1834, England.
From the old, stone church came a disorderly chorus of voices singing an Anglican hymn of praise to the accompaniment of a bad-sounding old organ. It was vespers. The village of Walsingham never missed a divine mass.
The village, forgotten by God and decaying for hundreds of years, had long ago become a "rotten place," as it was called in the Parliament of England. The inhabitants of this "rotten place" were one hundred and fifty-one people, mostly women and children. Here lived the most ordinary peasants, differing from the rest of the English peasantry in one feature only: they were hideously poor, but in this poverty they cherished their lives, families, and souls as the apple of their eye. Poverty did not embarrass them, for their Anglican faith and veneration of the Virgin Mary of Walsingham gave them strength and meaning to their lives even in the midst of this terrible, repulsive poverty. The landlord of the part of the county of Norfolk in which Walsingham was situated seemed to have forgotten, or perhaps simply did not know, that this isolated society of deeply religious and pure-hearted peasants was nestled on his land.
– Now, brothers and sisters in Christ, let us pray to our Father.
The parishioners offered their prayers diligently and sincerely to God, then the pastor blessed the people, they got up from the cracked, black wooden pews and went home.
It had been like this for centuries: as soon as the service was over, the peasants hurried to their stone houses to milk the horned cattle, feed the poultry, and tidy up their miserable dwellings, and only after these labours to feed themselves and their children. Before going to bed, the head of each family read the Holy Scriptures in syllables, and when the small light of the tallow candle died out, the families prayed and went to bed on old straw-stuffed bunks on the dirt floor to ward off the voracious bedbugs all night long.
But tonight was no usual evening: in the morning a rumour had spread among the people of Walsingham that they had a new landlord, but no one knew who he was, but they were happy to share their speculations with their neighbours and savour the news like a treat. People passed on to each other their own expectations of how the new lord would tidy up the village and the church, which was the centre of this little universe, for he, the new lord, would undoubtedly be an honest fellow and deeply interested in the fate of his peasants. The new aspirations and hope for change became food for the peasants' minds, who had almost forgotten to dream, even though the venerable Pastor Glowford urged them not to dream too soon: for if the Lord is to do good through the new landlord, it will happen, and if not, it is His will. At vespers it was announced to the peasants that the new landlord himself would be arriving for Sunday service tomorrow morning, so many were unable to sleep that night, wondering about the future.
Despite his own sober exhortations, Pastor Glowford himself was full of hope: he knew that the new landlord would bring either much happiness or much grief to the village, so he and his family prayed to God that by the landlord's hand He would bring the peasants of this poor, almost barren land relief from their hard labour.
Pastor Glowford enjoyed great authority and respect in the village: he was a minister of God, a deeply religious man, a spiritual counsellor of the peasants, always ready to help his parishioners in all their troubles. After graduating from the Theological Seminary, a young educated man with great ambitions was sent to this wilderness, but Pastor Glowford quickly accepted his fate, became even more zealous in his faith, married a local, poor, uneducated, but kind and beautiful girl Emma Jones, and gave birth to three daughters with her, like the sun illuminating his approaching old age. Now, however, his loving wife of seventeen years had slept her eternal sleep under the shade of a mighty oak tree in the public village cemetery. The pastor helped the poor (though the rich and even the well-to-do did not exist here), sometimes healed them, and also taught basic grammar classes to his parishioners so that they could read the Scriptures and the New Testament. The pastor was loved for these qualities and kindness: the parishioners expressed their love and respect for him by giving his family foodstuffs, as they had no livestock of their own, nor did they have any other animals. The Glowford family grew cereals on a small plot of land, but not enough to feed four adults. The sale of coarse homespun cloth, which the Glowford girls did, brought little or nothing, and the parson himself was as poor as his parishioners.
