The Seaboard Parish Volume 1

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I linger on with my talk, for I shrink from what I must relate.

We were going at a gentle trot, silent, along a woodland path--a brown,
soft, shady road, nearly five miles from home, our horses scattering about
the withered leaves that lay thick upon it. A good deal of underwood and
a few large trees had been lately cleared from the place. There were many
piles of fagots about, and a great log lying here and there along the side
of the path. One of these, when a tree, had been struck by lightning, and
had stood till the frosts and rains had bared it of its bark. Now it lay
white as a skeleton by the side of the path, and was, I think, the cause of
what followed. All at once my daughter's pony sprang to the other side of
the road, shying sideways; unsettled her so, I presume; then rearing and
plunging, threw her from the saddle across one of the logs of which I have
spoken. I was by her side in a moment. To my horror she lay motionless. Her
eyes were closed, and when I took her up in my arms she did not open them.
I laid her on the moss, and got some water and sprinkled her face. Then she
revived a little; but seemed in much pain, and all at once went off into
another faint. I was in terrible perplexity.

Presently a man who, having been cutting fagots at a little distance, had
seen the pony careering through the wood, came up and asked what he could
do to help me. I told him to take my horse, whose bridle I had thrown over
the latch of a gate, and ride to Oldcastle Hall, and ask Mrs. Walton to
come with the carriage as quickly as possible. "Tell her," I said, "that
her daughter has had a fall from her pony, and is rather shaken. Ride as
hard as you can go."

The man was off in a moment; and there I sat watching my poor child, for
what seemed to be a dreadfully long time before the carriage arrived. She
had come to herself quite, but complained of much pain in her back; and,
to my distress, I found that she could not move herself enough to make the
least change of her position. She evidently tried to keep up as well as she
could; but her face expressed great suffering: it was dreadfully pale, and
looked worn with a month's illness. All my fear was for her spine.

At length I caught sight of the carriage, coming through the wood as
fast as the road would allow, with the woodman on the box, directing the
coachman. It drew up, and my wife got out. She was as pale as Constance,
but quiet and firm, her features composed almost to determination. I had
never seen her look like that before. She asked no questions: there was
time enough for that afterwards. She had brought plenty of cushions and
pillows, and we did all we could to make an easy couch for the poor girl;
but she moaned dreadfully as we lifted her into the carriage. We did our
best to keep her from being shaken; but those few miles were the longest
journey I ever made in my life.

When we reached home at length, we found that Ethel, or, as we commonly
called her, using the other end of her name, Wynnie--for she was named
after her mother--had got a room on the ground-floor, usually given to
visitors, ready for her sister; and we were glad indeed not to have to
carry her up the stairs. Before my wife left, she had sent the groom off to
Addicehead for both physician and surgeon. A young man who had settled at
Marshmallows as general practitioner a year or two before, was waiting for
us when we arrived. He helped us to lay her upon a mattress in the position
in which she felt the least pain. But why should I linger over the
sorrowful detail? All agreed that the poor child's spine was seriously
injured, and that probably years of suffering were before her. Everything
was done that could be done; but she was not moved from that room for nine
months, during which, though her pain certainly grew less by degrees, her
want of power to move herself remained almost the same.

When I had left her at last a little composed, with her mother seated by
her bedside, I called my other two daughters--Wynnie, the eldest, and
Dorothy, the youngest, whom I found seated on the floor outside, one on
each side of the door, weeping--into my study, and said to them: "My
darlings, this is very sad; but you must remember that it is God's will;
and as you would both try to bear it cheerfully if it had fallen to your
lot to bear, you must try to be cheerful even when it is your sister's part
to endure."

"O, papa! poor Connie!" cried Dora, and burst into fresh tears.

Wynnie said nothing, but knelt down by my knee, and laid her cheek upon it.

"Shall I tell you what Constance said to me just before I left the room?" I
asked.

"Please do, papa."

"She whispered, 'You must try to bear it, all of you, as well as you can.
I don't mind it very much, only for you.' So, you see, if you want to make
her comfortable, you must not look gloomy and troubled. Sick people like to
see cheerful faces about them; and I am sure Connie will not suffer nearly
so much if she finds that she does not make the household gloomy."

