6PM6 P.M.
6 P.M.
6 P.M.
"God is a Spirit" was the sublime revelation made by Christ to the woman of Samaria by Jacob's well at Sychar. If St. John counted his hours according to the Jewish habit, the sixth would, of course, be noon, but a woman would be more likely to come to draw water, according to Eastern custom, ancient and modern, in the cool of the day, than during the burning heat.
9PM9 P.M.
9 P.M.
9 P.M.
Nine o'clock at night was a judicious hour for the dispatch of St. Paul, under an armed escort, from Jerusalem to Cæsarea. The apostle's young nephew had bravely divulged to the Roman captain, Lysias, a plot on the part of some Jews to assassinate his uncle. In this matter, Lysias acted as a man of wisdom and honour.
11PM11 P.M.
11 P.M.
11 P.M.
With the exception of noon and midnight, there is no hour so exactly marked as this in the whole of the Old Testament. The noble and heroic Gideon and his three companies blew their three hundred trumpets, and crashed their pitchers, and flashed their firebrands, "in the beginning of the middle watch, and they had but newly set the watch." The middle watch, as we have said before, lasted from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. This terrific signal for the attack on the Midianites must have been given, therefore, about 11 p.m.
Of the many midnight scenes that are available, we will choose one that is remarkable, not for its profound ethical teaching, its tenderness, its tragedy, but, if we may say so with reverence, its humour. Samson lifting the gates of Gaza upon his back, and carrying them up "to the top of the mountain that is before Hebron" (R.V.), is one of those stories which delighted our childhood, and which will never be displaced by any recital of the glories of latter-day athleticism. The gist of this incident is to be found in the cleverness with which the Philistines, proverbial then as now for their stupidity, are outwitted by the prisoner, whom they fancied they had trapped so securely.
1212 MIDNIGHT.
12 MIDNIGHT.
12 MIDNIGHT.
It may be that, as we lay our big clock aside, and return our watches to our pockets, some scenes of the sacred Long Ago will shape themselves more clearly and definitely for the future in our remembrance, because we shall associate them with the hour at which they occurred. We have not sought to disguise the fact that, so far as time goes, a mist of incertitude must always cling round events, however momentous, which took place in any Oriental country, and at a remote age. But we shall understand our Bible all the better, and its unchangeable and imperishable essence will be the more vital to our souls, as we realise that the Almighty was pleased to reveal Himself to a people whose modes of thought and whose ways of life were widely different from our own.
As might be expected, the languorous and unpractical Orient soon lost the impress of Roman preciseness in the matter of hours. The average native of Palestine to-day is as careless about time as he was when Abraham completed his pilgrimage from Ur of the Chaldees. Nor is this truth without its curious analogy in that life immortal into which we believe those holy men of old are entered, with whose earthly deeds we have been concerned. There is no time where they have gone. In the sight of the King before Whose presence they stand, "a thousand years are but as yesterday, seeing that is past as a watch in the night." And we think, too, of that Dial, hidden somewhere in the archives of the Eternal, whose awful Hand points to the Hour, unknown even to the angels in heaven, "when the Son of Man cometh."
Little
By Evelyn Everett-Green.
TTheAuguste-Victoriawas steaming with dignified deliberation into the harbour of Gibraltar. The exquisite lights of a clear February morning were shining over land and sea; and Dulcie, at her port-hole window, was gazing with eager eyes over the smooth, shining ripples of the sea, and longing for a run on deck and a good look about her.
TheAuguste-Victoriawas steaming with dignified deliberation into the harbour of Gibraltar. The exquisite lights of a clear February morning were shining over land and sea; and Dulcie, at her port-hole window, was gazing with eager eyes over the smooth, shining ripples of the sea, and longing for a run on deck and a good look about her.
But Dulcie's cabin-companion, a frail invalid, who had been wintering in Madeira, and was on her way to the Riviera, where the spring months were to be spent, was still lying prostrate and wan in her berth. She had suffered severely during the thirty hours' passage from Funchal to Gibraltar; and Dulcie would not leave her till she had had some breakfast and had been made comfortable for a quiet sleep.
She crossed the cabin and bent over her.
"We are in now, Aunt Mary. There, do you hear? That is the rattle of the anchor chain going down. I have sent for your tea and toast. They will be here directly. Let me make you comfortable; and after you have had something to eat you will get off to sleep, and wake up quite brisk. We have no more Atlantic to face now. Only the blue, blue Mediterranean. Oh, it does look so calm and beautiful!"
