-
mit of; or rather, as if she had been my own sister, as in-
deed she was, returned from wandering in weary and miry
ways, to taste once more the tenderness of home. I wanted
her to read the love of God in the love that even I could
show her. And, besides, I must confess that, although the
result had been, in God's great grace, so good, my heart still
smote me for the severity with which I had spoken the truth
to her, and it was a relief to myself to endeavor to make
some amends for having so spoken to her. But I had no
intention of going near her that night, for I thought the less
she saw of me the better till she should be a little stronger,
and have had time, with the help of her renewed feelings, to
get over the painful associations so long accompanying the
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thongbt of me. So I took my place beside Gerard, and
watched through the night. The little fellow repeatedly
cried oat in that terror which is so often the consequence
of the loss of blood ; but when I laid my hand on him, he
smiled without waking, and lay quite still again for a while.
Once or twice he woke up, and looked so bewildered that I
feared delirium ; but a little jelly composed him, and he fell
fast asleep again. He did not seem even to have headache
from the dIow.
But when I was left alone with the child, seated in a chair
by the fire, my only light, how my thoughts rushed upon the
facts bearing on my own history which this day had brought
before me I Horror it was to think of Miss Oldcastle even
as only riding with the seducer of Catharine Weir. There
was torture in the thought of his touching her hand ; and
to think that l)efore the summer came once more, he might
be her husband ! I will not dwell on the sufferings of that
night more than is needful ; for even now, in my old age, I
can not recall without renewing them. But I must indicate
one train of thought which kept passing through my mind
with constant recurrence : Was it fair to let her marry such
a man in ignorance? Would she marry him if she knew
what I knew of him ? Could I speak against my rival ?
blacken him even with the truth the only defilement that
can really cling? Could I, for my own dignity, do so?
And was she therefore to be sacrificed in ignorance ? Might
not some one else do it instead of me ? But, if I set it ago-
ing, was it not precisely the same thing as if I did it myself,
only more cowardly? There was but one way of doing it,
and that was with the full and solemn cgnsciousness that
it was and must be a barrier between us forever. If I could
give her up fully and altogether, then I might tell her the
truth which was to preserve her from marrying such a man
as my rival. And I must do so, sooner than that she, my
very dream of purity and gentle truth, should wed defile-
ment. But how bitter to cast away my chance / as I said,
in the gathering despair of that black night. And although
every time I said it for the same words would come over
and over as in a delirious dream I repeated yet again to
myself that wonderful line of Spenser,
It chanced eternal (rod that chance did guide,'*
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yet the words never grew into spirit in me ; they remained
" words, words, words," and meant nothing to my feeling
hardly even to my judgment meant any thing at all. Then
came another bitter thought, the bitterness of which was
wicked : it flashed upon me that my own earnestness with
Catharine Weir, in urging her to the duty of forgiveness,
would bear a main part in wrapping up in secrecy that evil
thing which ought not to be hid. For had she not vowed,
with the same facts before her which now threatened to
crush my heart into a lump of clay, to denounce the man at
the very altar ? Had not the revenge which I had igno-
rantly combated been my best ally ? And for one brief,
black, wicked moment I tepented that I had acted as I had
acted. The next I was on my knees by the side of the
sleeping child, and had repented back again in shame and
sorrow. Then came the consolation that if I suffered here-
by, I suffered from doing my duty. And that was well.
Scarcely had I seated myself again by the fire when the
door of the room opened softly, and Thomas appeared.
"Kate is very strange, sir," he said, "and wants to see
yG*i."
I rose at once.
"Perhaps, then, you had better stay with Gerard."
" I will, sir ; for I think she wants to speak to you alone."
I entered iier chamber. A candle stood ^n a chest of
drawers, and its light fell on her face, once more flushed in
those two spots with the glow of the unseen fire of disease.
Her eyes, too, glittered again, but the fierceness was gone,
and only the suffering remained. I drew a chair beside her,
and took her hand. She yielded it willingly, even returned
the pressure of kindness which I offered to the thin, trem-
bling fingers.
"You are too good, sir," she said. "I want to tell you
all. He promised to marry me. I believed him. But I did
very wrong. And I have been a bad mother, for I could
not keep from seeing his face in Gerard's. Gerard was the
name he told me to call him when I had to write to him, and
so I named the little darling Gerard. How is he, sir ?"
" Doing nicely," I replied. " I do not think you need be
at all uneasy about him now."
" Thank God ! I forgive his father now with all my heart.
I feel it easier since I saw how wicked I could be myself;
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and I feel it easier, too, that I have not long to live. I for-
give him with all my heart, and I will take no revenge. I
will not tell one who he is. I have never told any one yet ;
but I will tell yon. His name is George Everard Captain
Everard. I came to know him when I was apprenticed at
Addicehead. I would not tell you, sir, if I did not know
that you will not tell any one. I know you so well that I
will not ask you not. I saw him yesterday, and it drove
me wild. But it is all over now. My heart feels so cool
now. Do you think God will forgive me ?"
Without one word of my own, I took out my pocket Test-
ament and read these words :
" For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly
Father will also forgive you."
Then I read to her, from the seventh chapter of St. Luke's
Gospel, the story of the woman who was a sinner, and came
to Jesus in Simon's house, that she might see how the Lord
himself thought and felt about such. When I had finished,
I found that she was gently weeping, and so I left her, and
resumed my place beside the boy. I told Thomas that he
had better not go near her just yet. So we sat in silence
together for a while, during which I felt so weary and be-
numbed that I neither cared to resume my former train of
thought, nor to enter upon the new one suggested by the
confession of Catharine. I believe I must have fallen asleep
in my chair, for I suddenly returned to consciousness at a
cry from Gerard. I started up, and there was the child fast
asleep, but standing on his feet in his crib, pushing with his
hands from before him, as if resisting some one, and crying,
"Don't don't. Go away, man. Manunyl Mr. Walton!"
I took him in my arms, and kissed him, and laid him down
again, and he lay as still as if he had never moved. At the
S2rtne moment Thomas came again into the room.
" I am sorry to be so troublesome, sir," he said, " but my
poor daughter says there is one thing more she wants to say
to you."
I returned at once. As soon as I entered the room she
said eagerly,
" I forgive him ^I forgive him with all my heart ; but
don't let him take Gerard.'*
I assured her I would do my best to prevent any such at-
tempt on his part, and making her promise to try to go to
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sleep, left her once more. "Nor was either of the patients
disturbed again during the night. Both slept, as it appear-
ed, refreshingly.
In the morning, that is, before eight o'clock, the old doc-
tor made his welcome appearance, and pronounced both
quite as well as he had expected to find them. In another
hour he had sent young Tom to take my place, and my sis-
ter to take his father's. I was determined that none of the
gossips of the village should go near the invalid if I could
help it; for, though such might be kind-hearted and estima-
ble women, their place was not by such a couch as that of
Catharine Weir. I enjoined my sister to be very gentle in
her approaches to her, to be careful even not to seem anx-
ious to serve her, and so to allow her to get gradually accus-
tomed to her presence, not showing herself for the first day
more than she could help, and yet taking good care she
should have every thing she wanted. Martha seemed to
understand me perfectly ; and I left her in charge with the
more confidence that I knew Dr. Duncan would call several
times in the course of the day. As for Tom, I had equal
assurance that he would attend to orders ; and as Gerard
was very fond of him, I dismissed all anxiety about both,
and allowed my mind to return with fresh avidity to the
contemplation of its own cares, and fears, and perplexities.
It was of no use trying to go to sleep, so I set out for a
walk.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE MAN AND THE CHILD. ^
It was a fine frosty morning, the invigorating influences
of which, acting along with the excitement following imme-
diately upon a sleepless night, overcame in a great measure
the depression occasioned by the contemplation of my cir-
cumstances. Disinclined notwithstanding for any more
pleasant prospect, I sought the rugged common where I
had so lately met Catharine Weir in the storm and darkness,
and where I had stood, without knowing it, upon the very
verge of the precipice down which my fate was now threat-
ening to hurl me. I reached the same chasm in which I
had sought a breathing space on that night, and turning into
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it, sat down npon a block of sand which the frost had de-
tached from the wall above. And now the tumult began
agam in my mind, revolving around the vortex of a new
centre of difficulty.
For, first of all, I found my mind relieved by the fact that,
having urged Catharine to a line of conduct which had re-
sulted in confession a confession which, leaving all other
considerations of my office out of view, had the greater claim
upon my secrecy that it was made in confidence in my un-
covenanted honor ^I was not, could not be at liberty to dis-
close the secret she confided to me, which, disclosed by her-
self, would have been the reveuge from which I had warned
her, and, at the same time, my deliverance. I was relieved, I
say, at first, by this view of the matter, because I might thus
keep my own chance of some favorable turn ; whereas, if I
once told Miss Oldcastle, I must give her up forever, as I
had plainly seen in the watch of the preceding night. But
my love did not long remain skulking thus behind the hedge
of honor. Suddenljr I woke and saw that I was unworthy
of the honor of lovmg her, for that I was glad to be com-
pelled to risk her well-being for the chance of my own hap-
piness ; a risk which involved infinitely more wretchedness
to her than the loss of my dearest hopes to me ; for it is one
thinff for a man not to marry the woman he loves, and quite
another for a woman to marry a man she can not even re-
spect. Had I not been withheld partly by my obligation
to Catharine, partly by the feeling that 1 ought to wait and
see what God would do, I should have risen that moment
and gone straight to Oldcastle Hall, that I might plunge at
once into the ocean of my loss, and encounter, with the full
sense of honorable degradation, every misconstruction that
might justly be devised of my conduct. For that I had
given her up first could never be known even to her in this
world. I could only save her by encountering, and endur-
ing, and cherishing her scorn ; at least so it seemed to me
at the time ; and, although I am certain the other higher
motives had much to do in holding me back, I am equally
certain that this awful vision of the irrevocable fate to fol-
low upon the deed had great influence, as well, in inclining
me to suspend action.
I was still sitting in the hollow when I heard the sound
of horses' hoofs in the distance, and felt a foreboding of
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what would appear. I was only a few yards from the road
upon which the sand-cleft opened, and could see a space of
it sufficient to show the persons even of rapid riders. The
sounds drew nearer. I could distinguish the step of a pony
and the steps of two horses besides. Up they came and
swept past Miss Oldcastle upon Judys pony, and Mr.
Stoddart upon her horse, with the captain upon his own.
How grateful I felt to Mr. Stoddart I And the hope arose
in me that he had accompanied them at Miss Oldcastle's re-
quest.
I had had no fear of being seen, sitting as I was on the
side from which they came. One of the three, however,
caught a glimpse of me, and even in the moment ere she
vanished I fancied I saw the lily-white grow rosy-red. But
it must have been fancy, for she could hardly have been
quite pale upon horseback on such a keen morning.
I could not sit any longer. As soon as I ceased to hear
the sound of their progress, I rose and walked home, much
quieter in heart and mind than when I set out.
As I entered by the nearer gate of the vicarage, I saw Old
Rogers enter by the farther. He did not see me, but we
met at the door. I greeted him.
" I'm in luck," he said, " to meet yer reverence just com-
ing home. How's poor Miss Weir to-day, sir ?"
"She was rather better, when I left her this morning,
than she had been through the night I have not heard
since. I left my sister with her. I greatly doubt if she
will ever get up again. That's between ourselves, you know.
Come in."
" Thank you, sir. I wanted to have a little talk with you.
You don't believe what they say ^that she tried to kill the
poor little fellow ?" he asked, as soon as the study door was
closed behind us.
" If she did, she was out of her mind for the moment.
But I don't believe it."
And thereupon I told him what both his master and I
thought about it, but I did not tell him what she had said
confirmatory of our conclusions.
" That's just what I came to myself, sir, turning the thing
over in ray old head. But there's dreadful things done in
the world, sir. There's my daughter been a telling of me "
I was instantly breathless attention. What he chose to
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tell me I felt at liberty to hear, though I would not have
listened to Jane herself. I must here mention that she and
Richard were not yet married, old Mr. Brownrigg not hav-
ing yet consented to any day his son wished to fix, and that
she was, therefore, still in her place of attendance upon Miss
Oldcastle.
" ^There's been my daughter a telling of me," said Rog-
ers, ^^ that the old lady up at the Hall there is toi-menting
the life out of that daughter of hers she don't look much
like hers, do she, sir? wanting to make her marry a man
of her choosing. I saw him go past o' horseback with her
yesterday, and I didn't more than half like the looks on him.
He's too like a fair-spoken captain I sailed with once, what
was the hardest man I ever sailed with. His own way was
every thing, even after he saw it wouldn't do. Now don't
you think, sir, somebody or other ought to interfere ? It's
as bad as murder that, and any body has a right to do sum-
mat to perwent it."
" I don't know what can be done, Rogers. I carCt inter-
fere."
The old man was silent. Evidently he thought I might
interfere if I pleased. I could see what he was thinking.
Possibly his daughter had told him something more than
he chose to communicate to me. I could not help suspect-
ing the mode in which he judged I might interfere. But I
could see no likelihood berore me but that of confusion and
precipitation. In a word, I had not a plain path to follow.
" Old Rogers," I said, " I can almost guess what you
mean. But I am in more difficulty with regard to what
you suggest than I can easily explain to you. I need not
tell you, however, that I will turn the whole matter over in
my mind."
" The prey ought to be taken from the lion somehow, if
it please God," returned the old man, solemnly. "The poor
young lady keeps up as well as she can before her mother,
but Jane do say there's a power o' crying done in her own
room."
Partly to hide my emotion, partly with the sudden re-
solve to do something, if any thing could be done, I said,
" I will call on Mr. Stoddart this evening. I may hear
something from him to suggest a mode of action."
" I don't think you'll get any thing worth while from Mr.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 305
Stoddart. He takes things a deal too easy like. He'll be
this man's man and that man's man both at oncet. I beg
your pardon, sir. But he won't help lis."
" That's all I can think of at present, though," I said ;
whereupon the man-of-war's man, with true breeding, rose
at once, and took a kindly leave.
I was in the storm again. She suffering, resisting, and I
standing aloof 1 But what could I do ? She had repelled
me she would repel me. Were I to dare to speak, and so
be refused, the separation would be final. She had said that
the day might come when she would ask help from me :
she had made no movement toward the request. I would
gladly die to serve her yea, more gladly far than live, if
that service was to separate us. But what to do I could
not see. Still, just to do something, even if a useless some-
thing, I would go and see Mr. Stoddart that evemng. I was
sure to find him alone, for he never dined with. the family,
and I might possibly catch a glimpse of Miss Oldcastle.
I found little Gerard so much better, though very weak,
and his mother so quiet, notwithstanding great feverishness,
that I might safely leave them to the care of Mary, who had
quite recovered from her attack, and her brother Tom. So
there was something off my mind for the present.
The heavens were glorious with stars Arcturus and his
host, the Pleiades, Orion, and all those worlds that shine out
when ours is dark ; but I did not care for them. Let them
shine ; they could not shine into me. I tried with feeble
effort to lift my eyes to Him who is above the stars, and yet
holds the sea, yea, the sea of human thought and trouble, in
the hollow of His hand. How much sustaining, although
no conscious comforting, I got from that region,
" Where all men's prayers to Thee raised
Return possessed of what they pray Thee,"
I can not tell. It was not a time favorable to the analysis
of feeling, still less of religious feeling. But somehow things
did seem a little more endurable before I reached the house.
I was passing across the hall, following the " white wolf"
to Mr. Stoddart's room, when the drawing-room door open-
ed, and Miss Oldcastle came half out, but, seeing me, drew
back instantly. A moment after, however, I heard the sound
of her dress following us. Light as was her step, every foot-
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fall seemed to be upon my heart. I did not dare to look
round, for dread of seeing her turn away from me. I felt
like one under a spell, or in an endless dream ; but gladly
would I have walked on forever in hope, with that silken
vortex of sound following me. Soon, however, it ceased.
She had turned aside in some other direction, and I passed
on to Mr. Stoddart's room.
He received me kindly, as he always did ; but his smile
flickered uneasily. He seemed in some trouble, and yet
pleased to see me.
"I am glad you have taken to horseback," I said. "It
gives me hope that you will be my companion sometimes
when I make a round of my parish. I should like you to
see some of our people. You would find more in them to
interest you than perhaps you would expect."
I thus tried to seem at ease, as I was far from feeling.
" I am not so fond of riding as I used to be," returned
Mr. Stoddart.
" Did you like the Arab horses in India ?"
" Yes, after I got used to their careless ways. That horse
you must have seen me on the other day is very nearly a
pure Arab. He belongs to Captain Everard, and carries
Miss Oldcastle beautifully. I was quite sorry to take him
from her, but it was her own doing. She would have me
go with her. I think I have lost much firmness since I
was ill."
" If the loss of firmness means the increase of kindness,
I do not think you will have to lament it," I answered.
" Does Captain Everard make a long stay ?"
"He stays from day to day. I wish he would go. I
don't know what to do. Mrs. Oldcastle and he form one
party in the house, Miss Oldcastle and Judy another, and
each is trying to gain me over. I don't want to belong to
either. If they would onlv let me alone 1"
"What do they want of you, Mr. Stoddart?"
" Mrs. Oldcastle wants me to use my influence with Ethel-
wyn to persuade her to behave differently to Captain Ever-
ard. The old lady has set her heart on their marriage, and
Ethelwyn, though she dares not break with him, she is so
much afraid of her mother, yet keeps him somehow at arm's
length. Then Judy is always begging me to stand up for
her aunt. But what's the use of my standing up for her if
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 367
she won't stand up for herself? she never says a word to
me about it herself. It's all Judy's doing. How am I to
know what she wants ?"
"I thought you said just now she asked you to ride with
her?"
" So she did, but nothing more. She did not even press
it, only the tears came in her eyes when I refused, and I
could not bear that ; so I went against my will. I don't
want to make enemies. I am sure I don't see why she
should stand out. He's a very good match in point of
property, and family too."
"Perhaps she does not like him?" I forced myself to say.
" Oh ! I suppose not, or she would not be so troublesome.
But she could arrange all that if she were inclined to be
agreeable to her friends. After all I have done for her 1
Well, one must not look to be repaid for any thing one does
for others. I used to be very fond of her : I am getting
quite tired of her miserable looks."
And what had this man done for her, then ? He had, for
his own amusement, taught her Hindostanee ; he had given
her some insight into the principles of mechanics, and he
had roused in her some taste for the writings of the Mystics.
But for all that regarded the dignity of her humanity and
her womanhood, .if she had had no teaching but what he
gave her, her mind would have been .merely "an un weeded
garden that grows to seed." And now he complained that
in return for his pains she would not submit to the degrada-
tion of marrying a man she did not love, in order to leave
him in the enjoyment of his own lazy and cowardly peace.
Really he was a worse man than I had thought him. Clear-
ly he would not help to keep her in the right path, not even
interfere to prevent her from being pushed into the wrong
one. But perhaps he was only expressing his own discom-
fort, not giving his real judgment, and I might be censuring
him too hardly.
" What will be the result, do you suppose ?" I asked.
" I can't tell. Sooner or later she will have to give in to
her mother. Every body does. She might as well yield
with a good grace."
" She must do what she thinks right," I said. " And you,
Mr. Stoddart, ought to help her to do what is right. You
surely would not urge her to marry a man she did not love."
