e hymn followed prayer by the minister, who was surrounded on
the dais by some dozen girls. I noticed that few were very good-looking;
but in their faces was religious fervour. Yet they kept their eyes on
the man. The prayer was long, intolerably and trickily eloquent and
rhetorical, very self-conscious. The man posed before the throne. But I
listened to every word, half absorbed though I was in myself. He was
followed in prayer by ambitious and emotional people in the seats. One
woman prayed for those who would not bow the knee. Once more a hymn
followed, "Bringing home the sheaves."

The air is not without merit, and has a good lilt and swing. I noted it
tempted me to sing it, for I knew the tune well, and in the volume of
voices was an emotional attraction. I repressed the inclination even to
move my lips. But some others rose and joined in. My fellow on the left
did not. The sermon followed, and I felt as if I had escaped a
humiliation.

What the preacher said I cannot remember, nor is it of any importance.
He was not an intellectual man, nor had he many gifts beyond his rather
sleek manner and a soft manageable voice. He was obviously proud of
that, and reckoned it an instrument of success. It became as monotonous
to me as the slow oily swell of a tropic sea in calm. I would have
preferred a Boanerges, a bitter John Knox. The intent of his sermon was
the usual one at such periods; this was the end of the year, the
beginning was at hand. Naturally he addressed himself to those who were
not of his flock; it seemed to me, as it doubtless seemed to others,
that he spoke to me directly.

The custom of mankind to divide time into years has had an effect on us,
and we cannot help feeling it. Childhood does not understand how
artificial the portioning of time is; the New Year affects us even when
we recognise the fact. It required no florid eloquence of the preacher
to convince me of past folly and weakness; but it was that weakness that
made me weak now in my allowing his insistence on the New Year to affect
me. I was weak, lonely, foolish. Oh, I acknowledged I wanted help! But
could I get help here?

It was past eleven when they rose to sing another hymn. Many who had not
sung before sang now. Some of the girls from the platform came down and
offered us hymn-books. A few took them half-shamefacedly; some declined
with thanks; some ignored the extended book. And after two hymns were
sung and some more prayers said, it