Dulcie fairly danced about the floor as she waited on the invalid. This cabin was in itself a luxury—not just a gangway, with berths on one side and lounge on the other; but a small room with space to walk about, and a fixed wardrobe in which to hang clothes—as different as possible from the accommodation on the mail-boat which had taken them from Southampton to Madeira in October. This was a great pleasure steamer, which had left New York ten days or so ago, touched at Madeira, and was bound on a cruise through the Mediterranean to the Orient.
Dulcie had come out with a party of rich relations, mainly to take charge of Miss Martin, the semi-invalid "Aunt Mary." The Meredith party had wearied of Madeira by this time, and Miss Martin unspeakably dreaded the return journey in the mail, with the horrors of the Bay of Biscay and the perils of Ushant to face. They had eagerly availed themselves of the chance of returning by this splendid German-American pleasure steamer; and Dulcie's heart was all in a flutter at the prospect of what she was to see. To-day Gibraltar, to-morrow Malaga; and thence a trip up to Granada, the place, of all others in the world, that she longed to see! Then Algiers, then Genoa; andso to the Riviera, whence she was to be sent home; as, when once in Europe, and with no more sea voyage to face, her company could be dispensed with. But what a lot of the world she would have seen by that time! Certainly there were compensations sometimes in being a poor relation whose services could always be commanded.
Just as Miss Martin was sipping her tea, and finding relief at last in the steadiness of the great vessel at anchor, handsome Arabella Meredith came bustling in, in travelling trim, with a light cloak over her arm.
"Oh, Dulcie," she said, "we find that we leave for Granada at once. We do not do it from Malaga; but only join the boat again there. It is an affair of three nights. I'm sorry you will miss it; but, of course, Aunt Mary cannot be left all that time, and before she has got over her sea-sickness. Good-bye; we'll tell you all about it when we meet. I daresay you'll manage to join a shore-going party here and at Malaga, and you'll have the boat nice and quiet. Everybody's off on shore for Granada."
She was gone. There was trampling and calling overhead. The agent who arranged the shore excursions was marshalling his recruits. People were rushing down for wraps and hand-bags; all was hurry and confusion. Mrs. Meredith just ran in to kiss her sister and warn Dulcie to look well after her. Then she, too, disappeared, and Dulcie was left biting her lips to keep back the tears. She realised that Miss Martin could not be left for so long, and that before she had recovered the tossing in the Atlantic. But to miss Granada! Oh! it did seem hard when she was so near, and Aunt Mary had promised to pay the expenses of the trip for her.
Miss Martin settled to sleep, the sleep of exhausted nature. Dulcie went on deck to find the huge boat almost empty. Even those passengers who had not cared for the fatigues of the Granada expedition had gone to spend the day ashore. The steamer was not to leave the anchorage till seven o'clock that night, and then only steam gently under lee of the shore to Malaga.
Dulcie's was a happy nature; despite the keenness of her disappointment, the beauty of the scene before her eyes did much to chase sorrow away. Was she not looking upon one of the grand sights of the world? Was not that the lion-faced rock she had longed to see? And oh, how glorious were those solemn African mountains! and what an exquisite view she had of the wonderful harbour, the town climbing up the steep heights, and the white Moorish city crowning one of the low hills! There was Algeciras; she recognised it from its position, but she longed to know more of her surroundings. Oh, if Mr. Carlyon were but here, what interesting things he would tell her!
Dulcie felt her cheek suddenly glow, and she leaned over the rail, looking down into the water and growing dreamy. How was it that it was always that face which came between her and the page of her book when she read, or intruded itself into her visions, waking and sleeping, at night? Why was it that the thought of missingthatcompanionship on the Granada trip was the real trouble to her, though she scarcely dared admit it? What was Mr. Carlyon to her?
He had only been three weeks in the hotel with them at Funchal; he had come from the Cape, and it was rumoured that he had made a fortune there. He was evidently a great traveller. He seemed acquainted with every land under the sun. His thin face was very brown; and the dark hair was silvered at the temples, though the fine silky moustache was still quite black. He was tall and well-knit in figure, with regular features and very penetrating eyes of a rather dark blue; a handsome and distinguished-looking man, said to belong to a good old family. But he had lived a life of travel and adventure, and had known hard times. If he had made his fortune now, at the age of forty or under, he had known plenty of buffeting about in his earlier life.
"I wonder if he will come back engaged to Arabella?" mused Dulcie; "I know the people, at the hotel talked about it. He was so much with us. Does Arabella care for him? He attracts her. That very gentle chivalrous way he has with all women is so different from what one meets with generally in these days. Oh, I do hope, if it is to be, that she really cares. I think he is a man who would give everything without reserve, if once he loved. And she? Oh, it is not for me to judge; perhaps I am a little jealous.Sometimes she seems to have so much—more than she can use. But I must not let myself think unworthy thoughts. I have had a lovely time. A winter of sunshine and happiness, and now this wonderful trip home. To let things be spoiled for me, just becausehehas gone with them and I am left behind! Oh, that would be ridiculous! ungrateful! horrid!"
dreamThat day was like a dream to Dulcie.—p. 322.
