THE ORGAN.
One little matter I forgot to mention as having been talked about
between Dr Duncan and myself that same evening. I happened to refer to
Old Rogers.
“What a fine old fellow that is!” said Dr Duncan.
“Indeed he is,” I answered. “He is a great comfort and help to me. I
don’t think anybody 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 quite 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 annoyed Weir; but such
was the good humour 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 the expression, that is
irresistible to any man with a heart in his bosom. I am very glad to
hear there is anything 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, he will
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 cannot turn his hand, whatever he may
think himself. You see, Mr Walton, it is not like a routine trade.
Things are never twice 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 uncertain 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 sequence.
To my surprise, and, I must confess, not a little to my discomposure,
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 encountered 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 behind 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 that was laid upon me. “But,” I said to myself, “shall the
work given me to do fare ill because of the perturbation of my spirit?
No harm is done, though I suffer; but much harm if one tone fails of
its force because I suffer.” I therefore 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 towards 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 weakness, but, altogether
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 inward peace in
which I found my heart was to myself a marvel 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 presence of a
supreme quiet, the first low notes of the organ broke upon my stillness
with the sense of a deeper delight. Never before 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 Brownrigg, a clever young man in
priest’s orders, who was living at Addicehead while waiting for a
curacy, kindly undertook my duty for me, and thus relieved me from all
anxiety about supplying my place.