people; in fact, he had himself urged pretty much the same thing many years ago, when he was a young man, in a sermon he had preached at the Union meeting; but I must recollect that in all probability my sphere of usefulness would lie amongst humble hearers, perhaps in an agricultural village or a small town, and that he did not think people of this sort would understand me if I talked over their heads as I had done the day before.  What they wanted on a Sunday, after all the cares of the week, was not anything to perplex and disturb them; not anything which demanded any exercise of thought; but a repetition of the “old story of which, Mr. Rutherford, you know, we never ought to get weary; an exhibition of our exceeding sinfulness; of our safety in the Rock of Ages, and there only; of the joys of the saints and the sufferings of those who do not believe.”

His words fell on me like the hand of a corpse, and I went away much depressed.  My sermon had excited me, and the man who of all men ought to have welcomed me, had not a word of warmth or encouragement for me, nothing but the coldest indifference, and even repulse.

It occurs to me here to offer an explanation of a failing of which I have been accused in later years, and that is secrecy and reserve.  The real truth is, that nobody more than myself could desire self-revelation; but owing to peculiar tendencies in me, and peculiarity of education, I was always prone to say things in conversation which I found produced blank silence in the majority of those who listened to me, and immediate opportunity was taken by my hearers to turn to something trivial.  Hence it came to pass that only when tempted by unmistakable sympathy could I be induced to express my real self on any topic of importance.

It is a curious instance of the difficulty of diagnosing (to use a doctor’s word) any spiritual disease, if disease this shyness may be called.  People would ordinarily set it down to self-reliance, with no healthy need of intercourse.  It was nothing of the kind.  It was an excess of communicativeness, an eagerness to show what was most at my heart, and to ascertain what was at the heart of those to whom I talked, which made me incapable of mere fencing and trifling, and so often caused me to retreat into myself when I found absolute absense of response.

I am also reminded here of a dream which I had in these years of a perfect friendship.  I always felt that, talk with whom I would, I left something unsaid which was precisely what I most wished to say.  I wanted a friend who would sacrifice himself to me utterly, and to whom I might offer a similar sacrifice.  I found companions for whom I cared, and who professed to care for me; but I was thirsting for deeper draughts of love than any which they had to offer; and I said to myself that if I were to die, not one of them would remember me for more than a week.  This was not selfishness, for I longed to prove my devotion as well as to receive that of another.  How this ideal haunted me!  It made me restless and anxious at the sight of every new face, wondering whether at last I had found that for which I searched as if for the kingdom of heaven.

It is superfluous to say that a friend of the kind I wanted never appeared, and disappointment after disappointment at last produced in me a cynicism which repelled people from me, and brought upon me a good deal of suffering.  I tried men by my standard, and if they did not come up to it I rejected them; thus I prodigally wasted a good deal of the affection which the world would have given me.  Only when I got much older did I discern the duty of accepting life as God has made it, and thankfully receiving any scrap of love offered to me, however imperfect it might be.

I don’t know any mistake which I have made which has cost me more than this; but at the same time I must record that it was a mistake for which, considering everything, I cannot much blame myself.  I hope it is amended now.  Now when it is getting late I recognise a higher obligation, brought home to me by a closer study of the New Testament.  Sympathy or no sympathy, a man’s love should no more fail towards his fellows than that love which spent itself on disciples who altogether misunderstood it, like the rain which falls on just and unjust alike.

CHAPTER III
WATER LANE

I had now reached the end of my fourth year at college, and it was time for me to leave.  I was sent down into the eastern counties to a congregation which had lost its minister, and was there “on probation” for a month.  I was naturally a good speaker, and as the “cause” had got very low, the attendance at the chapel increased during the month I was there.  The deacons thought they had a prospect of returning prosperity, and in the end I received a nearly unanimous invitation, which, after some hesitation, I accepted.  One of the deacons, a Mr. Snale, was against me; he thought I was not “quite sound”; but he was overruled.  We shall hear more of him presently.  After a short holiday I entered on my new duties.

The town was one of those which are not uncommon in that part of the world.  It had a population of about seven or eight thousand, and was a sort of condensation of the agricultural country round.  There was one main street, consisting principally of very decent, respectable shops.  Generally speaking, there were two shops of each trade; one which was patronised by the Church and Tories, and another by the Dissenters and Whigs.  The inhabitants were divided into two distinct camps—of the Church and Tory camp the other camp knew nothing.  On the other hand, the knowledge which each member of the Dissenting camp had of every other member was most intimate.

The Dissenters were further split up into two or three different sects, but the main sect was that of the Independents.  They, in fact, dominated every other.  There was a small Baptist community, and the Wesleyans had a new red-brick chapel in the outskirts; but for some reason or other the Independents were really the Dissenters, and until the “cause” had dwindled, as before observed, all the Dissenters of any note were to be found on Sunday in their meeting-house in Water Lane.

My predecessor had died in harness at the age of seventy-five.  I never knew him, but from all I could hear he must have been a man of some power.  As he got older, however, he became feeble; and after a course of three sermons on a Sunday for fifty years, what he had to say was so entirely anticipated by his congregation, that although they all maintained that the gospel, or, in other words, the doctrine of the fall, the atonement, and so forth, should continually be presented, and their minister also believed and acted implicitly upon the same theory, they fell away—some to the Baptists, some to the neighbouring Independents about two miles off, and some to the Church, while a few “went nowhere.”

When I came I found that the deacons still remained true.  They were the skeleton; but the flesh was so woefully emaciated, that on my first Sunday there were not above fifty persons in a building which would hold seven hundred.  These deacons were four in number.  One was an old farmer who lived in a village three miles distant.  Ever since he was a boy he had driven over to Water Lane on Sunday.  He and his family brought their dinner with them, and ate it in the vestry; but they never stopped till the evening, because of the difficulty of getting home on dark nights, and because they all went to bed in winter-time at eight o’clock.

Morning and afternoon Mr. Catfield—for that was his name—gave out the hymns.  He was a plain, honest man, very kind, very ignorant, never reading any book except the Bible, and barely a newspaper save Bell’s Weekly Messenger.  Even about the Bible he knew little or nothing beyond