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 intent, or more
responsive, a clergyman will hardly find. But, as I had feared, it was
different in the afternoon. The people had dined, and the usual
somnolence had followed; nor could I find in my heart to blame men and
women who worked hard all the week, for being drowsy on the day of
rest. So I curtailed my sermon as much as I could, omitting page after
page of my manuscript; and when I came to a close, was rewarded by
perceiving an agreeable surprise upon many of the faces round me. I
resolved that, in the afternoons at least, my sermons should be as
short as heart could wish.
But that afternoon there was at least one man of the congregation who
was neither drowsy nor inattentive. Repeatedly my eyes left the page
off which I was reading and glanced towards him. Not once did I find
his eyes turned away from me.
There was a small loft in the west end of the church, in which stood a
little organ, whose voice, weakened by years of praising, and possibly
of neglect, had yet, among a good many tones that were rough, wooden,
and reedy, a few remaining that were as mellow as ever praiseful heart
could wish to praise withal. And these came in amongst the rest like
trusting thoughts amidst “eating cares;” like the faces of children
borne in the arms of a crowd of anxious mothers; like hopes that are
young prophecies amidst the downward sweep of events. For, though I do
not understand music, I have a keen ear for the perfection of the
single tone, or the completeness of the harmony. But of this organ more
by and by.
Now this little gallery was 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 gardening 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 mentioned. It was a very
remarkable countenance—pale, and very thin, without any hair, except
that of thick eyebrows that far over-hung 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
determine. 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
preserve. Good men must have preceded me here, else the poor would not
have lain so near the chancel and the vestry-door. All about and beyond
were stones, with here and there a monument; for mine was a large
parish, and there were old and rich families in it, more of which
buried their dead here than assembled their living. But close by the
vestry-door, there was this little billowy lake of grass. And at the
end of the narrow path leading from the door, was the churchyard wall,
with a few steps on each side of it, that the parson might pass at once
from the churchyard into his own 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
churchyard. The door on the other side was chiefly used by the few
gentry of the neighbourhood; and the Lych-gate, 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 neighbours.
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 will sooner give to the rich their sons or
their daughters to wed, to love if they can, to have children by, than
they will yield a jot of their ancestral preeminence, 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 without my poor brothers and sisters?
I passed along the church to the northern door, and went out. The
churchyard lay in bright sunshine. All the rain and gloom were gone.
“If one could only bring this glory of sun and grass into one’s hope
for the future!” thought I; and looking down I saw the little boy who
aspired to paint the sky, looking up in my face with mingled confidence
and awe.
“Do you trust me, my little man?” thought I. “You shall trust me then.
But I won’t be a priest to you, I’ll be a big brother.”
For the priesthood passes away, the brotherhood endures. The priesthood
passes away, swallowed up in the brotherhood. It is because men cannot
learn simple things, cannot believe in the brotherhood, that they need
a priesthood. But as Dr Arnold said of the Sunday, “They DO need it.”
And I, for one, am sure that the priesthood needs the people 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 longer, and then put his arms
gently round my neck. And so we were friends. When I had set him down,
which I did presently, for I shuddered at the idea of the people
thinking that I was showing off the CLERGYMAN, I looked at the boy. In
his face was great sweetness mingled with great 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 churchyard. He kept his head turned towards me,
however, as he went, so that, not seeing where he was going, he
stumbled over the grave of a child, and fell in the hollow on the other
side. I ran to pick him up. His aunt reached him at the same moment.
“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 churchyard-gate, the old man-of-war’s man was waiting to have
another look at me. His hat was in his hand, and he gave a pull to the
short hair over his forehead, as if he would gladly take that off too,
to show his respect for the new parson. I held out my hand gratefully.
It could not close around the hard, unyielding mass of fingers which
met it. He did not know how to shake hands, and left it all to me. But
pleasure sparkled in his eyes.
“My old woman would like to shake hands with you, sir,” he said.
Beside him stood his old woman, in a 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 loving-kindness, had not merely lingered, but
triumphed.
“I shall be in to see you soon,” I said, as I shook hands with her. “I
shall find out where you live.”
“Down by the mill,” she said; “close by it, sir. There’s one bed in our
garden that always thrives, in the hottest summer, by the plash from
the mill, sir.”
“Ask for Old Rogers, sir,” said the man. “Everybody 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.”