Therefore, that April morning, though filled in my inmost heart with
love and gratitude toward God, as I had always been since I had seen
His handiwork in Mary Cavendish, which was my especial lesson of His
grace to meward, with sweetest rhymes of joy for all my pains, and
reasons for all my doubts; and though she sat beside me, so near
that the rich spread of her gown was over my knee, and the shining
of her beauty warm on my face, yet was I weary of the service and
eager to be out. As I said before, Parson Downs was not to my mind,
neither he nor his discourse. Still he spoke with a mighty energy
and a conviction of the truth of his own words which would have
moved his hearers to better purpose had they moved himself as
regarded his daily life. But beyond a great effervescence of the
spirit, which produced a high-mounting froth of piety, like the
seething top of an ale-tankard, there came naught of it. Still was
there in him some good, or rather some lack of ill; for he was no
hypocrite, but preached openly against his own vices, then went
forth to furnish new texts for his sermon, not caring who might see
and judge him. A hearty man he was, who would lend his last shilling
or borrow his neighbour's with equal readiness, forcing one to a
certain angry liking for him because of his good-will to do that for
you which you were loth to do for him. Yet if there ever was a man
in harness to Satan as to the lusts of his flesh and his pride of
life, it was Parson Downs, in despite of his bold curvets and
prances of exhortation, which so counterfeited freedom that I doubt
not that they deceived even himself; and he felt not, the while he
was expanding his great front over his pulpit, and waving his hands,
on one of which shone a precious red stone, the strain of his own
leash. But I have ever had a scorn which I could not cry down for
any man who was a slave, except by his own will.