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" Well, no, not exactly urge her. And yet society does
not object to it. It is an acknowledged arrangement, com-
mon enough."
" Society is scarcely an interpreter of the divine will.
Society will honor vile things enough so long as the doer
has money sufficient to clothe them in a grace not their own.
There is a God's-way of doing every thing in the world, up
to marrying, or down to paying a bill."
" Yes, yes, I know what you would say, and I suppose
you are right. I will not urge any opinion of mine. Be-
sides, we shall have a little respite soon, for he must join his
regiment in a day or two."
It was some relief to hear this. But I could not with
equanimity prosecute a conversation having Miss Oldcastle,
for the subject of it, and presently took my leave.
As I walked through one of the long passages, but dimly
lighted, leading from Mr. Stoddart's apartment to the great
staircase, I started at a light touch on my arm. It was from
Judy's hand.
"Dear Mr. Walton " she said, and stopped ; for at the
same moment appeared at the farther end of the passage
toward which I had been advancing a figure of which little
more than a white face was visible, and the voice of Sarah,
through whose softness always ran a harsU thread that made
it unmistakable, said, ^
" Miss Judy, your grandmamma wants you."
Judy took her hand from my arm, and with an almost
martial stride the little creature walked up to the speaker,
and stood before her defiantly. I could see them quite well
in the fuller light at the end of the passage, where there
stood a lamp. I followed slowly that I might not interrupt
the child's behavior, which moved me strangely in contrast
with the pusillanimity I had so lately witnessed in Mr. Stod-
dart.
" Sarah," she said, " you know you are telling a lie. Gran-
nie does not want me. You have not been in the dining-
room since I left it one moment ago. Do you think, you
had woman, / am going to bo afraid of you ? I know you
better than you think. Go away directly, or I will make
you."
She stamped her little foot, and the " white wolP' turned
and walked away without a word.
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If the mothers among my readers are shocked at the want
of decorum in my friend Judy, I would just say that, valu-
able as propriety of demeanor is, truth of conduct is infi-
nitely more precious. Glad should I be to think that the
even tenor of my children's good manners could never be
interrupted except by such righteous indignation as carried
Judy beyond the strict bounds of good breeding ; nor could
I find it in my heart to rebuke her wherein she had been
wrong. In the face of her courage and uprightness, the
fault was so insignificant that it would have been giving it
an altogether undue importance to allude to it at all, and
might weaken her confidence in my sympathy with her rec-
titude. When I joined her she put her hand in mine, and
so walked with me down the stair and out at the front door.
" You will take cold, Judy, going out like that," I said.
" I am in too great a passion to take cold," she answered.
" But I have no time to talk about that creeping creature.
Auntie doesnH like Captain Everard ; and grannie keeps in-
sisting on it that she shall have him, whether she likes him
or not. Now do tell me what you think."
" I do not quite understand you, my child."
" I know auntie would like to know what you think, but I
know she will never ask you herself; so I am asking you
whether a lady ought to marry a gentleman she does not
like, to please her mother."
" Certainly not, Judy. It is often wicked, and at best a
mistake."
"Thank you, Mr. Walton. I will tell her. She will be
glad to hear that you say so, I know."
" Mind you tell her you asked me, Judy. I should not
like her to think I had been intei-fering, you know."
" Yes, yes, I know quite well. I will take care. Tliank
you. He's going to-morrow. Good-night."
She bounded into the house again, and I walked away
down the avenue. I saw and felt the stars now, for hope
had come again in my heart, and I thanked the God of hope.
" Oar minds are small because they are faithless," I said to
myself. " If we had faith in God, as our Lord tells us, our
hearts would share in His greatness and peace, for we should
not then be shut up in ourselves, but would walk abroad in
Him." And with a light step and a light heart I went home.
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CHAPTER XXVni.
OLD MBS. TOMKINS.
Veby severe weather came, and much sickness followed,
chiefly among the poorer people, who can so ill keep out the
cold. Yet some of my well-to-do parishioners were laid up
likewise among others, Mr. Boulderstone, who had an at-
tack of pleurisy. I had grown quite attached to Mr. Boul-
derstone by this time, not because he was what is called in-
teresting, for he was not ; not because he was clever, for he
was not ; not because he was well-read, for he was not ; not
because he was possessed of influence in the parish, though
he had that influence ; but simply because he was true ; he
was what he appeared, felt what he professed, did what he
said ; appearing kind, and feeling and acting kindly. Such
a man is rare and precious, were he as stupid as the Welsh
giant in " Jack the Giant-Killer." I could never see Mr.
Joulderstone a mile off but my heart felt the warmer for
the sight. Even in his great pain he seemed to forget him-
self as he received me, and to gain comfort from my mere
presence. I could not help regarding him as a child of
heaven, to be treated with the more reverence that he had
the less aid to his goodness from his slow understanding.
It seemed to me that the angels might gather with rever-
ence around such a man, to watch the gradual and tardy
awakening of the intellect in one in whom the heart and the
conscience had been awake from the first. The latter safe,
they at least would see well that there was no fear for the
former. Intelligence is a consequence of love ; nor is there
any true intelligence without it.
But I could not help feeling keenly the contrast when I
went from his warm, comfortable, well-defended chamber,
in which every appliance that could alleviate suffering or aid
recovery was at hand, like a castle well appointed with arms
and engines against the inroads of winter and his yet colder
ally Death when, I say, I went from his chamber to the
cottage of the Tomkinses, and found it, as it were, lying
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 311
open and bare to the enemy. What holes and cracks there
were about the door, through which the fierce wind rushed
at once into the room to attack the aged feet, and hands,
and throats! There were no defenses of three-fold draper-
ies, and no soft carpet on the brick floor only a small rug
which my sister had carried them laid down before a weak-
eyed little fire, that seemed to despair of making any thing
of it against the huge cold that beleaguered and invaded
the place. True, we had had the little cottage patched
up. The two Thomas Weirs had been at work upon it
for a whole day and a half in the first of the cold weather
this winter ; but it was like putting the new cloth on the
old garment, for fresh places had broken out ; and although
Mrs. Tomkins had fought the cold well with what rags she
could spare, and an old knife, yet such razor-edged winds
are hard to keep out, and here she was now, lying in bed,
and breathing hard, like the sore-pressed garrison which had
retreated to its last defense, the keep of the castle. Poor
'old Tomkins sat shivering over the little fire.
" Come, come, Tomkins, this won't do," I said, as I caught
up a broken shovel that would have let a lump as big as
one's fist through a hole in the middle of it. " Why don't
you burn your coals in weather like this ? Where do you
keep them ?"
It made my heart ache to see the little heap in a box
hardly bigger than the chest of tea my sister brought from
Londcm with her. I threw half of it on the fire at once.
" Deary me, Mr. Walton, you are wasteful, sir. The Lord
never sent His good coals to be used that way."
" He did, though, Tomkins," I answered. " And He'll
send you a little more this evening, after I get home. Keep
yourself warm, man. This world's cold in winter, you know."
" Indeed, sir, I know that, and I'm like to know it worse
afore along. She's going," he said, pointing over his shoul-
der with his thumb toward the bed where his wife lay.
I went to her. I had seen her several times within the
last few weeks, but had observed nothing to make me con-
sider her seriously ill. I now saw at a glance that Tomkins
was right. She had not long to live.
" I am sorry to see you suffering so much, Mrs. Tomkins,"
I said.
"I don't suffer so wery much, sir, though, to be sure, it
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be hard to get the breath into my body, sir. And I do feel
cold-like, sir."
" I'm going home directly, and I'll send you down anoth-
er blanket. It's much colder to-day than it was yesterday."
"It's not weather-cold, sir, wi' me. It's grave-cold, sir.
Blankets won't do me no good, sir. I can't get it out of
my head how perishing cold I shall be when I'm under the
mould, sir, though I oughtn't to mind it when it's the will
o' God. It's only till the resurrection, sir."
" But it's not the will of God, Mrs. Tomkins."
" Ain't it, sir ? Sure I thought it was."
" You believe in Jesus Christ, don't you, Mrs. Tomkins ?"
" That I do, sir, with all my heart and soul."
" Well, He says that whosoever liveth and believeth in
Him shall never die."
" But you know, sir, every body dies. I must die, and be
laid in the church-yard, sir. And that's what I don't like."
" But I say that is all a mistake. You won't die. Your
body will die, and be laid away out of sight ; but you will
be awake, alive, more alive than you are now, a great deal."
And here let me interrupt the converaation to remark
upon the great mistake of teaching children that they have
souls. The consequence is, that they think of their souls as
of something which is not themselves. For what a man
has can not be himself. Hence, when they are told that
their souls go to heaven, they think of their selves as lying
in the grave. They ought to be taught that they have
bodies, and that their bodies die, while they themselves live
on. Then they will not think, as old Mrs. Tomkins did, that
they will be laid in the grave. It is making altogether too
much of the body, and is indicative of an evil tendency to
materialism, that we talk as if we possessed souls instead of
being souls. We should teach our children to think no
more of their bodies when dead than they do of their hair
when it is cut off, or of their old clothes when they have
done with them.
" Do you really think so, sir ?"
" Indeed I do. I don't know any thing about where you
will be. But you will be with God ^in your Father's house,
you know. And that is enough, is it not ?"
" Yes, surely, sir. But I wish you was to be there by the
bedside of me when I was a dym'. I can't help bein' sum-
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A QUIET NEIGUBOKHOOD. 313
mat skeered at it. It don't come nat'ral to mo, like. I ha'
got used to this old bed here, cold as it has been many's
the night wi' my good man there by the side of me."
"Send for me, Mrs. Tomkins, any moment, day or night,
and I'll be with you directly."
" I think, sir, if I had a hold ov you i' the one hand, and
my man there, the Lord bless him, i' the other, I could go
comfortable."
"I'll come the minute you send for me just to keep you
in mind that a better friend than I am is holding you all
the time, though you mayn't feel His hands. If it is some
comfort to have hold of a human friend, think that a friend
who is more than man, a divine fi'iend, has a hold of you,
who knows all your fears and pains, and sees how natural
they are, and can just with a word, or a touch, or a look
into your soul, keep them from going one hair's-breadth too
far. He loves us up to all our need, just because we need
it, and He is all love to give."
" But I can't help thinking, sir, that I wouldn't be trouble-
some. He has such a deal to look after ! And I don't see
how He can think of every body, at every minute, like. I
don't mean that He will let any thing go wrong, but He
might forget an old body like me for a minute, like."
" You would need to be as wise as He is before you could
see how He does it. But you must believe more than you
can understand. It is only common sense to do so. Think
how nonsensical it would be to suppose that one who could
make every thing, and keep the whole going as He does,
shouldn't be able to help forgetting. It would be unreason-
able to think that He must forget because you couldn't un-
derstand how he could remember. I think it is as hard for
Him to forget any thing as it is fL)r us to remember every
thing; for forgetting comes of weakness, and from our not
being finished yet, and He is all strength and all perfection."
" Then you think, sir, He never forgets any thing ?"
I knew by the trouble that gathered on the old woman's
brow what kind of thought was passing through her mind ;
but I let her go on, thinking so to help her the better. She
paused for one moment only, and then resumed, much inter-
mpted by the shortness of her breathing.
" When I was brought to bed. first," she said, " it was o'
twins, sir. And oh ! sir, it was very hard. As I said to my
O
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man after I got my head Tip a bit, ' Tomkins,' says I, ' you
don't know what it ig to have two on 'em cryin' and cryin',
and you next to nothin' to give 'em ; till their cryin' sticks
to your brain, and ye hear 'em when they're fast asleep,
one on each side o' you.' Well, sir, I'm ashamed to confess
it even to you ; and what the Lord can think of me, I don't
know."
" I would rather confess to Him than to the best friend I
ever had," I said ; " I am so sure that He will make every
excuse for me that ought to be made. And a friend can't al-
ways do that. He can't know all about it. And you can't
tell him all, because you don't know all yourself. He does."
*' But I would like to tell yow, sir. Would you believe it,
sir, I wished 'em dead ? Just to get the wailin' of them
out o' my head, I wished 'em dead. In the court-yard o'
the squire's house, where my Tomkins worked on the home-
farm, there was an old draw-well. It wasn't used, and there
was a lid to it, with a hole in it, through which you could
put a good big stone. And Tomkins once took me to it,
and, without tellin' me what it was, he put a stone in, and
told me to hearken. And I hearkened, but I heard nothing,
as I told him so. ' But,' says he, ' hearken, lass.' And in a
little while there come a blast o' noise like from somewheres.
* What's that, Tomkins ?' I said. ' That's the ston',' says he,
*a strikin' on the water down that there well.' And I
turned sick at the thoughts of it. And it's down there that
I wished the darlin's that God had sent me, for there they'd
be quiet."
" Mothers are often a little out of their minds at such
times, Mrs. Tomkins, and so were you."
" I don't know, sir. But I must tell you another thing.
The Sunday afore that, the parson had been preachin' about
* Suffer little children,' you know, sir, ' to come unto me.'
I suppose that was what put it in my head ; but I fell asleep
wi' nothin' else in my head but the cries o' the infants and
the sound o' the ston' in the draw-well. And I dreamed
that I had one o' them under each arm, cryin' dreadful, and
was walkin' across the court the way to the draw-well, when
all at once a man come up to me and held out his two hands,
and said, ' Gie me my childer.' And I was in a terrible fear.
And I gave him first one and then the t'other, and he took
them, and one laid its head on one shoulder of him, and
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 315
t'other upon t'other, and they stopped their cryin', and fell
fast asleep ; and away he walked wi' them into the dark, and
I saw him no more. And then I awoke cryin', I didn't know
why. And I took my twins to me, and my breasts was
full, if ye'll excuse me, sir ; and my heart was as full o' love
to them; and they hardly cried worth mentionin' again.
But afore they was two year old, they both died o' the
brown chytis, sir ; and I think that He took them."
" He did take them, Mrs. Tomkins ; and you'll see them
again soon."
" But, if He never forgets any thing ^"
"I didn't say that. I think He can do what He pleases.
And if He pleases to forget any thing, then He can forget
it. And I think that is what he does with our sins ^that is,
after He has got them away from us, once we are clean from
them altogether. It would be a dreadful thing if He forgot
them before that, and left them sticking fast to us and de-
filing us. How then should we ever be made clean ? What
else does the Prophet Isaiah mean when he says, 'Thoa
hast cast my sins behind Thy back ?' Is not that where He
does not choose to see them any more ? They are not pleas-
ant to Him to think of any more than to us. It is as if He
said, 'I will pot think of that any more, for my sister will
never do it again,' and so He throws it behind His back."
" They are good words, sir. I could not bear Him to
think of me and my sins both at once."
I could not help thinking of the words of Macbeth, " To
know my deed, 'twere best not know myself."
The old woman lay quiet after this, relieved in mind,
though not in body, by the communication she had made
with so much difficulty, and I hastened home to send some
coals and other things, and then call upon Dr. Duncan, lest
he should not know that his patient was so much worse as
I had found her.
From Dr. Duncan's I went to see old Samuel Weir, who
likewise was ailing. The bitter weather was telling chiefly
upon the aged. I found him in bed, under the old embroid-
ery. No one was in the room with him. He greeted me
with a withered smile, sweet and true, although no flash of
white teeth broke forth to light up the welcome of the aged
head.
" Are you not lonely, Mr. Weir?"
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" No, sir. I don't know as ever I was less lonely. I've
got my stick, you see, sir," he said, pointing to a thornnstick
which lay beside him.
** I do not quite understand you," I returned, knowing
that the old man's gently humorous sayings always meant
something.
" You see, sir, when I want any thing, I've only got to
knock on the floor, and up comes my son out of the shop.
And then again, when I knock at the door of the house up
there, my Father opens it and looks out. So I have both
my son on earth and my Father iu heaven, and what can an
old man want more ?"
" What, indeed, could any one want more ?"
" It's very strange," the old man resumed, after a pause,
" but as I lie here, after I've had my tea, and it is almost
dark, I begin to feel as if I was a child again. They say old
age is a second childhood ; but before I grew so old, I used
to think that meant only that a man was helpless and silly
again, as he used to be when he was a child : I never thought
it meant that a man felt like a child again, as light-hearted
and untroubled as I do now."
" Well, I suspect that is not what people do mean when
they say so. But I am very glad you don't know how
pleased it makes me to hear that you feel so. I will hope
to fare in the same way when my time comes."
" Indeed, I hope you will, sir, for I am main and happy.
Just before you came in now, I had really forgotten that I
was a toothless old man, and thought I was lying here wait-
ing for my mother to come in and say good-night to me be-
fore I went to sleep. Wasn't that curious, when I never
saw my mother, as I told you before, sir?"
" It was very curious."
" But I have no end of fancies. Only when I begin to
think about it, I can always tell when they are fancies, and
they never put me out. There's one I see often a man
down on his knees at that cupboard nigh the floor there,
searching and searching for somewhat ; and I wish he would
just turn round his face once for a moment that I might see
him. I have a notion always it's my own father."
" How do you account for that fancy, now, Mr. Weir ?"
"I've often thought about it, sir, but I never could ac-
count for it. I'm none willing to think it's a ghost ; for
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 817
what's the good of it? I've turned out that cupboard over
and over, and there's nothing there I don't know."
" You're not afraid of it, are you ?"
"No, sir. Why should I be? I never did it no harm.
And God can surely take care of me from all sorts."
My readers must not think any thing is going to come
out of this strange illusion of the old man's brain. I ques-
tioned him a little more about it, and came simply to the
conclusion that, when he was a child, he had found the door
open, and had wandered into the house, at the time uninhab-
ited had peeped in at the door of the same room where he
now lay, and had actually seen a man in the position he de-
scribed, half in the cupboard, searching for something. His
mind had kept the impression after the conscious memory
had lost its hold of the circumstance, and now revived it
under certain physical conditions. It was a glimpse out of
one of the many stories which haunted the old mansion.
But there he lay like a child, as he said, fearless even of
such usurpations upon his senses.
I think that instances of quiet un^cZ/conscious faith are
more common than is generally supposed. Few have along
with it the genial communicative impulse of old Samuel
Weir, which gives the opportunity of seeing into their hid-
den world. He seemed to have been, and to have remained
a child, in the best sense of the word. He had never had
much trouble with himself, for he was of a kindly, gentle,
trusting nature, and his will had never been called upon to
exercise any strong effort to enable him to walk m the
straight path. Nor had his intellect, on the other hand,
while capable enough, ever been so active as to suggest diffi-
culties to his faith, leaving him, even theoretically, far nearer
the truth than those who start objections for their own
sakes, liking to feel themselves in a position of supposed
antagonism to the generally acknowledged sources of illu-
mination. For faith is in itself a light that lightens even
the intellect ; and hence the shield of the complete soldier
of God, the shield of faith, is represented by Spenser as
" framed all of diamond, perfect, pure, and clean" (the power
of the diamond to absorb and again radiate light being no
poetic fiction, but a well-known scientific fact), whose light,
falling upon any enchantment or false appearance, destroys
it utterly ; for
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'* All that was not sncli as seemed in sight,
Before that shield did fade, and saddaine falL"
Old Rogers had passed through a very much larger ex-
perience. Many more difficulties had come to him, and he
had met them in his own fashion and overcome them. For
while there is such a thing as truth, the mind that can hon-
estly beget a difficulty must at the same time be capable of
receiving that light of the truth which annihilates the dif-
ficulty, or at least of receiving enough to enable it to fore-
see vaguely some solution, for the full perception of which
the intellect may not be as yet competent. By every such
victory Old Rogers had enlarged his being, ever becoming
more childlike and faithful ; so that, while the childlikeness
of Weir was the childlikeness of a child, that of Old Rogers
was the childlikeness of a man, in which submission to God
is not only a gladness, but a conscious will and choice. But
as the safety of neither depended on his own feelings, but
on the love of God who was working in him, we may well
leave all such differences of nature and education to the care
of Him who first made the men different, and then brought
different conditions out of them. The one thing is, whether
we are letting God have His own way with us, following
where He leads, learning the lessons He gives us.