This I had learned from being ill myself once or twice since my marriage.
My wife never came near me with a gloomy face, and I had found that it
was quite possible to be sympathetic with those of my flock who were ill
without putting on a long face when I went to see them. Of course, I do not
mean that I could, or that it was desirable that I should, look cheerful
when any were in great pain or mental distress. But in ordinary conditions
of illness a cheerful countenance is as a message of _all's well_, which
may surely be carried into a sick chamber by the man who believes that the
heart of a loving Father is at the centre of things, that he is light all
about the darkness, and that he will not only bring good out of evil
at last, but will be with the sufferer all the time, making endurance
possible, and pain tolerable. There are a thousand alleviations that people
do not often think of, coming from God himself. Would you not say, for
instance, that time must pass very slowly in pain? But have you never
observed, or has no one ever made the remark to you, how strangely fast,
even in severe pain, the time passes after all?

"We will do all we can, will we not," I went on, "to make her as
comfortable as possible? You, Dora, must attend to your little brothers,
that your mother may not have too much to think about now that she will
have Connie to nurse."

They could not say much, but they both kissed me, and went away leaving
me to understand clearly enough that they had quite understood me. I then
returned to the sick chamber, where I found that the poor child had fallen
asleep.

My wife and I watched by her bedside on alternate nights, until the pain
had so far subsided, and the fever was so far reduced, that we could allow
Wynnie to take a share in the office. We could not think of giving her
over to the care of any but one of ourselves during the night. Her chief
suffering came from its being necessary that she should keep nearly one
position on her back, because of her spine, while the external bruise and
the swelling of the muscles were in consequence so painful, that it needed
all that mechanical contrivance could do to render the position endurable.
But these outward conditions were greatly ameliorated before many days were
over.

This is a dreary beginning of my story, is it not? But sickness of all
kinds is such a common thing in the world, that it is well sometimes to
let our minds rest upon it, lest it should take us altogether at unawares,
either in ourselves or our friends, when it comes. If it were not a good
thing in the end, surely it would not be; and perhaps before I have done my
readers will not be sorry that my tale began so gloomily. The sickness in
Judaea eighteen hundred and thirty-five years ago, or thereabouts, has no
small part in the story of him who came to put all things under our feet.
Praise be to him for evermore!

It soon became evident to me that that room was like a new and more sacred
heart to the house. At first it radiated gloom to the remotest corners; but
soon rays of light began to appear mingling with the gloom. I could see
that bits of news were carried from it to the servants in the kitchen, in
the garden, in the stable, and over the way to the home-farm. Even in the
village, and everywhere over the parish, I was received more kindly, and
listened to more willingly, because of the trouble I and my family were in;
while in the house, although we had never been anything else than a loving
family, it was easy to discover that we all drew more closely together in
consequence of our common anxiety. Previous to this, it had been no unusual
thing to see Wynnie and Dora impatient with each other; for Dora was
none the less a wild, somewhat lawless child, that she was a profoundly
affectionate one. She rather resembled her cousin Judy, in fact--whom
she called Aunt Judy, and with whom she was naturally a great favourite.
Wynnie, on the other hand, was sedate, and rather severe--more severe, I
must in justice say, with herself than with anyone else. I had sometimes
wished, it is true, that her mother, in regard to the younger children,
were more like her; but there I was wrong. For one of the great goods that
come of having two parents, is that the one balances and rectifies the
motions of the other. No one is good but God. No one holds the truth, or
can hold it, in one and the same thought, but God. Our human life is often,
at best, but an oscillation between the extremes which together make the
truth; and it is not a bad thing in a family, that the pendulums of father
and mother should differ in movement so far, that when the one is at one
extremity of the swing, the other should be at the other, so that they meet
only in the point of _indifference_, in the middle; that the predominant
tendency of the one should not be the predominant tendency of the other.
I was a very strict disciplinarian--too much so, perhaps, sometimes:
Ethelwyn, on the other hand, was too much inclined, I thought, to excuse
everything. I was law, she was grace. But grace often yielded to law, and
law sometimes yielded to grace. Yet she represented the higher; for in the
ultimate triumph of grace, in the glad performance of the command from love
of what is commanded, the law is fulfilled: the law is a schoolmaster to
bring us to Christ. I must say this for myself, however, that, although
obedience was the one thing I enforced, believing it the one thing upon
which all family economy primarily depends, yet my object always was to set
my children free from my law as soon as possible; in a word, to help them
to become, as soon as it might be, a law unto themselves. Then they would
need no more of mine. Then I would go entirely over to the mother's higher
side, and become to them, as much as in me lay, no longer law and truth,
but grace and truth. But to return to my children--it was soon evident not
only that Wynnie had grown more indulgent to Dora's vagaries, but that Dora
was more submissive to Wynnie, while the younger children began to
obey their eldest sister with a willing obedience, keeping down their
effervescence within doors, and letting it off only out of doors, or in the
out-houses.