That day was like a dream to Dulcie.—p. 322.
That day was like a dream to Dulcie.—p. 322.
With a brave effort Dulcie flung away disappointment. After her sleep and dinner Miss Martin was well enough to come and lie out on deck, wrapped up in rugs, and enjoy the sunshine; and, hearing of a party of American ladies going for an hour or two ashore in the afternoon, she sent Dulcie off with them; so that, if she did not see what others did, at least she wandered up the narrow, busy main street of the town, saw the jostling crowds of semi-Moorish and mixed European nationality; drove out to Catalan Bay and Europa Point, and sipped delicious chocolate in a delightfully Moorish-looking restaurant before getting back to the ship.
"We have had a perfectly charming afternoon," she told Miss Martin when she got back. "We had not time or energy for the fortifications; but I don't think I mind that. That great lion rock is enough for me. I have seen Gib'; and made a few little sketches. I am quite, quite happy and content."
II.
H"How perfectly exquisite!" exclaimed Dulcie.
"How perfectly exquisite!" exclaimed Dulcie.
The great vessel was lying at her anchorage in the beautiful harbour of Malaga. The smooth water lay almost without a ripple, dreaming beneath the misty glories of the spring sunrise, the delicate opals melting into the deeper green and blue of the ocean away towards the horizon, but nearer at hand so tender and pearly in tint that Dulcie held her breath to watch; and seemed as though she would never move again.
"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Grey!"
Dulcie wheeled round with a great start, the colour flushing her face from brow to chin.
"Mr. Carlyon!" she almost gasped.
"Well, not his ghost certainly, though you seem to think so."
"But—but—I thought you had gone to Granada?"
"I started off yesterday, certainly, with that intention; but I found I could not stand being one of three hundred tourists! I had not realised that sort of travelling before. It has wonderful advantages for untravelled folk, but somehow it did not suit me. I went with them to Ronda; I wanted to see that. But Granada is an old friend of mine. I did not want its memories desecrated. I think I am not exactly a gregarious animal. I made my way to Malaga by night, and found theAuguste-Victoriahad already arrived. So, you see, I have turned up like a bad halfpenny, and, if Miss Martin is well enough, I should like very much to be allowed the pleasure of showing her and you what there is to see in Malaga. It is not a great deal—not enough to be fatiguing; but, if you have not been in Spain before, it will give you an idea of a pleasant Spanish town."
Dulcie's face was all in a glow; her heart seemed dancing with joy. The sunshine took a new brightness, the flocks of white sea-gulls circling round the vessel and about the harbour seemed to be crying joyously one to the other. The soft breeze blew the loosened tendrils of hair about her happy face and sparkling eyes.
The thin face of the traveller brightened as he watched.
"Let us see if we cannot get some breakfast first. We will make love to the head steward and ask if they will not let us have it in that little boudoir, as they call it, on the top deck. I hate going below on a morning like this, and I am just starving after my night's travel."
Mr. Carlyon was one of those men who always get things done in their own way. The beauty of the morning and the news of Mr. Carlyon's plan quite roused Miss Martin, who had now recovered from the effects of the Atlantic, and after her day's rest was disposed to bestir herself. She was quite ready even at that early hour to let Dulcie dress her, and help her up the many stairs to the upper deck; and there in the pleasant little "boudoir" was an appetising breakfast awaiting them.
That day was always like a dream to Dulcie, and, indeed, so were those that followed, for Mr. Carlyon proved himself the most charming and entertaining of companions. They had a boat ashore, and then a carriage, and they drove through the white town, and over the wide stony bed of the almost empty river to some exquisite gardens, belonging to Spanish grandees, now absent in Madrid, and wandered about them, whilst Miss Martin rested in the many arbours, seeing beautiful views and delighting in the flowers, which, if not so plentiful now as they would be later on, were fair and sweet and abundant.
On the day following they visited the grand cathedral and examined its many pictures, some of which were of no small interest, and drove out to the red buildings of the great bull-ring, and saw the curious structure and the weapons and saddles of the riders. Everything was empty and deserted at that time of year, for the bull-fights only begin in April. But Dulcie could picture the scene in all its splendour and horror, under the golden Southern sunshine, and gave a little shudder, feeling glad when her companion told her that he had never seen a bull-fight, though he had lived for a time in Spain.
"They are always on Sunday, for one thing," he said, "and I—well, I have had a rough-and-tumble life, and there have been times when Sundays have been strange days with me. But I could never bring my mind deliberately to go to such a scene on such a day; even if Icould have made up my mind to witness the brutal spectacle as a matter of curiosity, or from the feeling that it was one of the sights of the country."