I wished that Mr. Stoddart had been with me during
these two visits. Perhaps he might have seen that the edu-
cation of life was a marvelous thing, and, even in the poorest
intellectual results, far more full of poetry and wonder than
the outcome of that constant watering with the watering-
pot of self-education which, dissociated from the duties of
life and the influences of his fellows, had made of him what
he was. But I doubt if he would have seen it.
A week had elapsed from the night I had sat up with
Gerard Weir, and his mother had not risen from her bed,
nor did it seem likely she would ever rise again. On a Fri-
day I went to see her just as the darkness was beginning to
gather. The fire of life was burning itself out fast. It glow-
ed on her cheeks, it burned in her hands, it blazed in her
eyes ; but the fever had left her mind. That was cool, oh,
so cool now ! Those fierce tropical storms of passion had
passed away, and nothing of life was lost. Revenge had
passed away, but revenge is of death, and deadly. Forgive-
ness had taken its place, and forgiveness is the giving, and
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 319
SO the receiving of life. Gerard, his dear little head starred
with sticking-plaster, sat on her bed, looking as quietly hap-
py as child could look over a wooden horse with cylindrical
body and jointless legs, covered with an eruption of red and
black spots. Is it the ignorance or the imagination of chil-
dren that makes them so easily pleased with the merest hint
at representation ? I suspect the one helps the other toward
that most desirable result, satisfaction. But he dropped it
' when he saw me in a way so abandoning that comparing
small things with great it called to my mind those lines of
Milton :
" From his slack hand the garland wreathed for Eve,
Down dropp'd, and all the faded roses shed."
The quiet child ^wn^ himself upon my neck, and the moth-
er's face gleamed with pleasure.
" Dear boy !" I said, " I am very glad to see you so much
better." For this was the first time he had shown such a
revival of energy. He had been quite sweet when he saw
me, but, until this evening, listless.
" Yes,^' he said, " I am quite well now." And he put his
hand up to his head.
"Does it ache?"
" Not much now. The doctor says I had a bad fall."
" So you had, my child. But you will soon be well again."
The mother's face was turned aside, yet I could see one
tear forcing its way from under her closed eyelid.
" Oh, I don't mind it," he answered. " Mammy is so kind
to me ! She lets me sit on her bed as long as I like."
"That i8 nice. But just run to auntie in the next room.
I think your mammy would like to talk to mo for a little
while."
The child hunied off the bed, and ran with overflowing
obedience.
" I can even think of him now," said the mother, " with-
out going into a passion. I hope God will forgive him. I
do. I think He will forgive me."
" Did you ever hear," I asked, " of Jesus refusing any
body that wanted kindness from Him? He wouldn't al-
ways do exactly what they asked Him, because that would
sometimes be of no use, and sometimes would even be
wrong ; but He never pushed them away from Him, never
repulsed their approach to Him. For the sake of His dis-
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ciples, He made the Syro-Phenician woman suffer a little
while, but only to give her such praise afterward and such
a granting of her prayer as is just wonderful."
She said nothing for a little while ; then murmured,
"Shall I have to be ashamed to all eternity? I do not
want not to be ashamed ; but shall I never be able to be
like other people in heaven I mean ?"
" If He is satisfied with you, you need not think any thing
more about yourself. If He lets you once kiss His feet, you
won't care to think about other people's opinion of you even
in heaven. But things will go very differently there from
here ; for every body there will be more or less ashamed of
himself, and will think worse of himself than he does of any
one else. If trouble about your past life were to show it-
self on your face there, they would all run to comfort you,
trying to make the best of it, and telling you that you must
think about yourself as He thinks about you ; for what He
thinks is the rul^, because it is the infallible rigl;t way. But
perhaps, rather, they would tell you to leave that to Him
who has taken away our sins, and not trouble yourself any
more about it. But, to tell the truth, I don't think such
thoughts will ( ome to you at all when once you have seen
the face of Jesus Christ. You will be so filled with His
sjlory, and goodness, and grace, that you will just live in
Him, and not in yourself at all."
"Will He let us tell Him any thing we please?"
" He lets you do that now ; surely He will not be less our
God, our friend there."
" Oh, I don't mind how soon He takes me now ! Only
there's that poor child that I've behaved so badly to ! 1
wish I could take him with me. I have no time to make it
up to him here."
" You must wait till he comes. He won't think hardly
of you. There's no fear of that."
" What will become of him, though ? I can't bear the
idea of burdening my father with him."
" Your father will be glad to have him, I know. He will
feel it a privilege to do something for your sake. But the
boy will do him good.^ If he does not want him, I will take
him myself."
" Oh ! thank you thank you, sir."
A burst of tears followed.
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 821
" He has often done me good," I said.
Who, sir my father?"
" No. Your son."
*' I don't quite understand what you mean, sir."
"I mean just what I say. The words and behavior of
your lovely boy have both roused and comforted my heart
again and again."
She burst again into tears.
" That is good to hear. To think of your saying that f
The poor little innocent ! Then it isn't all punishment ?"
" If it were all punishment, we should perish utterly. He
is your punishment ; but look in what a lovely loving form
your punishment has come, and say whether God has been
good to you or not."
" If I had only received my punishment humblv, things
would have been very different now.' But I do take it at
least, I want to take it just as He would have me take it.
I will bear any thing He likes. I suppose I must die ?"
" I think He means you to die now. You are ready for
now, I think. You have wanted to die for a long time, but
you were not ready for it before."
" And now I want to live for my boy. But His will be
done."
*' Amen. There is no such prayer in the universe as that.
It means every thing best and most beautiful. Thy will, O
God, evermore be done."
She lay silent. A tap came to the chamber door. It was
Mary, who nursed her sister and attended to the shop.
'* If you please, sir, here's a little girl come to say that
Mrs. Tomkins is dying, and wants see you."
" Then I must say good-night to you, Catharine. I will
see you to-morrow morning. Think about old Mrs. Tom-
kins ; she's a good old soul ; and when you find your heart
drawn to her in the trouble of death, then lift it up to God
for her, that He will please to comfort and support her, and
make her happier than health stronger than strength, tak-
ing off the old worn garment of her body, and putting upon
her the garment of salvation, which will be a grand new
body, like that the Savior had when He rose again."
" I will try. I will think about her."
For I thought this would be a help to prepare her for her
own death. In thinking lovingly about others, we think
02
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healthily about ourselves. And the things she thought of
for the comfort of Mrs. Tomkins would return to comfort
herself in the prospect of her own end, when perhaps she
might not be able to think them out for herself.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CALM AND STOBM.
But of the two, Catharine had herself to go first. Again
and again was I sent for to say farewell to Mrs. Tomkins,
and again and again I returned home leaving her asleep,
and for the time better. But on a Saturday evening, as I
sat by my vestry fire, pondering on many things, and trying
to make myself feel that they were as God saw them and
not as they appeared to me, young Tom came to me with
the news that his sister seemed much worse, and his father
would be much obliged if I would go and see her. I sent
Tom on before, because I wished to follow alone.
It was a brilliant starry night; no moon, no clouds, no
wind, nothing but stars. They seemed to lean down to-
ward the earth, as I have seen them since in more southern
regions. It was, indeed, a glorious night that is, I knew
it was ; I did not feel that it was. For the death which I
went to be near, came, with a strange sense of separation,
between me and the nature around me. I felt as if nature
knew nothing, felt nothing, meant nothing, did not belong
to humanity at all ; for here was death, and there shone the
stars. I was wrong, as I knew afterward.
I had had very little knowledge of the external shows of
death. Strange as it may appear, I had never yet seen a
fellow-creature pass beyond the call of his fellow-mortals. I
had not even seen my father die. And the thought was op-
pressive to me. " To think," I said to myself, as I walked
over the bridge to the village-street "to think that the one
moment the person is here, and the next who shall say
where? for we know nothing of the region beyond the
grave. Not even our risen Lord thought fit to bring, back
from Hades any news for the human family standing strain-
ing their eyes after their brothers and sisters that have van-
ished in the dark. Surely it is well, all well, although we
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOB. 323
know nothing save that our Lord has been there, knows all
about it, and does not choose to tell us. Welcome igno-
rance, then I the ignorance in which He chooses to leave us.
I would rather not know, if He gave me my choice, but
preferred that I should not know." And so the oppression
passed from me, and I was free
But little as I knew of the signs of the approach of death,
I was certain, the moment I saw Cathanne, that the veil
that hid the " silent land" had begun to lift slowly between
her and it, and for a moment I almost envied her that she
was so soon to see and know that after which our blindness
and ignorance were wondering and hungering. She could
hardly speak. She looked more patient than calm. There
was no light in the room but that of the fire, which flicker-
ed flashing and fading, now lighting up the troubled eye,
and now letting a shadow of the coming repose fall gently
over it. Thomas sat by the fire with the child on his knee,
both looking fixedly into the glow. Gerard's natural mood
was so quiet and earnest that the solemnity about him did
not oppress him. He looked as if he were present at some
religious observance of which he felt more than he under-
stood, and his childish peace was in no wise inhaimonious
with the awful silence of the coming change. He was no
more disquieted at the presence of death than the stars
were.
And this was the end of the lovely girl ^to leave the fair
world still young because a selfish man had seen that she
was fair! Ko time can change the relation of cause and ef-
fect. The poison that operates ever so slowly is yet poison,
and yet slays. And that man was now murdering her, with
weapon long-reaching from out of the past. But no, thank
God ! this was not the end of her. Though there is woe for
that man by whom the offense cometh, yet there is provision
for the offense. There is One who bringeth light out of
darkness, joy out of sorrow, humility out of wrong. Back
to the Father's house we go with the sorrows and sins
which, instead of inheriting the earth, we gathered and heap-
ed upon our weary shoulders, and a different Elder Brother
from that angiy one who would not "receive the poor swine-
humbled prodigal, takes the burden from our shoulders, and
leads us into the presence of the Good.
She put out her hand feebly, let it lie in mine, looked as if
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she wanted me to sit down by her bedside, and when I did
so, closed her eyes. She said nothing. Her father was too
much troubled to meet me without showing the signs of his
distress, and his was a nature that ever sought concealment
for its emotion, therefore he sat still. But Gerard crept
down from his knee, came to me, clambered up on mine,
and laid his little hand upon his mother's, which I was hold-
ing. She opened her eyes, looked at the child, shut them
again, and tears came out from between the closed lids.
" Has Gerard ever been baptized ?" I asked her.
Her lips indicated a no.
" Then I will be his godfather, and that will be a pledge
to you that I will never lose sight of him."
She pressed my hand, and the tears came faster.
Believing with all my heart that the dying should remem-
ber their dying Lord, and that the "Do this in remembrance
of me" can never be better obeyed than when the partaker
is about to pass, supported by the God of his faith, through
the same darkness which lay before our Lord when He ut-
tered the words and appointed the symbol, we kneeled,
Thomas and I, and young Tom, who had by this time joined
us with his sister Mary, around the bed, and partook with
the dying woman of the signs of that death wherein our
Lord gave Himself entirely to us, to live by His death, and
to the Father of us all in holiest sacrifice as the high-priest
of us His people, leading us to the altar of a like self abnega-
tion. Upon what that bread and that wine mean, the sacri-
fice of our Lord, the whole world of humanity hangs. It is
the redemption of men.
After she had received the holy sacrament, she lay still as
before. I heard her murmur once, " Lord, I do not deserve
it; but I do love Thee," and about two hours after, she
quietly breathed her last. We all kneeled, and I thanked
the Father of us aloud that He had taken her to Himself.
Gerard had been fast asleep on his aunt's lap, and she had
put him to bed a little before. Surely he slept a deeper
sleep than his mother's, for had she not awaked even as she
fel^asleep ?
When I came out once more, I knew better what the stars
meant. They looked to me now as if they knew all about
death, and therefore could not be sad to the eyes of men;
as if that unsympathetic look they wore came from this, that
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 325
they were made like the happy truth, and not like our
fears.
But soon the solemn feeling of repose, the sense that the
world and all its cares would thus pass into nothing, vanish-
ed in its turn. For a moment I had been, as it were, walk-
ing on the shore of the Eternal, where the tide of time had
left me in its retreat. Far away across the level sands I
heard it moaning, but I stood on the firm ground of truth,
and heeded it not. In a few moments more it was raving
around me ; it had carried me away from my rest, and I was
filled with the noise of its cares.
For when I returned home, my sister told me that Old
Rogers had called, and seemed concerned not to find me at
home. He would have gone to find me, my sister said, had
I been any where but by a death-bed. He would not leave
any message, however, saying he would call in the morning.
I thought it better to go to his house. The stars were
still shining as brightly as before, but a strong foreboding
of trouble filled my mind, and once more the stars were farr
away, and lifted me no nearer to " Him who made the sev-
en stars and Orion." When I examined myself, I could
give no reason for my sudden fearfulness save this that as
I went to Catharine's house I had passed Jane Rogers on
her way to her father's, and, having just greeted her, had
gone on ; but, as it now came back upon me, she had looked
at me strangely ^that is, with some significance in her face,
which conveyed nothing to me ; and now her father had
been to seek me : it must have something to do with Miss
Oldcastle.
But when I came to the cottage, it was dark and still, and
I could not bring myself to rouse the weary man from his
bed. Indeed it was past eleven, as I found to my surprise
on looking at my watch. So I turned and lingered by the
old mill, and fell a pondering on the profusion of strength
that rushed past the wheel away to the great sea, doing
nothing. "Nature," I thought, "does not demand that
power should always be force. Power itself must repose.
He that believeth shall not make haste, says the Bible. But
it needs strength to be still. Is my faith not strong enough
to be still ?" I looked up to the heavens once more, and the
quietness ^f the stars seemed to reproach me. " We are
safe up here," tliey seemed to say : " we shine, fearless and
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confident, for the God who gave the primrose its rough
leaves to hide it from the blast of uneven spring hangs us
in the awful hollows of space. We can not fall out of His
safety. Lift up your eyes on high, and behold ! Who hath
created these things ^that bringeth out their host by num-
ber ? He calleth them all by names. By the greatness of
His might, for that he is strong in power, not one faileth.
Why sayest thou, O Jacob ! and speakest, O Israel ! my way
is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from
my God?"
The night was very still ; there was, I thought, no one
awake within miles of me. The stars seemed to shine into
me the divine reproach of those glorious words. " O my
God !" I cried, and fell on my knees by the mill door.
What I tried to say more I will not say here. I may say
that I cried to God. What I said to Him ought not, can
not be repeated to another.
When I opened my eyes I saw the door of the mill was
open too, and there in the door, his white head glimmering,
stood Old Rogers, with a look on his face as if he had just
come down from the mount. I started to my feet with that
strange feeling of something like shame that seizes one at
the very thought of other eyes than those of the Father.
The old man came forward, and bowed his head with an
unconscious expression of humble dignity, but would have
passed me without speech, leaving the mill door open be-
hind him. I could not bear to part with him thus.
" Won't you speak to me, Rogers ?" I said.
He turned at once with evident pleasure.
" I beg your pardon, sir. I was ashamed of having in-
truded on you, and I thought you would rather be left alone.
I thought ^I thought ^" hesitated the old man, " that you
might like to go into the mill, for the night's cold out o'
doors."
" Thank you, Rogers. I won't now. I thought you had
been in bed. How do you come to be out so late ?"
" You see, sir, when I'm in any trouble, it's no use to go
to bed. I can't sleep. I only keep the old 'oman wakin'.
And the key o' the mill alius hangin' at the back o' my door,
and knowin' it to be a good place to to shut the door in,
I came out as soon as she was asleep ; but I little thought to
see you, sir."
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOEHOOB. 327
" I came to find you, not thinking how the time went.
Catharine Weir is gone home."
" I am right glad to hear it, poor woman. And perhaps
something will come out now that will help us."
" I do not quite understand you," I said, with hesitation.
But Rogers made no reply.
" I am sorry to hear you are in trouble to-night. Can I
help you ?" I resumed.
" If you can help yourself, sir, you can help me. But I
have no right to say so. Only, if a pair of old eyes be not
blind, a man may pray to God about any thing he sees. I
was prayin' hard about you in there, sir, while you was on
your knees o' the other side o' the door."
I could partly guess what the old man meant, and I could
not ask him for farther explanation.
" What did you want to see me about ?" I inquired.
He hesitated for a moment.
" I dare say it was very foolish of me, sir. But I just
wanted to tell you that our Jane was down here from the
Hall this artemoon "
" I passed her on the bridge. Is she quite well ?"
"Yes, yes, sir. You know that's not the point."
The old man's tone seemed to reprove me for vain words,
and I held my peace.
"The captain's there again."
An icy spear seemed to pass through my heart. I could
make no reply. The same moment a cold wind blew on me
from the open door of the mill.
Although Lear was of course right when he said,
**The tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else
Save what beats there,"
yet it is also true that sometimes, in the midst of its greatest
pain, the mind takes marvelous notice of the smallest things
that happen around it. This involves a law of which illus-
trations could be plentifully adduced from Shakspeare him-
self, namely, that the intellectual part of the mind can go on
working with strange independence of the emotional.
From the door of the mill, as from a sepulchral cavern,
blew a cold wind like the very breath of death upon me,
just when that pang shot, in absolute pain, through my
heart. For a wind had arisen from behind the mill, and we
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328 ANNALS OF
were in its shelter save where a window behind and the
door beside me allowed free passage to the first of the com-
ing storm.
1 believe I turned away from the old man without a word.
He made no attempt to detain me. Whether he went back
into his closet, the old mill, sacred in the eyes of the Father
who honors His children, even as the church wherein many
prayers went up to Him, or turned homeward to his cottage
and his sleeping wife, I can not tell. The first I remember
after that cold wind is that I was fighting with that wind,
gathered even to a storm, upon the common where I had
dealt so severely with her who had this veiy night gone
into that region into which, as into a waveless sea, all the
rivers of life rush and are .silent. Is it the sea of death ?
No. The sea of life a life too keen, too refined for our
senses to know it, and therefore we call it death, because we
can not lay hold upon it.