When Constance began to recover a little, then the sacredness of that
chamber began to show itself more powerfully, radiating on all sides a yet
stronger influence of peace and goodwill. It was like a fountain of gentle
light, quieting and bringing more or less into tune all that came within
the circle of its sweetness. This brings me to speak again of my lovely
child. For surely a father may speak thus of a child of God. He cannot
regard his child as his even as a book he has written may be his. A man's
child is his because God has said to him, "Take this child and nurse it
for me." She is God's making; God's marvellous invention, to be tended
and cared for, and ministered unto as one of his precious things; a young
angel, let me say, who needs the air of this lower world to make her wings
grow. And while he regards her thus, he will see all other children in the
same light, and will not dare to set up his own against others of God's
brood with the new-budding wings. The universal heart of truth will thus
rectify, while it intensifies, the individual feeling towards one's own;
and the man who is most free from poor partisanship in regard to his own
family, will feel the most individual tenderness for the lovely human
creatures whom God has given into his own especial care and responsibility.
Show me the man who is tender, reverential, gracious towards the children
of other men, and I will show you the man who will love and tend his own
best, to whose heart his own will flee for their first refuge after God,
when they catch sight of the cloud in the wind.

CHAPTER III.

THE SICK CHAMBER.

In the course of a month there was a good deal more of light in the smile
with which my darling greeted me when I entered her room in the morning.
Her pain was greatly gone, but the power of moving her limbs had not yet
even begun to show itself.

One day she received me with a still happier smile than I had yet seen upon
her face, put out her thin white hand, took mine and kissed it, and said,
"Papa," with a lingering on the last syllable.

"What is it, my pet?" I asked.

"I am so happy!"

"What makes you so happy?" I asked again.

"I don't know," she answered. "I haven't thought about it yet. But
everything looks so pleasant round me. Is it nearly winter yet, papa? I've
forgotten all about how the time has been going."

"It is almost winter, my dear. There is hardly a leaf left on the
trees--just two or three disconsolate yellow ones that want to get away
down to the rest. They go fluttering and fluttering and trying to break
away, but they can't."

"That is just as I felt a little while ago. I wanted to die and get away,
papa; for I thought I should never be well again, and I should be in
everybody's way.--I am afraid I shall not get well, after all," she added,
and the light clouded on her sweet face.

"Well, my darling, we are in God's hands. We shall never get tired of you,
and you must not get tired of us. Would you get tired of nursing me, if I
were ill?"

"O, papa!" And the tears began to gather in her eyes.

"Then you must think we are not able to love so well as you."

"I know what you mean. I did not think of it that way. I will never think
so about it again. I was only thinking how useless I was."

"There you are quite mistaken, my dear. No living creature ever was
useless. You've got plenty to do there."

"But what have I got to do? I don't feel able for anything," she said; and
again the tears came in her eyes, as if I had been telling her to get up
and she could not.

"A great deal of our work," I answered, "we do without knowing what it is.
But I'll tell you what you have got to do: you have got to believe in God,
and in everybody in this house."

"I do, I do. But that is easy to do," she returned.

"And do you think that the work God gives us to do is never easy? Jesus
says his yoke is easy, his burden is light. People sometimes refuse to do
God's work just because it is easy. This is, sometimes, because they cannot
believe that easy work is his work; but there may be a very bad pride in
it: it may be because they think that there is little or no honour to be
got in that way; and therefore they despise it. Some again accept it with
half a heart, and do it with half a hand. But, however easy any work may
be, it cannot be well done without taking thought about it. And such
people, instead of taking thought about their work, generally take thought
about the morrow, in which no work can be done any more than in yesterday.
The Holy Present!--I think I must make one more sermon about it--although
you, Connie," I said, meaning it for a little joke, "do think that I have
said too much about it already."