And Dulcie liked and respected him the more for this confession. It seemed to make a fresh link between them.
Miss Martin watched them as they paced to and fro upon the long deck at such times as they were not ashore; and sometimes a sparkle would come into her eyes as she observed the way in which Mr. Carlyon's glance would dwell upon Dulcie's bright face.
"It looks to me very much like——And really I should not be sorry. Poor child! she is so much alone in the world; and I can do nothing for her. All my money goes to Arabella and her brothers—that's the worst of being an unmarried woman; one has no control over one's money; if I had, I would have made a little provision for the child. She is a good little thing. But I don't think Janet will be best pleased. Arabella, with all her good looks, does not go off. As I tell Janet, it is her temper—she has been so spoiled. Everybody can see it; she is absolutely selfish. I did begin to think that Mr. Carlyon was attracted; but I suspect now the attraction was in another direction. Well, I only hope there won't be a terrible rumpus when they get back. They were reckoning, I know, on this trip. They meant to make him their special escort; and when they learn what has really happened! Well, they can't bully him, that is one comfort; and I'll try to protect Dulcie. But Arabella is a minx when her blood is up; and Janet knows how to make me afraid. It's ridiculous to be afraid of one's sister; but sometimes I am."
Just about sunset that evening the shore became black with hurrying forms, and the harbour was crowded with boats. The Granada party was returning to theAuguste-Victoria, to the strains of "Home, Sweet Home" played by the band; and Mr. Carlyon with Dulcie stood laughingly watching the embarkation of the weary, travel-stained tourists.
"I expect they have only enjoyed it very moderately; Granada would be bitterly cold at this season, April or May is the time to see it. Ah! here comes your party! They don't look very happy in their minds. I'm not sure, after all, Miss Dulcie, that we unenterprising people haven't had the best of it!"
"I have had a perfectly lovely time!" cried Dulcie with one of her sweet, direct glances; "you have been so kind to me!"
fierceArabella swept fiercely past, carrying Dulcie with her.—p. 324.
Arabella swept fiercely past, carrying Dulcie with her.—p. 324.
Arabella swept fiercely past, carrying Dulcie with her.—p. 324.
His face lighted; it was such a kind one when it did, though it could be stern, too, on occasion.
"And you must see Granada another time—at the right season."
"Ah me! I fear not!" answered Dulcie, with a little laugh. "But never mind; one can't be more than perfectly happy!"
"Dulcie, is that you? Do take my bag; I'm so tired I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mr. Carlyon, there you are! I wonder you have the face to speak to me again, after your base desertion in our hour of need!"
She tried to speak archly; but temperand spite were in her tone, and the gleam in the eyes that rested first on Dulcie and then on him was not at all pretty to see.
"I left you under most capable guardianship; but I found my own enthusiasm unequal to the demand made upon it. There is such a thing as making a labour of a pleasure. Old fellows like me get beyond that in time."
Arabella swept fiercely past him, carrying Dulcie with her.
"When did he join the ship again?" she asked fiercely.
"On Tuesday morning," answered Dulcie quietly.
Arabella, red and pale by turns, cross-questioned her as to every event of the past days, which Dulcie gave truthfully, though with a sense of coming trouble.
Then the storm burst. She had seen Arabella angry before; but this was a unique outburst, and before it she stood dumb.
III.
"Oh, Dulcie, my dear, we are in sad disgrace," cried Miss Martin, half laughing, but distinctly agitated as well; "really, Janet is unreasonable. As if we had anything to do with Mr. Carlyon's change of plan! As if a man like that would not have gone with Arabella if he had wanted her! But Janet can never see things fairly, and, oh! the scolding I have had! And now, my dear, there is only one thing for us to do, if we don't want our heads snapped off. We shall weigh anchor almost at once, and they say it will be rather rough when we lose the shelter of the Spanish coast. I am just going to bed quietly at once, and you are to stop down and take care of me, and not show yourself above deck at all until to-morrow midday, when everybody has got off at Algiers, and Janet has made sure of Mr. Carlyon's escort."
Dulcie's cheeks were burning; her eyes were indignant.
"What have I done that I should be mewed up like this? Of course, as long as you are ill and want me, auntie, I don't mind anything, but you are not ill yet, and I do love seeing the ship move off, and all Malaga is collecting upon the two great breakwaters to see us steam away!"