I will not dwell upon my thoughts as I wandered about
over that waste. The wind had risen to a storm charged
with fierce showers of stinging hail, which gave a look of
gray wrath to the invisible wind as it swept slanting by,
and then danced and scudded along the levels. The next
point in that night of pain is when I found myself standing
at the iron gate of Oldcastle Hall. I had left the common,
passed my own house and the church, crossed the river,
walked through the village, and was restored to self-con-
sciousness that is, I knew that I was there only when
first I stood in the shelter of one of those great pillars and
the monster on its top. Finding the gate open, for they
were not precise about having it fastened, I pushed it and
entered. The wind was roaring in the trees as I think I
have never heard it roar since ; for the hail clashed upon
the bare branches and twigs, and mingled an unearthly hiss
with the roar. In the midst of it the house stood like a
tomb, dark, silent, without one dim light to show that sleep
and not death ruled within. I could have fancied that there
were no windows in it ; that it stood, like an eyeless skull,
in that gaunt forest of skeleton trees, empty and desolate,
beaten by the ungenial hail, the dead rain of the countiy of
death. I passed round to the other side, stepping gently
lest some ear might be awake as if any ear, even that of
Judy's white wolf, could have heard the loudest step in such
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A QUIBT NEIGHBOBHOOD. 329
a Storm. I heard the hailstones crush between my feet and
the soft grass of the lawn, but I dared not stop to look up
at the back of the house. I went on to the staircase in the
rock, and by its rude steps, dangerous in the flapping of
such storm-wings as swept about it that night, descended
to the little grove below, around the deep -walled pool.
Hei*e the wind did not reach me. It roared overhead, but,
save an occasional sigh, as if of sympathy with their suffer-
ing brethren abroad in the world, the hermits of this cell
stood upright and still around the sleeping water. But my
heart was a well in which a storm boiled and raged, and all
that " pother o'er my head" was peace itself compared to
what I felt. I sat down on the seat at the foot of a tree,
where I had first seen Miss Old castle reading, and then I
looked up to the house. Yes, there was a light there I It
must be m her window. She then could not rest any more
than I. Sleep was driven from her eyes because she must
wed the man she would not ; while sleep was driven from
mine because I could not marry the woman I would. Was
that it ? Ko. My heart acquitted me, in part at least, of
thinking only of my own sorrow in the presence of her
greater distress. Gladly would I have given her up for-
ever, without a hope, to redeem her from such a bondage.
" But it would be to marry another some day," suggested
the tormentor within. And then the storm, which had a
little abated, broke out afresh in my soul. But before I
rose from her seat I was ready even for that at least I
thought so if only I might deliver her from the all but
destruction that seemed to be impending over her. The
same moment in which my mind seemed to have arrived at
the possibility of such a resolution, I rose almost involuntari-
ly, and, glancing once more at the dull light in her window
^for I did not doubt that it was her window, though it was
much too dark to discern the shape of the house almost
felt ray way to the stair, and climbed again into the storm.
But I was quieter now, and able to go home. It must
have been nearly morning, though at this season of the year
the morning is undefined, when I reached my own house.
My sister had gone to bed, for I could always let myself in;
nor, indeed, did any one in Marshmallows think the locking
of the door at night an imperative duty.
When I fell asleep I was again in the old quarry, staring
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into the deep well. I thought Mrs. Oldcastle was murder-
ing her daughter in the house above, while I was spellbound
to the spot, where, if I stood long enough, I should see her
body float into the well from the subterranean passage, the
opening of which was just below where I stood. I was thus
confusing and reconstructing the two dreadful stories of the
place that told me by old Weir about the circumstances
of his birth, and that told me by Dr. Duncan about Mrs.
Oldcastle's treatment of her elder daughter. But as a white
hand and arm appeared in the water below me, sorrow and
pity more than horror broke the bonds of sleep, and I awoke
to less trouble than that of my dreams, only because that
which I feared had not yet come.
CHAITER XXX.
A SERMON TO MYSELF.
It was the Sabbath mom. But such a Sabbath ! The
day seemed all wan with weeping, and gray with care.
The wind dashed itself against the casement,Jaden with
soft heavy sleet. The ground, the bushes, the very out-
houses seemed sodden with the rain. The trees, which
looked stricken as if they could die of grief, were yet tor-
mented with fear, for the bare branches went streaming out
in the torrent of the wind, as cowering before the invisible
foe. The first thing I knew when I awoke was the raving
of that wind. I could lie in bed not a moment longer. I
could not rest. But how was I to do the work of my office?
When a man's duty looks like an enemy, dragging him into
the dark mountains, he has no less to go with it than when,
like a friend with loving face, it offers to lead him along
green pastures by the river side. I had little power over
my feelings ; I could not prevent my mind from mirroring
itself in the nature around me ; but I could address myself
to the work I had to do. " My God !" was all the prayer
I could pray ere I descended to join my sister at the break-
fast table. But He knew what lay behind the one word.
Martha could not help seeing that something was the mat-
ter. I saw by her looks that she could read so much in
mine. But her eyes alone questioned me,.and that only by
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glancing at me anxiously from time to time. I was grateful
to her for saying nothing. It is a fine thing in friendship to
know when to be silent.
The prayers were before me, in the hands of all my
friends, and in the hearts of some of them ; and if I could
not enter into them as I would, I could yet read them hum-
bly before God as His servant to help the people to worship
as one flock. But how was I to preach ? I had been in dif-
ficulty before now, but never in so much. How was I to
teach others, whose mind was one confusion ? The subject
on which I was pondering when young Weir came to tell
me his sister was dying, had retreated as if into the far past ;
it seemed as if years had come between that time and this,
though but one black night had rolled by. To attempt to
speak upon that would have been vain, for I had nothing to
say on the matter now. And if I could have recalled my
former thoughts, I should have felt a hypocrite as I deliver-
ed them, so utterly dissociated would they have been from
any thing that I was thinking or feeling now. Here would
have been my visible form and audible voice, uttering that
as present to me now, as felt by me now, which I did think
and feel yesterday, but which, although I believed it, was
not present to my feeling or heart, and must wait the revo-
lution of months, or it might be of years, before I should feel
it again, before I should be able to exhort my people about
it with the fervor of a present faith. But, indeed, I could not
even recall what I had thought and felt. Should I then tell
them that I could not speak to them that morning ? There
would be nothing wrong in that. But I felt ashamed of
yielding to personal trouble when the truths of God were all
about me, although I could not feel them. Might not some
hungry soul go away without being satisfied because I was
faint and down-hearted ? x I confess I had a desire likewise
to avoid giving rise to speculation and talk about myself,
a desire which, although not wrong, could neither have
strengthened me to speak the truth, nor have justified me
in making the attempt. What was to be done ?
All at once the remembrance crossed my mind of a ser-
mon I had preached before upon the words of St. Paul :
" Thou therefore which teachest another, teachest thou not
thyself?" a subject suggested by the fact that on the pre-
ceding Sunday t had especially felt, in preaching to my peo-
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332 ANIMALS OP
pie, that I was exhorting myself, whose necessity was greater
than theirs at least I felt it to be greater than I could know
theirs to be. And now the converse of the thought came to
me, and I said to myself, " Might I not try the other way
now, and preach to myself? In teaching myself, might I
not teach others ? Would it not hold ? I am very troubled
and faithless now. If I knew that God was going to lay the
full weight of this grief upon me, yet if I loved Him with all
my heart, should I not at least be more quiet ? There would
not be a storm within me then, as if the Father had descend-
ed from the throne of the heavens, and ' chaos were come
again.' Let me expostulate with myself in my heart, and
the words of my expostulation will not be the less true with
my people."
All this passed through my mind as I sat in my study
after breakfast, with the great old cedar roaring before my
window. It was within an hour of church-time. I took my
Bible, read and thought, got even some comfort already, and
found myself in my vestry not quite unwilling to read the
prayers and speak to my people.
There were very few present. The day was one of the
worst ^violently stormy, which harmonized somewhat with
my feelings ; and, to my farther relief, the Hall pew was
empty. Instead of finding myself a mere minister to the
prayers of others, I found, as I read, that my heart went out
in ciying to God for the divine presence of His spirit. And
if I thought more of myself in my prayers than was well,
yet as soon as I was converted, would I not strengthen
my brethren ? And the sermon I preached to myself and
through myself to my people was that which the stars had
preached to me, and thereby driven me to my knees by the
mill door. I took for my text, " The glory of the Lord shall
be revealed ;" and then I proceeded to show them how the
glory of the Lord was to be revealed. I preached to myself
that throughout this fortieth chapter of the prophecies of
Isaiah, the power of God is put side by side with the weak-
ness of men, not that He, the perfect, may glory over His
feeble children ; not that He may say to them, " Look how
mighty I am, and go down upon your knees and worship"
for power alone was never yet worthy of prayer ; but that
He may say thus: "Look, my children, you will never be
strong but with my strength ; I have no other to give you ;
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 333
and that you can get only by trusting in me. I can not
give it you any other way. There is no other way. But
can you not trust in me ? Look how strong I am. You
wither like the grass. Do not fear. Let the grass wither.
Lay hold of my word, that which I say to you out of my
truth, and that will be life in you that the blowing of the
Avind that withers can not reach. I am coming with my
strong hand and my judging arm to do my work. And
what is thQ work of my strong hand and ruling arm ? To
feed my flock like a shepherd, to gather the lambs with my
arm, and carry them in my bosom, and gently lead those
that are with young. I have measured the waters in the
hollow of my hand, and held the mountains in my scales, to
give each his due weight, and all the nations, so strong and
fearful in your eyes, are as nothing beside my strength and
what I can do. Do not think of me as of an image that
your hands can make a thing you can choose to serve, and
for which you can do things to win its favor. I am before
and above the earth, and over your life, and your oppressors
I will wither with my breath. I come to you with help. I
need no worship from you. But I say love me, for love is
life, and I love you. Look at the stars I have made. I
know every one of them. !N"ot one goes wrong, because I
keep him right. Why sayest thou, O Jacob, and speakest,
O Israel ^my way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment
is passed over from my God ! I give power to the faint^
and to them that have no might, plenty of strength."
"Thus," I went on to say, "God brings His strength to
destroy our weakness by making us strong. This is a God
indeed ! Shall we not trust Him ?"
I gave my people this paraphrase of the chapter, to help
them to see the meanings which their familiarity with the
words, and their non-familiarity with the modes of Eastern
thought, and the forms of Eastern expression, would unite
to prevent them from catching more than broken glimmer-
ings of. And then I tried to show them that it was in the
commonest troubles of life,. as well as in the spiritual fears
and perplexities that came upon them, that they were to
trust in God ; for God made the outside as well as the in-
side, and they altogether belonged to Him ; and that when
outside things, such as pain or loss of work, or difficulty in
getting money, were referred to God and His will, they too
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Straightway became spiritual affairs, for nothing in the world
could any longer appear common or unclean to the man who
saw God in every thing. But I told them they must not
be too anxious to be delivered from that which troubled
them ; but they ought to be anxious to have the presence
of God with them to support them, and make them able in
patience to possess their souls ; and so the trouble would
work its end the purification of their minds, that the light
and gladness of God and all His earth, which the pure in
heart and the meek alone could inherit, might shine in upon
them. And then I repeated to them this portion of a pray-
er out of one of Sir Philip Sidney's books :
"O Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace
what sorrow Thou wilt have me suffer. Only thus much
let me crave of Thee (let my craving, O Lord, be accepted
of Thee, since even that proceeds from Thee) let me crave,
even by the noblest title, which in my greatest affliction I
may give myself, that I am Thy creature, and by Thy good-
ness (which is Thyself) that Thou wilt suffer some beam of
Thy majesty so to shine into my mind that it may still de-
l)end confidently on Thee."
All the time I was speaking, the rain, mingled with sleet,
was dashing against the windows, and the wind was howl-
ing over the graves all about. But the dead were not
troubled by the storm ; and over my head, from beam to
beam of the roof, now resting on one, now flitting to anoth-
er, a sparrow kept flying, which had taken refuge in the
church till the storm should cease and the sun shine out in
the great temple. " This," I said aloud, " is what the church
is for : as the sparrow finds there a house from the storm,
so the human heart escapes thither to hear the still small
voice of God when its faith is too weak to find Him in the
storm, and in the sorrow, and in the pain." And while I
spoke, a dim watery gleam fell on the chancel floor, and the
comfort of the sun awoke in my heart. Nor let any one
call me superstitious for taking that pale sun-ray of hope as
sent to me ; for I received it as comfort for the race, and
for me as one of the family, even as the bow that was set
in the cloud, a promise to the eyes of light for them that
sit in darkness. As I write, my eye falls upon the Bible on
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the table by my side, and I read the words, " For the Lord
God is a sun and shield, the Lord will give grace and glo-
ry." And I lift my eyes from my paper, and look abroad
from my window, and the sun is shining in its strength.
The leaves are dancing in the light wind that gives them
each its share of the sun, and my trouble has passed away
forever, like the storm of that night and the unrest of that
strange Sabbath.
Such comforts would come to us oftener from Nature if
we really believed that our God was the God of Nature ;
that when He made, or rather when He makes. He means ;
that not His hands only, but His heart too, is in the making
of those things ; that, therefore, the influences of Nature
upon human minds and hearts are because He intended
them. And if we believe that our God is every where, why
should we not think Him present even in the coincidences
that sometimes seem so strange ? for, if He be in the things
that coincide. He must be in the coincidence of those things.
Miss Oldcastle told me once that she could not take her
eyes off a butterfly which was flitting about in the church
all the time I was speaking of the resurrection of the dead.
I told the people that in Greek there was one word for the
soul and for a butterfly Psyche; that I thought as the
light on the rain made the natural symbol of mercy the
rainbow, so the butterfly was the type in nature, and made
to the end, among other ends, of being such a type of the
resurrection of the human body ; that its name certainly ex-
pressed the hope of the Greeks in immortality, while to us
it speaks likewise of a glorified body, whereby we shall
know and love each other with our eyes as well as our
hearts. My sister saw the butterfly too, but only remem-
bered that she had seen it when it was mentioned in her
hearing : on her the sight made no impression ; she saw no
coincidence.
I descended from the pulpit comforted by the sermon I
had preached to myself. But I was glad to feel justified
in telling my people that, in consequence of the continued
storm, for there had been no more of sunshine than just
that watery gleam, there would be no service in the after-
noon, and that I would instead visit some of my sick poor,
whom the weather might have discomposed in their worn
dwellings.
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The people were very slow in dispersing. There was so
much putting on of clogs, gathering up of skirts over the
head, and expanding of umbrellas, soon to be taken down
again as worse than useless in the violence of the wind, that
the porches were crowded, and the few left in the church
detained till the others made way. I lingered with these.
They were all poor people.
" I am sorry you will have such a wet walk home," I said
to Mrs. Baird, the wife of old Reginald Baird, the shoemaker,
a little wizened creature, with more wrinkles than hairs, who,
the older and more withered she grew, seemed, like the ker-
nels of some nuts, only to grow the sweeter.
"It's very good of you to let us off this afternoon, sir.
Not as I minds the wet : it finds out the holes in people's
shoes, and gets my husband into more work."
This was, in fact, the response of the shoemaker's wife to
my sermon. If we look for responses after our fashion in-
stead of after people's own fashion, we ought to be disap-
pointed. Any recognition of truth, whatever form it may
take, whether that of poetic delight, intellectual corrobora-
tion, practical commonplace, or even vulgar aphorism, must
be welcomed by the husbandmen of the God of growth. A
response which jars against the peculiar pitch of our mental
instrument must not therefore be turned away from with dis-
like. Our mood of the moment is not that by which the
universe is tuned into its harmonies. We must drop our
instrument and listen to the other ; and if we find that the
player upon it is breathing after a higher expression is,
after his fashion, striving to embody something he sees of
the same truth the utterance of which called forth this his
answer, let us thank God and take courage. God at least
is pleased ; and if our refinement and education take away
from our pleasure, it is because of something low, false, and
selfish, not divine in a word, that is mingled with that refine-
ment and that education. If the shoemaker's wife's response
to the prophet's grand poem about the care of God over His
creatures took the form of acknowledgment for the rain that
found out the holes in the people's shoes, it was the more
genuine and true, for in itself it afforded proof that it was
not a mere reflex of the words of the prophet, but sprung
from the experience and recognition of the shoemaker's wife.
Nor was there any thing necessarily selfish in it, for if there
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are holes in people's shoes, the sooner they are found out the
better.
While I was talking to Mrs. Baird, Mr. Stoddart, whose
love for the old organ had been stronger than his dislike to
the storm, had come down into the church, and now ap-
proached me.
" I never saw you in the church before, Mr. Stoddart," I
said, " though I have heard you often enough. You use
your own private door always."
"I thought to go that way now, but there came such a
fierce burst of wind and rain in my face that my courage
failed me, and I turned back ^like the sparrow tor refuge
in the church."
*' A thought strikes me," I said. " Come home with me
and have some lunch, and then we will go together to see
some of my poor people. I have often wished to ask you."
His face fell.
" It is such a day !" he answered, remonstratingly, but not
positively refusing. It was not his way ever to refuse any
thing positively.
" So it was when you set out this morning," I returned ;
"but you would not deprive us of the aid of your music for
the sake of a charge of wind and a rattle of rain-drops."
" But I sha'n't be of any use. You are going, and that is
enough."
" I beg your pardon. Your very presence will be of use.
Nothing yet given him or done for him by his fellow ever
did any man so much good as the recognition of the broth-
erhood by the common signs of friendship and sympathy.
The best good of given money depends on the degree to
which it is the sign of that friendship and sympathy. Our
Lord did not make little of visiting : ' I was sick, and ye vis-
ited me.' * Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of
these, ye did it not to me.' Of course, if the visitor goes
professionally and not humanly as a mere religious police-
man, that is whether he only distributes tracts with conde-
scending words, or gives money liberally because he thinks
he ought, the more he does not go the better, for he only
does harm to them and himself too."
" But I can not pretend to feel any of the interest you
consider essential : why then should I go ?"
"To please me, your friend. That is a good human rea-
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son. You need not say a word ^you must not pretend any
thing. Go as my companion, not as their visitor. Will you
come ?"
" I suppose I must."
"You must, then. Thank you. You will help me. I
have seldom a companion."
So, when the storm-fit had abated for the moment, we
hurried to the vicarage, had a good though hasty lunch (to
which I was pleased to see Mr. Stoddart do justice ; for it is
with man as with beast, if you want work out of him, he
must eat well, and it is the one justification of eating well
that a man works well upon it), and set out for the village.
The rain was worse than ever. There was no sleet, and the
wind was not cold, but the windows of heaven were opened,
and if the fountains of the great deep were not broken up,
it looked like it, at least, when we reached the bridge and
saw how the river had spread out over all the low lands on
its borders. We could not talk much as we went along.
"Don't you find some pleasure in fighting the wind?" I
"I have no doubt I should," answered Mr. Stoddart, "if
I thought I were going to do any good ; but as it is, to tell
the truth, I would rather be by my own fire, with my folio
Dante on the reading-desk."
" Well, I would rather help the poorest woman in crea-
tion than contemplate the sufiTerings of the greatest and
wickedest," I said.
"There are two things you forget," returned Mr. Stod-
dart. " First, that the poem of Dante is not nearly occupied
with the sufferings of the wicked ; and, next, that what I
have complained of in this expedition which, as far as I am
concerned, I would call a wild-goose chase, were it not that
it is your doing and not mine is that I am not going to
help any body."
" You would have the best of the argument entirely," I
replied, " if your expectation was sure to turn out correct."
As I spoke, we had come within a few yards of the Tom-
kins's cottage, which lay low down from the village toward
the river, and I saw that the water was at the threshold. I
turned to Mr. Stoddart, who, to do him justice, had not yet
grumbled in the least.
" Perhaps you had better go home, after all," I said, " for
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 339
you must wade into Tomkins's if you go at all. Poor old
man ! what can he be doing, with his wife dying, and the
river in his house !"
" You have constituted yourself my superior officer, Mr.
