Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood | Page 7

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. Upon 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.
I was one 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 I stood in the scheme of Providence, and while I was
discouraged with regard to the work before me, I should fall in with
these two--an old man whom I could help, and a child who could help
me; the one opening an outlet for my labour and my love, and the other
reminding me of the highest source of the most humbling
comfort,--that in all my work I might be a fellow-worker with God.

CHAPTER II
.
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