"Oh, my dear child, don't begin to argue. My nerves won't stand another scene with Janet. If we do as she says we shall have peace, and 'Peace at any price' is my motto. We shall be at Algiers to-morrow midday; they will go ashore with Mr. Carlyon. He will take them to Mustapha Supérieur, and they will all stay the night there. We can do our little sight-seeing quietly by ourselves, and be back on board and out of sight before the rest get back. The crossing to Genoa takes from Saturday evening to early Monday morning, and I shall be glad enough to lie down all that time. I am afraid it will be dull for you, poor child! but it's no good crossing your Aunt Janet. You had better keep quietly here with me, and then at Genoa, as you know, you are to take the train back to England, and we go on to the Riviera. I should have liked to keep you all the while. I shall miss you sadly; but Janet——"
Dulcie was busying herself over her aunt's belongings, to hide the tears that would come welling up. She had so looked forward to seeing something of the life on board the big boat during the days at sea in the peaceful Mediterranean; but here she was compelled to remain a prisoner in the cabin, dependent upon the port-hole for light and air; and all because——But that would scarcely bear thinking of: it was humiliating, unbearable.
Pride, however, and a sort of maidenly shame kept Dulcie below, and, as the passage to Algiers was really rather rough, she had her time taken up by attendance on her aunt. Miss Martin was not well enough to get up till they had been two hours or more at anchor, and then did not feel equal to going ashore that day.
But, at least, Dulcie could pace the almost deserted deck from end to end, and gaze her fill at the beautiful town built up and up against the side of the hill. She could see the Arab dresses of the motley crowd upon the quay and along the handsome boulevard in full view, and distinguish between the fine houses and towers and spires of the French town, and the white walls and minarets of the Arab quarter away on the right. She longed for the next day to come, whenthey would go ashore and explore the wonders of the place.
Miss Martin was quite recovered by the morrow, and anxious to see something of the town. They procured a carriage and a guide, and drove for many hours, and, though the elder lady did not feel equal to the exertion of walking through the native quarter, whose streets were far too steep and narrow for the carriage, she sent Dulcie with the guide, who showed it to her very well, and she gazed about her with breathless interest at the strange veiled women, and brown turbaned men, and the little dark-eyed children playing in the gutters.
Yet throughout the day Dulcie was conscious of a heaviness at heart, a sense of unsatisfied longing which she was afraid to analyse or think about. All that she saw was wonderful, much more so than what she had seen in Malaga, but to compare her pleasure in the two was impossible. One day seemed all sunshine; this other was overcast and dull by comparison. She was conscious of being always on the watch for one face—a face of which she caught no glimpse the whole day. She found herself constantly wondering what the rest were doing, and whether Arabella was finding out what a delightful guide and cicerone Mr. Carlyon could be.
They went back to theAuguste-Victoriabefore the bulk of the passengers; for Miss Martin was really tired, and Dulcie agreed with her that it might be well for her to go to her berth before the vessel started, since there was the prospect of a mild tossing when they were once outside the harbour.
Mrs. Meredith came in presently, a good deal more gracious than before, but still a little tart in her manner towards Dulcie.
"We shall meet a head-wind when we get out of harbour," she observed. "You must take care of your aunt, Dulcie, and remain with her. With her weak heart, she should not be left alone when there is any fear of sickness coming on. When we reach Genoa, I will put you and your baggage into the hands of some competent guide or porter, who will take you to the train, and you will book yourself straight through to England."
Dulcie understood perfectly. Arabella had thought her in the way. It was a planned thing that she should not see Mr. Carlyon again, even to say good-bye. And she was quite helpless. She could not seek him out—her girlish pride and modesty alike prevented that; nor could he try to see her. He would be told that she was either laid low herself or attending upon one who was in such case. Upon that crowded boat, when its complement of passengers was on board, there would be only a remote chance of encountering him even were she to steal up for a mouthful of air. At meals she might have met him; for he was certain to sit in the same saloon with her relations, even though the pleasant "boudoir" might not now be available; but to meals she was practically forbidden to come. And, indeed, Miss Martin was sufficiently ill during the whole of the next day to keep Dulcie in pretty constant attendance upon her.
Nearly all that night Dulcie lay awake in her berth, thinking strange yearning thoughts; and wondering whether she would ever cease to feel that weary sense of heartache. Miss Martin slept soundly at last—so soundly that she heard none of the noises of the vessel's slow approach to its moorings in the magnificent harbour of Genoa; was not aware when Dulcie slipped out of her berth and dressed herself with dainty precision in her neat blue travelling costume. She slept on and on so peacefully that the girl felt no scruple in leaving her. She must get a little fresh air and have her breakfast above deck. She must watch the entrance of the stately vessel into the wonderful historic harbour. The hour was very early yet. Nobody else would be astir. It was her last chance of seeing the world. She slipped out of the cabin, ran up the many flights of steps to the promenade deck, and looked about her with wide, wondering eyes at the forest of shipping by which they were surrounded, and the buildings of the town stretching away in all directions.