Walton. I never turned my back on my leader yet, though
I confess I wish I could see the enemy a little clearer."
" There is the enemy," I said, pointing to the water and
walking into it.
Mr. Stoddart followed me without a moment's hesitation.
When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a small
stream of water running straight from the door to the fire
on the hearth, which it had already drowned. The old man
was sitting by his wife's bedside. Life seemed rapidly go-
ing from the old woman. She lay breathing very hard.
" Oh, sir," said the old man, as he rose, almost crying,
" you've come at last !"
"Did you send for me?" I asked.
" No, sir. I had nobody to send. Leastways I asked the
Lord if He wouldn't fetch you. I been prayin' hard for you
for the last hour. I couldn't leave her to come for you.
And I do believe the wind 'ud ha' blown me off my two old
legs."
" Well, I am come, you see. I would have come sootier,
but I had no idea you would be flooded."
" It's not that I mind, sir, though it is cold sin' the fire
went out. But she is goin' now, sir. She ha'n't spoken a
word this two hours and more, and her breathin's worse and
worse. She don't know me now, sir."
A moan of protestation came from the dying woman.
" She does know you, and loves you too, Tomkins," I said.
" And you'll both know each other better by-and-by."
The old woman made a feeble motion with her hand. I
took it in mine. It was cold and deathlike. The rain was
falling in large slow drops from the roof upon the bed-
clothes. But she would be beyond the reach of all the re-
gion of storms before long, and it did not matter much.
" Look if you can find a basin or plate, Mr. Stoddart, and
put it to catch the drop here," I said, for I wanted to give
him the first chance of being useful.
" There's one in the press there," said the old man, rising
feebly.
" Keep your seat," said Mr. Stoddart. " I'll get it."
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And he got a basin from the cupboard, and put it on the
bed to catch the drop.
The old woman held my hand in hers, but by its motion
I knew that she wanted something ; and guessing what it
was from what she had said before, I made her husband sit
on the bed on the other side of her and take hold of her
other hand, while I took his place on the chair by the^ bed-
side. This seemed to content her. So I went and whis-
pered to Mr. Stoddart, who had stood looking on discon-
solately,
"You heard me say I would visit some of my sick people ^
this afternoon. Some will be expecting me with certainty.
You must go instead of me, and tell them that I can not
come, because old Mrs. Tomkins is dying ; but I will see
them soon."
He seemed rather relieved at the commission. I gave
him the necessary directions to find the cottages, and he
left me.
I may mention here that this was the beginning of a re-
lation between Mr. Stoddart and the poor of the parish a
very slight one indeed, at first, for it consisted only in his
knowing two or three of them, so as to ask after their health
when he met them, and give them an occasional half crown.
But it led to better things before many years had passed.
It seems scarcely more than yesterday though it is twenty
years ago that I came upon him in the avenue, standing in
dismay over the fragments of a jug of soup which he had
dropped, to the detriment of his trowsers as well as the loss
of his soup. "What am I to do?" he said. "Poor Jones
expects his soup to-day." " Why, go back and get some
more." " But what will cook say ?" The poor man was
more afraid of the cook than he would have been of a 'squad-
ron of cavalry. " Never mind the cook. Tell her you must
have some more as soon as it can be got ready." He stood
uncertain for a moment. Then his face brightened. " I will
tell her I want my luncheon. I always have soup. And
I'll get out through the green-house, and carry it to Jones."
"Very well," I said ; " that will do capitally." And I went
on, without caring to disturb my satisfaction by determining
whether the devotion of his own soup arose more from love
to Jones or fear of the cook. He was a great help to me
in the latter part of his life, especially after I lost good Dr.
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 341
Duncan, and my beloved friend Old Rogers.' He was just
one of those men who make excellent front-rank men, but
are quite unfit for officers. He could do what he was told
without flinching, but he always required to be told.
I resumed my seat by the bedside, where the old woman
was again moaning. As soon as I took her hand she ceased,
and so I sat till it began to grow dark*
" Are you there, sir ?" she would murmur.
" Yes, I am here. I have a hold of your hand."
" I can't feel you, sir."
" But you can hear me, and you can hear God's voice in
your heart, i am here, though you can't feel me ; and God
is here, though you can't see Him."
She would be silent for a while, and then murmur again,
" Are you there, Tomkins ?"
" Yes, my woman, I'm here," answered the old man to one
of these questions; "but I wish I was there instead, where-
somever it be as you're goin', old girl."
And all that I could hear of her answer was, " Bym-by
bym-by."
Why should I linger over the death-bed of an illiterate
woman, old and plain, dying away by inches? Is it only
that she died with a hold of my hand, and that therefore I
am interested in the story ? I trust not. I was interested
in her. Why ? Would my readers be more interested if I
told them of the death of a young lovely creature, who said
touching things, and died amid a circle of friends, who felt
that the very light of life was being taken away from them ?
It was enough for me that here was a woman with a heart
like my own ; who needed the same salvation I needed ; to
whom the love of God was the one blessed thing ; who was
passing through the same dark passage into the light that
the Lord had passed through before her, that I had to pass
through after her. She had no theories at least, she gave
utterance to none ; she had few thoughts of her own, and
gave still fewer of them expression ; you might guess at a
true notion in her mind, but an abstract idea she could
scarcely lay hold of; her speech was very common ; her
manner rather brusque than gentle ; but she could love ; she
could forget herself; she could be sorry for what she did or
thought wrong ; she could hope ; she could wish to be bet-
ter ; she could admire good people ; she could trust in God
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her Savior. And now the loving, God-made human heart
in her was going into a new school, that it might begin a
fresh beautiful growth. She was old, I have said, and plain ;
but now her old age and plainness were about to vanish,
and all that had made her youth attractive to young Tom-
kins was about to return to her, only rendered tenfold more
beautiful by the growth of fifty years of learning according
to her ability. God has such patience in worMng us into
vessels of honor in teaching us to be children ! And shall
we find the human heart, in which the germs of all that
is noblest, and loveliest, and likest to God have begun to
grow and manifest themselves, uninteresting, because its cir-
cumstances have been narrow, bare, and poverty-stricken,
though neither soi'did nor unclean ; because the woman is
old, and wrinkled, and brown, as if these were more than
the transient accidents of humanity ; because she has neither
learned grammar nor philosophy ; because her habits have
neither been delicate nor self-indulgent ? To help the mind
of such a woman to unfold to the recognition of the endless
delights of truth ; to watch the dawn of the rising intelli-
gence upon the too still face, and the transfiguration of the
whole form, as the gentle rusticity vanishes in yet gentler
grace, is a labor and a delight worth the time and mind of
an archangel. Our best living poet says ^but no, I will not
quote. It is a distinct wrong that befalls the best books to
have many of their best woi'ds quoted till in their own place
and connection they cease to have force and influence. The
meaning of the passage is that the communication of truth
is one of the greatest delights the human heart can experi-
ence. Surely this is true. Does not the teaching of men
form a great part of the divine gladness ?
Therefore even the dull approaches of death are full of
deep significance and warm interest to one who loves his
fellows, who desires not to be distinguished by any better
fate than theirs, and shrinks from the pride of supposing
that his own death, or that of the noblest of the good, is
more precious in the sight of God than that of " one of the
least of these little ones."
At length, after a long silence, the peculiar sounds of ob-
structed breathing indicated the end at hand. The jaw fell,
and the eyes were fixed. The old man closed the mouth
and the eyes of his old companion, weeping like a child,
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 343
and I prayed aloud, giving thanks to God for taking her to
Himself. It went to my heart to leave the old man alone
with the dead ; but it was better to let him be alone for a
while, ere the women should come to do the last offices for
the abandoned form.
I went to Old Rogers, told him the state in which I had
left poor Tomkins, and asked him what was to be done.
" I'll go and bring him home, sir, directly. He can't be
left there."
" But how can jrou bring him in such a night ?"
" Let me see, sir. I must think. Would your mare go
in a cart, do you think ?"
" Quite quietly. She brought a load of gravel from the
common a ifew days ago. But where's your cart? I
haven't got one."
"There's one at Weir's to be repaired, sir. It wouldn't
be stealing to borrow it."
How he managed with Tomkins I do not know. I thought
it better to leave all the rest to him. He only said after-
ward that he could hardly get the old man away from the
body. But when I went in next day I found Tomkins sit-
ting disconsolate, but as comfortable as he could be, in the
easy-chair by the side of the fire. Mrs. Rogers was bus-
tling about cheerily. The storm had died in the night. The
sun was shining. It was the first of the spring weather.
The whwie country was gleaming with water. But soon it
would sink away, and the grass be the thicker for its rising*
CHAPTER XXXI.
A COUNCIL OF PEIENDS.
Mt reader will easily believe that I returned home that
Sunday evening somewhat jaded, nor will he be surprised if
I say that next morning I felt disinclined to leave my bed.
I was able, however, to rise and go, as I have said, to Old
Rogers's cottage.
But when I came home I could no longer conceal from
myself that I was in danger of a return of my last attack.
I had been sitting for hours in wet clothes, with my boots
full of water, and now I had to suffer for it. But, as I was
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not to blame in the matter, and had no choice offered me
whether I should be wet or dry while I sat by the dying
woman, I felt no depression at the prospect of the coming
illness. Indeed, I was too much depressed from other causes,
from mental strife and hopelessness, to care much whether
I was well or ill. I could have welcomed death in the mood
in which I sometimes found myself during the next few
days, when I was unable to leave my bed, and knew that
Captain Everard was at the Hall, and knew nothing besides.
For no voice reached me from that quarter any more than
if Oldcastle Hall had been a region beyond the grave. Miss
Oldcastle seemed to have vanished from my ken as much as
Catharine Weir and Mrs.Tomkins yes, more for there
was only death between these and me, whereas there was
something far worse I could not always tell what that
rose ever between Miss Oldcastle and myself, and paralyzed
any effort I might fancy mysielf on the point of making for
her rescue.
One pleasant thing happened. On the Thursday, I think
it was, I felt better. My sister came into my room, and said
that Miss Crowther had called, and wanted to see me.
" Which Miss Crowther is it?" I asked.
^' The little lady, that looks like a bird, and chirps when
she talks."
Of course I was no longer in any doubt as to which of
them it was.
" You told her I had a bad cold, did you not ?"
*' Oh yes. But she says if it is only a cold, it will do you
no harm to see her."
" But you told her I was in bed, didn't you ?"
" Of course. But it makes no difference. She says she's
used to seeing sick folk in bed, and if you don't mind seeing
her, she doesn't mind seeing you."
" Well, I suppose I must see her," I said.
So my sister made me a little tidier, and introduced Miss
Crowther.
" Oh, dear Mr. Walton, I am so sorry ! But you're not
very ill, are you ?"
" I hope not, Misa Jemima. Indeed, I begin to think this
morning that I am going to get off easier than I expected."
" I am glad of that. Now listen to me. I won't keep
you, and it is a matter of some importance. I hear that
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one of your people is dead a young woman of the name
of Weir, who has left a little boy behind her. Now I have
been wanting for a long time to adopt a child "
"But," I interrupted her," what would Miss Hester say ?"
" My sister is not so very dreadful as perhaps you think
her, Mr. Walton ; and, besides, when I do want my own
way very particularly, which is not often, for there are not
so many things that it's worth while insisting upon but
when I do want my own way, I always have it. I then
stand upon my right of what do you call it? primo pri-
mogeniture that's it I Well, I think I know something
of this child's father. I am sorry to say I don't know much
good of him, and that's the worst of the boy. Still ^"
"The boy is an uncommonly sweet and lovable child,
whoever was his father," I interposed.
' I am very glad to hear it. I am the more determined
to adopt him. What friends has he ?"
" He has a grandfather, and an uncle and aunt, and will
have a godfather that's me in a few days, I hope."
"I am very glad to hear it. There will be no opposition
on the part of the relatives, I presume ?"
" I am not so sure of that. I fear I shall object for one.
Miss Jemima."
"I didn't expect that of you, Mr. Walton, I must say."
And there was a tremor in the old lady's voice more of
disappointment and hurt than of anger.
"1 will think it over, though, and talk about it to his
grandfather, and we shall find out what's best, I do hope.
You must not think I should not like you to have him."
" Thank you, Mr. Walton. Then I won't stay longer now.
But I warn you I will call again very soon, if you don't
come to see me. Good-morning."
And the dear old lady shook hands with me and left me
rather hurriedly, turning at the door, however, to add,
" Mind, I've set my heart upon having the boy, Mr. Wal-
ton. I've seen him often."
What could have made Miss Crowther take such a fancy
to the boy? I could not help associating it with what I
had heard of her youthful disappointment, but never having
had my conjectures confirmed, I will say no more about
them. Of course I talked the matter over with Thomas
Weir ; but, as I had suspected, I found that he was now as
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unwilling to part with the boy as he had formerly disliked
the sight of him. Nor did I press the matter at all, having
a belief that the circumstances of one'a natal position are
not to be rudely handled or thoughtlessly altered ; besides
that, I thought Thomas and his daughter ought to have all
the comfort and good that were to be got from the pres-
ence of the boy whose advent had occasioned them so much
trouble and sorrow, yea, and sin too. But I did not give a
positive and final refusal to Miss Crowther. I only said
*' for the present," for I did not feel at liberty to go farther.
I thought that such changes might take place as would ren-
der the trial of such a new relationship desirable, as, indeed,
it turned out in the end, though I can not tell the story now,
but must keep it for a possible futui*e.
I have, I think, entirely as yet, followed, in these memoirs,
the plan of relating either those things only at which I was
f resent, or, if other things, only in the same mode in which
heard them. I will now depart from this plan ^for once.
Years passed before some of the following facts were re-
ported to me, but it is only here that they could be interest-
mg to my readers.
At the very time Miss Crowthef was with me, as nearly
as I could guess. Old Rogers turned into Thomas Weir's
workshop. The usual, on the present occasion somewhat
melancholy, greetings having passed between them, Old
Rogers said,
" Don't you think, Mr. Weir, there's summat the matter
wi' parson ?"
" Overworked," returned Weir. " He's lost two, ye see,
and had to see them both safe over, as I may say, within the
same day. He's got a bad cold, I'm sorry to hear, besides.
Have ye heard of him to-day ?"
" Yes, yes ; he's badly, and in bed. But that's not what I
mean. There's summat on his mind," said Old Rogers.
" Well, I don't think it's for you or me to meddle with
parson's mind," returned Weir.
"I'm not so sure o' that," persisted Rogers. "But if I
had thought, Mr. Weir, as how you would be ready to take
me up short for mentionin' of the thing, I wouldn't ha'
opened my mouth to you about parson ^leastways in that
way, I mean."
" But what way do you mean. Old Rogers ?"
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" Why, about his in'ards, you kijow."
" I'm no nearer your meanin' yet."
" Well, Mr. Weir, you and rae's two old fellows now
leastways I'm a deal older than you. But that doesn't sig-
nify to what I want to say."
And here Old Rogers stuck fest according to Weir's
story.
"It don't seem easy to say nohow, Old Rogers," said
Weir. ,
"Well, it ain't. So I, must just let it go by the run, and
hope the parson, who'll never know, would forgive me if he
did."
"WeU, then, what is it?"
" It's my opinion that that parson o' ours ^you see, we
knows about it, Mr. Weir, though we're not gentlefolks
leastways I'm none."
" Now, what do you mean. Old Rogers ?"
" Well, I means this as how parson's in love. There,
that's paid out."
" Suppose he was, I don't see yet what business that is of
yours or mine either."
" Well, I do. I'd go to Davie Jones for that man."
A heathenish expression, perhaps ; but Weir assured me,
with much amusement in his tone, that those were the veiy
words Old Rogers used. Leaving the expression aside, will
the reader think for a moment on the old man's reasoning ?
My condition wlb his business ; for he was ready to die for
me ! Ah ! love does indeed make us all each other's keeper,
just as we were intended to be*
" But what can we do ?" returned Weir.
Perhaps he was the less inclined to listen to the old man
that he was busy with a coffin for his daughter, who was
lying dead down the street. And so my poor affairs were
talked of over the cofljn-planks. Well, well, it was no bad
omen.
" I tell you what, Mr. Weir, this here's a serious business,
and it seems to me it's not shipshape o' you to go on with
that plane o' yours when we're talkm' about parson."
" Well, Old Rogers, I meant no offense, ^ere goes. Now^
what have you to say ? Though if it's offense to parson
you're speakin' of, I know, if I were parson, who I'd think
was takin' the greatest liberty, me wi' my plane, or you wi'
your fancies."
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" Belay there, and hearken."^
So Old Rogers went into as many particulars as he
thought fit, to prove that his suspicion as to the state of
my mind was correct, which particulars I do not care to lay
in a collected form before my reader, he being in no need
of such a summing up to give his verdict, seeing the parson
has already pleaded guilty. When he had finished,
" Supposing all you say. Old Rogers," remarked Thomas,
' I don't yet see what we^ve got to do with it. Parson
ought to know best what he's about."
" But my daughter tells me," said Rogers, " that Miss
Oldcastle has no mind to marry Captain Everard, and she
thinks if parson would only speak out he might have a
chance."
Weir made no reply, and was silent so long, with his head
bent, that Rogers grew impatient.
" Well, man, ba' you nothing to say now ^not for your
best friend on earth, I mean and that's parson ? It may
seem a small matter to you, but ifs no small matter to par-
son."
" Small to me !" said Weir, and, taking up his tool a
constant recourse with him when agitated ^he began to
plane furiously.
Old Rogers now saw that there was more in it than he
had thought, and held his peace and waited. After a min-
ute or two of fierce activity, Thomas lifted up a face more
white than the deal-board he was planing, and said,
" You should have come to the point a little sooner, Old
Rogers."
He then laid down his plane and went out of the work-
shop, leaving Rogers standing there in bewilderment. But
he was not gone many minutes. He returned with a letter
in his hand.
"There," he said, giving it to Rogers.
" I can't read hand o' write," returned Rogers. " I ha'
enough ado with straight-foret print. But I'll take it to
parson."
" On no account," returned Thomas, emphatically. "That's
not what I gave it you for. Neither you nor parson has any
right to read that letter, and I don't want either of you to
read it. Can Jane read writing ?"
" I don't know as she can ; for, you see, what makes lasses
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take to writin' is when their young man's over the seas,
leastways not in the mill over the brook."
" I'll be back in a minute," said Thomas, and, taking the
letter from Rogers's hand, he left the shop again.
He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an
envelope, addressed to Miss Oldcastle.
" Now you tell your Jane to give that to Miss Oldcastle
from me mind, from me; and she must give it into her
own hands, and let no one else see it ; and I must have it
again. Mind you tell her all that. Old Rogers."
" I will. It's for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to know
on't ; and you're to have it again all safe when done with."
" Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it ?"
"I think I can. I ought to, any how. But she can't
know any think in the letter now, Mr. Weir."
" I know that ; but Marshmallows is a talkin' place ; and
poor Kate ain't right out o' hearin' yet. You'll come and
see her buried to-morrow, won't ye. Old Rogers ?"
" I will, Thomas. You've had a troubled life, but, thank
God, the sun came out a bit before she died."
"That's true, Rogers. It's all right, I do think, though I
grumbled long and sore. But Jane mustn't speak of that
letter."
" No, that she sha'n't."
" I'll tell you some day what's in it, but I can't bear to
talk about it yet." And so they parted.
