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