"Papa, papa! do forgive me. This is a judgment on me for talking to you as
I did that dreadful morning. But I was so happy that I was impertinent."

"You silly darling!" I said. "A judgment! God be angry with you for that!
Even if it had been anything wrong, which it was not, do you think God has
no patience? No, Connie. I will tell you what seems to me much more likely.
You wanted something to do; and so God gave you something to do."

"Lying in bed and doing nothing!"

"Yes. Just lying in bed, and doing his will."

"If I could but feel that I was doing his will!"

"When you do it, then you will feel you are doing it."

"I know you are coming to something, papa. Please make haste, for my back
is getting so bad."

"I've tired you, my pet. It was very thoughtless of me. I will tell you the
rest another time," I said, rising.

"No, no. It will make me much worse not to hear it all now."

"Well, I will tell you. Be still, my darling, I won't be long. In the time
of the old sacrifices, when God so kindly told his ignorant children to
do something for him in that way, poor people were told to bring, not a
bullock or a sheep, for that was more than they could get, but a pair of
turtledoves, or two young pigeons. But now, as Crashaw the poet says,
'Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.' God wanted to teach people to
offer themselves. Now, you are poor, my pet, and you cannot offer yourself
in great things done for your fellow-men, which was the way Jesus did.
But you must remember that the two young pigeons of the poor were just as
acceptable to God as the fat bullock of the rich. Therefore you must say to
God something like this:--'O heavenly Father, I have nothing to offer
thee but my patience. I will bear thy will, and so offer my will a
burnt-offering unto thee. I will be as useless as thou pleasest.' Depend
upon it, my darling, in the midst of all the science about the world and
its ways, and all the ignorance of God and his greatness, the man or woman
who can thus say, _Thy will be done_, with the true heart of giving up is
nearer the secret of things than the geologist and theologian. And now, my
darling, be quiet in God's name."

She held up her mouth to kiss me, but did not speak, and I left her, and
sent Dora to sit with her.

In the evening, when I went into her room again, having been out in my
parish all the morning, I began to unload my budget of small events.
Indeed, we all came in like pelicans with stuffed pouches to empty them in
her room, as if she had been the only young one we had, and we must cram
her with news. Or, rather, she was like the queen of the commonwealth
sending out her messages into all parts, and receiving messages in return.
I might call her the brain of the house; but I have used similes enough for
a while.

After I had done talking, she said--

"And you have been to the school too, papa?"

"Yes. I go to the school almost every day. I fancy in such a school as ours
the young people get more good than they do in church. You know I had made
a great change in the Sunday-school just before you came home."

"I heard of that, papa. You won't let any of the little ones go to school
on the Sunday."

"No. It is too much for them. And having made this change, I feel the
necessity of being in the school myself nearly every day, that I may do
something direct for the little ones."

"And you'll have to take me up soon, as you promised, you know, papa--just
before Sprite threw me."

"As soon as you like, my dear, after you are able to read again."

"O, you must begin before that, please.--You could spare time to read a
little to me, couldn't you?" she said doubtfully, as if she feared she was
asking too much.

"Certainly, my dear; and I will begin to think about it at once."

It was in part the result of this wish of my child's that it became the
custom to gather in her room on Sunday evenings. She was quite unable for
any kind of work such as she would have had me commence with her, but I
used to take something to read to her every now and then, and always after
our early tea on Sundays.

What a thing it is to have one to speak and think about and try to find out
and understand, who is always and altogether and perfectly good! Such a
centre that is for all our thoughts and words and actions and imaginations!
It is indeed blessed to be human beings with Jesus Christ for the centre of
humanity.

In the papers wherein I am about to record the chief events of the
following years of my life, I shall give a short account of what passed at
some of these assemblies in my child's room, in the hope that it may give
my friends something, if not new, yet fresh to think about. For God has so
made us that everyone who thinks at all thinks in a way that must be more
or less fresh to everyone else who thinks, if he only have the gift of
setting forth his thoughts so that we can see what they are.