I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my dead
out of my sight or to comfort my living the next Sunday.
I got help from Addicehead, however, and the dead bodies
were laid aside in the ancient wardrobe of the tomb. They
were both buried by my vestry door, Catharine where I had
found young Tom lying, namely, in the grave of her mother,
and old Mrs.Tomkins on the other side of the path.
On Sunday Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and she
carried it to the Hall. It was not till she had to wait on her
mistress before leaving her for the night that she found an
opportunity of giving it into her own hands.
Then when her bell rang, Jane went up to her room, and
found her so pale and haggard that she was frightened.
She had thrown herself back on the couch, with her hands
lying by her sides, as if she cared for nothing in this world
or out of it. But when Jane entered, she started and sat
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up, and tried to look like herself. Her face, however, was
so pitiful, that honest-hearted Jane could not help crying,
upon which the responsive sisterhood overcame the proud
lady, and she cried too. Jane had all but forgotten the let-
ter, of the import of which she had no idea, for her father
had taken care to rouse no suspicions in her mind. But
when she saw her cry, the longing to give her something,
which comes to us all when we witness trouble ^for giving
seems to mean every thing ^brought to her mind the letter
she had undertaken to deliver to her. Now she had no no-
tion, as I have said, that the letter had any thing to do with
her present perplexity, but she hoped it might divert her
thoughts for a moment, which is all that love at a distance
can look for sometimes.
" Here is a letter," said Jane, " that Mr. Weir the carpen-
ter gav e to my father to give to me to bring to you, miss."
"What is it about, Jane ?" she asked, listlessly.
Then a sudden flash broke from her eyes, and she held
out her hand eagerly to take it. She opened it and read it
with changing color, but when she had finished it her cheeks
Were crimson, and her eyes glowing like fire.
"The wretch!" she said, and threw the letter from her
into the middle of the floor.
Jane, who remembered the injunctions of her father as to
the safety and return of the letter, stooped to pick it up ;
but had hardly raised herself when the door opened, and in
came Mrs. Oldcastle. The moment she saw her mother,
Ethelwyn rose, and, advancing to meet her, said,
" Mother, I will not marry that man. You may do what
you please with me, but I wiU notP
" Heighho !" exclaimed Mrs. Oldcastle, with spread nos-
trils, and, turning suddenly upon Jane, snatched the letter
out of her hand.
She opened and read it, her face getting more still and
stony as she read. Miss Oldcastle stood and looked at her
mother with cheeks now pale, but with still flashing eyes.
The moment her mother had finished the letter, she walked
swiftly to the fire, tearing the letter as she went, and thrust
it between the bars, pushing it in fiercely with the poker,
and muttering,
" A vile forgery of those low Chartist wretches ! As if
he would ever have looked at one of tlmr women ! A low
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conspiracy to get money from a gentleman in his honorable
position !"
And for the first time since she went to the Hall, Jane
said, there was color in that dead white face.
She turned once more, fiercer than ever, upon Jane, and
in a tone of rage under powerful repression, began :
" You leave the house this instant,^
The last two words, notwithstanding her self-command,
rose to a scream. And she came from the fire toward Jane,
who stood trembling near the door, with such an expression
on her countenance that absolute fear drove her from the
room before she knew what she was about. The locking
of the door behind her let her know that she had abandoned
her young mistress to the madness of her mother's evil tem-
per and disposition. But it was too late. She lingered by
the door and listened, but beyond an occasional hoarse tone
of suppressed energy, she heard nothing. At length the
lock as suddenly turned, and she was surprised by Mrs. Old-
castle, if not in a listening attitude, at least where she had
no right to be after the dismissal she had received.
Opposite Miss Oldcastle's bedroom was another, seldom
used, the door of which was now standing open. Instead
of speaking to Jane, Mrs. Oldcastle gave her a violent push,
which drove her into this room. Thereupon she shut the
door and locked it. Jane spent the whole of the night in
that room,, in no small degree of trepidation as to what
might happen next. But she heard no noise all the rest of
the night, part of which, however, was spent in sound sleep,
for Jane's conscience was in no ways disturbed as to any
pait she had played in the current events.
It was not till the morning that she examined the door,
to see if she could not manage to get out and escape from
the house, for she shared with the rest of the family in an
indescribable fear of Mrs. Oldcastle and her confidante, the
White Wolf. But she found it was of no use : the lock was
at least as strong as the door. Being a sensible girl and
self-possessed, as her parents' child ought to be, she made
no noise, but waited patiently for what might come. At
length, hearing a step in the passage, she tapped gently at
the door, and called, " Who's there ?" The cook's voice
answered.
" Let me out," said Jane. "The door's locked."
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The cook tried, but found there was no key. Jane told
her how she came there, and the cook promised to get her
out as soon as she could. Meantime all she could do for
her was to hand her a loaf of bread on a stick from the next
window. It had been long dark before some one unlocked
the door, and left her at liberty to go where she pleased, of
which she did not fail to make immediate use.
Unable to find her young mistress^ she packed her box,
and, leaving it behind her, escaped to her father. As soon
as she had told him the story, he came straight to me.
CHAPTER XXXn.
THE NEXT THING.
As I sat in my study, in the twilight of that same day, the
door was hurriedly opened, and Judy entered. She looked
about the room with a quick glance to see that we were alone,
then caught my hand in both of hers, and burst out crying.
"Why, Judy," I said, " what is the matter?"
But the sobs would not allow her to answer. I was too
frightened to put any more questions, and so stood silent,
my chest feeling like an empty tomb that waited for death
to fill it. At length, with a strong effort, she checked the
succession of her sobs, and spoke :
*' They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost already,"
said the child, again bursting into tears.
"Tell me, Judy, what can I do for her ?"
" You must find out, Mr. Walton. If you loved her as
much as I do, you would find out what to do."
" But she will not let me do any thing for her."
"Yes, she will. She says you promised to help her some
day."
" Did she send you, then ?"
" No, she did not send me."
"Then how what what can I do ?"
" Oh, you exact people ! You must have every thing
square and in print before you move. If it had been me
now, wouldn't I have been off like a shot ! Do get your
hat, Mr. Walton."
" Come, then, Judy, I will go at once. Shall I see her ?"
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 353
And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing her
from her persecutors, though I had not yet the smallest idea
how it was to be effected.
" We will talk about that as we go," said Judy, authori-
tatively.
In a moment more we were in the open air. It was a
still night, with an odor of damp earth and a hint of green
buds in it. A pale half moon hung in the sky, now and
then hidden by the clouds that swept across it, for there
was wind in the heavens, though upon earth all was still.
I offered Judy my arm, but she took my hand, and we
walked on without a word till we had got through the vil-
lage and out upon the road.
" Now, Judy," I said at last, " tell me what they are do-
ing to your aunt."
" I don't know what they are doing. But I am sure she
will die."
"Is she ill?"
" She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave her room.
Grannie must have frightened her dreadfully. Every body
is frightened at her but me, and I begin to be frightened too.
And what will become of auntie then ?"
" But what can her mother do to her ?"
" I don't know. I think it is her determination to have
her own way that makes auntie afraid she will get it some-
how ; and she says now she will rather die than marry Cap-
tain Everard. Then there is no one allowed to wait on her
but Sarah, and I know the very sight of her is enough to turn
auntie sick almost. What has become of Jane I don't know.
I haven't seen her all day, and the servants are whispering
together more than usual. Auntie can't eat what Sarah
brings her, I am sure, else I should almost fancy she was starv-
ing herself to death to keep clear of that Captain Everard."
"Is he still at the Hall?"
" Yes. But I don't think it is altogether his fault. Gran-
nie won't let him go. I don't believe he knows how determ-
ined auntie is not to marry him. Only, to be sure, though
grannie never lets her have more than five shillings in her
pocket at a time, she will be worth something when she is
married."
" Nothing can make her worth more than she is, Judy,"
I said, perhaps with some discontent in my tone.
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" That^s as you and I think, Mr. Walton ; not as grannie
and the captain think at all. I dare say he would not care
much more than grannie whether she was willing or not, so
long as she married him.*'
"But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we reach
the Hall, else my coming will be of no use."
" Of course. I know how much I can do, and you must
arrange the rest with her. I will take you to the httle room
up stairs we call it the octagon. That, you know, is just
under auntie's room. They will be at dinner the captain
and grannie. I will leave you there, and tell auntie that you
want to see her."
" But, Judy "
"Don't you want to see her, Mr. Walton ?"
" Yes, I do, more than your can think."
" Then I will tell her so."
" But will she come to me ?"
" I don't know. We have to find that out."
" Very well. I leave myself in your hands."
I was now perfectly collected. All my dubitation and
distress were gone, for I had something to do, although
what I could not yet tell. That she did not love Captain
Everard was plain, and that she had as yet resisted her
mother was also plain, though it was not equally certain
that she would, if left at her mercy, go on to resist her.
This was what I hoped to strengthen her to do. I saw
nothing more within my reach as yet. But, from what I
knew of Miss Oldcastle, I saw plainly enough that no greater
good could be done for her than this enabling to resistance.
Self-assertion was so foreign to her nature, that it needed a
sense of duty to rouse her even to self-defense. As I have
said before, she was clad in the mail of endurance, but was
utterly without weapons. And there was a danger of her
conduct, and then of her mind, giving way at last, from the
gradual inroads of weakness upon the thews which she left
unexercised. In respect of this, I prayed heartily that I
might help her.
Judy and I scarcely spoke to each other from the mo-
ment we entered the gate till I fouiid myself at a side door
which I had never observed till now. It was fastened, and
Judy told me to wait till she went in and opened it. The
moon was now quite obscured, and I was under no appre-
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A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. 355
hension of discovery. While I stood there I could not help
thinking of Dr. Duncan's story, and reflecting that the daugh-
ter was now returning the kindness shown to the mother.
I had not to wait long before the door opened behind me
noiselessly, and I stepped into the dark house. Judy took
me by the hand, and led me along a passage, and then up a
stair into the little drawing-room. There was no light.
She led me to a seat at the farther end, and, opening a door
close beside me, left me in the dark.
There I sat so long that I fell into a fit of musing, broken
ever by startled expectation. Castle after castle I built up ;
castle after castle fell to pieces in my hands. Still she did
not come. At length I got so restless and excited that only
the darkness kept me from starting up and pacing the room.
Still she did not come ; and partly from weakness, partly
from hope deferred, I found myself beginning to tremble all
over. Nor could I control myself. As the trembling in-
creased, I grew alarmed lest I should become unable to carry
out all that might be necessaiy.
Suddenly from out of the dark a hand settled on my arm.
I looked up, and could just see the whiteness of a face. Be-
fore I could speak, a voice said brokenly, in a half- whisper,
" TFi'^you save me, Mr. Walton ? But you're trembling;
you are ill ; you ought not to have come to me. I will get
you something."
And she moved to go, but I held her. All my trembling
was gone in a moment. Her words, so careful of me even
in her deep misery, went to my heart and gave me strength.
The suppressed feelings of many months rushed to my lips.
What I said I do not know, but I know that I told her I
loved her. And I know that she did not draw her hand
from mine when 1 said so.
But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling.
" Forgive me," I said ; *' I am selfishness itself to speak
to you thus now, to take advantage of your misery to make
you listen to mine. But, at least, it will make you sure that
if all I am, all I have will save you "
" But I am saved already," she interposed, " if you love
me for I love you."
And for some moments there were no words to speak. I
stood holding her hand, conscious only of God and her. At
last I said,
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" There is no time now but for action. Nor do I see any
thing but to go with me at once. Will you come home to
my sister? Or I will take you wherever you please."
" I will go with you any where you think best. Only
take me away."
" Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we
will settle all about it as we go."
She had scarcely left the room when Mrs. Oldcastle came
to the door.
" No lights here !" she said. " Sarah, bring candles, and
tell Captain Everard, when he will join us, to come to the
octagon room. Where can that little Judy be ? The child
gets more and more troublesome, I do think. I must take
her in hand."
I had been in great perplexity how to let her know that
I was there ; for to announce yourself to a lady by a voice
out of the darkness of her boudoir, or to wait for candles
to discover you where she thought she was quite alone
neither is a pleasant way of presenting yourself to her con-
sciousness. But I was helped out of the beginning into
the middle of my difficulties once more by that blessed little
Judy. I did not know she was in the room till I heard her
voice, nor do I yet know how much she had heard of the
conversation between her aunt and myself; for although I
sometimes see her look roguish, even now that she is a mid-
dle-aged woman with many children, when any thing is said
which might be supposed to have a possible reference to
that night, I have never cared to ask her.
" Here I am, grannie," said her voice. " But I won't be
taken in hand by you or any one else. I tell you that. So
mind. And Mr. Walton is here too, and Aunt Ethel wyn is
going out with him for a long walk."
" What do you mean, you silly child ?"
" I mean what I say," and " Miss Judy speaks the truth,"
fell together from her lips and mine.
"Mr. Walton," began Mrs. Oldcastle, indignantly, "it is
scarcely like a gentleman to come where you are not want-
ed ^"
Here Judy interrupted her.
" I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr. Walton was wanted
very much wanted. I went and fetched him,"
But Mrs. Oldcastle went on unheeding.
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" ^And to be sitting in my room in the dark, too !'*
" That couldn't be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah
with candles."
"Sarah," said Mrs. Oldcastle, " ask Captain Everard to be
kind enough to step this way."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Sarah, with an untranslatable
look at me as she set down the candles. *
We could now see each other. Knowing words to be
but idle breath, I would not complicate matters by speech,
but stood silent, regarding Mrs. Oldcastle. She, on her part,
did not flinch, but returned my look with one both haughty
and contemptuous. In a few moments Captain Everard
entered, bowed slightly, and looked to Mrs. Oldcastle as if
for an explanation ; whereupon she spoke, but to me.
" Mr. Walton," she said, " will you explain to Captain
Everard to what we owe the unexpected pleasure of a visit
from you ?"
" Camtain Everard has no claim to any explanation from
me. To you, Mrs. Oldcastle, I would have answered, had
you asked me, that I was waiting for Miss Oldcastle."
"Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr. Walton in-
sists upon seeing her at once."
"That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be here
presently," I said.
Mrs. Oldcastle turned slightly livid with wrath. She was
always white, as I have said : the change I can describe
only by the word I have used, indicating a bluish darkening
of the whiteness. She walked toward the door beside me.
I stepped between her and it.
" Pardon me, Mrs. Oldcastle. That is the way to Miss
Oldcastle's room. I am here to protect her."
Without saying a word, she turned and looked at Captain
Everard. He advanced with a long stride of determination.
But ere he reached me, the door behind me opened, and Miss
Oldcastle appeared in her bonnet and shawl, carrying a small
bag in her hand. Seeing how things were, the moment she
entered, she put her hand on my arm, and stood fronting the
enemy with me. Judy was on my right, her eyes flashing,
and her cheek as red as a peony, evidently prepared to do
battle d toute outrance for her friends.
" Miss Oldcastle, go to your room instantly, I command
you," said her mother; and she approached as if to remove
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her hand from my arm. I put my other arm between her
and her daughter.
" No, Mrs. Oldcastle," I said, " you have lost all a moth-
er's rights by ceasing to behave like a mother. Miss Old-
castle will never more do any thing in obedience to your
commands^ whatever she may do in compliance with your
wishes."
"Allow me to remark," said Captain Everard, with at-
tempted nonchalance, " that that is strange doctrine for your
cloth."
" So much the worse for my cloth, then," I answered, " and
the better for yours, if it leads you to act more honorably."
Still keeping himself intrenched in the affectation of a su-
percilious indifference, he smiled haughtily, and gave a look
of dramatic appeal to Mrs. Oldcastle.
"At least," said that lady, "do not disgrace yourself,
Ethelwyn, by leaving the house in this unaccountable man-
ner at night and on foot. If you will leave the protection
of your mother's roof, wait at least till to-morrow."
" I would rather spend the night in the open air than pass
another under your roof, mother. You have been a strange
mother to me and Dorothy too!"
"At least do not put your character in question by going
in this unmaidenly mshion. People will talk to your preju-
dice and Mr. Walton's too."
Ethelwyn smiled. She was now as collected as I was,
seeming to have cast off all her weakness. My heart was
uplifted more than I can say. She knew her mother too
well to be caught by the change in her tone.
I had not hitherto interrupted her once when she took
the answer upon herself, for she was not one to be checked
when she chose to speak. But now she answered nothing,
only looked at me, and I understood her, of course.
" They will hardly have time to do so, I trust, before it
will be out of their power. It rests with Miss Oldcastle
herself to say when that shall be."
As if she had never suspected that such was the result of
her scheming, Mrs. Oldcastle's demeanor changed utterly.
The form of her visage was altered. She made a spring at
her daughter, and seized her by the arm.
" Then I forbid it," she screamed ; " and I willhe obeyed.
I stand on my rights. Go to your room, you minx."
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" There is no law, human or divine, to prevent her from
marrying whom she will. How old are you, Ethelwyn ?"
I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was.
" Twenty-seven," answered Miss Oldcastle.
" Is it possible you can be so foolish, Mrs. Oldcastle, as to
think you have the slightest hold on your daughter's free-
dom ? Let her arm go."
But she kept her grasp.
" You hurt me, mother," said Miss Oldcastle.
" Hurt you I you smooth-faced hypocrite ; I will hurt you,
then !"
But I took Mrs. Oldcastle's arm in my hand, and she let
go her hold.
" How dare you touch a woman," she said.
" Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to tor-
ture her own daughter."
Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying,
"The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time for
the military to interfere."
" Well put. Captain Everard," I said. " Our side will dis-
perse if you will only leave room for us to go."
"Possibly JT may have something to say in the matter."
"Say on."
"This lady has jilted me."
" Have you, Ethelwyn ?"
"I have not."
" Then, Captain Everard, you lie."
" You dare to tell me so ?" And he strode a pace nearer.
" It needs no daring. I know you too well ; and so does
another who trusted you, and found you false as hell."
" You presume on your cloth, but " he said, lifting his
hand.
"You may strike me, presuming on my cloth," I answered,
" and I will not return your blow. Insult me as you will, and
I will bear it. Call me coward, and I will say nothing. But
lay one hand on me to prevent me from doing my duty, and
I knock you down or find you more of a man than I take
you for."
It was either conscience or something not so good that
made a coward of him. He turned on his heel.
"I really am not sufficiently interested in the affair to op-
pose you. You may take the girl for me. Both your cloth
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and the presence of ladies protect your insolence. I do not
like brawling where one can not fight. You shall hear from
me before long, Mr. Walton."
" No, Captain Everard, I shall not hear from you. You
know you dare not write to me. I know that of you which,
even on the code of the duelist, would justify any gentleman
in refusing to meet you. Stand out of my way !"
I advanced with Miss Oldcastle on my arm. He drew
back, and we left the room.
As we reached the door, Judy bounded after us, threw
her arms round her aunt's neck, then round mine, kissing us
both, and returned to her place on the sofa. Mrs. Oldcastle
gave a scream, and sunk fainting on a chair. It was a last
effort to detain her daughter and gain time. Miss Oldcastle
would have returned, but I would not permit her.
" No," I said, " she will be better without you. Judy,
ring the bell for Sarah."
" How dare you give orders in my house ?" exclaimed
Mrs. Oldcastle, sitting bolt upright in the chair, and shaking
her fist at us. Then assuming the heroic, she added, " From
this moment she is no daughter of mine. Nor can you touch
^one farthing of her money, sir. You have married a beggar
after all, and that you'll both know before long."