"Dulcie!" She started and faced about, the colour flooding her face; he was close beside her, holding out both his hands. In his eyes there was a look of purpose she had never seen there before; her own fell before it, her heart was beating so fast she could find no voice in which to answer.
He came and took her hands in his; he bent over her and spoke in quick, vibrating tones that thrilled her through and through.
turn"Dear me—how things do turn out!"
"Dear me—how things do turn out!"
"Dear me—how things do turn out!"
"Dulcie, forgive me if I am too hasty—too bold; but what am I to do? They have kept you away from me, child; and I have tried in vain to get speech with you. There is so little time to say what I would. I would have spoken it all so differently if I could. But yet I can say it all in a few little words. I love you, Dulcie—I love you. I cannot live my life without you. You are young, child, and I am getting old; but I think, with you beside me, I could learn to be young again. Dulcie, will you give me something to hope for? Do you think you could let me come and try to win your love?"
She looked up at him for one dazzling moment, and in that moment read the half-discovered secret of her own heart.
"I—I—love you already," she answered very simply; and then she felt herself being drawn, close, close to his side.
Was it minutes or hours later that she heard a sharp voice calling her name.
"Dulcie, Dulcie, where are you? Is your luggage ready? Have you had your breakfast? Be quick. Oh——"
Mr. Carlyon stepped forward, smiling.
"Congratulate me, Mrs. Meredith. Your niece has done me the honour to promise to be my wife. Would it be possible under the circumstances for her to remain with you at Mentone? I know Miss Martin favours that plan."
Mrs. Meredith was woman of the world enough to know when she was beaten; and, after all, was it not better to have such a man as her niece's husband than as a mere acquaintance? Besides, her hopes of securing him for a son-in-law had materially diminished during the past eight-and-forty hours.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed, "how very interesting and romantic! Dulcie, my dear, I congratulate you. Yes, certainly, you shall remain with us. I will go and speak to Mary about it. I am sure she will be pleased. Dear me—how things do turn out!"
By Elizabeth L. Banks.
T"The parson's coming!"
"The parson's coming!"
I remember well the pleasurable excitement that announcement used to cause in our farming neighbourhood. We children, sometimes swinging upon the topmost railing of the wicket gates, from which height we could espy the parson's "buggy" afar off, were often proud to be the first bearers of the tidings of his approach. But it was not always we who saw him first. There were times when, obeying the commands of our elders that we must never swing on the "front yard gate because it loosened the hinges," we felt chagrined over the fact that, though we were good, obedient children, we were denied the privilege of first noting the parson's horse round the hedge, in his slow, safe, jog-trot style—a style, by the way, that we all thought the proper equipment of a minister's horse. There were days when our fathers and our brothers and the "hired men," ploughing in the farm fields, hastily dropped their work, tying their horses to the fence-posts, and strode hurriedly to the house with the bit of always welcome news that the parson was making his quarterly round of country visits and might shortly be expected at that particular house, which must forthwith be "tidied up" most especially in his honour. Orders were straightway given that the manufacture of mud-pies in the back yard must be at once abandoned. There was a scurrying to the garden pump or the wash-basin, hands and faces were scrubbed, straying locks were plastered back from our foreheads; soiled, dark gingham aprons were exchanged for clean, stiffly starched, light print ones; and then we were led into the "parlour" and bidden to "sit still and quiet and nice and tidy" in readiness for the parson's visit. If, when the parson was espied, it was near the noon dinner-hour or the night supper-time, extra preparations were made for the approaching meal. Slices of highly valued "pound cake" were brought from the larder, the cellar was ransacked for the choicest jar of home-made jam, and, if time allowed, an unlucky chicken was chased into a corner of the barn-yard and assassinated, to help provide a feast deemed worthy to set before the parson.
pumpThere was a scurrying to the garden pump.
There was a scurrying to the garden pump.
There was a scurrying to the garden pump.
The parson lived in the village, some five miles distant. He preached every Sunday morning and evening in the village church to a congregation of perhaps fifty souls, and received from them a salary of five hundred dollars a year. Once in two weeks he drove out to our school-house on the Sunday afternoon topreach to the farmers and their families, who did not attend the village church because they considered it a cruelty to horses that had worked all the week to be obliged to carry the family to church on Sunday. We in our district added one hundred dollars "and a donation party" to the minister's salary. The inhabitants of another farming district, six miles on the other side of the village, rewarded the parson in the same way for preaching to them on the alternate Sundays when he did not come to us; so the minister had, all told, seven hundred dollars a year (£140),andtwo "donation parties"—not a large sum on which to support a family of five, yet considerably more than Goldsmith's village preacher, who was "passing rich on forty pounds a year."
