Thus, of course, the more I detect inattention, the more I lengthen the service. And then again, in the lessons, I frequently read the consecutive chapters, perhaps two or three. So that, sometimes, Mrs. Goodey comes in, to my surprise, to lay the cloth, before I have finished. But, more generally, I have done earlier, and lain back on my sofa-cushion, and taken a good rest, gazing on my Sunday nosegay, and on my dear father’s portrait on the wall. I have no likeness of my mother—not even a silhouette; she never would have one taken: but her face is indelibly stamped on my memory and heart.
Then Phillis bustles in with the one hot dish; and generally has brought home some scrap of news, which she is in haste to impart.
“Master Frank preached to-day.” (The Rev. Francis Sidney is always, with her, Master Frank). “How well he do speak up, to be sure! The deafest in church might hear ’un. Well, I can’t justly mind what ’twas about, but ’twas charity, I think, or else hope. No, ’twas charity; because he brought in, ‘But the greatest of these is charity.’ Yes, I know he did. Yes, yes—’twas on charity.”
Then she adds that Mrs. Stowe’s twins are going to be christened in the afternoon, by the names of Esau and Jacob. And then I observe that Esau and Jacob indeed were twins, but that I hope the little Stowes will love one another more than they did; adding that, as if to show the universal sinfulness of the human heart, a remarkable instance was given us in them, that even the proverbial love of twins for one another was insufficient to prevent one from over-reaching the other. To which Phillis, with a grunt, rejoins, “The young Stowes ha’n’t got no birthright.”
In the afternoon Phillis generally comes in, and we read the prayers, psalms, and lessons together; but sometimes Miss Secker drops in, and then Phillis and I defer our reading till the evening, unless she goes to church. Miss Secker brings a sermon with her, and sometimes I speculate a little, beforehand, whether it will be by Barrow, or Bishop Wilson, or Jeremy Taylor, or by Douglas Forsyth, or Melville, or Henry Vaughan of Crickhowel. We generally talk it over afterwards, and though our remarks may not be very original or deep, they refresh and animate me, being my only intellectual intercourse during the day.
Often our remarks make us turn to our Bibles to verify and illustrate them; which sometimes unexpectedly opens up a new subject fertile in interest. Thus, last Sunday, we lighted on that wonderful statistical account of the ancient glory and wealth of Tyre, as vivid and minute as if the details were of yesterday:—how that its famous merchant-ships, the instruments of its mighty commerce, were built of deal from Senir, i. e. Mount Hermon, and their masts were of cedar from Lebanon, their oars of oak from Bashan, their benches of ivory from Chittim, their sails manufactured in Egypt, their awnings from the isles of Elishah; how that the mariners of these ships were from Sidon, their pilots picked men of Tyre, their caulkers the men of Gebal; and then the details of their armies, their merchants, their great fairs and markets, and the endless variety of merchandize brought to them from all parts of the civilised world. It gave us a great deal to think of:—and very likely it seemed as incredible to the Tyrians, that their proud city should ever become a mere desolate rock, on which the lonely fisherman should dry his nets, as it would to us that London should be reduced to its condition before the days of Julius Cæsar, when old King Lud changed its name from Trinovant to Lud-town.
Another time, finding that Nathanael was by some eminent scholars supposed to be the same with the apostle Bartholomew, we hunted up all we could on the question; and came to the conclusion that, as he was supposed to be the son of Tholomai, or Ptolemy, Bartholomew, or Bartholomai, might be the surname given him by our Lord to signify the son of Tholomai; in like manner as he called Peter, Bar-jona, or the son of Jona. Questions of this sort will continually arise to interested readers of the Scriptures; for the more we search them, the more do little twinkling lights disclose themselves to us, reflecting light on one another.
I happened, unguardedly, to drop something about these pleasant readings to Miss Burt, when she put me into a sad fright by exclaiming, “Oh, I’ll come and read to you some day!” for I did not like her reading, which is too much of the denunciatory sort. However, happily for me, she found it would not consist with her more important engagements; she therefore not only refrained, but took some pains to prevent Miss Secker from coming to me too, telling her that if she had any time to abstract from her own devotional exercises between morning and evening services, she thought she might just as well devote it to some of the poor, who could neither read nor write, as on a friend who could do both, and had every comfort around her. However, Miss Secker did not see it exactly in the same light, and therefore has continued to drop in once every two or three weeks, to my great comfort and obligation. She rarely stays more than an hour; and when she does not come, Phillis and I have our little service together, and then I read or meditate in quiet till tea.
Mary Cole, a great favourite of Phillis’s, then drops in to have tea in the kitchen, and take charge of the house while Phillis goes to church. I can’t say Mary is quite as great a favourite of mine as she is of Phillis’s; but that is no great matter, as she comes to see Phillis, not me. Thus, Phillis has a companion at both her Sabbath meals: it makes a little change for her, and prevents her hankering for more holidays than I can grant. And the visitors, neither of whom are capable of walking a second time to the distant church, get their meal and a little variety in return for their charge. People of their rank are seldom much of readers, and it is well to give them a little sober intercourse in lieu of their falling asleep with their heads on the kitchen-table. To whom little is given, of them will less be required than of others more favoured.
Mary Cole, though a heavy girl, is gifted with a sweet voice and correct ear for music; and as she sits all alone, she beguiles the evening hours by singing hymns, often to my solace and delight. Sometimes it is my favourite “Wiltshire,” sometimes “St. David’s,” another time the plaintive penitential psalm,