I hope my readers will not be alarmed at this, and suppose that I am about
to inflict long sermons upon them. I am not. I do hope, as I say, to teach
them something; but those whom I succeed in so teaching will share in the
delight it will give me to write about what I love most.

As far as I can remember, I will tell how this Sunday-evening class began.
I was sitting by Constance's bed. The fire was burning brightly, and the
twilight had deepened so nearly into night that it was reflected back from
the window, for the curtains had not yet been drawn. There was no light in
the room but that of the fire.

Now Constance was in the way of asking often what kind of day or night it
was, for there never was a girl more a child of nature than she. Her heart
seemed to respond at once to any and every mood of the world around her.
To her the condition of air, earth, and sky was news, and news of poetic
interest too. "What is it like?" she would often say, without any more
definite shaping of the question. This same evening she said:

"What is it like, papa?"

"It is growing dark," I answered, "as you can see. It is a still evening,
and what they call a black frost. The trees are standing as still as if
they were carved out of stone, and would snap off everywhere if the wind
were to blow. The ground is dark, and as hard as if it were of cast iron. A
gloomy night rather, my dear. It looks as if there were something upon its
mind that made it sullenly thoughtful; but the stars are coming out one
after another overhead, and the sky will be all awake soon. A strange thing
the life that goes on all night, is it not? The life of owlets, and mice,
and beasts of prey, and bats, and stars," I said, with no very categorical
arrangement, "and dreams, and flowers that don't go to sleep like the rest,
but send out their scent all night long. Only those are gone now. There are
no scents abroad, not even of the earth in such a frost as this."

"Don't you think it looks sometimes, papa, as if God turned his back on the
world, or went farther away from it for a while?"

"Tell me a little more what you mean, Connie."

"Well, this night now, this dark, frozen, lifeless night, which you have
been describing to me, isn't like God at all--is it?"

"No, it is not. I see what you mean now."

"It is just as if he had gone away and said, 'Now you shall see what you
can do without me.'

"Something like that. But do you know that English people--at least I think
so--enjoy the changeful weather of their country much more upon the whole
than those who have fine weather constantly? You see it is not enough to
satisfy God's goodness that he should give us all things richly to enjoy,
but he must make us able to enjoy them as richly as he gives them. He has
to consider not only the gift, but the receiver of the gift. He has to make
us able to take the gift and make it our own, as well as to give us the
gift. In fact, it is not real giving, with the full, that is, the divine,
meaning of giving, without it. He has to give us to the gift as well as
give the gift to us. Now for this, a break, an interruption is good, is
invaluable, for then we begin to think about the thing, and do something in
the matter ourselves. The wonder of God's teaching is that, in great part,
he makes us not merely learn, but teach ourselves, and that is far grander
than if he only made our minds as he makes our bodies."

"I think I understand you, papa. For since I have been ill, you would
wonder, if you could see into me, how even what you tell me about the world
out of doors gives me more pleasure than I think I ever had when I could go
about in it just as I liked."

"It wouldn't do that, though, you know, if you hadn't had the other first.
The pleasure you have comes as much from your memory as from my news."

"I see that, papa."

"Now can you tell me anything in history that confirms what I have been
saying?"

"I don't know anything about history, papa. The only thing that comes into
my head is what you were saying yourself the other day about Milton's
blindness."

"Ah, yes. I had not thought of that. Do you know, I do believe that God
wanted a grand poem from that man, and therefore blinded him that he might
be able to write it. But he had first trained him up to the point--given
him thirty years in which he had not to provide the bread of a single day,
only to learn and think; then set him to teach boys; then placed him at
Cromwell's side, in the midst of the tumultuous movement of public affairs,
into which the late student entered with all his heart and soul; and then
last of all he cast the veil of a divine darkness over him, sent him into a
chamber far more retired than that in which he laboured at Cambridge, and
set him like the nightingale to sing darkling. The blackness about him was
just the great canvas which God gave him to cover with forms of light and
music. Deep wells of memory burst upwards from below; the windows of heaven
were opened from above; from both rushed the deluge of song which flooded
his soul, and which he has poured out in a great river to us."

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