FeeA WEDDING FEE!
A WEDDING FEE!
A WEDDING FEE!
Four times a year the minister visited all his country parishioners. It generally took him two or three days to go the rounds in one neighbourhood—a neighbourhood, I may say, extended over several miles. He would leave "town" (there were six hundred inhabitants in the place where he presided over the only steepled meeting-house of his three charges!) early in the morning, and reach the first house where he was to call at about ten o'clock. At noon he would have his dinner with some one of the farmer folk, being careful to select for his noon call a family with whom he had not partaken bread on his previous visit of three or six months back; for to have the parson to dinner or supper or to "put him up for the night" was an honour for which there was great rivalry, and he tried to be impartial in his distribution of such favours. During the meal hours, the minister's horse fared as sumptuously as did his good master. Apples and sugar and turnips and carrots and all the luxuries that the farm produced were given to the animal by the children of the place, while the farmer or his hired help brought out their choicest corn and bran and oats and fragrant hay. Nothing was too good for the minister and his horse. Indeed, even the "buggy" would be washed up and made "fit" during the interval of the meal hour.
Happy was that house and its dwellers with whom the minister elected to call late in the evening. The "spare bedroom," which adjoined the parlour and was only opened and aired on great occasions, was given over to him, and he slept upon the softest feather bed, amid the snowiest linen, and beneath a white-fringed canopy. In the morning the usual six o'clock breakfast would be delayed on his account until 6.30, and an hour later the minister was jogging along in his buggy to the next farmhouse.
I have written this much about the country parson with whom my own childhood was associated, because he was a typical American country parson then, and he is typical now. His round of duties and pleasures during his country visits are identical with that of hundreds of others of our country parsons. The practice of taking charge of a village church and then preaching on Sunday afternoons in the neighbouring country schoolhouses, is followed to a very great extent throughout the United States. The salary received is sometimes more, sometimes less, than what I have mentioned. What these men and their wonderful wives are able to do for themselves and their children on salaries ranging from six hundred to a thousand dollars a year is little less than miraculous. I have spoken of the "wonderful wives" of our country parsons. Here is a description of the wife of the country parson who preached in our school-house. She was not and is not unique. There are very many like her.
When she married the parson, she was a graduate of one of our best "mixed colleges." She took her diploma on the day that the man whom she afterwards married took his. She had taken the course in Greek and Latin, the higher mathematics, French, and German. When I knew her as the parson's wife, she gave lessons in French, music, and painting. The young mother of three children, she not only had no nursemaid to look after them, but she had no servants in her kitchen. She did all the housework, including the family washing and ironing, and the baking of the bread and cakes and pies. She made her children's dresses and her own. The parson's shirt front and his spotless white lawn ties were "laundered" by her. At ten o'clock in the morning she presided over the wash-tub, and at three in the afternoon she read Cicero, perhaps in the same kitchen while waiting for the bread to bake in the oven. She never looked untidy, our parson's wife! Even when hanging over the wash-tub or the bread-tray, she wore a smart-looking stuff dress, kept always clean by the donning of an immense bibbed apron. She had not an "at home" day, nor even an "at home" hour. She was always at home when she was in the house, at whatever hour of the day or night a visitor might knock at her front door. If, while in the kitchen, she heard the knocking that announced callers, the bibbed apron was thrown off, and in less than a minute later she appeared at the door, well-dressed and smiling. She was the confidante of all those in trouble; she gave advice to those married and those about to marry; she was president of the Ladies' Aid Society; she led the sewing circle, she played the church organ every Sunday morning and led the singing of the choir as well; she taught a class in the Sunday-school, and then went home and got dinner in time for her husband to start for his school-house preaching. Sunday night she presided over the young people's prayer meeting which preceded the regular preaching service. Twice a year she gave her own children a "party," to which all the other village children were invited. She formed "Bands of Mercy" in all the country round, and wrote little stories for the children to read at their meetings on the subject of kindness to dumb animals.
parsonOUR PARSON'S WIFE.
OUR PARSON'S WIFE.
OUR PARSON'S WIFE.
Her house was often the scene of weddings, for those young women who could not be married at home (church weddings were a rarity), went to the parsonage to be married. There was always cake in the parsonage, and on these occasions the lady of the house would bring forth a bit of it from the larder for the bride and groom, for whom it served as the "wedding cake."
Country parsons—indeed, I think I may say nearly all American clergymen in both city and country—give the fees they receive at weddings to their wives. It is understood that the wedding fee is the perquisite of the minister's wife. Five dollars (£1) is looked upon by the ordinary country parson as a liberal fee.The very rich village grocer or country farmer occasionally astonishes the officiating clergyman with ten dollars, but such a happening is an event that could not be expected to occur oftener than once in a country parson's lifetime. The young man for whom the parson performs the all-important ceremony usually gives what he thinks he can afford. He may give two dollars. He would scarcely give less than that amount in money.