" Thy money perish with thee !" I said, and repented the
moment I had said it. It sounded like an imprecation, and
I know I had no correspondent feeling ; for, after all, she
was the mother of my Ethelwyn. But the allusion to mon-
ey made me so indignant, that the words burst from me ere
I could consider their import.
The cool wind greeted us like the breath of God as we
left the house and closed the door behind us. The moon
was shining from the edge of a vaporous mountain, which
gradually drew away from her, leaving her alone in the
midst of a lake of blue. But we had not gone many paces
from th house when Miss Oldcastle began to tremble vio-
lently, and could scarcely get along with all the help I could
give her. Nor, for the space of six weeks, did one word
pass between us about the painful occurrences of that even-
mg, for all that time she was quite unable to bear it.
When we managed at last to reach the vicarage, I gave
her in charge to my sister, with instructions to help her to
bed at once, while I went for Dr. Duncan.
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CHAPTER XXXm.
^ OLD EOGERS'S THANKSGIVING.
I POUND the old man seated at his dinner, which he left
immediately when he heard that Miss Oldcastle needed his
help. In a few words I told him, as we went, the story of
what had befallen at the Hall, to which he listened with the
interest of a boy reading a romance, asking twenty ques-
tions about the particulars which I hurried over. Then he
shook me warmly by the hand, saying,
" You have fairly won her, Walton, and I am as glad of
it as I could be of any thing I can think of. She is well
worth all you must have suffered. This will at length re-
move the curse from that wretched family. You have saved
her from perhaps even a worse fate than her sister's."
" I fear she will be ill, though," I said, " after all that she
has gone through."
But I did not even suspect how ill she would be.
As soon as I heard Dr. Duncan's opinion of her, which
was not very definite, a great fear seized upon me that I
was destined to lose her after all. This fear, however, ter-
rible as it was, did not torture me like the fear that had
preceded it. I could oftener feel able to say, " Thy will be
done," than I could before.
Dr. Duncan was hardly out of the house when Old Rog-
ers arrived, and was shown into the study. He looked ex-
cited. I allowed him to tell out his story, which was his
daughter's of course, without interruption. He ended by
saying,
" Now, sir, you really must do sumraat. This won't do
in a Christian country. We ain't aboard ship here with a
nor'easter a-walkin' the quarter-deck."
"There's no occasion, my dear old fellow, to do any
thing."
He was taken aback.
*' Well, I don't understand you, Mr. Walton. You're the
last man I'd have expected to hear argufy for faith without
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works. It's right to trust in God ; but if you don't stand
to your halliards, your crafl'll miss stays, and your faith'll
be blown out of the bolt-ropes in the turn of a marlin-
spike."
I suspect there was some confusion in the figure, but the
old man's meaning was plain enough. Nor would I keep
him in a moment more of suspense.
" Miss Oldcastle is in the house, Old Rogers," I said.
" What house, sir ?" returned the old man, his gray eyes
opening wider as he spoke.
" This house, to be sure."
I shall never forget the look the old man cast upward, or
the reality given to it by the ordinarily odd sailor-fashion
of pulling his forelock, as he returned inward thanks to the
Father of all for His kindness to his friend. And never in
my now wide circle of readers shall I find one, the most
educated and responsive, who will listen to my story with
a more gracious interest than that old man showed as I re-
counted to him the adventures of the evening. There were
few to whom I could have told them : to Old Rogers I felt
that it was right, and natural, and dignified to tell the story
even of my love's victory.
How, then, am I able to tell it to the world as now ? I
can easily explain the seeming inconsistency. It is not
merely that I am speaking, as I have said before, from be-
hind a screen, or as clothed in the coat of darkness of an
anonymous writer ; but I find that, as I come nearer and
nearer to the invisible world, all my brothers and sisters
grow dearer and dearer to me ; I feel toward them more
and more as the children of my Father in heaven ; and al-
though some of them are good children and some naughty
children, some very lovable and some hard to love, yet I
never feel that they are below me, or unfit to listen to the
story even of my love, if they only care to listen ; and if
they do not care, there is no harm done, except they read it.
Even should they, and then scoff at what seemed and seems
to me the precious story, I have these defenses : first, that it
was not for them that I cast forth my precious pearls, for
precious to me is the significance of every fact in my histo-
ry not that it is mine, for I have only been as clay in the
hands of the potter, but that it is God's, who made my his-
tory as it seemed and was good to Him ; and, second, that
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even should they tramfde them tinder their feet, they can
not well get at me to rend me. And more, the nearer I
come to the region beyond, the more I feel that in that land
a man need not shrink from uttering his deepest thoughts,
inasmuch as he that understands them not will not there-
fore revile him. " But you are not there yet. You are in
the land in which the brother speaketh evil of that which
he understandeth not." True, friend too true. But I
only do as Dr. Donne did in writing that poem in his sick-
ness, when he thought he was near to the world of which
we speak : I rehearse now, that I may find it easier then.
" Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with the choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made thy music, as I come,
, I tune the instrument here at the door ;
And what I must do then, think here before. '^
When Rogers had thanked God, he rose, took my hand,
and said,
"Mr. Walton, you wUl preach now. I thank God for
the good we shall all get from the trouble you have gone
through."
" I ought to be the better for it," I answered.
" You wiU be the better for it," he returned. " I believe
I've alius been the better for any trouble as ever I had to
go through with. I couldn't quite say the same for every
bit of good luck I had leastways I consider trouble the
best luck a man can have. And I wish you a good-night,
sir. Thank God ! again."
" But, Rogers, you don't mean it would be good for us to
have bad luck always, do you ? You shouldn't be pleased
at what's come to me now, in that case."
" No, sir, sartinly not."
"How can you say, then, that bad luck is the best luck?"
" I mean the bad luck that comes to us not the bad luck
that doesn't come. But you're right, sir. Good luck or
bad luck's both best when Se sends 'em, as He alius does.
In fac', sir, there is no bad luck but what comes out o' the
man hisself. The rest's all good."
But, whether it was the consequence of a reaction from
the mental strain I had sufiered, or the depressing effect of
Miss Oldcastle's illness coming so close upon the joy of win-
ning her, or that I was more careless and less anxious to do
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my duty than I ought to have been, I greatly fear that Old
Rogers must have been painfully disappointed in the ser-
mons which I did preach for several of the following Sun-
days. He never even hinted at such a fact, but I felt it
much myself. A man has often to be humbled through
failure, especially after success. I do not clearly know how
my failures worked upon me ; but I think a man may some-
times get spiritual good without being conscious of the point
of its arrival, or being able to trace the process by which it
was wrought in him. I believe that my failures did work
some humility in me, and a certain carelessness of outward
success even in spiritual matters, so far as the success affect-
ed me, provided only the will of God was. done in the dis-
honor of my weakness. And I think, but I am not sure,
that soon after I approached this condition of mind, I began
to preach better. But still I found for some time that, how-
ever inuch the subject of my sermon interested me in my
* study, or in the church oV vestry, on the Saturday evening
nay, even although my heart was full of fervor during the
prayers and lessons, no sooner had I begun to speak than
the glow died out of the sky of my thoughts ; a dull clear-
ness of the intellectual faculties took its place ; and I was
painfully aware that what I could speak without being
moved myself was not the most likely utterance to move
the feelings of those who only listened. Still a man may
occasionally be used by the Spirit of God as the inglorious
" trumpet of a prophecy" instead of being inspired with the
life of the Word, and hence speaking out of a full heart in
testimony of that which he hath known and seen.
I hardly remember when or how I came upon the-plan,
but now, as often as I find myself in such a condition, I
turn away from any attempt to produce a sermon, and, tak-
ing up one of the sayings of our Lord which He himself has
said " are spirit" and are life," I labor simply to make the
people see in it what I see in it ; and when I find that thus
my own heart is warmed,! am justified in the hope that the
hearts of some at least of my hearers are thereby warmed
likewise.
But no doubt the fact that the life of Miss Oldcastle seem-
ed to tremble in the balance, had something to do with
those results of which I may have already said too much.
My design had been .to go at once to London and make
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A QUIST NEIGHBOBHOOD. 865
preparation for as early a wedding as she would consent to;
but the very day after I brought her home, life and not mar-
riage was the question. Dr. Duncan looked very grave, and
although he g^ve me all the encouragement he could, all
his encouragement did not amount to much. There was
such a lack of vitality about her! The treatment to which
she had been for so long a time subjected had depressed
her till life was nearly quenched from lack of hope. Nor
did the sudden change seem able to restore the healthy ac-
tion of what the old physicians called the animal spirits.
Possibly the strong reaction paralyzed their channels, and
thus prevented her gladness from reaching her physical na-
ture so as to operate on its health. Her whole complaint
appeared in excessive weakness. Finding that she fainted
after every little excitement, I left her for four weeks en-
tirely to my sister and Dr. Duncan, during which time she
never saw me ; and it was long before I could venture to
stay in her room more than a minute or two. But as the
summer approached she began to show signs of reviving
life, and by the end of May was able to be wheeled into the
garden in a chair.
Dunng her aunt's illness Judy came often to the vicar-
age; but Miss Oldcastle was unable to see her any more
than myself without the painful consequence which I have
mentioned; so the dear child always came to me in the
study, and through her endless vivacity infected me with
some of her hope ; for she had no fears whatever about her
aunt's recovery.
I had had some painful apprehensions as to the treatment
Judy herself might meet with from her grandmother, and had
been doubtful whether I ought not to have carried her off
as well as her aunt ; but the first time she came, which was
the next day, she set my mind at rest on that subject.
" But does your grannie know where you are come ?" I
had asked her.
" So well, Mr. Walton," she replied, " that there was no
occasion to tell her. Why shouldn't I rebel as well as Aunt
Wynnie, I wonder ?" she added, looking archness itself.
"How does she bear it?"
" Bear what, Mr. Walton ?"
" The loss of your aunt."
" You don't think grannie care* about that, do you 2
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She's vexed enough at the loss of Captain Everard. Do you
know, I think he had too much wine yesterday, or he
wouldn't have made quite such a fool of himself."
"I fear he hadn't had quite enough to give him courage,
Judy. I dare say he was brave enough once, but a bad con-
science soon destroys a man's courage."
*' Why do you call it a bad conscience, Mr. Walton ? I
should have thought that a bad conscience was one that
would let a girl go on anyhow and say nothing about it to
make her uncomfortable."
"You are quite right, Judy; that is the worst kind of
conscience, certainly. But tell me, how does Mrs. Oldcastle
bear it?"
" You asked me that already."
Somehow Judy's words always seem more pert upon pa-
per than they did upon her lips. Her naivete^ the twinkling
light in her eyes, and the smile flitting about her mouth,
always modified greatly the expression of her words.
, " Grannie never says a word about you, or auntie ei-
ther."
" But you said she was vexed : how do you know
that?"
" Because, ever since the captain went away this morn-
ing, she wgn't speak a word to Sarah even."
"Are you not afraid of her locking you up some day or
other?"
" Not a bit of it. Grannie won't touch me. And you
shouldn't tempt me to run away from her like auntie. I
won't. Grannie is a naughty old lady, and I don't believe
any body loves her but me-^not Sarah, Pm certain ; there-
fore I can't leave her, and I won't leave her, Mr. Walton,
whatever you may say about her."
" Indeed, I don't want you to leave her, Judy."
And Judy did not leave her as long as she lived ; and
the old lady's love to that child was at least one redeeming
point in her fierce character. No one can tell how much
good it may have done her before she died, though but a
few years passed before her soul was required of her. Be-
fore that time came, however, a quarrel took place between
her and Sarah, which quarrel I incline to regard as a hope-
ful sign. And to this day Judy has never heard how her
old gi-annie treated htr mother. When she learns it now
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A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 867
from these pages, I think she will be glad that she did not
know it before her death:
The old lady would see neither doctor nor parson, nor
would she hear of sending for her daughter. The only sign
of softening that she gave was that once she folded her
granddaughter in her arms and wept long and bitterly.
Perhaps the thought of her dying child came back upon
her, along with the reflection that the only friend she had
was the child of that marriage which she had persecuted to
dissolution.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
My reader will perceive that this part of my story is
drawing to a close. It embraces but a brief period of my
life, and I have plenty more behind not altogether unworthy
of record. But the portions of any man's life most gener-
ally interestfng are those in which, while the outward his-
tory is most stirring, it derives its chief significance from
accompanying conflict within. It is not the rapid change
of events, or the unusual concourse of circumstances that
alone can interest the thoughtful mind ; while, on the other
hand, internal change and tumult can be ill set forth to the
reader save they be accompanied, and in part, at least, occa^
sioned by outward events capable of embodying and eluci-
dating the things that are of themselves unseen. For man's
life ought to be a whole ; and not to mention the spiritual
necessities of our nature to leave the fact alone that a man
is a mere thing of shreds and patches until his heart is unit-
ed, as the Psalmist says, to fear the name of God to leave
these considerations aside, I say, no man's life is fit for rep-
resentation as a work of art save in proportion as there has
been a significant relation between his outer and inner life,
a visible outcome of some sort of harmony between them ;
therefore I chose the portion in which I had suffered most,
and in \^ich the outward occurrences of my own life had
been most interesting, for the fullest representation, while I
reserve for a more occasional and fragmentary record many
things in the way of experience, thought, observation, and
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facts in the history both of myself and individuals of my
flock, which admit of, and indeed require, a more individual
treatment than would be altogether suitable to a continu-
ous story. But before I close this part of my communica-
tions with those whom I count my friends for, till they as-
sure me of the contrary, I mean to flatter myself with con-
sidering my readers generally as such I must gather up
the ends of my thread, and dispose them in such a manner
that they shall neither hang too loose, nor yet refuse length
enough for what my friend Rogers would call slicing.
It was yet summer when Miss Oldcastle and I were mar-
ried. It was to me a day awful in its gladness. She was
now quite well, and no shadow hung upon her half-moon
forehead. We went for a fortnight into Wales, and then
returned to the vicarage and the duties of the parish, in
which my wife was quite ready to assist me.
Perhaps it would help the wives of some clergymen out
of some difficulties, and be their protection against some re-
proaches, if they would at once take the position with re-,
gard to the parishioners which Mrs. Walton took, namely,
that of their servant, but not in her own right in her hus-
band's. She saw, and told them so, that the best thing she
could do for them was to help me ; that she held no office
whatever in the parish, and they must apply to me when
any thing went amiss. Had she not constantly refused to
be a "judge or a divider,'' she would have been constantly
troubled with quarrels too paltry to be referred to me, and
which were the sooner forgotten that the litigants were not
drawn on farther and farther into the desert of dispute by
the mirage of a justice that could quench no thirst. Only
when any such afiair was brought before me did she use her
good offices to bring about a right feeling between the con-
tending parties, generally next-door neighbors, and mostly
women, who, being at home all day, found their rights clash
in a manner that seldom happened with those that worked
in the fields. Whatever her counsel could do, however, had
full scope through me, who earnestly sought it ; and what-
ever she gave the poor, she gave as a private person, out
of her own pocket. She never administered the communion
offering ^that is, after finding out, as she soon dfd, that it
was a source of endless dispute between some of the recipi-
ents, who regarded it as their common property, and were
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 369
never satisfied with what they received. This is the case in
many country parishes, I fear. As soon as I came to know
it, I simply told the recipients that, although the communion
offering belonged to them, yet the distribution of it rested
entirely with me, and that I would distribute it neither ac-
cording to their fancied merits nor the degree of friendship
I felt for them, but according to the best judgment I could
form as to their necessities ; and if any of them thought
these were underrated, they were quite at liberty to make
a fresh representation of them to me ; but that I, who knew
more about their neighbors than it was likely they did, and
was not prejudiced by the personal regards which they could
hardly fail to be influenced by, was more likely than they
were to arrive at an equitable distribution of the money
upon my principles, if not on theirs. And at the same time
I tried to show them that a very great part of the disputes
in the world came from our having a very keen feeling of
our own troubles, and a very dull feeling of our neighbor's ;
for if the case was reversed, and our neighbor's condition
became ours, ten to one our judgment would be reversed
likewise. And I think some of them got some sense out of
what I said. But I ever found, the great difficulty in my
dealing with my people to be the preservation of the author-
ity which was needml for service ; for when the elder serve
the younger- and in many cases it is not age that determ-
ines seniority they must not forget that without which
the service they offer will fail to be received as such by
- those to whom it is offered. At the same time, they must
ever take heed that their claim to authority be founded on
the truth, and not on ecclesiastical or social position. Their
standing in the church accredits their offer of service ; the
service itself can only be accredited by the Truth and the
Lord of Truth, who is the servant of all.
But it cost both me and my wife some time and some
suffering before we learned how to deport ourselves in these
respects.
In the same manner she avoided the too near, because
unprofitable approaches of a portion of the richer part of
the community ; for from her probable position in time to
come, rather than her position in time past, many of the
fashionable people in the county began to call upon her
in no small degree to her annoyance, simply from the fact
Q2
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870 ANM^AXS OP
that slie and they had so little in common. So, while she
performed all toward them that etiquette demanded, she
excused herself from the closer intimacy which some of them
courted on the ground ot the many duties which naturally
fell to the parson's wife in a country parish like ours ; and
I am sure that long before we had gained the footing we
now have, we had begun to reap the benefits of this mode
of regarding our duty in the parish as one, springing from
the same source, and tending to the same end. The par-
son's wife who takes to herself iauthority in virtue of her
position, and the parson's wife who disclaims all connec-
tion with the professional work of her husband, are equally
out of place in being parson's wives. The one who refuses
to serve denies her greatest privilege ; the. one who will be
a mistress receives the greater condemnation. When the
wife is one with her husband, and the husband is worthy,
the position will soon reveal itself.
But there can not be many clergymen's wives among my
readers, and I may have occupied more space than reason-
able with this " large discourse." I apologize, and, there is
room to fear, go on to do the same again.
As I write I am seated in that little octagonal room over-
looking the quarry, with its green lining of trees, and its
deep central welL It is my study now. My wife is not yet
too old to prefer the little room in which she thought and
suffered so much to every other, although the stair that leads
to it is high and steep. Nor do I object to her preference
because there is no ready way to reach it save through this :
I see her the oftener. And although I do not like any one
to look over my shoulder while I write ^it disconcerts me
somehow ^yet the moment the sheet is finished and flung
on the heap, it is her property, as the print, reader, is yours.
I hear her step overhead now. She is opening her window.
Now I hear her door close ; and now her foot is on the
stair.
" Come in, love. I have just finished another sheet. There
it is. What shall I end the book with ? What shall I tell
the friends with whom I have been conversing so often and
so long for the last thing ere for a little whUe I bid them
good-by ?"
And Ethelwyn bends her smooth forehead ^for she has a
smooth forehead still, although the hair that crowns it is al-
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A QUIET NEIGHBOBHOOD. 37 i
most white over the last few sheets, and while she reads I
will tell those who will read one of the good things that
come of being married : it is, that there is one face upon
which the changes come without your seeing them, or
rather, there is one face which you can still see the same
through all the shadows which years have gathered and
heaped upon it. No, stay ; I have got a better way of put-
ting it stUl : there is one face whose final beauty you can see
the more clearly as the bloom of youth departs, and the love-
liness of wisdom and the beauty of holiness take its place ;
for in it you behold all that you loved before, veiled, it is
true, but glowing with gathered brilliance under the veil
(" Stop one moment, my dear"), from which it will one day
shine out like the moon from under a cloud, when a stream
of the upper air floats it from off her face.
