The Seaboard Parish, Complete
MacDonald, George, 1824-1905
English
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THE SEABOARD PARISH
BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D.
VOL. I.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
I. HOMILETIC
II. CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY
III. THE SICK CHAMBER
IV. A SUNDAY EVENING
V. MY DREAM
VI. THE KEW BABY
VII. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING
VIII. THEODORA'S DOOM
IX. A SPRING CHAPTER
X. AN IMPORTANT LETTER
XI. CONNIE'S DREAM
XII. THE JOURNEY
XIII. WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED
XIV. MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN
XV. THE OLD CHURCH
XVI. CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER
XVII. MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH
CHAPTER I.
HOMILETIC.
Dear Friends,--I am beginning a new book like an old sermon; but, as you
know, I have been so accustomed to preach all my life, that whatever I say
or write will more or less take the shape of a sermon; and if you had not
by this time learned at least to bear with my oddities, you would not have
wanted any more of my teaching. And, indeed, I did not think you would want
any more. I thought I had bidden you farewell. But I am seated once again
at my writing-table, to write for you--with a strange feeling, however,
that I am in the heart of some curious, rather awful acoustic contrivance,
by means of which the words which I have a habit of whispering over to
myself as I write them, are heard aloud by multitudes of people whom I
cannot see or hear. I will favour the fancy, that, by a sense of your
presence, I may speak the more truly, as man to man.
But let me, for a moment, suppose that I am your grandfather, and that you
have all come to beg for a story; and that, therefore, as usually happens
in such cases, I am sitting with a puzzled face, indicating a more puzzled
mind. I know that there are a great many stories in the holes and corners
of my brain; indeed, here is one, there is one, peeping out at me like a
rabbit; but alas, like a rabbit, showing me almost at the same instant the
tail-end of it, and vanishing with a contemptuous _thud_ of its hind
feet on the ground. For I must have suitable regard to the desires of my
children. It is a fine thing to be able to give people what they want, if
at the same time you can give them what you want. To give people what they
want, would sometimes be to give them only dirt and poison. To give them
what you want, might be to set before them something of which they could
not eat a mouthful. What both you and I want, I am willing to think, is a
dish of good wholesome venison. Now I suppose my children around me are
neither young enough nor old enough to care about a fairy tale, go
that will not do. What they want is, I believe, something that I know
about--that has happened to myself. Well, I confess, that is the kind of
thing I like best to hear anybody talk to me about. Let anyone tell me
something that has happened to himself, especially if he will give me a
peep into how his heart took it, as it sat in its own little room with the
closed door, and that person will, so telling, absorb my attention: he has
something true and genuine and valuable to communicate. They are mostly old
people that can do so. Not that young people have nothing happen to them;
but that only when they grow old, are they able to see things right, to
disentangle confusions, and judge righteous judgment. Things which at the
time appeared insignificant or wearisome, then give out the light that was
in them, show their own truth, interest, and influence: they are far enough
off to be seen. It is not when we are nearest to anything that we know best
what it is. How I should like to write a story for old people! The young
are always having stories written for them. Why should not the old people
come in for a share? A story without a young person in it at all! Nobody
under fifty admitted! It could hardly be a fairy tale, could it? Or a
love story either? I am not so sure about that. The worst of it would be,
however, that hardly a young person would read it. Now, we old people would
not like that. We can read young people's books and enjoy them: they would
not try to read old men's books or old women's books; they would be so sure
of their being dry. My dear old brothers and sisters, we know better, do we
not? We have nice old jokes, with no end of fun in them; only they cannot
see the fun. We have strange tales, that we know to be true, and which look
more and more marvellous every time we turn them over again; only
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