Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood | Page 4

enough for any amount to follow. I drew down my
umbrella, and began to look about me. The stream on my left was so

swollen that I could see its brown in patches through the green of the
meadows along its banks. A little in front of me, the road, rising
quickly, took a sharp turn to pass along an old stone bridge that
spanned the water with a single fine arch, somewhat pointed; and
through the arch I could see the river stretching away up through the
meadows, its banks bordered with pollards. Now, pollards always made
me miserable. In the first place, they look ill-used; in the next place,
they look tame; in the third place, they look very ugly. I had not learned
then to honour them on the ground that they yield not a jot to the
adversity of their circumstances; that, if they must be pollards, they still
will be trees; and what they may not do with grace, they will yet do
with bounty; that, in short, their life bursts forth, despite of all that is
done to repress and destroy their individuality. When you have once
learned to honour anything, love is not very far off; at least that has
always been my experience. But, as I have said, I had not yet learned to
honour pollards, and therefore they made me more miserable than I was
already.
When, having followed the road, I stood at last on the bridge, and,
looking up and down the river through the misty air, saw two long rows
of these pollards diminishing till they vanished in both directions, the
sight of them took from me all power of enjoying the water beneath me,
the green fields around me, or even the old-world beauty of the little
bridge upon which I stood, although all sorts of bridges have been from
very infancy a delight to me. For I am one of those who never get rid of
their infantile predilections, and to have once enjoyed making a mud
bridge, was to enjoy all bridges for ever.
I saw a man in a white smock-frock 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 the man's footsteps coming up the crown of the arch,
but I would not turn to greet him. I was in a selfish humour if ever I
was; for surely if ever one man ought to greet another, it was upon such
a comfortless afternoon. The footsteps stopped behind me, and I heard
a voice:--
"I beg yer pardon, sir; but be you the new vicar?"
I turned instantly and answered, "I am. Do you want me?"
"I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, if ye'll not take it amiss."

Before me stood a tall old man with his hat in his hand, clothed as I
have said, in a white smock-frock. He smoothed his short gray hair
with his curved palm down over his forehead as he stood. His face was
of a red brown, from much exposure to the weather. There was a
certain look of roughness, without hardness, in it, which spoke of
endurance 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 address, as he stood
square before me, looking as modest as fearless. "The sight of a man's
face is what everybody has a right to; but, for all that, I should like to
know why you want to see my face."
"Why, sir, you be the new vicar. You kindly told me so when I axed
you."
"Well, then, you'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 staying 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 cannot
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