" Now, Ethelwyn, I am ready. What shall I write about
next?"
"I don't think you have told them any where about
Tom."
^' No more I have. I meant to do so. But I am ashamed
of it."
" The more reason to tell it."
" You are quite right. I will go on with it at once. But
you must not stand there behind me. When I was a child,
1 could always confess best when I hid my face with my
hands."
" Besides," said Ethelwyn, without seeming to hear what
I said, " I do not want to have people saying that the vicar
has made himself out so good that nobody can believe in
him."
" That would be a great fault in my book, Ethelwyn.
What does it come from in me ? Let me see. I do not
think I want to appear better than I am ; but it sounds hyp-
ocritical to make merely general confessions, and it is indec-
orous to make particular ones. Besides, I doubt if it is good
to write much about bad things even in the way of confes-
sion ^"
" Well, well, never mind justifying it," said Ethelwyn. "7
don't want any jastification. But here is a chance^or you.
The story will, I think, do good, and not harm. You had
better tell it, I do think. So, if you are inclined, I will go
away at once, and let you go on without interruption. You
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will have it finished before dinner, and Tom is coming, and
you can tell him what you have done."
So, reader, now my wife has left me, I will begin. It shall
not be a long story.
As soon as ray wife and I had settled down at home, and
I had begun to arrange my work again, it came to my mind
that for a long time I had been doing very little for Tom
Weir. I could not blame myself much for this, and I was
pretty sure neither he nor his father blamed me at all;
but I now saw that it was time we should recommence
something definite in the way of study. When he came to
my house the next morning, and I proceeded to acquaint
myself with what he had been doing, I found, to my great
pleasure, that he had made very considerable progress both
in Latin and Mathematics, and I resolved that I would now
push him a little. I found this only brought out his mettle ;
and his progress, as it seemed to me, was extraordinary.
Nor was this all. There were such growing signs of good-
ness in addition to the uprightness which had first led to
our acquaintance, that although I carefully abstained from
making the suggestion to him, I was more than pleased
when I discovered, from some remark he made, that he
would gladly give himself to the service of the Church. At
the same time, I felt compelled to be the more cautious in
any thing I said from the fact that the prospect of the social
elevation which would be involved in the change might be
a temptation to him, as no doubt it has been to many a man
of humble birth. However, as I continued to observe him
closely, my conviction was deepened that he was rarely fit-
ted for ministering to his fellows ; and soon it came to speech
between his father and me, when I found that Thomas, so far
from being unfavorably inclined to the proposal, was pre-
pared to spend the few savings of his careful life upon his
education. To this, however, I could not listen, because
there was his daughter Mary, who was very delicate, and
his grandchild too, for whom he ought to make what little
provision he could. I therefore took the matter in my own
hands, and by means of a judicious combination of experi-
ence and what money I could spare, I managed, at less ex-
pense than most parents suppose to be unavoidable, to main-
tain my young friend at Oxford till such time as he gained
a fellowship. I felt justified in doing so in part from the
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A QUIET NKIGHBOBHOOD. 373
fact that some day or other Mrs. Walton would inherit the
Oldcastle property, as well as come into possession of cer-
tain moneys of her own, now in the trust of her mother and
two gentlemen in London, which would be nearly sufficient
to free the estate from encumbrance, although she could not
touch it as long as her mother lived and chose to refuse her
the use of it, at least without a lawsuit, with which neither
of us was inclined to have any thing to do. But I did not
lose a penny by the affair ; for of the very first money Tom
received after he had got his fellowship, he brought the half
to me, and continued to do so until he had repaid me every
shilling I had spent upon him. As soon as he was in dea-
con's orders he came to assist me for a while as curate, and
I found him a great help and comfort. He occupied the
large room over his father's shop which had been his grand-
father's : he had been dead for some years.
I was now engaged on a work which I had been contem-
plating for a long time, upon the development of the love of
Nature as shown in the earlier literature of the Jews and
Greeks, through that of the Romans, Italians, and other na-
tions, with the Anglo-Saxon for a fresh starting-point, into
its latest forms in Gray, Thomson, Cowper, Crabbe, Words-
worth, Keats, and Tennyson ; and Tom supplied me with
much of the time which I bestowed upon this object, and
I was really grateful to him. But, in looking back, and try-
ing to account to myself for the snare into which I fell, I
see plainly enough that I thought too much of what I had
done for Tom, and too little of the honor God had done me
in allowing me to help Tom. I took the high-dais-throne
over him, not consciously I believe, but still with a con-
temptible condescension, not of manner but of heart, so del-
icately refined by the innate sophistry of my selfishness that
the better nature in me called it only fatherly friendship,
and did not recognize it as that abominable thing so favored
of all those that especially worship themselves. But I abuse
my fault instead of confessing it.
One evening a gentle tap came to my door, and Tom en-
tered. He looked pale and anxious, and there was an un-
certainty about his motions which I could not understand.
"What is the matter, Tom ?" I asked.
"I wanted to say something to you, sir," answered Tom.
'' Say on," I returned, cheerily.
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874 ANNALS OF
" It is not so easy to say, sir," rejoined Tom, with a faint
smile. "Miss Walton, sir "
" Well, what of her ? There's nothing happened to her ?
She was here a few minutes ago ^though, now I think of
it"
Here a suspicion of the truth flashed on me and struck
me dumb. I am now covered with shame to think how,
when the thing approached myself on that side, it swept
away for the moment all my fine theories about the equality
of men in Christ their Head. How could Tom Weir, whose
father was a joiner, who had been a lad in a London shop
himself, dare to propose marrying my sister ? Instead of
thinking of what he really was, my regard rested upon this
and that stage through which he had passed to reach his
present condition. In fact, I regarded him rather as of my
making than of God's.
Perhaps it might do something to modify the scorn of all
classes for those beneath them to consider that, by regard-
ing others. thus, they justify those above them in looking
down upon them in their turn. In London shops, I am
credibly informed, the young women who serve in the show-
rooms or behind the counters are called ladies^ and talk of
the girls who make up the articles for sale 2l^ persons. To
the learned professions, however, the distinction between the
shopwomen and milliners is, from their superior height, un-
recognizable ; while doctors and lawyers are again, I doubt
not, massed by countesses and other blue-blooded realities
with the literary lions who roar at soirees and kettle-drums,
or even with chiropodists and violin-players! But I am
growing scornful at scorn, and forget that I too have been
scornful. Brothers, sisters, all good men and true women,
let the Master seat us where He will. Until he says " Come
up higher," let us sit at the foot of the board, or stand be-
hind, honored in waiting upon His guests. All that kind of
thing is worth nothing in the kingdom, and nothing will be
remembered of us but the Master's judgment.
I have known a good churchwoman who would be sweet
as a sister to the abject poor, but offensively condescending
to a shopkeeper or a Dissenter, exactly as if he was a Pariah
and she a Brahmin. I have known good people who were
noble and generous toward their so-called inferiors, and full
of the rights of the race until it touched their own family,
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A QUIET NSIOHBOBHOOD. 875
and just no longer. Yea I, who had talked like this for
years, at once, when Tom Weir wanted to marrjr my sister,
lost my faith in the broad lines of human distinction, judged
according to appearances in which I did not even believe,
and judged not righteous judgment.
" For," reasoned the world in me, " is it not too bad to
drag your wife in for such an alliance ? Has she not low-
ered herself enough already ? Has she not married far be-
low her accredited position in society ? Will she not feel
injured by your family if she see it capable of forming such
a connection ?"
What answer I returned to Tom I hardly know. I re-
member that the poor fellow's face fell, and that he mur-
mured something which I did not heed. And then I found
myself walking in the garden under the great cedar, having
stepped out of the window almost unconsciously, and leu
Tom standing there alone. It was very good of him ever
to forgive me.
Wandering about in the garden, my wife saw me from
her window, and met me as I turned a corner in the shrub-
bery. And now I am going to have my revenge upon her
in a way she does not expect for making me tell the story :
I will tell her share in it.
"What is the matter with you, Henry?" she asked.
" Oh, not much," I answered, " only that Weir has been
making me rather uncomfortable."
"What has he been doing ?" she inj[uired,in some alarm.
" It is not possible he has done any thmg wrong."
My wife trusted him as much as I did.
" No o o," I answered, " not any thing exactly wrong."
" It must be very nearly wrong, Henry, to make you look
so miserable."
I began to feel ashamed and more xmcomfortable.
"He has been falling in love with Martha," I said ; " and
when I put one thing to another, I fear he may have made
her fall m love with him too." My wife laughed merrily.
" What a wicked curate I"
" Well, but you know it is not exactly agreeable."
"Why?"
"You know why well enough."
" At least, I am not going to take it for granted. Is he
not a good man ?"
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"Yes."
" Is he not a well-educated man ?"
" As well as myself for his years."
" Is he not clever ?"
"One of the cleverest fellows I ever met."
" Is he not a gentleman ?"
" I have not a fault to find with his manners."
" Nor with his habits ?" my wife went on.
"No."
" Nor with his ways of thinking ?"
" No. But, Ethelwyn, you know what I mean quite well.
His family, you know ^"
" Well, is his father not a respectable man ?"
" Oh yes, certainly ^thoroughly respectable."
" He wouldn't borrow money of his tailor instead of pay-
ing for his clothes, would he ?"
" Certainly not."
" And if he were to die to-day he would carry no debts
to heaven with him ?"
" I believe not."
" Does he bear false witness against his neighbor ?"
"No. He scorns a lie as much as any man I ever
knew."
" Which of the commandments is it in particular that he
breaks, then ?"
" None that I know of, excepting that no one can keep
them yet that is only human. He tries to keep every one
of them, I do believe."
" Well, I think Tom very fortunate in having such a fa-
ther. I wish my mother had been as good."
" That is all true, and yet "
"And yet, suppose a young man you liked had had a
fashionable father who had ruined half a score of tradespeo-
ple by his extravagance would you object to him because
of his family?"
"Perhaps not."
" Then, with you, position outweighs honesty in fathers,
at least."
To this I was not ready with an answer, and my wife
went on.
" It might be reasonable if you did, though, from fear
lest he should turn out like his father. But do you know
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 377
why I would not accept your offer of taking my name when
I should succeed to the property ?"
" You said you liked mine better," I answered.
" So I did. But I (did not teU you that I was ashamed
that my good husband should take a name which for centu-
ries had been borne by hard-hearted, worldly-minded peo-
ple, who, to speak the truth of my ancestors to my husband,
were neither gentle, nor honest, nor high-minded."
" Still, Ethelwyn, you know there is something in it,
though it is not so easy to say what. And you avoid that.
I suppose Martha has been talking you over to her side."
"Harry," my wife said, with a shade of solemnity, " I am
almost ashamed of you for the first time, and I wUl punish
you by telling you the truth. Do you think I had nothing
of that sort to get over when I began to find that I was
thinking a little more about you than was quite convenient un-
der the circumstances ? Your manners, dear Harry, though
irreproachable, just had not the tone that I had been accus-
tomed to. There was a diffidence about you also that did
not at first advance- you in my regard."
"Yes, yes," I answered, a little piqued, "I dare say. I
have no doubt you thought me a boor."
"Dear Harry!"
" I beg your pardon, wifie. I know you didn't. But it
is quite bad enough to have brought you down to my level,
without sinking you still lower."
" 'Now there you are wrong, Harry, and that is what I
want to show you. I found that my love to you would not
be satisfied with making an exception in your favor. I must
see what force there really was in the notions I had been
bred in."
" Ah !" I said, " I see. You looked for a principle in what
you had thought was an exception."
" Yes," returned my wife, " and I soon found one ; and
the next step was to throw away all false judgment in re-
gard to such things, and so I can see more clearly than you
into the right of this matter. Would you hesitate a mo-
ment between Tom Weir and the dissolute son of an earl,
Harry?"
" You know I would not."
"Well, just carry out the considerations that suggests,
and you will find that where there is every thing personally
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378 ANNALS OP
noble, pure, simple, and good, the lowliness of a man's birth
is but an added honor to him, for it shows that his nobility
is altogether from within him, and therefore is his own. It
can not, then, have been put on him by education or imita-
tion, as many men's manners are, who wear their good breed-
ing like their fine clothes, or as the Pharisee his prayers, to
be seen of men."
"But his sister?"
" Harry, Harry ! Ton were preaching last Sunday about
the way God thinks of things, and you said that was the
only true way of thinking about them. Would the Mary
that poured the ointment on Jesus's head have refused to
marry a good man because he was the brother of that Mary
who poured it on His feet ? Have you thought what God
would think of Tom for a husband to Martha ?"
I did not answer, for conscience had begun to speak.
When I lifted my eyes from the ground, thinking Ethelwyn
stood beside me, she was gone. I felt as if she were dead,
to punish me for my pride. But still I could not get over
it, though I was ashamed to follow and find her. I went
and got my hat instead, and strolled out.
What was it that drew me toward Thomas Weir's shop ?
I think it must have been incipient repentance a feeling
that I had wronged the man. But just as I turned the cor-
ner, and the smell of the wood reached me, the picture so
often associated in my mind with such a scene of human la-
bor rose before me. I saw the Lord of Life bending over
His bench, fashioning some lowly utensil for some housewife
of Nazareth ; and ite would receive payment for it too, for
He, at least, could see no disgrace in the order of things that
His Father had appointed. It is the vulgar mind that looks
down on the earning and worships the inheriting of money.
How infinitely more poetic is the belief that our Lord did
His work like any other honest man, than that straining aft-
er His glorification in the early centuries of the Church by
the invention of fables even to the disgrace of his father I
They say that Joseph was a bad carpenter, and our Lord had
to work miracles to set the things right which he had made
wrong ! To such a class of mind as invented these fables
do those belong who think they honor our Lord when they
judge any thmg human too common or too unclean for Him
to have done.
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, A QUIET NEIGHBOEHOOD. 379
And the thought sprung up at once in my mind "If I
ever see our Lord face to face, how shall I feel if He says to
me, ' Didst thou do well to murmur that thy sister espoused
a certain man for that in his youth he had earned his bread
as I earned mine ? Where was then thy right to say unto
me, Lord, Lord?'"
I hurried into the workshop.
"Has Tom told you about it?" I said.
"Yes, sir. And I told him to mind what he was about,
for he was not a gentleman, and you was, sir."
" I hope I am. And Tom is as much a gentleman as I
have any daim to be."
Thomas Weir held out his hand.
" Now, sir, I do believe you mean in my shop what you
say in your pulpit, and there is one Christian in the world
at least. But what will your good lady say ? She's higher-
born thanyou no offense, sir."
" Ah I Thomas, you shame me. I am not so good as you
think me. It ^as my wife that brought me to reason about
it."
"God bless her."
" Amen. Fm going to find Tom."
At the same moment Tom entered the shop, with a very
melancholy face. He started when he saw me, and looked
confused.
" Tom, my boy," I said, " I behaved very badly to you.
I am sorry for it. Come back with me, and have a walk
with my sister. I don't think she'll be sorry to see you."
His race brightened up at once, and we left the shop to-
gether. Evidently with a great effort, Tom was the first to
' I know, sir, how many difficulties my presumption must
put you in."
" Not another word about it, Tom. Tou are blameless.
I wish I were. If we only act as God would have us, other
considerations may look after themselves or, rather. He
will look after them. The world will never be right till the
mind of God is the measure of things, and the will of God
the law of things. In the kingdom of heaven nothing else
is acknowledged. And till that kingdom come, the mind
and will of God must, with those that look for that king-
dom, override every other way of thinking, feeling, and judg-
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380 ANNALS OF
ing. I see it more plainly than ever I did. Take my sister,
in God's name, Tom, and be good to her."
Tom went to find Martha, and I to find Ethelwyn.
" It is all right," I said, " even to the shame I feel at hav-
ing needed your reproof."
" Don't think of that. God gives us all time to come to
our right minds, you know," answered my wife.
"But how did you get on so far ahead of me, wifie?"
Ethelwyn laughed.
" Why," she said, "I only told you back again what you
have been telling me for the last seven or eight years."
So to me the message had come first, but my wife had an-
swered first with the deed.
And now I have had my revenge on her.
Next to her and my children, Tom has been my greatest
comfort for many years. He is still my curate, and 1 do not
think we shall part till death part us for a time. My sister
is worth twice what she was before, though they have no
children. We have many, and they have taught me much.
Thomas Weir is now too old to work any longer. He
occupies his father's chair in the large room of the old house.
The workshop I have had turned into a schoolroom, of the
external condition of which his daughter takes good care,
while a great part of her brother Tom's time is devoted to
the children ; for he and I agree that, where it can be done,
the pastoral care ought to be at least equally divided be-
tween the sheep and the lambs ; for the sooner the children
are brought under right influences ^I do not mean a great
deal of religious speech, but the right influences of truth and
honesty, and an evident regard to what God wants of us
not only are they the more easily wrought upon, but the
sooner do they recognize those influences as right and good.
And while Tom quite agrees with me that there must not
be much talk about religion, he thinks that there must be
just the more acting upon religion ; and that if it be eveiy
where at hand in all things taught and done, it will be ready
to show itself to every one who looks for it. And besides
that action is more powerful than speech in the inculcation
of religion, Tom says there is no such corrective of secta-
rianism of every kind as the repression of speech and the
encouragement of action.
Besides being a great help to me and every body else al-
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A QUIET NBIGHBOBHOOD. 381
most in Marshmallows, Tom has distinguished himself in the
literary world ; and when I read his books, I am yet prouder
of my brother-in-law. I am only afraid that Martha is not
good enough for him. But she certainly improves, as I have
said already.
Jane Rogers was married to young Brownrigg about a
year after we were married. The old man is all but con-
fined to the chimney-corner now, and Richard manages the
farm, though not quite to his father's satisfaction, of course.
But they are doing well, notwithstanding. The old mill
has been superseded by one of new and rare device, built by
Richard ; but the old cottage where his wife's parents lived
has slowly mouldered back to the dust, for the old people
have been dead for many years.
Often, in the summer days, as I go to or come from the
vestry, I sit down for a moment on the turf that covers my
old friend, and think that every day is mouldering away
this body of mine till it shall fall a heap of dust into its ap-
pointed place. But what is that to me ? It is to me the
drawing nigh of the fresh morning of life, when I shall be
young and strong again, glad in the presence of the wise
and beloved dead, and unspeakably glad in the presence of
my God, which I have now, but hope to possess far more
hereafter.
I will not take a solemn leave of my friends just yet, for I
hope to hold a little more communion with them ere I go
hence. I know that my mental faculty is growing weaker,
but some power yet remains ; and I say to myself, " Perhaps
this is the final trial of your faith to trust in God to take
care of your intellect for you, and to believe in weakness the
truths He revealed to you in strength. Remember that
Truth depends not upon your seeing it, and believe as you
saw when your sight was at its best ; for then you saw that
the truth was beyond all you could see." Thus I try to pre-
pare for dark days that may come, but which can not come
without God in them.
And meantime I hope to be able to communicate some
more of the good things experience and thought have taught
me, and, it may be, some more of the events that have be-
fallen my friends and myself in our pilgrimage. So, kind
readers, God be with you. That is the older and better
form of Good'hy.