Then there is "payment in kind." A young couple frequently drive up to the parsonage in a "lumber waggon" filled with potatoes, or turnips, or firewood, or flour, beans, pickled pork—in fact, anything of an edible nature that grows on the farm. I have a schoolgirl friend married to a village clergyman, who recently regaled me with a story of a young countryman, who, with his bride, drove up to the parsonage with a large chicken coop, full of cackling hens, which he proudly delivered over to her husband as his fee for performing the marriage ceremony, with the information that "them was as good layin' hens as ever lived, and calc'lated to pervide eggs for a year an' more!"
There are numerous instances of enthusiastic and grateful bridegrooms who have presented the officiating clergyman with live pigs as wedding fees.
But it is not only as a reward for performing the marriage ceremony that the country parson is "paid in kind." Sometimes he receives a large part of his salary in this way. The members of his congregation each subscribe a certain amount of money towards the salary that is guaranteed the minister. Farmer Brown will, he says, contribute four dollars as his share. In the winter, when Farmer Brown should hand over his four dollars to the church treasurer, he finds himself short of ready cash, but with an abundant supply of wood on hand, having in the autumn felled many trees in his forest. Nothing can be more certain than that the minister needs fuel in the winter; therefore, Farmer Brown loads his waggon with logs of wood, drives to the parsonage, and deposits it in the minister's back yard, announcing to the minister that he "reckons thar 's mor'n four dollars wirth of wood in that thar load!"
The minister can, perhaps, make use of that one load of wood very conveniently; but when, as is frequently the case, a dozen frugal farmers among his parishioners are struck with the same sort of notion—that of paying their subscriptions in wood instead of money—the unfortunate parson has more wood than he can burn for many winters to come, and his back yard is entirely taken up with it. He needs sugar, and paraffin, and rice, and butter, as well as a cheerful fireside. Did I say butter? Well, sometimes he gets more butter than he wants, too. Says the farmer to his wife: "Jane, I promised to pay three dollars towards the parson's salary. Bein' as you're makin' fine butter this summer, you jes' take him a couple o' pounds a week till you've made three dollars' worth." Two pounds of fresh yellow butter weekly from the dairy of a parishioner would be appreciated by the parson's family. They would rather have it than the stale butter from the village shop; but since butter is made on all farms, and many farmers' wives send the parson butter to pay off their subscriptions, the parson's larder overflows with butter, while many other necessaries are scarce. It is the same with potatoes and cabbages and beetroots, with eggs, and with hay for the minister's horse, which, by the way, is not forgotten when the time for paying subscriptions comes round. The minister loves his horse, and is glad to have plenty of hay and oats for it to eat; but to have in his barn enough of these articles to last a horse through several lifetimes, while the children are needing boots and coats for the present winter, is not a state of affairs that appeals to his sense of the fitness of things. Some of our country parsons, with an instinct for business, not inborn, but thrust upon them by a stern necessity, have been known to become dealers in wood, potatoes, hay, and other things of which they have an over-supply, selling their surplus stock off to their neighbours. In this way they are able to get a little ready cash with which to purchase such necessary commodities as do not "grow on the farm."
In the beginning of my article I have referred to "donation parties," and have said that some ministers are guaranteed a certain number of dollarsanda "donation" as a yearly salary. The donation party is, I believe, a strictly American institution, which originatedabout a century ago in the very thinly settled regions of the United States among the pioneers. It is still extremely popular in country towns and farming neighbourhoods. Say that a clergyman receives eight hundred dollars a year and a "donation," or it may be that he is promised two donations. That means that besides his money, he will be surprised one night or two nights in the year by fifty or a hundred, or perhaps two or three hundred, people marching into his house with bundles of every size and description. His visitors will bring with them pounds of sugar, barrels of flour, jars of pickles, bags of salt, tinned meats and vegetables, remnants of calicoes, muslins, cloths, and silks, from the village "general store," white lawn neckties, cooking utensils, bed-clothing, pictures to hang upon the wall, patent medicines (including soothing syrups for the babies), shoes and stockings, a few live chickens—in fact, everything that the minds of his parishioners can conceive of his needing. Besides all these things, a "proper" donation party is expected to carry along its own supper, during which, sometimes, a collection is taken up and a purse of money presented to the parson. A good donation party, given by a generous lot of church people, is a thing not to be despised by the recipient. Store-cupboards, cellars, and wardrobes are frequently stocked for a whole year to come, and the minister is thus able to put by, for the education of his children, a goodly sum of money out of his cash salary.